G Skrebitsky works for children. Georgy Skrebitsky - short biography and books

Not far from Nikolai Sladkov’s house there were many old forest parks, where future writer discovered a whole world unusually rich in the secrets of nature. For days on end he disappeared into the most remote places of the surrounding parks, where he peered and listened to the life of the forest. Wandering among the old trees, since childhood he was imbued with the wisdom of nature and learned to recognize the voices of a variety of birds. Not far from Nikolai Sladkov’s house there were many old forest parks, where the future writer discovered a whole world, unusually rich in the secrets of nature. For days on end he disappeared into the most remote places of the surrounding parks, where he peered and listened to the life of the forest. Wandering among the old trees, since childhood he was imbued with the wisdom of nature and learned to recognize the voices of a variety of birds.

Since childhood, he loved and was interested in nature. Already in the second grade, he began keeping diaries, where he wrote down his first impressions and observations. He met Vitaly Valentinovich Bianki, a wonderful writer who became his teacher, friend and like-minded person, as a young student. Since childhood, he loved and was interested in nature. Already in the second grade, he began keeping diaries, where he wrote down his first impressions and observations. He met Vitaly Valentinovich Bianki, a wonderful writer who became his teacher, friend and like-minded person, as a young student. Together with Bianchi, he prepared the radio program “News from the Forest” for many years and answered numerous letters from listeners. Together with Bianchi, he prepared the radio program “News from the Forest” for many years and answered numerous letters from listeners.

The future writer’s youth fell on the war years. By the beginning of the war, he managed to complete the first year of the Hydrographic Institute and volunteered to go to the front. He served throughout the war in a motorized topographic detachment. After the war, remaining a military serviceman until 1958, Nikolai Ivanovich free time devoted to the study of nature. The future writer’s youth fell on the war years. By the beginning of the war, he managed to complete the first year of the Hydrographic Institute and volunteered to go to the front. He served throughout the war in a motorized topographic detachment. After the war, remaining a military man until 1958, Nikolai Ivanovich devoted all his free time to studying nature.

The profession of a military topographer helped Nikolai Ivanovich in his work on books. He discovered the Caucasus and Tien Shan mountains, which he fell in love with all his life. Nikolai Ivanovich traveled a lot, usually alone, and visited the Karakum Desert, the White Sea, India and Africa. The profession of a military topographer helped Nikolai Ivanovich in his work on books. He discovered the Caucasus and Tien Shan mountains, which he fell in love with all his life. Nikolai Ivanovich traveled a lot, usually alone, and visited the Karakum Desert, the White Sea, India and Africa.

In his youth, Nikolai Sladkov was fond of hunting, but later abandoned this activity, considering sport hunting to be barbaric. Instead, he began to engage in photo hunting. With a photo gun, he wandered through the forests, climbed high into the mountains, snorkeled in lakes, admiring the underwater world. He used numerous photographs taken during his travels in his books. In his youth, Nikolai Sladkov was fond of hunting, but later abandoned this activity, considering sport hunting to be barbaric. Instead, he began to engage in photo hunting. With a photo gun, he wandered through the forests, climbed high into the mountains, snorkeled in lakes, admiring the underwater world. He used numerous photographs taken during his travels in his books.

He brought from everywhere notebooks, which became the source of the plots of his stories. His first book was published in 1953. It was called "Silver Tail". Then there were others: “The Nameless Path”, “Ten Spent Cartridges”, “Wagtail Letters”, “In the Woods of Happy Hunting”, “I Walk Through the Woods”, “Planet of Wonders”, “Under the Invisible Hat”... He brought notes from everywhere books that became the source of the plots of his stories. His first book was published in 1953. It was called "Silver Tail". Then there were others: “The Nameless Path”, “Ten Spent Cartridges”, “Wagtail Letters”, “In the Woods of Happy Hunting”, “I Walk Through the Forest”, “Planet of Wonders”, “Under the Invisible Hat”... Nikolai Sladkov wrote in total more than sixty books. In total, Nikolai Sladkov wrote more than sixty books.

The wonderful Russian writer Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov devoted all his work to nature. The wonderful Russian writer Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov devoted all his work to nature. Like every talented writer, he discovered something of his own in her and wrote about her. Like every talented writer, he discovered something of his own in her and wrote about her in his own way, unlike others... in his own way, unlike others...

In his books, Sladkov talked about how beautiful and unique the life of nature is, about the riddles it asks us, about the endless diversity of the world around us. Nikolai Sladkov wrote about what he knew best, what he loved most and what he was most surprised by. For the book “Underwater Newspaper” he received State Prize named after N.K. Krupskaya. In his books, Sladkov talked about how beautiful and unique the life of nature is, about the riddles it asks us, about the endless diversity of the world around us. Nikolai Sladkov wrote about what he knew best, what he loved most and what he was most surprised by. For the book “Underwater Newspaper” he received the State Prize named after N.K. Krupskaya.

All his life Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov All his life Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was a defender of nature, with all his creativity helping to appreciate and love. He was a defender of nature, with all his creativity helping to appreciate and love its beauty, to see the extraordinary of its beauty, to see the extraordinary in nature with his own eyes. in nature with your own eyes.

From the book “Motley Wings” For the round spots on the wings, similar to “eyes” peacock feathers, called this butterfly “peacock eye”. But the peacock’s eye is “big-eyed” and bright only when nothing threatens it. An alarming shadow will flicker a little, and he will quickly slam his wings and turn into a dry, inconspicuous leaf. The trouble will pass - the butterfly will open its wings again... For the round spots on the wings, similar to the “eyes” of peacock feathers, this butterfly was called “peacock eye”. But the peacock’s eye is “big-eyed” and bright only when nothing threatens it. An alarming shadow will flicker a little, and he will quickly slam his wings and turn into a dry, inconspicuous leaf. The trouble will pass - the butterfly will open its wings again...

Our largest butterfly: its wings are as big as the palm of your hand! She flies at night and in flight looks like bat. And for the day he hides in a secluded place and sits motionless, folding his wings into a hut. But if you accidentally touch it, our largest butterfly: its wings are as big as your palm! She flies at night and looks like a bat in flight. And for the day he hides in a secluded place and sits motionless, folding his wings into a hut. But if you accidentally touch it, the wide wings will rustle and four big-eyed spots will blink at them. You will be scared, and the butterfly will fly away. the wide wings tremble with a rustle and four big-eyed spots blink at them. You will be scared, and the butterfly will fly away.

This butterfly does not hide its beauty: it opens its wings, then folds it. As if boasting: the wings are good both above and below! On the ground it looks yellow Maple Leaf. And in flight it’s like a paper boat... This butterfly does not hide its beauty: it opens its wings, then folds it. As if boasting: the wings are good both above and below! On the ground it is like a yellow maple leaf. And in flight it’s like a paper boat...

The butterfly is large, beautiful, it should be fluttering over a cheerful green meadow, but it flies over a dirty forest road, sits by a muddy road puddle. Strange tastes this butterfly: give him all kinds of rot! The worse it smells, the nicer it is to him. The butterfly is large, beautiful, it should be fluttering over a cheerful green meadow, but it flies over a dirty forest road, sits by a muddy road puddle. This butterfly has strange tastes: give him all kinds of rot! The worse it smells, the nicer it is to him.

From the book “Children of the Rainbow” The earth is multi-colored, like a rainbow. Everything is permeated with light and color, everywhere a feast for the eyes. Again and again you are amazed at the miraculous creations of the masters of Nature: wind, water and sun. The beauty of the earth is our wealth! The beauty of the earth is our wealth! And we must take care of it! And we must take care of it!

Warbler The gray warbler's beak is so small that it can only grab a fly. You can't bring a lot of food in such a beak. There are five chicks in the nest. And everyone has a mouth like a bag. And everyone shouts: “Me! To me! To me!" The gray warbler's beak is so small that it can only grab a fly. You can't bring a lot of food in such a beak. There are five chicks in the nest. And everyone has a mouth like a bag. And everyone shouts: “Me! To me! To me!"

Gopher The gopher froze The gopher froze in a cold hole and crawled out to bask in the sun. He stood up in a column, like a circus dog, and folded his paws on his stomach. in a cold hole and crawled out to bask in the sun. He stood up in a column, like a circus dog, and folded his paws on his stomach. And he closed his eyes. Fine! And he closed his eyes. Fine!

This is not an ordinary hedgehog - long-eared. The ears are large and very sensitive. You can’t live in the desert with others; it’s very quiet there at night. But you can get by with myopic eyes - it’s still dark at night. This is not an ordinary hedgehog - long-eared. The ears are large and very sensitive. You can’t live in the desert with others; it’s very quiet there at night. But you can get by with myopic eyes - it’s still dark at night.

IN underwater world everything is not the same as here on earth. You need to move there not standing, but lying down. It is very difficult to walk there, but easy to fly. And you can even jump upside down there. There is never rain or snow in the underwater world. In winter it’s not white, but black: it’s an impenetrable night all winter.

Nikolai Ivanovich died on June 28, 1996 at the age of 76 years. Nikolai Ivanovich died on June 28, 1996 at the age of 76 years. He was from the forest, from the fields, from the world of birds, insects, fish, hares, foxes and other living creatures. He was from the forest, from the fields, from the world of birds, insects, fish, hares, foxes and other living creatures. Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov dreamed of making people want to communicate with the forest, grass, rivers, and their population, knowing how to do it human soul. Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov dreamed of making people want to communicate with the forest, grass, rivers, and their population, knowing how the human soul needs it.

Current page: 1 (book has 5 pages in total) [available reading passage: 1 pages]

Nikolay Sladkov
Forest Tales

How the bear was turned over

The birds and animals have suffered through a hard winter. Every day there is a snowstorm, every night there is frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in his den. He probably forgot that it was time for him to turn over to the other side.

There is a forest sign: as the Bear turns over on its other side, the sun will turn towards summer.

The birds and animals have run out of patience. Let's go wake up the Bear:

- Hey, Bear, it's time! Everyone is tired of winter! We miss the sun. Roll over, roll over, maybe you'll get bed sores?

The bear didn’t answer at all: he didn’t move, he didn’t move. Know he's snoring.

- Eh, I should hit him in the back of the head! - exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I suppose he would move right away!

“No,” mumbled Elk, “you have to be respectful and respectful with him.” Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and implore you: turn over, at least slowly, onto the other side! Life is not sweet. We, elk, stand in the aspen forest like cows in a stall: we cannot take a step to the side. There's a lot of snow in the forest! It will be a disaster if the wolves get wind of us.

The bear moved his ear and grumbled through his teeth:

- What do I care about you moose! Deep snow is good for me: it’s warm and I sleep peacefully.

Here the White Partridge began to lament:

- Aren’t you ashamed, Bear? All the berries, all the bushes with buds were covered with snow - what do you want us to peck? Well, why should you turn over on the other side and hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!

And the Bear has his:

- It’s even funny! You're tired of winter, but I'm turning over from side to side! Well, what do I care about buds and berries? I have a reserve of lard under my skin.

The squirrel endured and endured, but could not bear it:

- Oh, you shaggy mattress, he’s too lazy to turn over, you see! But you would jump on the branches with ice cream, and skin your paws until they bleed, like me!.. Turn over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!

- Four five six! - the Bear taunts. - That scared me! Well - shoot off! You're preventing me from sleeping.

The animals tucked their tails, the birds hung their noses, and began to disperse. And then the Mouse suddenly stuck out of the snow and squeaked:

– They’re so big, but you’re scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, the bobtail, like that? He doesn’t understand either for good or for bad. You have to deal with him like us, like a mouse. You ask me - I will turn it over in an instant!

– Are you a Bear?! - the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! - the Mouse boasts.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.

Runs all over it, scratches it with its claws, bites it with its teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a pig, and kicked his legs.

- Oh, I can’t! - howls. - Oh, I’ll roll over, just don’t tickle me! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!

And the steam from the den is like smoke from a chimney.

The mouse stuck out and squeaked:

– He turned over like a little darling! They would have told me a long time ago.

Well, as soon as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to summer. Every day the sun is higher, every day spring is closer. Every day is brighter and more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

Where's the place under the ice? All the fish are sleepy - you are the only one, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's the matter with you, huh?

- And the fact that for all fish in winter it’s winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter it’s summer! You perches are dozing, and we burbots are playing weddings, swording caviar, rejoicing and having fun!

- Let's go, brother perches, to Burbot's wedding! Let’s wake up our sleep, have some fun, snack on burbot caviar...

Otter and Raven

- Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?

“I didn’t expect such a question from you, Otter.” We got wet in the stream and froze, so we lit a fire. They warm themselves by the fire.

- Strange... But in winter I always warm myself in water. There is never frost in the water!

Hare and Vole

– Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, wait until spring. Where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas...

- Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring is just around the corner, but under your feet! Dig the snow down to the ground - there are green lingonberries, mantleberries, strawberries, and dandelions. And you smell it, and you get full.

Badger and Bear

- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?

- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. So, brother, I got up to speed - it’s been five months without waking up. All sides have rested!

- Or maybe, Bear, it’s time for us to get up?

- It's not time. Sleep some more.

- Won’t you and I sleep through the spring from the start?

- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.

“Will she knock on our door, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels?” I, Misha, fear is hard to rise!

- Wow! You'll probably jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under your sides - I bet you won’t stay too long! Sleep while you're dry.

Magpie and Dipper

- Oooh, Olyapka, you don’t even think about swimming in the ice hole?!

- And swim and dive!

-Are you going to freeze?

- My pen is warm!

- Will you get wet?

– My pen is water-repellent!

- Will you drown?

- I can swim!

- A … A … Do you get hungry after swimming?

“That’s why I dive, to eat a water bug!”

Winter debts

The Sparrow was chirping on the dung heap - and he was jumping up and down! And the Crow croaks in his nasty voice:

- Why, Sparrow, were you happy, why were you chirping?

“The wings itch, Crow, the nose itches,” Sparrow answers. - The passion to fight is the hunt! Don’t croak here, don’t spoil me spring mood!

- But I’ll ruin it! – Vorona is not far behind. - How can I ask a question?

- I scared you!

- And I’ll scare you. Did you peck crumbs in the trash bin in winter?

- Pecked.

– Did you pick up grains from the barnyard?

- I picked it up.

-Did you have lunch in the bird cafeteria near the school?

- Thanks to the guys, they fed me.

- That's it! - Crow bursts into tears. – How do you think you will pay for all this? With your chirping?

- Am I the only one who used it? – Sparrow was confused. - And the Tit was there, and the Woodpecker, and the Magpie, and the Jackdaw. And you, Vorona, were...

– Don’t confuse others! - Crow wheezes. - You answer for yourself. If you borrowed money, pay it back! As all decent birds do.

“The decent ones, maybe they do,” Sparrow got angry. - But are you doing this, Vorona?

- I’ll cry before anyone else! Do you hear a tractor plowing in the field? And behind him, I pick out all sorts of root beetles and root rodents from the furrow. And Magpie and Galka help me. And looking at us, other birds are also trying.

– Don’t vouch for others either! - Sparrow insists. – Others may have forgotten to think.

But Crow doesn’t let up:

- Fly over and check it out!

Sparrow flew to check. He flew into the garden - the Tit lives there in a new nest.

– Congratulations on your housewarming! - Sparrow says. – In my joy, I suppose I forgot about my debts!

- I haven’t forgotten, Sparrow, that you are! - Titmouse answers. “The guys treated me to delicious salsa in the winter, and in the fall I’ll treat them to sweet apples.” I protect the garden from codling moths and leaf-eaters.

- For what need, Sparrow, did you fly to my forest?

“Yes, they demand payment from me,” Sparrow tweets. - And you, Woodpecker, how do you pay? A?

“That’s how I try,” answers the Woodpecker. – I protect the forest from wood borers and bark beetles. I fight them tooth and nail! I even got fat...

“Look,” Sparrow thought. - And I thought...

Sparrow returned to the dung heap and said to Crow:

- Yours, hag, the truth! Everyone is paying off winter debts. Am I worse than others? How can I start feeding my chicks mosquitoes, horseflies and flies! So that the bloodsuckers don't bite these guys! I'll pay back my debts in no time!

He said so and let’s jump up and chirp on the dung heap again. While there is free time. Until the sparrows in the nest hatched.

Polite jackdaw

I have many acquaintances among wild birds. I know only one sparrow. He is all white - an albino. You can immediately tell him apart in a flock of sparrows: everyone is gray, but he is white.

I know Soroka. I distinguish this one by its impudence. In winter, it used to be that people would hang food outside the window, and she would immediately fly in and ruin everything.

But I noticed one jackdaw for her politeness.

There was a snowstorm.

In early spring there are special snowstorms - sunny ones. Snow whirlwinds swirl in the air, everything sparkles and rushes! Stone houses look like rocks. There is a storm at the top, snowy waterfalls flow from the roofs as if from mountains. Icicles from the wind grow in different directions, like the shaggy beard of Santa Claus.

And above the cornice, under the roof, there is a secluded place. There, two bricks fell out of the wall. My jackdaw settled in this recess. All black, only a gray collar on the neck. The jackdaw was basking in the sun and also pecking at some tasty morsel. Cubby!

If I were this jackdaw, I would not give up such a place to anyone!

And suddenly I see: another one, smaller and duller in color, flies up to my big jackdaw. Jump and jump along the ledge. Twist your tail! She sat down opposite my jackdaw and looked. The wind flutters it - it breaks its feathers, and whips it into white grain!

My jackdaw grabbed a piece of it in his beak - and walked out of the recess onto the cornice! She gave up the warm place to a stranger!

And someone else's jackdaw grabs a piece from my beak - and goes to her warm place. She pressed someone else's piece with her paw and it pecked. What a shameless one!

My jackdaw is on the ledge - under the snow, in the wind, without food. The snow whips her, the wind breaks her feathers. And she, the fool, endures it! Doesn't kick out the little one.

“Probably,” I think, “the alien jackdaw is very old, so they give way to it. Or maybe this is a well-known and respected jackdaw? Or maybe she’s small and remote – a fighter.” I didn’t understand anything then...

And recently I saw: both jackdaws - mine and someone else's - sitting side by side on an old chimney and both had twigs in their beaks.

Hey, they're building a nest together! Everyone will understand this.

And the little jackdaw is not at all old and not a fighter. And she’s no stranger now.

And my friend the big jackdaw is not a jackdaw at all, but a gal!

But still, my gal friend is very polite. This is the first time I've seen this.

Grouse notes

The black grouse are not singing in the forests yet. They're just writing notes. This is how they write notes. One flies from a birch tree into a white clearing, puffs up its neck like a rooster. And his feet mince in the snow, mince. It drags its half-bent wings, furrows the snow with its wings - it draws lines of music.

The second black grouse will fly off and follow the first one through the snow! So he will place dots with his feet on the musical lines: “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si!”

The first one goes straight into the fray: don’t interfere with my writing! He snorts at the second one and follows his lines: “Si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do!”

He'll chase you away, raise his head up, and think. He mutters, mumbles, turns back and forth and writes down his muttering with his paws on his lines. For memory.

Fun! They walk, run, and trace the snow with their wings onto musical lines. They mutter, mutter, and compose. They compose their spring songs and write them down in the snow with their legs and wings.

But soon the black grouse will stop composing songs and start learning them. Then they will fly up into the tall birch trees - you can clearly see the notes from above! - and start singing. Everyone will sing the same way, everyone has the same notes: grooves and crosses, crosses and grooves.

They learn and unlearn everything until the snow melts. And it will do, no problem: they sing from memory. They sing during the day, they sing in the evening, but especially in the morning.

They sing great, right on cue!

Whose thawed patch?

The Forty-first saw a thawed patch - a dark speck on the white snow.

- My! - she shouted. - My thawed patch, since I saw it first!

There are seeds in the thawed patch, spider bugs are swarming, the lemongrass butterfly is lying on its side, warming up. Magpie's eyes widened, her beak opened, and out of nowhere - Rook.

- Hello, grow up, she’s already arrived! In the winter I wandered around the crow dumps, and now to my thawed patch! Ugly!

- Why is she yours? - Magpie chirped. - I saw it first!

“You saw it,” Rook barked, “and I’ve been dreaming about it all winter.” He was in a hurry to get to her a thousand miles away! For her sake I left warm countries. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Where there are thawed patches, there we are, rooks. My thawed patch!

– Why is he croaking here! - Magpie rumbled. - All winter in the south he warmed himself and basked, ate and drank whatever he wanted, and when he returned, give him the thawed patch without a queue! And I was freezing all winter, rushing from the trash heap to the landfill, swallowing snow instead of water, and now, barely alive, weak, I finally spotted a thawed patch, and they took it away. You, Rook, are only dark in appearance, but you are on your own mind. Shoot from the thawed patch before it pecks at the crown!

The Lark flew in to hear the noise, looked around, listened and chirped:

- Spring, sun, clear sky, and you are quarreling. And where - on my thawed patch! Do not darken my joy of meeting her. I'm hungry for songs!

Magpie and Rook just flapped their wings.

- Why is she yours? This is our thawed patch, we found it. The magpie had been waiting for her all winter, overlooking all eyes.

And I may have been in such a hurry from the south to get to her that I almost dislocated my wings on the way.

- And I was born on it! - Lark squeaked. – If you look, you can also find the shells from the egg from which I hatched! I remember how it used to be that in winter, in a foreign land, there was a native nest - and I was reluctant to sing. And now the song is bursting from the beak - even the tongue is trembling.

The Lark jumped onto a hummock, closed his eyes, his throat trembled - and the song flowed like a spring stream: it rang, gurgled, gurgled. Magpie and Rook opened their beaks and listened. They will never sing like that, they don’t have the same throat, all they can do is chirp and croak.

They probably would have listened for a long time, warming up in the spring sun, but suddenly the earth trembled under their feet, swelled into a tubercle and crumbled.

And the Mole looked out and sniffled.

- Did you fall right into a thawed patch? That’s right: the ground is soft, warm, there is no snow. And it smells... Ugh! Does it smell like spring? Is it spring up there?

- Spring, spring, digger! – Magpie shouted grumpily.

– Knew where to please! – Rook muttered suspiciously. - Even though he’s blind...

- Why do you need our thawed patch? - Lark creaked.

The Mole sniffed at the Rook, at the Magpie, at the Lark - he couldn’t see with his eyes! - he sneezed and said:

“I don’t need anything from you.” And I don’t need your thawed patch. I’ll push the earth out of the hole and back. Because I feel: it’s bad for you. You quarrel and almost fight. And it’s also light, dry, and the air is fresh. Not like my dungeon: dark, damp, musty. Grace! It’s also like spring here...

- How can you say that? - Lark was horrified. - Do you know, digger, what spring is!

– I don’t know and I don’t want to know! – the Mole snorted. – I don’t need any spring, it’s underground all year round the same.

“Thawed patches appear in spring,” said Magpie, Lark and Rook dreamily.

“And scandals begin in thawed areas,” the Mole snorted again. - And for what? A thawed patch is like a thawed patch.

- Don't tell me! – Soroka jumped up. - And the seeds? And the beetles? Are the sprouts green? Without vitamins all winter.

- Sit, walk around, stretch! - Rook barked. - Nose in warm earth rummage!

- And it’s good to sing over thawed patches! - Lark soared. – There are as many thawed patches in the field as there are larks. And everyone sings! There is nothing better than thawed patches in spring.

- Why are you arguing then? – Mole didn’t understand. - The lark wants to sing - let him sing. Rook wants to march - let him march.

- Right! - said Magpie. - In the meantime, I’ll take care of the seeds and beetles...

Then the shouting and squabbling began again.

And while they were shouting and quarreling, new thawed patches appeared in the field. Birds scattered across them to greet spring. Sing songs, rummage in the warm earth, kill a worm.

- It's time for me too! - The mole said. And he fell into a place where there was no spring, no thawed patches, no sun and no moon, no wind and no rain. And where there is no one to even argue with. Where it is always dark and quiet.

Hare round dance

Frost is still in the yard. But a special frost, spring. The ear that is in the shade freezes, and the ear that is in the sun burns. There are droplets from the green aspens, but the droplets do not reach the ground, they freeze on the fly into ice. On the sunny side of the trees the water glistens, while the shady side is covered with a matte shell of ice.

The willows have turned red, the alder thickets have turned purple. During the day the snow melts and burns, at night the frost clicks. It's time for bunny songs. It's time for the night hare round dances.

You can hear the hares singing at night. And you can’t see how they dance in a circle in the dark.

But you can understand everything from the tracks: there was a straight hare path - from stump to stump, through hummocks, through fallen trees, under white gates of snow - and suddenly it spun in unimaginable loops! Figures of eight among the birches, round dance circles around the fir trees, a carousel between the bushes.

It was as if the hares' heads were spinning, and they began to zigzag and get confused.

They sing and dance: “Gu-gu-gu-gu-gu! Goo-goo-goo-goo!”

Like blowing on birch bark pipes. Even the split lips are shaking!

They don’t care about foxes and eagle owls now. All winter they lived in fear, all winter they hid and were silent. Enough!

March is just around the corner. The sun overcomes the frost.

It's time for rabbit songs.

Time for hare round dances.

Inhuman steps

Early spring, evening, deep forest swamp. In the light damp pine forest there is still snow here and there, but in the warm spruce forest on the hill it is already dry. I'm entering dense spruce forest like being in a dark barn. I stand, remain silent, and listen.

There are black spruce trunks around, behind them a cold yellow sunset. And amazing silence when you hear your heartbeat and your own breathing. A thrush on the top of a spruce tree whistles lazily and loudly in the silence. He whistles, listens, and in response there is silence...

And suddenly, in this transparent and breathless silence - heavy, heavy, inhuman steps! Splashes of water and tinkling of ice. To-py, to-py, to-py! It’s as if a heavily laden horse is hardly pulling a cart through a swamp. And immediately, like a blow, a stunning thunderous roar! The forest trembled, the earth shook.

The heavy footsteps died down: light, hectic, hurried ones were heard.

Light steps caught up with heavy ones. Top-top-slap - and a stop, top-top-slap - and silence. It was not easy for the hasty steps to catch up with the leisurely and heavy ones.

I leaned my back against the trunk.

It became completely dark under the fir trees, and only the swamp became dimly white between the black trunks.

The beast roared again - like a cannon. And again the forest gasped and the earth shook.

I’m not making this up: the forest really shook, the earth really shook! A fierce roar - like a hammer blow, like a clap of thunder, like an explosion! But it was not fear that he generated, but respect for his unbridled power, for this cast-iron throat, erupting like a volcano.

Light steps hurried, hurried: the moss smacked, the ice crunched, the water splashed.

I realized a long time ago that these were bears: a child and a mother.

The child can’t keep up, lags behind, but mom smells me, gets angry and worried.

Mom warns that the bear cub is not alone here, that she is close, that it is better not to touch him.

I understood her well: she warns convincingly.

Heavy steps are inaudible: the bear is waiting. And the light ones are in a hurry, in a hurry. Here's a quiet squeal: the bear cub was spanked - don't lag behind! Here are heavy and light steps walking side by side: thump, thump, thump! Slap-slap-slap! Farther and quieter. And they fell silent.

And again silence.

The blackbird finished whistling. Moon spots fell on the trunks.

Stars flashed in the black puddles.

Each puddle is like a window open to the night sky.

It’s eerie to step through these windows directly into the stars.

I slowly walk towards my fire. The heart swells sweetly.

And the mighty call of the forest buzzes and buzzes in my ears.

Thrush and Owl

Listen, explain to me: how to distinguish an owl from an eagle owl?

- It depends on what kind of owl...

– What kind of owl... An ordinary one!

- There is no such owl. There is a barn owl, a gray owl, a hawk owl, a marsh owl, a polar owl, a long-eared owl...

- Well, what kind of owl are you?

- Me? I am a tawny owl.

- Well, how can we tell you apart from an eagle owl?

- It depends on which owl... There is a dark eagle owl - a forest one, there is a light eagle owl - a desert one, and there is also a fish eagle owl...

- Ugh, you evil spirits of the night! Everything is so confused that you yourself won’t be able to figure out who is who!

- Ho-ho-ho-ho! Boo!

Five grouse

A hazel grouse flew to the side of the grouse current and started its song: “Five-five, five-five, five grouse!” I counted: six scythes on the lek! Five are on the side in the snow, and the sixth is sitting next to the hut, on a gray hummock.

And the hazel grouse says: “Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”

- Six! - I say.

“Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”

The neighbor - the sixth - heard, got scared and flew away.

“Five-five, five-five, five grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.

I'm silent. I see for myself that it’s five. The sixth one flew away.

But the hazel grouse doesn’t let up: “Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”

- I don’t argue! - I say. - Five is five!

“Five-five, five-five, five grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.

- I see without you! – I barked. - Probably not blind!

How the white wings fluttered, how they began to flutter - and not a single black grouse remained!

And the hazel grouse flew away with them.

I forgot my notepad

I'm walking through the forest and getting upset: I forgot my notepad! And in the forest today, as if on purpose, there are so many different events! Spring kept slowing down and slowing down, and then it burst through. It was finally a warm and humid day, and winter collapsed all at once. The roads are muddy, there is snow, bare alder trees are covered in drops of rain, warm steam moves over the thawed patches. The birds seemed to escape from their cages: hubbub, chirping and whistling. In the swamp, cranes trumpet, lapwings squeal over the puddles, and curlews whistle on the melted hummocks. Thrushes, finches, bramblings, and greenfinches fly over the forest alone, in groups, and in flocks. News from all sides - just have time to turn your head!

The first white-browed thrush sang, the first black sandpiper squawked, the first snipe – the forest lamb – bleated. What to do with this flood of spring news?

How convenient it was: I saw and recorded, heard and recorded. You walk through the forest and put news in your notebook like mushrooms in a basket. One - and into the notebook, two - and into the notebook. A full notebook of news, it even weighs on my pocket...

And now? Look, listen and remember everything. Be afraid to miss a little, be afraid to forget, confuse, make a mistake. Put the news not in a notebook, but in yourself. What are you - a backpack or a basket?

It’s convenient and simple with a notepad: “The first snipe bleated.” Or: “The robin sang on the tree.” That's all. How I sealed it. A note for memory, a message for your information.

And now, if you please, this same robin, who suddenly decided to sing, and together with the huge Christmas tree, in the paws of which, as in wide palms, the fragments of her glass song roll, tinkling, manage to put on the shelf of your memory and save.

There are cranes and lapwings, along with their meadow and hummocks, finches and bramblings with all this wet spring day - all in itself, in itself and in itself! And hurry up now, not to record, but to watch and listen.

That's a hassle.

Or maybe let it? Maybe it's better this way? All the news is not in my notebook or in my pocket, but right in me. And not some boring set of events - who, what, where, when? - and all spring. Entirely! Day after day: with the sun, the wind, the shine of the snow, the murmur of water.

And now you are already completely soaked in spring - what’s wrong with that? What could be better if spring is inside, and birds are pouring into your soul! It couldn't be better!

It's good that I forgot my notepad. I would carry him around now like a dirty bag. Next time I’ll forget it on purpose. And I'll throw away the pencil.

I will walk, soak in the spring and the songs of birds. To the top!

Attention! This is an introductory fragment of the book.

If you liked the beginning of the book, then full version can be purchased from our partner - distributor of legal content, LLC liters.

Hot day. The scorching rays of the sun break through the thick green foliage, burning your face and hands. My throat is completely dry, I want to drink, but there is no water nearby.

Traveler straining last strength, makes its way through impenetrable forest thickets. The road is difficult; At every step, the fearless explorer of these dense wilds faces mortal danger.

What can be seen there among the branches of the tree: a bizarrely curved branch or a huge boa constrictor hanging its flexible body down and basking in the sun?

There is a clearing ahead. Last efforts, and the thickets are passed. You can take a break and lie down on the lush grass. But even here you need to be careful. A striped side flashed in the nearby bushes terrible beast. Tiger!

The traveler grabs his gun. Should I shoot or not? There is nowhere else to put the dead tiger: after all, the expedition’s convoy already contains twenty tiger skins and ten elephants.

Now you need to shoot only for self-defense. A second of agonizing waiting: will the beast notice a person or not? I didn’t notice, walked past, and disappeared into the bushes.

A tired traveler gets out into a clearing, lies down in the grass and carefully observes what is happening around him: how colorful butterflies and the bugs fly and circle around him, like busy bees climb into the cups of flowers and drink fragrant nectar, like ants work - dragging dry blades of grass into their anthill. Intense life is in full swing everywhere - life full of interesting adventures and surprises. It seems that I would lie like that all day, hiding in the grass, peering into these dense, lush thickets of stems and leaves...

Yurochka! Yura! Where are you? Go have breakfast! - the mother’s voice is heard.

The Tiger Hunter freezes in his green refuge. I don’t want to interrupt the travel game, go to the dacha, drink milk. But Yura knows that his mother will not stop calling until he answers. She cannot understand that now he is not at all a little boy, but a brave traveler, explorer of the impenetrable jungle.

...All this happened a long time ago, almost half a century ago, when I, still a little boy, was just beginning to read the letters.

The first books given and read to me were books about wild animals and birds, books about travel, about the wonderful nature of tropical and polar countries.

I eagerly listened to my mother’s reading, spent hours turning the pages, looking at color pictures depicting various animals, dreaming of becoming a brave traveler-naturalist myself.

But that was so far away. I still need to grow up, finish school, university, but for now I was enthusiastically playing at traveling: in my dreams I turned the woods near the dacha into a tropical jungle, the fat lazy cat Ivanovich into a bloodthirsty tiger, the neighbor’s roosters and chickens into peacocks and pheasants, and Jack , his father’s good-natured hunting dog, was supposed to represent a whole flock of hungry jackals relentlessly following the expedition.

Gone long years; The dreams of an eight-year-old boy came true. I finished school, then college, and now I’m no longer in dreams, but in reality I’m going on an expedition.

I am a researcher, studying the life of our native nature, the life of birds and animals.

But now, when I became quite an adult, more and more often I remembered my childhood years, the game of travel, my first four-legged and winged friends: Jack, the cat Ivanovich, the hedgehog Pushka, the magpie Orphan, the starling Chir Chirych - all those who taught me to love animals, to look closely at their habits and their lives.

Why not tell other kids about all this, why not try to interest them in the life of animals, and attract them to the ranks of young naturalists?

For this purpose it was written real book. All my books for children were written for the same purpose.

Let them - my very young readers - learn how interesting the life of any, even the most ordinary animals is; let them try to carefully observe them, love them, and through them learn to understand and love all of our fabulously rich native nature.

Friends of nature are pathfinders!

Your old friend wrote for you,

For those for whom the path is open

To the Far North and South,

For those under the green spruce

Meets the sunrise

Who loves winter blizzards?

And the ringing voice of the spring waters,

Who on the plains and ravines

Under the whistling snowstorm and in the summer heat

Walks with a cheerful, light step

With a heavy burden on my back,

For those to whom all life is open,

Who, without fear of her adversity,

As befits a ranger,

He goes towards his cherished goal into the distance.

G. Skrebitsky

I was then five or six years old. We lived in a village.

One day my mother went into the forest to pick strawberries and took me with her. There were a lot of strawberries that year. She grew up right outside the village, in an old forest clearing.

I still remember this day, although more than fifty years have passed since then. The day was sunny and hot like summer. But as soon as we approached the forest, suddenly a blue cloud came running, and frequent heavy rain fell from it. And the sun continued to shine. Raindrops fell to the ground and splashed heavily on the leaves. They hung on the grass, on the branches of bushes and trees, and the sun was reflected and played in each drop.

Before my mother and I had time to stand under the tree, the sunny rain had already stopped.

Look, Yura, how beautiful it is,” said my mother, coming out from under the branches.

I looked. A rainbow stretched across the entire sky in a multi-colored arc. One end of it abutted our village, and the other went far into the meadows beyond the river.

Wow, great! - I said. - Just like a bridge. I wish I could run through it!

“You better run on the ground,” my mother laughed, and we went into the forest to pick strawberries.

We wandered through the clearings near hummocks and stumps and found large ripe berries everywhere.

Light steam came from the sun-heated earth after the rain. The air smelled of flowers, honey and strawberries. When you sniff this wonderful smell, it’s as if you’re sipping some kind of fragrant, sweet drink. And to make it seem even more true, I picked strawberries and put them not in a basket, but directly in my mouth.

I ran through the bushes, shaking off the last raindrops. Mom wandered nearby, and therefore I was not at all afraid of getting lost in the forest.

A large yellow butterfly flew over the clearing. I grabbed the cap from my head and rushed after it. But the butterfly either descended to the grass itself, then rose up. I chased and chased after it, but I never caught it - it flew off somewhere into the forest.

Completely out of breath, I stopped and looked around. “Where is mom?” She was nowhere to be seen.

Aw! - I shouted, as I used to shout near the house, playing hide and seek.

And suddenly, from somewhere far away, from the depths of the forest, a response was heard: “Ay!”

Born on July 20, 1903 in Moscow in the family of a doctor. I spent my childhood in the small town of Chern Tula province. Since childhood, he was interested in two things: nature and literature. Born on July 20, 1903 in Moscow in the family of a doctor. I spent my childhood in the small town of Chern, Tula province. Since childhood, he was interested in two things: nature and literature.

The boy's surname Skrebitsky appeared only at the age of four, when he was adopted by Nadezhda Nikolaevna Skrebitskaya, and it remained with the future writer, even when he had a stepfather. The adoptive father of the future writer was an avid hunter and fisherman, and he managed to convey his sincere love for nature and his hobbies to the boy. The boy's surname Skrebitsky appeared only at the age of four, when he was adopted by Nadezhda Nikolaevna Skrebitskaya, and it remained with the future writer, even when he had a stepfather. The adoptive father of the future writer was an avid hunter and fisherman, and he managed to convey his sincere love for nature and his hobbies to the boy.

In 1921, Skrebitsky graduated from the Chern school and went to study in Moscow, where he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of Words. Then he enters the Forestry Engineering Institute. And all later life thinks to connect it with the study of nature. In 1921, Skrebitsky graduated from the Chern school and went to study in Moscow, where he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of Words. Then he enters the Forestry Engineering Institute. And he plans to connect the rest of his life with the study of nature.

It is impossible to guess from his childhood memories that the boy’s mom and dad are not his own. The family had love and care, understanding, common interests and activities - fishing and hunting, building a birdhouse, observing the behavior of unusual pets. Is anything else needed for a child’s happiness?..

Let my very young readers know how interesting the life of any, even the most ordinary, animals is; let them try to carefully observe them, love them, and through them learn to understand and love all of our fabulously rich native nature.” Georgy Skrebitsky

Co-authorship with the writer Together with the writer Vera Chaplina, Georgy Skrebitsky writes short stories about nature for the magazine “Murzilka” and in the first-grader’s book “Native Speech”, creates scripts for the cartoons “Forest Travelers”, “In the Forest Thicket”. Together with the writer Vera Chaplina, Georgy Skrebitsky writes short stories about nature for the magazine “Murzilka” and in the first-grader’s book “Native Speech”, creates scripts for the cartoons “Forest Travelers”, “In the Forest More often”.

PORTRAIT OF A WRITER PORTRAIT OF A WRITER BOOK COVER “WITH A GUN AND WITHOUT A GUN” 4. JPG - BOOK COVER “FRIENDS OF MY CHILDHOOD” 5. JPG - BOOK COVER “FLUFF” 6. – BOOK COVER “THE VOICE OF THE FOREST” 7. JPG - COVER “RA” TALES AND TALES ABOUT ANIMALS AND NATURE" 8. KY0001. JPG – FIGURE 9. JPG - BOOK COVER “WINGED NEIGHBORS” JPG - BOOK COVER “STORIES” JPG - BOOK COVER “UNKNOWN TRAILS” _%D0%A7%D0%B0%D0%BF%D0%BB%D0%B8% D0%BD%D0%B0-1. JPG – PORTRAIT OF V. CHAPLINA JPG - COVER OF THE BOOK “TOWARD TO SPRING” COVER OF THE BOOK “TALES OF THE PATCHER” PNG - COVER OF THE BOOK “THE PINK FAMILY” INFORMATION ABOUT THE WRITER WRITER’S GRAVE KY0001.JPGHTTP:// 0_%D0%A7%D0% B0%D0 %BF%D0%BB%D0%B8%D0%BD%D0%B0-1. JPG – RESOURCES USED

FOREST ECHO

I was then five or six years old. We lived in a village.

One day my mother went into the forest to pick strawberries and took me with her. There were a lot of strawberries that year. She grew up right outside the village, in an old forest clearing.

I still remember this day, although more than fifty years have passed since then. The day was sunny and hot like summer. But as soon as we approached the forest, suddenly a blue cloud came running, and frequent heavy rain fell from it. And the sun continued to shine. Raindrops fell to the ground and splashed heavily on the leaves. They hung on the grass, on the branches of bushes and trees, and the sun was reflected and played in each drop.

Before my mother and I had time to stand under the tree, the sunny rain had already stopped.

“Look, Yura, how beautiful it is,” said my mother, coming out from under the branches.

I looked. A rainbow stretched across the entire sky in a multi-colored arc. One end of it abutted our village, and the other went far into the meadows beyond the river.

- Wow, great! - I said. - Just like a bridge. I wish I could run through it!

“You better run on the ground,” my mother laughed, and we went into the forest to pick strawberries.

We wandered through the clearings near hummocks and stumps and found large ripe berries everywhere.

Light steam came from the sun-heated earth after the rain. The air smelled of flowers, honey and strawberries. When you sniff this wonderful smell, it’s like you’re sipping some kind of fragrant, sweet drink. And to make it seem even more true, I picked strawberries and put them not in a basket, but directly in my mouth.

I ran through the bushes, shaking off the last raindrops. Mom wandered nearby, and therefore I was not at all afraid of getting lost in the forest.

A large yellow butterfly flew over the clearing. I grabbed the cap from my head and rushed after it. But the butterfly either descended to the grass itself, or rose up. I chased and chased after it, but I never caught it - it flew off somewhere into the forest.

Completely out of breath, I stopped and looked around. “Where is mom?” She was nowhere to be seen.

- Aw! - I shouted, as I used to shout near the house, playing hide and seek.

And suddenly, from somewhere far away, from the depths of the forest, a response was heard: “Ay!”

I even shuddered. Have I really run so far away from my mother? Where is she? How to find her? The whole forest, previously so cheerful, now seemed mysterious and scary to me.

“Mom!.. Mom!..” I screamed with all my might, already ready to cry.

“A-ma-ma-ma-ma-a-a-a!” - as if someone in the distance was mimicking me. And at that very second my mother ran out from behind the neighboring bushes.

- Why are you shouting? What's happened? - she asked in fear.

- I thought you were far away! - I immediately calmed down, I answered. - There's someone teasing you in the forest.

- Who's teasing? - Mom didn’t understand.

- Don't know. I scream - and so does he. Listen! - And I again, but this time bravely shouted: - Ay! Aw!

“Aw! Aw! Aw!” - echoed from the distance of the forest.

- Yes, it’s an echo! - said mom.

- Echo? What is it doing there?

I listened to my mother incredulously: “How is this so? It’s my voice that answers me, and even when I’m already silent!”

I tried to shout again:

- Come here!

“Over here!” - responded in the forest.

- Mom, maybe someone is still teasing there? - I asked hesitantly. - Let's go have a look.

- How stupid! - Mom laughed. - Well, let's go if you want, but we won't find anyone.

Just in case, I took my mother’s hand: “Who knows what kind of echo this is!”, and we walked along the path deep into the forest. Occasionally I shouted:

- Are you here?

“Here!” - answered in front.

We crossed a forest ravine and emerged into a light birch forest. It wasn't scary at all.

I let go of my mother's hand and ran forward.

And suddenly I saw an “echo”. It was sitting on a stump with its back to me. Everything is gray, wearing a gray shaggy hat, like a goblin from a picture from a fairy tale. I screamed and rushed back to my mother:

- Mom, mom, there’s an echo sitting on a tree stump!

- Why are you still talking nonsense! - Mom got angry.

She took my hand and bravely walked forward.

- And it won’t touch us? - I asked.

“Don’t be stupid, please,” my mother answered.

We entered the clearing.

- Out, out! - I whispered.

- Yes, it’s Grandpa Kuzma who grazes the cows!

- Grandfather, I thought you were an echo! - I shouted, running up to the old man.

- Echo? - he was surprised, lowering the wooden pipe - a pity, which he was whittling with a knife. - Echo, my dear, is not a person. This is the voice of the forest.

- Yes. You shout in the forest, and he will answer you. Every tree, every bush gives an echo. Listen to how we talk to them.

Grandfather raised his pipe - a pity - and began to play tenderly, drawlingly. He played as if he was humming some sad song. And somewhere far, far away in the forest, another similar voice echoed him.

Mom came up and sat down on a nearby tree stump. Grandfather finished playing, and the echo also finished.

- So, son, have you heard me calling to the forest now? - said the old man. - Echo is the very soul of the forest. Whatever a bird whistles, whatever an animal screams, it will tell you everything, it will not hide anything. And you walk through the forest and listen to him. It will reveal to you all the secrets of the forest.

So I didn’t understand then what an echo was. But on the other hand, I loved it for the rest of my life, loved it like the mysterious voice of the forest, like a song of pity, like an old children’s fairy tale.

And now, many, many years later, as soon as I hear an echo in the forest, I immediately remember: a sunny day, birches, a clearing and in the middle of it, on an old stump, something shaggy, gray. Maybe this is our village shepherd sitting, or maybe not a shepherd, but a fairy-tale grandfather-goblin. He sits on a stump, whittling a maple pipe - a pity. And then he will play it in the quiet evening hour, when the trees, grass and flowers fall asleep and the horned moon slowly emerges from behind the forest and the summer night sets in.

FLUFF

There was a hedgehog living in our house; he was tame. When they stroked him, he pressed the thorns to his back and became completely soft. For this we nicknamed him Fluff.

If Fluffy was hungry, he would chase me like a dog. At the same time, the hedgehog puffed, snorted and bit my legs, demanding food.

In the summer I took Pushka for a walk in the garden. He ran along the paths, caught baby frogs, beetles, snails and ate them with appetite.

When winter came, I stopped taking Fluffy for walks and kept him at home. We now fed Cannon with milk, soup, and soaked bread. Sometimes a hedgehog would eat enough, climb behind the stove, curl up in a ball and sleep. And in the evening he will get out and start running around the rooms. He runs around all night, stomps his paws, and disturbs everyone's sleep. So he lived in our house for more than half the winter and never went outside.

But then I once got ready to sled down the mountain, but there were no comrades in the yard. I decided to take Cannon with me. He took out a box, laid it with hay and put the hedgehog in it, and to make it warmer, he also covered it with hay on top. He put the box in the sled and ran to the pond where we always slid down the mountain.

I ran at full speed, imagining myself as a horse, and was carrying Pushka in a sled.

It was very good: the sun was shining, the frost stung my ears and nose. But the wind had completely died down, so that the smoke from the village chimneys did not billow, but rose into the sky in straight columns.

I looked at these pillars, and it seemed to me that this was not smoke at all, but thick blue ropes were coming down from the sky and small toy houses were tied to them by pipes below.

I rode my fill from the mountain and took the sled with the hedgehog home. As I was driving, suddenly I met some guys: they were running to the village to look at the dead wolf. The hunters had just brought him there.

I quickly put the sled in the barn and also rushed to the village after the guys. We stayed there until the evening. They watched how the skin was removed from the wolf and how it was straightened out on a wooden spear.

I only remembered about Pushka the next day. I was very scared that he had run away somewhere. He immediately rushed into the barn, to the sled. I look - my Fluff lies curled up in a box and does not move. No matter how much I shook or shook him, he didn’t even move. During the night, apparently, he completely froze and died.

I ran to the guys and told them about my misfortune. We all grieved together, but there was nothing to do, and decided to bury Pushka in the garden, burying him in the snow in the very box in which he died.

For a whole week we all grieved for poor Fluffy. And then they gave me a live owl - he was caught in our barn. He was wild. We began to tame him and forgot about Cannon.

But spring has come, and how warm it is! One morning I went to the garden: it’s especially nice there in the spring - the finches are singing, the sun is shining, there are huge puddles all around, like lakes. I make my way carefully along the path so as not to scoop mud into my galoshes. Suddenly, ahead, in a pile of last year’s leaves, something moved. I stopped. Who is this animal? Which? A familiar face appeared from under the dark leaves and black eyes looked straight at me.

Without remembering myself, I rushed to the animal. A second later I was already holding Fluffy in my hands, and he sniffed my fingers, snorted and poked my palm with his cold nose, demanding food.

Right there on the ground lay a thawed box of hay, in which Fluff had happily slept all winter.

I picked up the box, put the hedgehog in it and brought it home in triumph.

ORPHAN

The guys brought us a small shirt... He couldn’t fly yet, he could only jump. We fed him cottage cheese, porridge, soaked bread, and gave him small pieces of boiled meat; he ate everything and refused nothing.

The only problem with him was that our little magpie could not learn to eat on his own. It’s a completely grown-up bird, so beautiful, flies well, but still asks for food like a little chick. You go out onto the balcony, sit down at the table, and the magpie is right there, spinning around in front of you, crouching, bristling its wings, opening its mouth. It’s funny and I feel sorry for her. Mom even nicknamed her Orphan. He used to put cottage cheese or soaked bread in her mouth, swallow the magpie - and then start begging again, but she herself wouldn’t take a bite from the plate. We taught and taught her, but nothing came of it, so we had to stuff food into her mouth. Once the Orphan had eaten enough, he would shake himself, look with his sly black eye at the plate to see if there was anything else tasty there, and then fly up onto the crossbar right up to the ceiling or fly into the garden, into the yard...

She flew everywhere and knew everyone: the fat cat Ivanovich, the hunting dog Jack, ducks, chickens; even with the old pugnacious rooster Petrovich, the magpie was in friendly relations. He bullied everyone in the yard, but didn’t touch her. It used to be that chickens would peck from the trough, and the magpie would immediately turn around. It smells delicious of warm pickled bran, the magpie wants to have breakfast in the friendly company of chickens, but nothing comes of it.

Orphan pesters the chickens, crouches, squeaks, opens her beak - no one wants to feed her.

She will jump up to Petrovich, squeal, and he will just look at her and mutter: “What a disgrace this is!” - and will move away. And then he suddenly flaps his strong wings, stretches his neck upward, strains, stands on tiptoe and sings: “Ku-ka-re-ku!” - so loud that you can hear it even across the river.

And the magpie jumps and jumps around the yard, flies into the stable, looks into the cow’s stall... Everyone eats themselves, and she again has to fly to the balcony and ask to be hand-fed.

One day there was no one to bother with the magpie. Everyone was busy all day. She pestered and pestered everyone, no one feeds her!

That day I was fishing in the river in the morning, returned home only in the evening and threw out the worms left over from fishing in the yard. Let the chickens peck.

Petrovich immediately noticed the prey, ran up and began calling the chickens: “Ko-ko-ko-ko! Ko-ko-ko-ko!” And as luck would have it, they scattered somewhere, not one of them was in the yard.

The rooster is really exhausted! He calls and calls, then he grabs the worm in his beak, shakes it, throws it and calls again - he never wants to eat the first one. I’m even hoarse, but the chickens still won’t come.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a magpie. She flew up to Petrovich, spread her wings and opened her mouth: feed me, they say.

The rooster immediately perked up, grabbed a huge worm in his beak, picked it up, and shook it right in front of the magpie’s nose. She looked, looked, then grabbed a worm - and ate it! And the rooster is already giving her a second one. She ate both the second and the third, and Petrovich pecked the fourth himself.

I look out the window and am amazed at how the rooster feeds the magpie from his beak: he will give it to her, then he will eat it himself, then he will offer it to her again. And he keeps repeating: “Ko-ko-ko-ko!..” He bows, using his beak to show the worms on the ground: “Eat, don’t be afraid, they’re so delicious.”

And I don’t know how it all worked out for them, how he explained to her what was the matter, I just saw the rooster crowed, showed a worm on the ground, and the magpie jumped up, turned its head to one side, to the other, took a closer look and ate right from land. Petrovich even shook his head as a sign of approval; then he grabbed the hefty worm himself, threw it up, grabbed it more comfortably with his beak and swallowed it: “Here, they say, as we do.” But the magpie apparently understood what was going on - it jumped near him and pecked. The rooster also began to pick up worms. So they try to race each other to see who can do it faster. Instantly all the worms were eaten.

Since then, the magpie no longer had to be hand-fed. One time Petrovich taught her how to manage food.