E Permyak stories about labor. Soviet writer Evgeny Permyak

Evgeniy Andreevich Permyak

Evgeniy Andreevich Permyak was born on October 31, 1902 in Perm. This city also played a big role in his creative biography: it was not for nothing that the writer preferred the pseudonym Permyak to his real surname - Vissov.

Evgeny Vissov's father, a small postal worker, died of consumption when his son was three years old. It was not easy for the mother to raise her son alone, so most of his childhood and youth years were spent in Votkinsk, in the company of his grandmother, grandfather and aunt, his mother’s sister, who surrounded the boy with care, warmth and attention.

In Votkinsk, Zhenya studied at a parish school, a pro-gymnasium and a gymnasium, where, along with educational disciplines, industrial training was also conducted. Vissov mastered five crafts: carpentry, plumbing, shoemaking, blacksmithing and turning. It is quite possible that at that time the young man did not think at all that he would have to master another very important craft - writing. In Votkinsk, a young man took up his pen. His first rabselkorov notes and poems were signed with the pseudonym “Master Nepryakhin.”

In 1930, Evgeny Permyak graduated from the pedagogical faculty of Perm University. He soon moved to Moscow, starting a writing career as a playwright. His plays “The Forest is Noisy” and “Roll” were performed in almost all theaters in the country. During the Great Patriotic War, Permyak, together with Moscow writers, was in Sverdlovsk. At this time, he became very friendly with Pavel Petrovich Bazhov and helped him run a local writers' organization. Based on the books by P.P. Bazhov Evgeniy Andreevich wrote the plays “Ermakov’s Swans”, “Silver Hoof”. Subsequently, Permyak dedicated the book “Dolgovsky Master” to Bazhov.

“Coming from a native Ural environment, Evgeny Permyak brought his experience, his work biography to literature, which largely determined the creative identity of the writer. He did not need to invent heroes. His books are populated by living people, snatched from life itself. They passed through the heart of the writer, endowed with its joys and pains, they live in labor and struggle, they do not boast of their feats and do not seek an easy life,” wrote Moscow publicist and writer Viktor Gura.

Evgeny Permyak worshiped the greatness of labor and glorified it in his novels, stories and fairy tales. Evgeny Permyak devoted his entire life to searching for the “secret of the price” of human labor. Almost all of the writer’s books are about hard workers, masters of their craft, about their talent, creative search, and spiritual wealth. And the living folk word always “sings” in all of Evgeny Permyak’s works.

Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov

Boris Zhitkov was born on August 30 (September 11), 1882 in Novgorod; his father was a mathematics teacher at the Novgorod Teachers' Institute, his mother was a pianist. He spent his childhood in Odessa. He received his primary education at home, then graduated from high school. During his studies, he became friends with K.I. Chukovsky.

After high school, he entered the natural sciences department of Novorossiysk University, which he graduated in 1906. After university, he made a career as a sailor and mastered several other professions. He worked as a navigator on a sailing ship, was the captain of a research vessel, an ichthyologist, a metal worker, a shipbuilding engineer, a teacher of physics and drawing, the head of a technical school, and a traveler. Then, from 1911 to 1916, he studied at the shipbuilding department of the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute. From 1917 he worked as an engineer in the Odessa port, and in 1923 he moved to Petrograd.

In 1924, Zhitkov began publishing and soon became a professional writer. From 1924 to 1938 he published about 60 children's books. Boris Zhitkov collaborated with many children's newspapers and magazines: “Lenin Sparks”, “New Robinson”, “Hedgehog”, “Chizh”, “Young Naturalist”, “Pioneer”. Worked as a correspondent in Denmark. Wide life experience and impressive knowledge in many fields of activity are reflected in the writer’s stories about science. Zhitkov wrote about different professions. In his works, he praised such traits as competence, diligence, and most importantly, a sense of responsibility. His love for the sea and other countries was his greatest source of inspiration. Zhitkov’s heroes often find themselves in extreme situations: the cycle “On the Water”, “Above the Water”, “Under the Water”, “Mechanic of Salerno”, etc.

Zhitkov’s works are full of action, he often uses the form of conversation with the reader, and always writes figuratively and clearly. The goal of Zhitkov’s creativity is to provide children with useful information and cultivate in them the best human qualities.

One widow had a son growing up. Yes, he was so handsome, even the neighbors couldn’t stop looking at him. And there’s nothing to say about the mother. Doesn't allow him to move his arms or legs. All by herself. He carries firewood and water, plows, reaps, mows, picks up work on the side - patent leather boots and a ringing accordion for his son. The mother's son grew up. The curls curl like forged gold. The scarlet lips laugh of their own accord. Handsome. Groom. But the bride is not there. Not a single one goes for him. They turn away. What kind of miracles? And there are no miracles here. It's a simple matter. The son grew up with someone else's grass in a labor field. With arms - armless, with legs - legless. No mowing hay, no cutting wood. No forging, no plowing. No baskets to weave, no yard of revenge, no cows to graze. He threw straw and fell off the cart. I was catching fish, I landed in a pond, and they barely pulled me out. Carrying firewood gave me a pain in my stomach. Who would call such a comrade? They don’t call for round dances. Working as a partner is not accepted. They call it mommy's god, patent leather boot. They tease him as a total incompetent, on the rubble, as a hangout. They call it a barren flower. The little kids are laughing too. How does it feel for him? The guy became sad and began to cry. So he began to cry - the brick oven and she sighed. The oak walls of the hut even began to complain. The floor creaked sadly. The ceiling frowned, turned black, and became thoughtful. They regret it! And he sheds tears in three streams and says: “Why did you love me so much, mother?” Why did you, my dear, nurture me in idleness, nurture me in laziness, raise me in ineptitude? Where am I now with my white, weak, inept hands? The mother grew cold and died. But there is nothing to answer. The son threw out the pure truth in her face with bitter tears. The mother realized that her blind love turned into filial misfortune. My son doesn’t sleep at night; he doesn’t know how to continue living. During the day he cannot find a place. Only there are no tears in the world that are not cried, such grief that is not resolved, such thoughts that are not thought out. It’s not for nothing that they say that in difficult times the stove understands, the walls help, the ceiling judges, the floorboards creak wisely. They told him what he needed and consoled him. Tears were dried, good advice was given. The son put on his father's heavy boots, put on his work clothes and went around the world to make up for his idle years - to grow up again. It was not easy for a tall guy to walk as a shepherd, to become acquainted with an ax at the age of twenty-one, to learn to hit a nail in a wall, his hands were white, weak, and incapable of beating in the wind. Only the severe frost and the hot sun know how hard the curly-haired son worked to get to this point. He returned home as a master. He married a weaver, also not one of the last craftswomen. Her old mother loved her like her own, especially when she gave birth to her grandchildren. They grew so beautiful, you could even put them on a card or in a frame. Their grandmother loved them madly, but she nurtured them wisely. Not like a son. It used to be that the compassionate old woman’s heart would bleed when her eldest grandson was getting ready to cut wood in the bitter cold. The old woman’s heart repeats: “Don’t let her get chills, have pity.” And she: “Go, dear grandson-hero! Beat in the wind. Argue with the frost. Support your father’s labor glory with your labor.” The granddaughter’s eyes used to stick together, her little hands could barely spin the spindle, and the grandmother would say to her: “Oh, what a fine weaver we have growing up, nimble, and tireless, and unyielding to sleep!” I would like to win over the little girl, kiss her nimble little fingers, but the old woman is looking for a flaw in the yarn. Either the fineness in the thread is uneven, or the slack overcomes. He will point out the flaws and notice the good. Yes, not just like that, but with dear grandmother’s affection, with a rare fiery word, it will illuminate and warm the girl’s soul. It happened in vain that he would not caress his most beloved, youngest grandson. Complains about work. It’s not much work to serve a cup or bring a basket of coals to the samovar, but for a four-year-old, even this is measured as work. How can you not say about something like this at the table in front of the whole family: “Our little one is growing up to be a working man. He serves a broom. He brings coals. He keeps watch over the samovar. He feeds the cat.” And he, red to the ears with joy, sits and shakes his mustache and thinks: “What else could I do to be in honor with my grandmother?” He looks for a job for himself, comes up with a business. The grandmother raised her grandchildren to be masters and craftswomen. And their curls curl into their faces, and the expensive ribbon in their braid flaunts as they deserve, and their patent leather boots burn for business. Hard-working people. Craftsmen. To grandma. Labor power has come to our country. My mother and grandmother did not live to see these bright days. Only she didn’t die. When the eldest grandson was rewarded for blast-furnace work, the forges asked him: “What kind of hero have you become, curly haired guy?” Where does this blast heat come from in you? And he sighed a little, and answered: “From my grandmother.” She nurtured me in my work, raised me in my work. From her there is fire in me. And the granddaughter-weaver sings along to her older brother: “And my thread doesn’t break because of it - the chintz laughs.” She taught me how to spin ringing threads. She wove solar weft (transverse threads of fabric) into my work warp (longitudinal threads of fabric). And the youngest grandson - a grain grower - selected the most germane, wisest grandmother's words and, with bright fairy tales, deeply scented them in people's memory. I smelled it deeply so that they wouldn’t forget. They didn’t forget and retold it to others. They retold it and lit the unquenchable fire of labor in living young souls.

Evgeniy Andreevich Permyak

Permyak Evgeniy Andreevich (10/18/1902 - 1982), writer. He spent his childhood and youth in the Urals and in the Kulunda steppes. Graduated from the pedagogical faculty of Perm University (1930). In n. In the 1930s he acted as a playwright. The most famous of Permyak’s plays are “The Forest is Noisy” (1937), “Rollover” (1939), “Ermakov’s Swans” (1942, based on the tale of P. Bazhov), “Ivan and Marya” (1942), “The Golden Magpie” (1960 ) etc. Author of popular science books for children: “Who should I be?” (1946), “From the Fire to the Cauldron” (1959), “The Tale of the Country of Terra Ferro” (1959), “The Tale of Gas” (1960); collections of fairy tales: “Lucky Nail” (1956), “Grandfather’s Piggy Bank” (1957), “Lock Without a Key” (1962), etc. In children’s literature, Permyak affirms the great importance of labor, the “secret of the price” of a person. Permyak is one of the creators of a modern fairy tale, in which a bold folk fantasy, a dream that was unrealizable in the past, becomes a reality. Permyak wrote the following novels: “The Tale of the Gray Wolf” (1960), “The Old Witch” (1961), “The Last Frost” (1962), “Humpback Bear” (1965).

Materials used from the site Great Encyclopedia of the Russian People - http://www.rusinst.ru

Permyak Evgeniy (real name Evgeniy Andreevich Vissov) is a prose writer.

He was born in Perm, but in the very first days after birth he was brought to Votkinsk with his mother. Most of his childhood and youth (more than 15 years) were spent in Votkinsk, where he studied at a parochial school, a pro-gymnasium and a gymnasium. In the early 1920s, Permyak moved to the Kulunda steppes (Siberia), where he worked on the food front. Later, his impressions of Siberia will form the basis of the book “A Thin String”, a cycle of “Kulun Din” stories and stories: “Daughter of the Moon”, “Salamata”, “Shosha the Sherstobit”, “Page of Youth”, “Happy Crash”.

He changed many occupations: he was a land manager, a food processor, an instructor in cultural and educational work, a journalist, and the head of a propaganda team. He has been publishing since 1924. He published rabselkorov correspondence in the Sarapul newspaper “Red Prikamye” and wrote poetry under the pseudonym “Master Nepryakhin”.

In 1930 he graduated from the pedagogical faculty of Perm University. During his student years, he became the organizer of the magazine “Living Theatrical Newspaper”, created on the model of the “Blue Blouse”, famous in those years. In 1929, his brochure “The History of a Living Theatrical Newspaper” was published in Perm.

In the early 1930s, Permyak moved to Moscow and began professional literary activity. Collaborates in the magazines “Village Theater”, “Club Stage”. Announces himself as a playwright. Of the plays of the early 1930s, the most famous are “The Forest is Noisy” (1937) and “Roll” (1939).

During the Great Patriotic War, Permyak and a group of Moscow writers were in Sverdlovsk. He actively cooperates with the Sovinformburo, responds to current events with journalism in the newspapers of Sverdlovsk, Nizhny Tagil, Chelyabinsk, and speaks at factories. At this time, he became close to P. Bazhov and helped him run a local writers’ organization. This relationship turned into a lasting friendship. Subsequently, Permyak dedicated the book “The Long-Life Master” to Bazhov.

In 1942, the book Ermakov’s Swans was published in Sverdlovsk. Heroic performance in 4 acts by Evgeny Permyak based on the tale of the same name P. Bazhova about Ermak Timofeevich, his brave esauls, his faithful bride Alyonushka and about the great sovereign Ivan Vasilievich" Later, Permyak wrote another play based on Bazhov’s tale - “The Silver Hoof” (published in Moscow in 1956). He himself recorded and processed the legends about Mount Grace. During the joint trips of Bazhov and Permyak around the Urals, books of essays “Ural Notes” and “Builders” were born.

It was then that the idea for the book “Who to Be” appeared. The book consists of 12 plot-complete chapters (notebooks), united by the author’s common goal: to reveal the poetry of labor and introduce the young reader to the huge number of professions existing on earth. Talking about the fascinating journey of his young heroes in the huge “kingdom of labor”, the author leads them to the famous storyteller, his story is about the famous coal burner Timokh, who is convinced that “there is life in every business: it runs ahead of skill and pulls a person along with it.” . The idea that in every business you need to “find the spice” runs through your entire journey into the world of professions. In any business you can become a happy, famous person. The book, which appeared in 1946, opened a new significant stage in Permyak’s work - his entry into children’s literature. The book enjoyed great success and was translated into many languages ​​of the peoples of the USSR, incl. and in Komi-Permyak.

Permyak is the author of popular science books for children “From the Fire to the Cauldron” (1959), “The Tale of the Country of Terra Ferro” (1959), “The Tale of Gas” (1957), a collection of fairy tales “Grandfather’s Piggy Bank” (1957), “Lock Without a Key” (1962), etc.; journalistic books on economic and political topics: “About the Seven Heroes” (1960), “The ABC of Our Life” (1963). United by the idea of ​​the importance of labor, they show the “mystery of the price” of human labor, the need to become involved in labor from childhood, because hardworking little Soviet citizens will grow up to be good people, masters of their country and destiny.

Permyak is considered one of the creators of the modern fairy tale. Relying on fairy-tale traditions, using fairy-tale, skaz forms, he puts new, modern content into the traditional genre. Fiction, bold fantasy in Permyak’s fairy tales is real, practically justified, and as close to life as possible. The heroes of Permyak's fairy tales do not seek help from magical forces. Inquisitive knowledge wins, labor is an ever-new “magic force” that always remains modern. Only through labor can happiness be achieved, only through labor can man’s power, the source of his life, be found.

“...Somewhere in the fifty-third year of my life, I crossed some threshold, beyond which the steps of the staircase began,” noted Permyak. The steps of his creative path were the novels “The Tale of the Gray Wolf” (1960), “The Old Witch” (1961), “Humpback Bear” (1965), “The Last Frost” (1962), “The Kingdom of Quiet Lutoni” (1970), etc. The living problems of today are sometimes put into frames that are conventional in their forms. The fairy tale becomes reality and is imbued with political content. The ideological and artistic basis of Permyak’s novels are clashes of characters and events that express the spirit of the times. Modernity in Permyak’s novels is not the background, but the main content that determines the conflicts of the narrative, the figurative system, and the entire structure. The journalistic intensity of the writing, satirical coloring and lyrical penetration of the author's characteristics are the essential features of Permyak's novels. Criticism reproached Permyak for excessive journalisticism, naked sharpness of situations and characters, but Permyak himself deliberately weaves it into the narrative, and in his speeches on literary topics he insisted that the so-called. journalistic threads have a long history in Russian literature and demonstrate the active civic position of the author-narrator.

In his novels, Permyak looks for fresh narrative forms, uses the forms of fairy tales, her allegorical, fairy-tale symbolism, tale motifs, realized in the linguistic richness of the author’s descriptions, the wise slyness of an experienced storyteller. Along with this, Permyak’s novels are characterized by the rapid development of action, unexpected plot twists, and laconicism of the author’s characteristics.

The novel “The Tale of the Gray Wolf” is connected with the life of the workers of the Urals. A Permyak paints his contemporaries from the Ural village of Bakhrushi. The energetic chairman of the collective farm, Pyotr Bakhrushin, who knows his business, lives here. Suddenly it turns out that his brother Trofim, who was considered dead during the Civil War, is alive, has become a farmer in America and comes to visit his native village. The farmer-tourist is accompanied by the American journalist John Thaner, who wanted to witness “a somewhat unusual meeting of two brothers from different worlds” and write a book about the life of the Russian village. The fate of an American farmer, the story of his arrival as a foreign tourist in his native village, meetings with Soviet people form the basis of the story. The collision of two brothers, although it is the plot core of the novel, its main conflict, is only an eventful expression of large social clashes. Different people enter into a duel, social systems, worldviews, and different views of the world collide.

Permyak is known as the creator of original, cutting-edge, journalistically active “little novels” (“Happy Wreck”, “Grandma’s Lace”, “Solvinsky Memories”). They consist of novelistically short, often plot-integrated chapters. This form allows you to widely cover a large amount of vital material, make excursions into the distant past, trace the fates of people associated with it, quickly change the scene of action, and develop the narrative in a dynamic, intense and exciting way. Almost all of Permyak's short novels are written in a fairytale style. None of them can do without an inserted fairy tale, which is firmly connected with the narrative and clarifies much in the ideological concept of the entire work. The fairy tale “About the Stinging Truth”, organically included in the plot fabric of “Solvinsky Memories”, fairy-tale images and characteristics determine the genre originality of Evgeny Permyak’s best short novels - “The Kingdom of Quiet Luton”, “The Charm of Darkness”.

A Permyak has always considered himself a Permian by origin, a Uralian. Many of his novels are written on Ural material. Permyak’s historical and revolutionary novel “Humpbacked Bear” was written on Ural material, revealing the complex life contradictions on the eve of October. The ideological basis of the novel is the problem of personality formation. Permyak unfolds a gallery of living human images and characters, some of which contribute to the crystallization of good feelings in the soul of the protagonist, others, on the contrary, severely wound with injustice and evil. Soon, based on it, the story “The Childhood of Mavrik” arose. This is a story about the life of a boy in a factory village near the Urals before the revolution. Mavrik eagerly absorbs the impressions of the world around him, helps the children of workers, and fights for justice. When the revolution comes, he, already a young man, accepts it without hesitation and happily participates in building a new life.

In 1970, Permyak’s book “My Land” was published in Moscow, entirely dedicated to the Urals - “a land of wonders and countless treasures.” One of the chapters of the book talks about the Perm region.

Permyak is rightfully considered one of the creators of the modern literary fairy tale. Permyak's books about professions and unique fairy tales for children are, of course, included in the golden fund of literature.

M.A. Efremova

Materials used from the book: Russian literature of the 20th century. Prose writers, poets, playwrights. Biobibliographical dictionary. Volume 3. P - Y. p. 46-48.

CHRONOS Notes

Back in 1992, Votkinsk local historian Z.A. Vladimirova, according to documents from the Central State Archive of the Udmurt Republic (CSA UR), it was established that the place of birth of E.A. Permyak is Votkinsk. The statement that his birthplace is Perm should be considered erroneous. ( The text of the note was prepared by Tatyana Sannikova).

Read further:

Russian writers and poets(biographical reference book).

Photo album(photos from different years).

Essays:

SS: in 4 volumes. Sverdlovsk, 1977;

Selected works: in 2 volumes / intro. article by V. Poltoratsky. M., 1973;

Favorites: Novels, short stories, tales and fairy tales. M., 1981;

Make noise, military banners!: A great heroic performance from ancient times, about the brave northern squads, about Prince Igor, his faithful wife and associates, about the khan’s daughter and many others. M.; L., 1941;

Ural notes. Sverdlovsk, 1943;

Who to be: Traveling by profession. M., 1956;

Today and yesterday. Favorites. M., 1962;

Humpback bear. Book 1-2. M., 1965-67;

Memorable knots: fairy tales. M., 1967;

Grandma's lace. Novosibirsk, 1967;

My land: Stories, essays, stories, stories and stories about a land of wonders and countless treasures. M., 1970;

Ural novels. Sverdlovsk, 1971;

Yargorod. M., 1973;

Grandfather's piggy bank. Perm, 1977;

Long-lived master: About the life and work of Pavel Bazhov. To the 100th anniversary of his birth. M., 1978;

The Charm of Darkness: Novels. M., 1980;

Soviet state. M., 1981;

Stories and fairy tales. M., 1982;

Humpback Bear: a novel. Perm, 1982;

The ABC of our life. Perm, 1984.

Literature:

Karasev Yu. About the sense of proportion [about the book: Evgeny Permyak. Precious inheritance: a novel] // New World. 1952. No. 9;

Kasimovsky E. Don’t believe me? Check [about the book: Evgeniy Permyak. High steps] // New World. 1959. No. 2;

Gura V. Evgeniy Permyak. Critical-biographical essay. M., 1962;

Rurikov Yu. Pernicious snares [about the book: Evgeny Permyak. Happy crash. Little novel] // New world. 1965. No. 8;

Gura V. Journey into mastery. Essay on the work of Evgeny Permyak. M., 1972.

Mitya whittled the stick, whittled it and threw it away. It turned out to be an oblique stick. Uneven. Ugly.

How is this so? - Mitya’s father asks.

“The knife is bad,” Mitya answers, “it whittles askew.”

“No,” says the father, “the knife is good.” He's just in a hurry. It needs to be taught patience.

But as? - asks Mitya.

“And so,” said the father.

He took the stick and began to plan it little by little, little by little, carefully.

Mitya understood how to teach a knife patience, and he also began to whittle little by little, little by little, carefully.

For a long time the hasty knife did not want to obey. He was in a hurry: he tried to swerve now and then at random, but it didn’t work out. Mitya forced him to be patient.

The knife became good at whittling. Smooth. Beautiful. Obediently.

First fish

Yura lived in a large and friendly family. Everyone in this family worked. Only Yura was not working. He was only five years old.

Once, Yurina’s family went to catch fish and cook fish soup. They caught a lot of fish and gave them all to grandma. Yura also caught one fish. Ruff. And I also gave it to my grandmother. For fish soup.

Grandmother cooked fish soup. The whole family on the shore sat down around the pot and started praising their ears:

That's why our fish soup is delicious because Yura caught a huge fish soup. That’s why our fish soup is fatty and rich, because fish soup is fatter than catfish.

And even though Yura was small, he understood that the adults were joking. Is there a lot of profit from a tiny brush? But he was still happy. He was happy because his little fish was in the big family ear.

How Masha became big

Little Masha really wanted to grow up. Very. But she didn’t know how to do it. I tried everything. And I walked in my mother’s shoes. And she was sitting in my grandmother’s hood. And she did her hair like Aunt Katya’s. And I tried on beads. And she put the watch on her hand.

Nothing worked. They just laughed at her and made fun of her.

One day Masha decided to sweep the floor. And swept it. Yes, she swept it so well that even my mother was surprised:

Mashenka! Are you really getting big with us?

And when Masha washed the dishes clean and wiped them dry, then not only mother, but also father was surprised. He was surprised and said to everyone at the table:

We didn’t even notice how Maria grew up with us. He not only sweeps the floor, but also washes the dishes.

Now everyone calls little Masha big. And she feels like an adult, although she walks around in her tiny shoes and short dress. No hairstyle. No beads. No watch.

Apparently, they are not the ones who make little ones big.

Oh!

Nadya couldn’t do anything. Grandmother dressed Nadya, put on shoes, washed her, combed her hair.

Mom gave Nadya water from a cup, fed her from a spoon, put her to sleep, and lulled her to sleep.

If we talk about our entire childhood, a week probably won’t be enough. So, something please. For example, there was a case...

We were late at school because we were finishing up the wall newspaper. When we left, it was already getting dark. It was warm. Large, fluffy snow was falling. Apparently, that’s why Tonya and Lida danced the snowflake dance on the way. My younger brother, who was waiting for me to go along, laughed at them:

They jump like first-graders!

The snow was falling thicker and thicker. It was no longer possible to dance. The snow piled up to half a felt boot.

Don't get lost! - my younger brother warned us, as the most far-sighted.

Come on, you coward! - Lida responded. - We'll be home in fifteen minutes.

Meanwhile, the snowfall intensified. I also became worried, knowing how cruel our Siberian steppe snowstorms are. It happened that people lost their way while being near their home. I advised them to speed up, but this was no longer possible due to the deep layer of snow that covered the road.

It became even darker. A kind of white, snowy darkness set in. And then what I feared began. The snowflakes suddenly began to swirl... They swirled in such a dance that a few minutes later a real blizzard began, which soon turned into a big snowstorm.

The girls covered their faces with scarves. Fedya and I lowered our ears to our hats. The narrow path that led to our village kept disappearing under our feet. I walked first, trying not to lose track of the road under my feet. It was less than a mile away from home. I believed that we would get out safely.

In vain.

The road has disappeared. It’s as if someone very unkind from my grandmother’s fairy tale stole it from under my feet. Maybe Crazy Snowstorm... maybe the evil old man Buran Buranovich.

That's what I told you! - Fedya reproached us.

Lida was still cheerful, and Tonya was almost crying. She has already been in a blizzard with her father. She spent the night in the snowy steppe. But then there was a spare warm sheepskin coat in the sleigh, and Tonya, covered with it, slept safely through the night. And now?

Now we were already exhausted. I didn't know what to do next. The snow melted on my face, and it turned my face into ice. The wind whistled in every way. Wolves seemed to be there.

“Who are you afraid of? Blizzards? Do you feel like screaming? Who will hear you in such a wind! Maybe you hope the dogs will find you? In vain. What kind of dog would go to the steppe in such weather! You have only one thing left: bury yourself in the snow.”

We've lost our way. We may become exhausted and freeze. Let's bury ourselves in the snow like nomads do.

Apparently, I announced this so firmly that no one objected to me. Only Tonya asked in a crying voice:

And I answered:

Just like partridges.

Having said this, I was the first to start digging a well in the deep February snow. I started to dig through it first with my school bag, but the bag turned out to be thick; then I took out of my bag a geographical atlas bound in a strong cardboard binding. Things went faster. My brother replaced me, then Tonya.

Tonya even cheered up:

How warm! Try it, Lidochka. You'll warm up.

And we began to take turns digging a well in the snow. After the well reached our height, we began to dig a cave in its snowy side. When the snowstorm covers the well, we will find ourselves under the snowy roof of a dug cave.

Having dug a cave, we began to settle in it. The wind soon covered the well with snow, without blowing into the cave. We found ourselves under the snow, as if in a hole. Like a black grouse. After all, they too, throwing themselves from a tree into a snowdrift and “drowning” in it, then make snow passages and feel there in the most magnificent way.

Sitting on our school bags, warming the small space of our closet with our breath, we felt quite comfortable. If only there was a candle stub in addition to all this, we could see each other.

I had with me a piece of lard left over from breakfast. And if there were matches, I would make a wick from a handkerchief and we would have a lamp. But there were no matches.

Well, we were saved,” I said.

Then Tonya unexpectedly announced to me:

Kolya, if you want, I will give you my Topsik.

Topsik was the name given to a tame gopher.

I didn't need the gopher. I hated gophers. But I was very pleased with Tonino’s promise. I understood what caused this generous impulse of the soul. Yes, and everyone understood. No wonder Lida said:

You, Nikolai, now we have the power! Man!

I felt really strong and started telling old wives' tales. I started telling them because I was afraid to fall asleep. And when I fall asleep, the others will fall asleep too. And this was dangerous. You might freeze. One after another, I told probably thirty, and maybe more, tales. When the entire stock of grandmother's fairy tales was exhausted, I began to invent my own. But, apparently, the fairy tales I invented were boring. A slight snore was heard.

Who is this?

This is Tonya,” answered Lida. - She fell asleep. I also want to sleep. Can? I'll just take a nap for a minute.

No no! - I forbade. - Is it dangerous. This is deadly.

Why? Look how warm it is!

Then I found myself and lied so successfully that after that no one even wanted to doze off. I said:

Wolves attack sleeping people. They are just waiting to hear a person snore.

Having said this, I cited a lot of cases that I invented with such speed that I can’t even believe now how I could do it...

Now others were telling. One by one.

Time passed slowly, and I did not know whether it was midnight or perhaps dawn. The well we dug was long ago covered up by a blizzard.

Nomadic shepherds, finding themselves in the same position, made a high six out of the snow. They specifically took it to the steppe in case of a snowstorm, so that later they could be found and dug up.

We had no pole and nothing to hope for. Only for dogs. But they wouldn’t have smelled us through the thick snow.

My lard was divided and eaten long ago, like Lida’s loaf of bread.

It seemed to everyone that morning had already come, and they wanted to believe that the blizzard was over, but I was afraid to break through to the top. This meant filling the cave with snow, getting wet and, perhaps, finding oneself again in a white snowy haze. But each of us understood how much trouble we had caused everyone. Perhaps they are looking for us, calling out to us in the steppe... And I imagined my mother shouting through the wind:

“Kolyunka... Fedyunka... Answer me!..”

Thinking about this, I began to break through to the top. The snowy roof above us was not so thick. We saw the pale moon and the dying stars. A kind of drowsy, as if sleep-deprived, pale dawn was dawning.

Morning! - I shouted and began to make steps in the snow so that the others could get out.

Belated snowflakes fell from the sky. I immediately saw our windmill. Smoke rose from the chimneys in thin, as if tightly stretched, strings. People woke up. Or maybe they didn’t sleep that night.

Soon we saw our guys. They ran towards us joyfully and shouted:

Alive! All four! Alive!

We rushed towards them. I didn’t hesitate and listen to what Tonya and Lida were saying about that night, about me. I ran to our house.

There were no sleighs in the yard, which meant that father had not returned yet. Opening the door, leaving Fedyunka far behind me, I rushed to my mother. He rushed and... what happened was... and began to cry.

What are you talking about? - my mother asked, wiping my tears with her apron.

And I said:

About you, mom... You probably lost your head without us.

The mother chuckled. She freed herself from my embrace and went to Helen’s crib. This is our little sister. She came over and straightened the blanket. And she told her: “Sleep.” Although she was already asleep and there was no need to adjust the blanket. Then she approached Fedyunka, who had arrived in time, and asked:

Are your felt boots wet?

No, he answered. - There was satin under the felt boots. The short fur coat is getting wet. I want to eat...

“Change your shoes and get to the table quickly,” said the mother, without asking anything about the previous night.

“Does she love us? - I thought for the first time. - Does he love you? Maybe this howler Lenochka has only one light in her eye?

When we ate two plates of hot cabbage soup, mother said:

I laid down, lie down. You won't go to school. Need to get some sleep.

I couldn't sleep, but I wanted to sleep. I lay until noon in a dark room with the shutters closed.

We were called to dinner. Father arrived. He already knew everything from Lida and Tony. He praised me. He promised to buy me a small but real gun. He was surprised at my resourcefulness.

Mother said:

The guy is thirteen years old. And it would be funny if he got lost in a snowstorm and didn’t save himself and his comrades.

Anyuta!.. - the father reproachfully remarked to the mother.

And mother interrupted father and said:

Come on eat! The porridge is getting cold. Stop talking! They need to take lessons. We spent the night wandering around, lost the day...

After lunch, Tonya brought me Topsik. I didn't take it.

Lida’s mother, Marfa Egorovna, appeared with a large gander and, bowing low to her mother, said:

Thank you, Anna Sergeevna, for raising such a son! Saved two girls. Tonka has sisters, but Lidka is the only one I have...

When Marfa Yegorovna finished her lamentations, mother said:

Shame on you, Marfa, to present my klutz Kolka as a hero! - and, turning around, flatly refused to take the gander.

In the evening we were left alone with my grandmother. The mother went to the station, to see the paramedic. She said she was crazy and had a headache.

It was always easy and simple for me with my grandmother.

I asked her:

Grandma, at least tell me the truth: why doesn’t our mother love us so much? Are we really that worthless?

You're a fool, no one else! - answered the grandmother. - Mother didn’t sleep all night. She roared like crazy... She searched for you across the steppe with a dog. I have frostbite on my knees... Just look, you don’t talk about it to her! As she is, she must be loved as she is. I love her…

Soon the mother returned. She told her grandmother:

The paramedic gave powders for the head. He says it's nonsense. It will be over in a month.

I rushed to my mother and hugged her legs. Through the thickness of her skirts, I felt that her knees were bandaged. But I didn’t even show it. I have never been so affectionate with her. I have never loved my mother so much. Shedding tears, I kissed her chapped hands.

And she just, casually, like a calf, patted me on the head and went off to lie down. Apparently it was difficult for her to stand.

Our loving and caring mother raised and strengthened us in the cold hall. She looked far away. And nothing bad came of it. Fedyunka is now twice a Hero. And I could say something about myself, but my mother strictly bequeathed to say as little as possible about herself.

Grandfather's character

On the shore of the large Siberian Lake Chany there is an ancient village of Yudino. There I often lived in the house of an old fisherman Andrei Petrovich. The old man was widowed and was lonely in a large family until his grandson was born. Also Andrey and also Petrovich.

All the old man’s feelings, all his love now began to belong to the boy, who, as it were, was beginning the second life of Andrei Petrovich. In his grandson, the grandfather recognized his own traits, his own character. That's what he called it - "grandfather's character."

Andrei Petrovich himself raised his grandson. I remember he told him:

“If you can’t, don’t try it. And if you’ve already decided to do it, do it. Die but do!"

The grandson was six years old at the time.

It was a frosty winter. Once I went with little Andrei to the Saturday market. To the people - black and black. They brought meat, wheat, firewood, and everything that these regions are rich in to the market.

A huge frozen pike caught the boy’s eye. She had her tail stuck in the snow. I don’t know how much this pike weighed, only its length was a good one and a half times Andryusha’s height.

How do they catch such pikes? - Andrey asked me carefully.

And I said that to catch large pikes, they take a strong cord and make a leash from soft twisted wire. He also said that to attach large live bait, the hook should be larger and stronger so that a strong fish does not break or bend it.

I forgot about this conversation and remembered only after something happened that surprised me.

We sat and chatted with Andrei Petrovich in the upper room. The old man looked out the window every now and then. I was waiting for my grandson.

Little Andrey, like many others his age, often fished on the lake. The boys made holes in the ice and lowered their simple fishing gear into them. The boys did not return home without luck. Lake Chany is very rich in fish. For anglers, this is a real haven.

Did something happen to him? - the old man became worried. - Should I run to the lake?

I volunteered to go there with Andrei Petrovich. We got dressed and went out onto the ice. The lake is a hundred steps away. Frost at twenty to twenty-five degrees. Silence and snow. No one.

Suddenly I noticed a black dot:

Isn't it him?

“It’s just him,” said the old man, and we headed towards the black dot, which soon turned out to be Andrei Petrovich’s grandson.

We saw the boy in icy tears. His hands were cut until they bled with a fishing line. He clearly had frost on his nose and cheeks. The old man ran up to him and began to wipe the boy’s face with snow. I took the cord from his hands. Everything became clear to me right away: the boy caught a pike that he could not pull out.

Let’s run home, grandson,” his grandfather hurried him.

What about the pike? What about the pike? - the boy begged.

In the meantime I pulled out a pike. The tired fish did not resist. It was one of those pikes that are brought to the market not so much for profit as for looks. Their meat is tasteless and tough. The pike did not struggle in the cold for long.

The grandfather looked proudly at the huge fish, then at his grandson and said:

The tree is too big for you... Well, you didn’t know that the robber would get hit harder than you... How long ago did she get caught?

And the boy answered:

Andrei Petrovich smiled into his beard:

So you messed around with her for four hours.

For a long time! - Andryusha answered, cheerful. - And there was nothing to tie it to.

The old man, having wiped the boy's face and hands, tied his scarf around him like a handkerchief, and we went to the house. I pulled the fallen pike behind me through the snow on a cord.

At home, they undressed Andryusha, took off his shoes, rubbed him with potions, and bandaged his cut hands. He soon fell asleep. I slept restlessly. He had a slight fever. He was delirious in his sleep:

You won’t leave, toothy one, you won’t leave!.. I have a grandfather’s character.

Andrei Petrovich, sitting on the far bench of the room, quietly wiped away his tears.

By midnight the boy calmed down. The fever subsided. An even, calm child's sleep ensued.

The old man did not sleep a wink that night. And in the morning, when Andryusha woke up, the old man told him:

And yet, Andrei Petrovich, you barely remember your grandfather’s order! It was not because of his strength that he decided to catch a fish. Look at the hook you tied - like an anchor... So it was you who was aiming to cut down a tree that was too big for you. This is bad, bad...

The boy, looking down, was silent. And the grandfather continued to inspire:

Well, the first mistake doesn’t count. It's kind of considered science. In the future, just don’t catch such pikes that others have to pull out for you. It's a shame. People ridicule those who don’t carry a bag on their backs, who don’t swing at their fists... But the fact that you didn’t give up on her is right.

Here the two Andrei Petrovichs exchanged smiles, then hugged.

The pike lay in a snowdrift, covered with snow. When Saturday came, Andrei Petrovich took her to the market and stuck her tail in the snow. He asked too much for it, because he did not want to sell this miracle fish. He needed to tell people what the character of his grandson, Andrei Petrovich Shishkin, was like, six years old, who already knew eleven letters and could count to twenty without misfiring.

Pichugin Bridge

On the way to school, the children loved to talk about their exploits.

It would be nice, says one, to save a child in a fire!

Even catching the biggest pike is good, the second one dreams. - They'll find out about you right away.

“It’s best to fly to the moon,” says the third boy. “Then all countries will know.”

But Syoma Pichugin didn’t think about anything like that. He grew up as a quiet and silent boy.

Like all the kids, Syoma loved to go to school along the short route across the Bystryanka River. This small river flowed along steep banks, and it was very difficult to jump over it. Last year, one schoolboy did not reach the other shore and fell. I was even in the hospital. And this winter, two girls were crossing the river on the first ice and stumbled. We got wet. And there was also a lot of screaming.

The boys were forbidden to take the short route. How long can you go when there is a short one!

So Syoma Pichugin decided to drop the old willow from this bank to that one. His ax was good. Chiseled by my grandfather. And he began to chop the willow with them.

This turned out to be not an easy task. The willow was very thick. You can't grab it with two people. Only on the second day did the tree collapse. It collapsed and lay across the river.

Now it was necessary to cut off the branches of the willow. They got underfoot and made it difficult to walk. But when Syoma cut them off, walking became even more difficult. There's nothing to hold on to. Just look, you'll fall. Especially if it's snowing. Syoma decided to install a railing from poles. Grandfather helped.

It turned out to be a good bridge. Now not only the boys, but also all the other residents began to walk from village to village along a short road. As soon as anyone takes a detour, they will definitely tell him:

Why do you go seven miles away to slurp jelly! Go straight across the Pichugin Bridge.

So they began to call him by Semina’s last name - Pichugin Bridge. When the willow rotted and it became dangerous to walk on it, the collective farm built a real bridge. Made from good logs. But the name of the bridge remains the same - Pichugin.

Soon this bridge was also replaced. They began to straighten the highway. The road passed through the Bystryanka River, along the same short path along which the children ran to school. The big bridge was built. With cast iron railings. This could have been given a loud name. Concrete, let's say... Or something else. And they still call it in the old way - Pichugin Bridge. And it doesn’t even occur to anyone that this bridge could be called something else.

This is how it happens in life.

Reliable person

On the first desk and in the first class sat the son of the brave test pilot Andryusha Rudakov. Andryusha was a strong and brave boy. He always protected those who were weaker, and everyone in the class loved him for this.

Sitting next to Andryusha was a thin little girl, Asya. The fact that she was small and weak could still be forgiven, but the fact that Asya was cowardly was something Andryusha could not come to terms with. You could scare Asya by giving her scary eyes. She was afraid of every little dog she met and ran away from geese. Even the ants scared her.

It was very unpleasant for Andryusha to sit at the same desk with such a coward, and he tried in every possible way to get rid of Asya. But she was not transplanted.

One day Andryusha brought a large spider in a glass jar. Seeing the monster, Asya turned pale and immediately ran to another desk.

This is how it began... For two days Asya sat alone, and teacher Anna Sergeevna did not seem to notice this, and on the third day she asked Andryusha to stay after class.

Andryusha immediately guessed what was going on, and when everyone left the class, he, feeling guilty, embarrassedly said to the teacher:

It was not in vain that I brought the spider. I wanted to teach Asya not to be afraid of anything. And she was scared again.

Well, I believe you,” said Anna Sergeevna. “Whoever knows how, helps his comrades grow, and I called you to tell you a little story.”

She sat Andryusha in his place at the desk, and she sat down next to Asino.

Many years ago, a boy and a girl were sitting in the same class. We sat the same way we are sitting now. The boy's name was Vova, and the girl's name was Anya. Anya grew up as a sickly child, and Vova grew up as a strong and healthy boy. Anya was often ill, and Vova had to help her learn her homework. One day Anya injured her leg with a nail. She was so injured that she couldn’t come to school: she couldn’t wear either a shoe or felt boots. And it was already the second quarter. And one day Vova came to Anya and said: “Anya, I will take you to school on a sled.” Anya was delighted, but protested: “What are you, what are you, Vova! It will be very funny! The whole school will laugh at us...” But the persistent Vova said: “Well, let them laugh!” From that day on, Vova brought Anya in and out on a sled every day. At first the guys laughed at him, and then they themselves began to help. By spring, Anya had recovered and was able to move to the next grade along with all the kids. I can end the story here if you don’t want to know who Vova and Anya became.

And by whom? - Andryusha asked impatiently.

Vova became an excellent test pilot. This is your father, Vladimir Petrovich Rudakov. And the girl Anya is now your teacher Anna Sergeevna.

Andryusha lowered his eyes. So he sat at his desk for a long time. He vividly imagined the sleigh, the girl Anya, who had now become a teacher, and the boy Vova, his father, whom he so wanted to be like.

The next morning Andryusha stood at the porch of the house where Asya lived. Asya, as always, appeared with her grandmother. She was afraid to go to school alone.

“Good morning,” Andryusha said to Asya’s grandmother. Then he greeted Asya. - If you want, Asya, we’ll go to school together.

The girl looked at Andryusha in fear. He deliberately speaks so affably; you can expect anything from him. But the grandmother looked into the boy’s eyes and said:

With him, Asenka, it will be more convenient for you than with me. He will fight off the dogs and will not give offense to the boys.

Yes,” Andryusha said quietly, but very firmly.

And they went together. They walked past unfamiliar dogs and hissing geese. They did not give way to the boisterous bully goat. And Asya was not afraid.

Next to Andryusha, she suddenly felt strong and brave.

Warbler

An agronomist at the Lenin Sparks collective farm had a son, Slavik, who was growing up. When the boy was six years old, he told his father:

Dad, I also want to be an agronomist. I, too, like you, want to grow good wheat.

“It’s very nice,” the father agreed. - Let me give you the field.

And the agronomist gave his son a field in the front garden in front of the windows of the house where they lived. The field seemed very small to the boy. It was one meter long and one meter wide - a square meter.

It’s not a problem,” said the father. - And on this field you can grow the famous wheat.

Soon the boy was shown how to loosen the soil, at what depth to sow small arable land with wheat grain and how to care for it.

When the shoots appeared, Slavik was very happy. He carefully weeded them, and when the soil dried out, he watered his tiny field from a small watering can.

It's time to harvest the harvest. Slavik cut the ears of corn with his father and then started threshing. They thrashed it at home, on the table. They threshed with a pencil, knocking out grains from each spikelet.

There were a lot of grains. They could sow the entire soil of the front garden. But the father said:

Let's sow only the best seeds.

And Slavik began to select the best grains of wheat - the largest, the smallest. It was not easy to sort through the entire harvest. Slavik spent many hours on long winter evenings sorting grain. I took the best ones for seeds and fed the rest to the ducks.

Spring came. In the spring, Slavik again sorted through the selected seeds and again, together with his father, loosened and fertilized his small field. Now my father worked less and pointed less.

The seedlings turned cheerfully green. The stems rose higher. And it’s clear why: the field was sown with the best of the best seeds. And when large ears of corn appeared and began to fill with heavy grain, Slavik sat for hours by his field. He couldn't wait for the harvest. I really wanted to know what the grain would be like this year.

But one day it began to rain with large hail. And Slavik cried. He was afraid that the hail would destroy the crop, and there was nothing to cover the field. But the grandmother threw his father’s large umbrella through the window, and the boy opened it over the field. The hail hit Slavik painfully, because he himself was not under an umbrella. He held his umbrella at arm's length over his field. Tears rolled from Slavik’s eyes. But Slavik did not give in to the hail and did not leave the field.

“You are a real man,” his father told him. - This was the only way to protect expensive seeds.

Slavik reaped a wonderful harvest for the second autumn.

Now he already knew how to dry the ears of corn, how to thresh them, lightly tapping them with a pencil. Without waiting for his father's advice, Slavik selected the largest grains. They couldn't be compared with last year's. They were much smaller and lighter.

In the third year, Slavik sowed the field on his own. He fertilized the soil well. I loosened it well and sowed two square meters. He was already entering the second grade, and he was able to cope with such an experienced field. And he did it. In addition, a school friend helped him.

Having threshed enough wheat in the fall, the boy invited friends from his class to sort the grains, and they suggested that Slavik sow a large field.

No sooner said than done. In the spring, the children fenced off a large field in the school garden - a field ten meters long and two meters wide.

The guys elected Slavik as chief agronomist and obeyed him in everything. They painstakingly loosened the ground and weeded out the weeds.

In the summer, the wheat began to spike even better than in previous years. She grew so much hair that the old collective farmers noticed her. What a joy it was!

One day the chairman of the collective farm said jokingly to Slavik:

Comrade chief agronomist, sell the harvest to the collective farm for seeds.

Slavik blushed. It seemed to him that the chairman was laughing at his field. But the chairman did not laugh. In the fall he came to thresh the crops. The harvest was now being threshed by almost Slavik's entire class. They hammered thirty-two pencils.

Let's, young seed growers, sow a large field with this good grain. “Together,” the chairman suggested.

The guys agreed. And now the fifth year has come. The guys went out to sow together with the collective farmers. And soon the fifth harvest was harvested. Now it was no longer possible to thresh it even with a thousand pencils. They threshed on a threshing floor, in the old fashioned way, hitting the ears of grain on a wicker box. They were afraid to damage the grains.

In the sixth year, a huge field was sown. And on the seventh and eighth, the fields of neighboring collective farms were sown with new, pure-grade wheat grain. People came from afar to get him. But it was unthinkable to provide everyone with the seeds of this new, productive variety of wheat. They gave us a handful of seeds, two at a time. The visitors thanked us for this too.

...When I arrived at the Lenin Sparks collective farm, they showed me this excellent wheat and said:

This is a new variety of wheat. This variety is called “warbler”.

Then I asked why this wheat was called that and where this name came from. Maybe from the word “glory” or “glorious”?

“No, no,” answered the chairman. - It is called so on behalf of Vyacheslav, who in childhood was called Slavik, or simply Slavka. I'll introduce you.

And I was introduced to a tall, blue-eyed, shy young man. He was very embarrassed when I started asking him about wheat, and then he told me the history of this wheat, starting with the first harvest in the front garden.

Various flowers

Romasha Vaganov cared about everything. He took everything to heart. I tried to put my hands everywhere.

The village of Nikitovo grew before his eyes. He remembers how the first house was laid in the feather grass steppe. And now three streets are showing off and two more are planned. Nikitovo will be a small state farm town. That's what it can be called now. The village has a school, a post office, two shops, a kindergarten, but no flowers. Almost not. You can’t count the lanky mallows and tiny daisies that grow in two or three front gardens as flowers. Flowers are roses, peonies, tulips, dahlias, daffodils, phlox and others that “bloom” so elegantly on the pages of books about flowers and floriculture. It must be said that there were enough such books in the village store, but not a bag of flower seeds. The store probably doesn’t have time for seeds, because they barely have time to import the most important goods. The store manager said bluntly:

I can't tear myself apart...

He's right, of course. He has enough worries without flower seeds, but still he has not forgotten his dear nephew Stasik. Gave him seeds. Different. Stasik himself spoke about this at school. Stasik, although not a bad boy, loves to brag.

Of course, Romasha could have asked Stasik Polivanov for seeds, but somehow he couldn’t turn his tongue. Stasik does not like to share with others. He's not exactly greedy, but rather overly thrifty. You feel sorry for the football ball, although you can’t even play the simplest football alone. At least two are necessary: ​​one drives the ball into the goal, and the other defends the goal. Therefore, the guys in the class tried not to ask Stasik for anything. Romash waved his hand at Stasik and went to his grandfather. Grandfather’s name was also Roman. Two Romans are sitting in a heated kitchen and conferring about flowers. They conferred, conferred, came up with different moves and exits, and then the grandfather said:

Romka, the world is not a wedge. And is it really all about Staska’s seeds? The world is big after all. Are there not many people living among us who have nowhere to put their flower seeds?

“That’s true, grandfather,” said Romasha, “but how do you know who has extra seeds?”

“But you’re a literate person,” says the grandfather;

“How can I call the cry,” the grandson asks, “on the radio?”

It’s possible on the radio, but through a newspaper it’s more accurate. Everyone will read it. And at least one person will respond.

Romash spent a long time composing a letter. The grandfather read what was written with two glasses. Corrected it. Advised. Prompted. And finally it turned out to be a short and good note. Romasha did not ask anyone for anything in it, but told what he had. About the new school, about electric lighting, about wide streets, about good houses... I didn’t invent anything. Together with my grandfather, I found the exact word for everything, and then switched to flowers. He didn’t complain, but simply said: “It just so happened that we had no time for flowers yet in the young virgin village of Nikitov. We could barely cope with other matters.” And then at the very end he added:

“It would be nice if someone would send us at least some flower seeds. They wouldn’t let a single seed go to waste.”

I signed my name and surname Romash, indicated the address of the village, re-read what I had written, checked it down to the comma and sent it by registered mail to Pionerskaya Pravda.

What if they actually publish it! And if they don’t print it, they will still write an answer and tell him where it’s best to contact him. Time is still running out. There are still snowstorms outside the window, but the snow doesn’t even think of melting.

Almost every day, grandfather and grandson remember the letter, count the days, and wait for an answer.

And then, as happens, they forgot about the letter. Romasha has school work. And Roman Vasilyevich has even more work to do with the approach of spring. Checking tractor repairs and preparation for sowing. Seed germination test. Conversations with young machine operators. And parliamentary affairs - of course. They don't stop all year round. The old man has a restless old age, but a cheerful one - in public from morning to evening.

Meanwhile, Romasha’s letter was read by the editor, praised and published. Romasha didn’t even know when he received the issue of “Pionerskaya Pravda” that it contained his note in a frame with flowers. He, as always, came to school, put his bag in his desk and decided to run to a corner of wildlife to check how the hedgehogs were feeling. Stasik stopped him in the corridor.

Do you think they will send it? - he asked.

What are you talking about?

About the newspaper.

In Stasik’s hands was the newspaper “Pionerskaya Pravda” with a note. Romasha wanted to take the newspaper, but Stasik, true to himself, said:

I haven't read it all yet...

Romasha did not have time to tell Stasik what needed to be said when three newspapers appeared in his hands at once.

What a joy it is to read the words you wrote in the newspaper! It doesn’t matter that the article was shortened a little. But in bold letters they attributed very good treatment from the editors. The editors hoped that schoolchildren in the village of Nikitovo would not be left without flower seeds this year. And the editors' hopes were justified.

Not even a day had passed when three telegrams arrived at once about the sending of seeds. Then the letters came. Never before have so many letters, parcels and parcels arrived at the Nikitov post office. Romasha had no idea that “Pionerskaya Pravda” was read by millions of children. His grandfather did not expect this either. Boxes with bulbs, rhizomes, cuttings, layerings began to arrive. All this had to be stored somewhere. Joy turned to fear. They began to put some of what they had sent at school, and then the children were forced to contact the state farm management.

“We didn’t know that this would happen,” Romasha complained to the director of the state farm. - And grandfather says that this is just the beginning, that there will be even more later. What should I do, Nikolai Petrovich?

Nikolai Petrovich was one of those directors who had enough time and attention for everything, for whom every issue, no matter what it was, must be resolved. And he said to Romasha:

What have you done, Comrade Vaganov? He struck the bell, but didn’t even think about the consequences of his ringing. And he got my grandfather involved, and gave the post office work... It’s not planned, brother, it’s not planned.

Romasha made no excuses.

Nikolai Petrovich, firstly, proposed creating a commission for seed distribution and proposed Romash as the chairman of the commission.

And so the distribution began. Residents of Nikitov were the first to receive floral gifts. It was clear from everything that the distributed seeds were in good hands.

And each and everyone had flowers. They were all over the front gardens in front of the windows, in the school garden and in the village square. They bloomed near the post office and the store. They also appeared in clay pots on the windowsills of houses. And everyone was talking about flowers.

Only Stasik was silent. Flowers did not please him. They either laughed at him or reproached him, and Stasik tried to avoid them. But this could not be done. This was impossible to do, not because Stasik saw flowers everywhere, but because no one could escape his memory, his conscience. Stasik did not leave them either.

The guys have already forgotten that Stasik spared the flower seeds for them, but he remembers and will never forget it.

Rotten swamp

An old man from the Ural gold miners of past and ancient years told this story about the Rotten Swamp like this.

* * *

Such a talker has not yet been born who could retell everything about our Urals. Because almost every day there are new miracles. This is the edge. If you go mushroom hunting, you will find gold. And tracking is in our blood for a reason. Hereditary. From an early age. The other one doesn’t have “a”, “be”, or “crow” yet, but he’s already looking closely. Looking for. If he finds a grouse feather, he doesn’t leave it without attention. And there’s nothing to say about any other finds. If you look at it, the most seedy flower does not bloom in vain, and the magpie does not chirp in vain. And real seekers delve into all this.

This is how Vasyatka Kopeikin grew up. When Avdotya lived with his grandmother, he lived in an old house near the Rotten Swamp. Vasyatka’s grandmother was very weak in legs, but so bright in mind that half the neighborhood went to her for advice. And she also treated. According to the old rules, such a person would have to be classified as a witch or, at the very least, considered a healer. And it is glorified in folk medicine. And she has a reliable herb for coughs, and a mushroom infusion for dizziness... And all sorts of different things, right down to snake venom, to a bee sting.

Grandma Avdotya treated kind people. I just couldn’t cure myself. She sat around all year round. I went to the garden in a wheelchair. Moscow awarded her with a stroller. For the herbs. For the roots. And her grandson was looking for herb roots. She told us what, how and where, and he collected healing riches and even discovered new ones. Grandma couldn't be happier with him, and the neighbors also praised the guy. Not all, of course.

Another seeker-discoverer lived in the village. Gavrik Kozyrev. Big swing from the guy. In a dream I saw noble treasures of the earth. He spared no effort in searching. His little dog would stick out its tongue out of fatigue, but he would pull it further. And wherever Gavrik Kozyrev visited, he didn’t discover or find anything like that. I wanted to. And I wanted so much that I was ready to turn myself inside out, just for the treasure. And it’s not just limestone, say, or some kind of dye, but oil, emerald placers and, at worst, coal...

Why waste yourself on a trifle - finding a bear's den or, even funnier, digging up medicinal roots, like Vasyatka Kopeikin. The name alone is worth something. Live mark. Kopeikin is Kopeikin, not Pyatakov. Not Grivennikov. Is it the case of Gavrila Kozyrev!

Gavrik Kozyrev plays the trump card, promising mountains of gold to his father and mother. And Vasyatka Kopeikin is busy with his penny business. He delves into everything, finds out everything, rewinds everything, rewinds from mustache to mind. He's thinking about it. He's figuring it out. He understands.

Once an old forester told Vasyatka a completely inappropriate story about the Rotten Swamp. He said that in ancient times, a lame golden-horned deer ran here. I treated my leg. The forester spoke magically. Chanting.

And then one day the old woman mumbled a tall tale. Again about the same swamp. It was as if not just the deer, but other ailing forest creatures were being healed.

Funny. And I can’t believe it. And it’s a shame to get it out of my head. And then a shepherd turned up. One thing at a time. He told how a cow in his herd became debilitated and how she rushed into the rotten swamp, ran away from the herd and, like that lame deer, basked in its rotten slurry and mud.

Is it really true? - Vasyatka is surprised.

And the shepherd told him:

Yes, there she is, the polled one. Previously, I could barely drag my legs, but now I can at least plow on it.

Vasyatka heard this and ran to Gavrik Kozyrev. I told him about the miracles in the swamp and asked:

What if this is the real truth?

Gavryushka Kozyrev laughed loudly and said:

Oh you Kopeikins-Polushkins... Grosheviks. You can’t get out of your swamp mud, you believe all sorts of empty lies... - and he went and went to say all sorts of offensive words.

But Vasyatka doesn’t listen, he thinks about his own things.

He thought and thought and came up with such a thought that he almost choked with joy. He ran to his grandmother and told her everything, starting with the golden-horned deer, and began to beg her:

Come on, grandma, I’ll drag the swamp mud into a big tub, and you put your feet in it. And suddenly yes...

An attempt is not torture, says the grandmother. - Let's…

Grandma Avdotya spends the day treating her feet in the swamp mud. The other one heals. Nothing, nothing. But he thinks to himself that dirt is not an ointment. You have to be patient. The deer went to the swamp for more than one day. And the polled cow also ran there for weeks.

Some not so few days passed, the grandmother felt warmth in her legs, and a month later - strength. She took her feet out of the tub and walked around the room.

Vasyatka screamed. He fell to his knees in front of his grandmother. He hugged her. The swamp slurry is washed away with tears. And the grandmother also roars through her happiness. Not only does he rejoice at his walking legs, he admires his grandson’s sighted mind. He sees himself in it. And then…

And then everything went as planned. Scientists have come to the Rotten Swamp in large numbers. It’s not a fairy tale about a golden-horned deer, not to marvel at a polled cow, when in front of everyone, Vasyatka’s grandmother, sitting on her feet, went to pick mushrooms.

They cleared the swamp, staked it out, and surrounded it with a fence. The houses began to rise. And a rich national health resort grew. They gave it a nice name, but people call it by its old name - Rotten Swamp. And whoever comes here to leave their ailments in the swamp takes away good rumors about Vasyatka Kopeikin.

And recently, one good master, who regained his legs here, decided to retell this true story in colors. I decided to decorate the walls of the national health resort with rare fairy-tale paintings. His gifted brush did not bypass anyone. There was a place for everyone. And the golden-horned deer in the swamp. And a polled cow. And to kind grandmother Avdotya. And, of course, to the diligent tracker Vasya Kopeikin...

Now he is Vasily Kuzmich. He became a big man, but still has the same temperament. No trifle is missed. He gets into every little detail. That's why they love him. They are honored in word of mouth and glorified in fairy tales...

Someone else's gate

Alyosha Khomutov grew up as a diligent, caring and hard-working boy. He was very loved in his family, but his grandfather loved Alyosha most of all, he loved him and, as best he could, helped him grow into a good person. The grandfather did not spoil his grandson, but he also did not refuse what he could not refuse.

He will ask Alyosha to teach him how to set traps for ferrets - please. Is it difficult to show your grandfather how these traps are set! Alyosha decides to cut firewood - you are welcome! The grandfather is holding on to one handle of the saw, the grandson is holding on to the other. The guy will suffer, but he will learn.

It’s the same with everything... Whether the little guy decides to paint the porch, or grow cucumbers in a box in the window - grandpa didn’t refuse anything. He demanded only one thing from his grandson:

If you take on a task, see it through to the end. And if you see that the matter is beyond your control, wait until you grow up.

This is how Alyosha lived. He made everyone in his large family happy and was happy himself; he felt like a real person, and others called him the same.

It’s good to live in the world when people praise you, when you succeed in everything. Even on a cloudy day, your soul is light and cheerful. But somehow something happened to lucky Alyosha that made me think about it...

And it all started when he and his grandfather went into the forest to hunt for black grouse. And the road went through a garden nursery where young trees were grown. The nursery was well fenced. Because even a herd can wander in and trample down the seedlings. And now there are so many moose that they even come to the village like home. And there’s nothing to say about hares - they’ll gnaw the bark of young apple or pear trees - and that’s the end.

Alyosha and his grandfather came to the nursery and saw that the gate was open. The gate slams in the wind. The latch at the gate came off. Alyosha noticed this and said to his grandfather like an adult:

The owners, me too... It’s a waste of time to tighten the latch with three screws, but they don’t want to... Because it’s someone else’s latch and it’s no one’s gate.

What can I say, Alyoshenka,” grandfather continued the conversation, “and it would be a good idea to lubricate the hinges of the gate with some grease, otherwise, look no further, the rust will overwhelm them and the gate will fall to the ground...

“And she’ll fall,” Alyosha confirmed, “she’s barely holding on anyway.” It’s bad, grandpa, to be someone else’s gate...

“It’s much worse to be someone else’s gate,” the grandfather again agreed with his grandson, “or maybe it’s our gate.” And you painted it with blue paint, and the hinges were lubricated with clean internal grease, and its latch rattled and rattled, like music... It’s yours, it’s yours.

Then the grandfather looked at his grandson, smiled at something and walked on. They walked for some time - maybe a kilometer, maybe two - and decided to sit on a bench in a forest clearing.

And whose, grandpa, is this bench? - Alyosha suddenly asked.

“It’s a draw,” the grandfather answered, “someone else’s.” Some man dug in two posts and nailed a board to them. This is how the bench turned out. Who needs it - rest. Nobody knows this man, but everyone says thank you to him... But soon this bench will also end. The pillars propped her up. And the board is black and black. Well, it’s someone else’s bench, and no one cares about it. Not like ours at the gate, well-groomed and painted...

Here the grandfather looked at Alyosha again, patted his rosy cheek and again smiled at something.

That day they killed three black grouse. Alyosha tracked down two of them. At home the noise was higher than the ceiling.

This is how a hunter grows up with us! - Alyosha’s mother praises him. “Anyone can shoot a black grouse, but few know how to track it.”

It was a fun dinner that Sunday evening, but for some reason Alyosha was silent and thinking about something.

Perhaps your dear son is tired? - Alyosha’s father asked.

Or maybe he didn’t get along with his grandfather? - asked the grandmother.

No, no,” Alyosha waved it off, “I’m not tired and I got along with my grandfather.” I really got along very well.

A week passed, or maybe two. Again, old and young were sent into the forest. They decided to stuff the hare.

The grandfather and grandson went hunting in the first snow. We went through the garden nursery again. The grandfather looks and doesn’t believe his eyes. Someone else's gate has not only the latch screwed on with good screws, not only the hinges are smeared with white lard, but also the paint on the gate is like the sky in the month of May.

Alyosha, look,” the grandfather points out, “there’s no way, relatives were found at someone else’s gate.”

They walked along the old road again and came to a clearing. We reached the bench where we rested last time, but the bench was unrecognizable. New posts were installed, the board was painted with the same blue paint as the gate, and the bench now has a backrest.

“Here you are,” the grandfather was surprised, “you’ve found an owner at the no-one’s bench.” If I knew this master, I would bow to him from the waist and shake his hand.

Then the grandfather looked into Alyosha’s eyes again and asked:

Don’t you know this master, granddaughters?

No,” Alyosha answered, “I don’t know him, grandfather.” I only know that in the spring our children want to renew the school fence. Completely squinted. She is also a stranger, but she is ours.

“That’s good,” said the grandfather.

What's good? - asked Alyosha.

It’s good that you don’t know the master who repaired the bench and considered someone else’s gate to be his own... And as for the school fence, - said the grandfather, throwing up his hands, - I can’t even find the words... Apparently, Alyosha, a time is coming when everything turns out to be yours and ours...

The grandfather looked into his grandson’s eyes again.

At this time, the late winter sun rose behind the forest. It illuminated the smoke of a distant factory. Alyosha admired the golden, sun-tinted smoke. Grandfather noticed this and spoke again:

And the factory, Alyosha, which smokes, also seems alien if you look at it without thinking... But it is ours, like our whole land and everything that is on it.

Syoma and Senya

Syoma and Senya are comrades. They were friends even before school. And now we are always together. Reliable Octobers. They were even trusted with calves. In general, they were in good standing at the Novo-Tselinny state farm.

So this time they were assigned to guard almost a thousand chickens, because it was a time of suffering, harvesting. It's hot in the steppe. Dry all around. Just look, the grain will begin to crumble. All the adults worked day and night to remove the bread as quickly as possible. Even the henkeepers went out into the field. So Syoma and Senya had to volunteer.

No matter how carefully you harvest the crop, some grains still fall out of the ears. Don't let them disappear. So they drive the chickens out into the compressed field to feed and pick up grain.

The pioneer Gavryusha Polozov was placed in charge over the Octobrists. He was a good boy. He has already been elected to the squad council three times. He loved the younger ones too. Didn't get cocky. He didn't boast that he was a pioneer.

Syoma and Senya also loved their older comrade. They obeyed him as the main boss over them and over the chickens. They talked with him about their affairs and, of course, about how they could quickly become pioneers.

Gavryusha reasoned like this:

The time will come and they will accept you. And you will become as good pioneers as you were good Octobrists.

And Syoma and Senya are in a hurry. I would like them to be accepted into the pioneer detachment in the fall, at the beginning of the school year. Syoma even said to Gavryusha:

Gavryusha responded to this:

Here the cunning Senya squinted and said:

What are you telling us, Gavryusha! Aunt Zina joined the party in the spring, so she was given recommendations and guarantees. We already know...

Gavryusha laughed and said:

Look where you've come from!.. A pioneer detachment is a completely different matter.

Of course, it’s different,” Seryozha agreed. - And if you look at it, it’s the same thing, only smaller... Give us recommendations! We won't let you down.

As soon as he said this, the old red rooster became worried: “Something like that? Does this mean something? Ku-dah-dah!.. Something is wrong... Ku-dah!.. Kudah!..”

Gavryusha became wary. The old rooster never fussed in vain. That's why they kept him, to prevent danger. Are there not enough chicken enemies in the steppe?.. Even if you take a fox, it will sneak up and you won’t hear it...

“Wha-what?” - the rooster did not let up.

Guys, I smell smoke from somewhere! - said Gavryusha.

Syoma and Senya also jumped up after Gavryusha. First they sniffed, then looked around.

The steppe is burning! - Senya shouted. - Get out! Look.

Then everyone saw smoke and fire. The stubble was burning. Fire and smoke moved towards the guys. Syoma and Senya rushed to the chickens. Gavryusha wanted to run after the adults to the far section. Yes, where there!.. A strip of fire, driven by the wind, moved towards the guys, towards the chicken flock very quickly. Gavryusha would not have had time to run halfway to the far section, even if he had rushed there like an arrow.

We need to round up the chickens! - he shouted to Syoma and Sena. And, seeing that the guys were rushing around the steppe, driving away stray chickens, he rushed to their aid.

The chickens, carried away by the search for grain, not sensing trouble, did not listen to the guys. Then Senya took off his shirt and began waving it. The others did the same. Gavryusha whistled. Syoma began throwing clods of earth at the chickens. The chicken commotion began. The chickens began to scatter in different directions. Some ran towards the fire.

I had to make a run again and turn the young chickens towards the river, where, wailing, as if calling the others, the old red rooster ran, leading a good hundred chickens with him.

The chickens running towards the fire stopped. It smelled like smoke.

Drive them to the river! To the river!.. - Gavryusha shouted heart-rendingly.

And the guys, not remembering themselves, drove a flock of chickens to the river. They understood that the river would block the path of the steppe fire. The chickens will be safe across the river. But how to transport them across the river?.. Two, three, even a dozen chickens can be caught and carried or even transferred, but there are a thousand of them!

The shore is getting closer and closer. But the fire is getting closer and closer. It may not be scary for fleet-footed guys, but for stunned chickens it is certain death.

The fire is very close, but the river is even closer. Gavryusha whistled deafeningly. The rooster, doubly frightened by the fire and whistle, took off like a helicopter and safely flew over the river. He was followed by two or three dozen chickens. The fright returned to them the long-forgotten ability to fly. Another two or three dozen chickens took off. Some, before reaching the opposite bank, ended up in the river. Some swam in fear, others, touching the bottom, ran like crazy through a ford.

A good hundred chickens have already been saved. Finding themselves safe on the other side, they ran on without stopping. These were old, two or three year old chickens. The young people didn’t want to take off. Water scared them no less than fire. One young cockerel, going crazy, chose to throw himself into the fire.

Gavryusha looked around. The fire advanced in an uneven, broken line. The boy decided to drive the chickens along the shore to the footbridge. He hoped that they would have time to slip through where the fire lagged behind, where the river made a bend. And the guys, waving their shirts, drove the chickens along the shore to the bridge.

On the left is fire, on the right is water. Between them is a rapidly rushing white cloud of chickens. They ran with their mouths open, driven by the whistle, and jumped over each other. Some, unable to stand the run, flew across the river, where the old rooster, who had already come to his senses, screamed heart-rendingly: “Where are you going, where? Here, here, here! - as if actually pronouncing these words. And the young people believe him. Flights have become more frequent. It doesn’t matter that many chickens are already afloat.

“They won’t drown,” Syoma thinks, “they will swim to the first shoal or to a snag and come ashore.”

The fire is already very close, but the fastest chickens are the first to run across the bridge.

The fire is hot for the kids too. It smelled like burnt wool.

Syomka, jump into the water! - Senya shouts. - I singed my hair.

“Jump yourself,” he replies, covering his head with his shirt.

The fire consumed only three pullets. He blocked their way just before the bridge. The guys saw them from the river. Before they burned, the chickens flew so high that they could fly over more than one such river.

This is what cowardice leads to! - said Syoma, cooling his burns with water.

* * *

On the first of September, Syoma and Senya went to school. And the next day they were accepted into the pioneer detachment. Solemnly. With the entire squad of the school.

They became the first pioneers in their class.

After getting ready, they were escorted home by their counselor Gavryusha Polozov. Having hugged both of them, he said:

It turns out, guys, that there are recommendations for pioneer detachments... And, it turns out, there are guarantees...

Having said this, Gavryusha pointed to Syoma’s singed eyebrows and to the red spot of a healing burn on Senya’s hand.

Palm

On the shores of the Black Sea, not far from Yalta, there is a cheerful building for the canteen of a pioneer camp.

When it's time for breakfast, lunch or dinner and the bugle invites the noisy population to the table, Palma appears. This is a very attractive large dog. Stately, black, with red tan marks, she attracts everyone's attention. Palma is a common favorite of the guys. Her gaze is tender and affectionate. She waves her tail in a friendly manner and willingly allows her children to pet her.

How can such a sweet dog not save a bone, cartilage or half-eaten cutlet?

The palm tree, slowly and gratefully licking its lips, eats all the best that is thrown to it, and then goes to doze in the coastal wild olive bushes. Sometimes Palma bathes in the sea, and then dries, stretching out on the golden sand, like a real resort woman.

The dog felt very free among the children who greeted her and always, with her tail lowered, walked away as soon as the old fisherman appeared on the shore. The old man lived near the camp, and a longboat always came for him.

One day during the bathing hour, when Palma was basking in the sun, a fisherman appeared. Sensing his approach, the dog opened its eyes and, getting up, left the shore. The pioneers decided to find out what was the matter, why Palma did not like or was afraid of the kind old man, and asked him about it.

“She’s ashamed of me,” answered the fisherman. - Apparently, she still has a conscience left. Even though it’s a dog’s, it’s still a conscience.

The guys surrounded the old man and asked why Palma should be ashamed.

The old man looked from under his hand into the sea and, seeing that the longboat was still far away, began to tell the story.

In our village, behind that mountain, there lived, and still lives, a respected fisherman and good hunter, Pyotr Tikhonovich Lazarev. One day in the fall, in the wind and rain, Lazarev walked along the seashore. He hears someone whining. Has stopped. I looked around. He sees a puppy in the grass under a palm tree. He bent down and looked at the puppy. I liked it. I put it in my bosom, brought it home and called it Palma...

The guys surrounding the old man became silent. Everyone wanted to know what would happen next. And the old man, lighting his extinguished pipe, did not keep himself waiting.

He fed Lazarev Palma, taught him guard duty, and put him to hunting. It turned out to be an understanding dog. I even took notes to the fishermen. You never know... And this is sometimes necessary. The whole village fell in love with the dog. And every fisherman knew her by name. And then... then something happened to the dog. One day at home - two days running around somewhere. What's happened? Lazarev decided to track the dog. And I followed. She sits near your dining room, licks her lips, begs for bones with a gentle look, and waves out sweet scraps with her tail.

“What are you, Palma? - Pyotr Tikhonovich asks her. - Are you living at home from hand to mouth? Aren `t you ashamed!"

The dog here and there. She whined guiltily. She crawled to the owner - they say, forgive me. And follow him home.

She lived at home for a day, two, three, and then she was gone and gone.

Lazarev goes back to the dining room. Palma wanted to sneak away, but that was not the case. Lazarev grabbed her by the collar and on a rope. How else? If you don’t understand kind words, then you will receive punishment. He tied her up and said: “Look, she’s crazy! Come to your senses!” But these words fall on deaf ears. Moreover, the leash was chewed through - and off to free bread, to an easy life.

The next morning Lazarev came to the camp, saw the ungrateful traitor - and came to her. And she bares her teeth and growls. And who, one wonders, is he growling at? The one who didn’t let her die in the windy autumn weather, who fed her with a pacifier, taught her to hunt, and assigned her to guard duty! He grabs her by the collar, and she grabs his hand! And to the bone.

Lazarev was taken aback. And not so much from pain, but from surprise and resentment. He washed the wound with sea water and said:

“Live, Palma, as you wish. You will not be happy, you homeless reveler!”

The tube went out again. The old man lit it again. Then he looked towards the approaching longboat and said:

The next day the old man's story about Palma became known in all the tents of the camp.

It's time for breakfast. Gorn invited him to the table, and, as always, a rich beggar appeared. She habitually sat down near the entrance to the dining room, waiting for free delicacies. Licking her lips in advance, Palma knew by the smell that today she would get enough lamb bones.

And then breakfast was over. Her acquaintances appeared at the door, but their hands were empty. Not one of them could bear her a bone or cartilage. Nothing. The guys, passing by, didn’t even look at her. They, without agreeing, but as if by agreement, paid the idle dog with contempt. And only one girl wanted to throw Palma a bone, but she was told:

Nastya, why are you going against everyone?

And Nastya, holding the bone in her fist, walked to the sea, and then threw it to the fish, crabs, sea urchins - to anyone, as long as it did not go to the dog who had betrayed his duties.

Balkunchik

In Crimea, between the villages of Planerskoye and Shchebetovka, they blocked a raw beam with a dam, and it turned out to be an excellent bet.

Having heard that there were fish in this reservoir, we went to try our luck. Talking about this and that and, of course, about big fish, we reached the bet.

Silence. Not a soul.

Suddenly, someone’s striped vest flashed in the bushes.

Hello, comrade captain! - my companion called out to a boy of about twelve.

“Hello,” he replied.

During the holidays I help my uncle graze his cattle and go fishing.

And was it successful? - asked my friend.

Still would! You can't catch fish here.

What kind of fish is here? - I asked.

Balkunchiki,” he answered.

Balkunchiki? - I asked again.

Yes. Fat, fat bastards. You can even fry in clean water.

We looked at each other. Not one of us had not only seen a fish with that name, but had never even heard of it. But I didn’t want to confess - my fisherman’s pride wouldn’t allow it. Then we took a detour.

My friend asked:

Do you come across large balconies?

Not good. But a lot. You'll see now. I'm sure I'll pull it out.

Then our new acquaintance plunged his hand into the water up to his neck and got the end of the string, to which, as it turned out, the top was tied.

Now look! - he shouted and jerked out a top made of wire and fine metal mesh.

The top was swarming with fish. We saw the most common crucian carp.

Are these the balkunchiki? - asked my friend.

Well, of course! - the successful fisherman answered proudly, choosing a fish from the top.

The boy put large crucian carp in a canvas bag, and small ones in a bucket of water.

No... - the boy objected, smiling. - In other bets, crucian carp are crucian carp. And these are balkunchiki.

Why, asked my friend, are they called that?

And the boy answered:

After grandfather Balkun. He died that summer. And in the fifty-third year, grandfather Balkun brought fifteen caviar crucian carp in a bucket. Golden. And he let me come here, to the bets. From those crucian carp the bastards began to be born. They came in thousands. Just have time to cast... The balkoons bite well on the fishing rod from the other side. In the evening. You won't leave without thirty pieces.

While talking to us, the boy loaded the top, busily hid the end of the line to the bottom and began to explain his departure.

“Don’t let them fall asleep,” he pointed to the bucket of change. - I need to carry them over two mountains... Do you have red worms? - he asked as he left.

“Yes,” I answered and asked: “Why do you need to carry this little thing over two mountains?”

What do you mean why? Our link put forward an obligation to move five hundred balkoons to a new pond. Three hundred or something have already been resettled, but there are about forty of them here. This means that only one hundred and sixty will remain... Well, I went, otherwise one balcony had already turned over. It's okay, it'll go away. They are tenacious...

The boy waved his hand at us and disappeared.

Soon I saw him easily climbing the hill. He carried the bucket alternately with his right and then with his left hand.

Apparently, the bucket, filled almost to the brim with water, was not a light load for him.

But he was in a hurry. He wanted to place the little fish in the new pond as soon as possible.

Late in the evening my friend returned with a large catch of balkoon.

And I, without touching the rod, also carried away my so happily caught little bastard, which has now become this story.

A story about an old man who glorified his name with fifteen crucian carp, unselfishly released into an unnamed pond for his grandchildren and reflection. A story about a little caring heir, of which we already have many, a lot, and not only in Crimea...

First bow

I'm six or seven years old. I just arrived here yesterday. My mother’s words still ring in my ears: “Listen to Kotya in everything.” Kitty is my aunt. She's an old maid. She is almost forty years old. And I am her favorite, her only nephew.

Auntie lived in her own house, like most of the workers of this Prikamsky plant. There is a yard and a vegetable garden at the house. Here, as my aunt says, my childhood began. I vaguely remember this. But everything that happened next will never be erased from my memory.

So...

I'm six or seven years old. I'm standing in the yard of my aunt's house. Poplars bloom with white down. Just fluff and fluff - and not a single boy I knew.

This morning I experienced for the first time the worst of the worst - loneliness. But it didn’t last long, maybe an hour, maybe ten minutes. But for me, impatient and hasty, even these minutes seemed painful.

Meanwhile, I didn’t know it then, in the crack of the neighbor’s fence four “Indian” eyes were vigilantly watching me. Two of them belonged to Sanchik Petukhov, and the other two belonged to his brother Petya.

Apparently, impatience and haste were not unique to me. Petya and Sanchik knew about my arrival several days in advance. The appearance of a new boy in a neighboring yard is not such a frequent and ordinary occurrence. It was necessary to get acquainted with the newcomer, then either accept him as a third Indian, or declare him a pale-faced enemy. The order is not new. This is what all the boys who played Indians did in our time. Either you are with us, or you are against us.

But how to meet? Shout: “Come to us” or “Let us climb over to you”... This is not the Indian way of meeting people. Therefore, an arrow was shot through the gap in the fence. She flew four steps in front of me and stuck into the log wall of the house. I ran to the arrow. It went quite deep into the tree, and I took it out with some effort.

This is our arrow! - was heard from the fence.

And I saw two boys.

Who are you? - I asked.

They have replyed:

Indians! - and in turn they asked: - Who are you?

“No one yet,” I said, handing the guys an arrow.

Do you want to be an Indian? - asked one of them.

Of course I want to,” I said joyfully, although I didn’t know what it meant to be an Indian, I believed that it was very good.

“Then climb over the fence,” they suggested.

“Very high,” I confessed timidly then. - Better take me through the gate.

And they took us to the Petukhovsky yard. I crossed the threshold of a new life for me.

In the Indian language, Sanchik was called San, and Petya was called Pe-pe. I haven't been given a new name yet because I haven't earned the right to be called a hunter. To do this, you first had to make a bow and ten arrows with your own hands, and then hit at least three of them into a fist-sized potato suspended on a thread.

The conditions are not easy. But don’t remain pale-faced and don’t lose the boys so happily found behind the neighboring fence.

I agreed. And I was handed a knife. For the first time in my life I held in my hands this simple and, as it turned out, powerful instrument. It was so sharp that it cut the branch as easily as if it were a stream of water from a faucet rather than a tree. They could cut a float out of pine bark, trim a fishing rod, plan shingles for a kite, sharpen a board, stick a splinter into it, and then call this structure a ship.

And I wanted to get my own knife. My aunt was horrified, but the father of my new friends said:

It's time for him to walk around with bandaged fingers!

This frightened my aunt even more, but my tears prevailed. I came back the next day with a bandaged finger. But I knew that the knife does not like those in a hurry.

The wound healed soon, and we went to the cemetery hill, where heather grew - this is the name the juniper was called. San and Pe-pe, who built more than one bow, helped me choose a good stem. The dense wood did not lend itself well to a knife, and not without difficulty and with the help of San, I cut the future bow from a juniper bush.

Now it had to be processed. It was easy, but not soon. But a happy moment came. The bow is bent. The bowstring from the harsh cord I wove rings. She is so tight and so melodious. Now it's time for the arrows. They are not difficult to make: to do this, you need to lay down a straight-layered board, and then plan out round sticks. But a round stick is not yet an arrow. There are no arrows without a tip - without a spear, as San and Pe-pe called it. And for this it was necessary to cut out triangles from tin, and then use a hammer, a large nail and an iron tile, which replaced an anvil, to make spears.

It's just in the hands of San and Pe-pe. It's very hard in my hands. The hammer hits sometimes too far, sometimes too hard and flattens the tin triangle. But spears need to be made. Hour after hour, the hammer, like a grumpy knife, becomes more obedient. The second tip is better than the first, and the third is better than the second. But they are all very bad. They are far from being copies of Pe-pe and especially San. Still, they can be mounted on arrows.

A potato is suspended by a thread. Seven Indian steps were measured, two of our normal steps each.

Sign of silence. Even chickens are driven out of the yard.

And I shoot. Past... Past... Past... Finally, the fourth arrow pierces the potato and spins along with it... The fifth - past. But the sixth and seventh - together with the fourth arrow.

That's enough, - said San, - now you are an Indian hunter named Zhuzha.

It was a great honor for me, and I was proud of myself that day, coming home with my bow and arrows.

It was a very joyful day of my childhood. And I remember how, upon returning home, I looked at my hands for a long time. It was they, my lovely hands with ugly short fingers and a wide palm, that made me happy. It was they, and not something else, and I even decided, without my aunt’s reminder, to wash them with soap. They fully deserve such attention from me.

Chizhik-Pyzhik

In the fall, Mavrik begged his grandmother to buy him a siskin and his grandmother bought it.

Here’s your Chizhik-Pyzhik,” she said and put a large wooden cage on the table. - Take care of him. Don't forget to feed and drink. And when spring comes, you will release it.

Mavrik was delighted: now Chizhik-Pyzhik will not have to freeze in the wind and fly tiredly from place to place to get food.

Every week Mavrik cleaned the cage. He regularly changed the water in the drinking bowl and poured plenty of grain into the feeder.

Siskin lived warm and cold all long winter. And when spring came, it was time to release the forest dweller. And Mavrik took the cage with Chizhik-Pyzhik across the city on a bus. And then walk to the forest. I took a fancy to a stump in the forest, placed a cage on it and opened the door. And he stepped aside:

Fly, Chizhik-Pyzhik, fly to freedom!

The little siskin jumped onto the door sill, shook himself off and... back into the cage.

Well, why aren't you flying, stupid?

And then Chizhik seemed to understand what they wanted from him, flapped his wings and flew out of the cage. It flew up onto a tall bush, and from there onto a small birch tree. He looked around and began to clean the feathers with his beak. And then I heard a siskin’s call and flutter-flutter - from branch to branch, from tree to tree - I got to the birch thicket.

Soon Chizhik-Pyzhik became hungry. He began to look for a familiar feeder. I searched until it was dark to see where I could find her in the forest.

Night came, and although it was not very cold, Chizhik still froze. He was all ruffled, his ruffled feathers looked like a fur coat. But nothing helped. Hungry, shivering from the cold, he could hardly wait for the morning.

And in the morning I saw how the birds were getting food, and I remembered what I had forgotten. He also went to look for food, but his wings did not obey him.

Something happened to his strong, light wings. Previously, he flew far and high. And now he could barely fly from tree to tree. I got used to it over the winter.

Chizhik felt bad and was scared. Neither get food nor escape from a predator. And then a flock of siskins gathered to fly away to their native nesting grounds. Chizhik-Pyzhik also went with her, but soon got tired, broke away from the flock and fell exhausted into the grass. This is just what the sly fox was waiting for...

Meanwhile, summer has come. Mavrik thought that Chizhik-Pyzhik had long ago acquired a nest and chicks, but still hoped that his favorite would return to him for the winter. And he waited for him to knock on the window with his small beak.

But autumn passed and winter came. But Chizhik-Pyzhik did not arrive. Apparently, he didn’t find the house where the boy once lived and where delicious food was waiting for him.

That's what Mavrik thought. It never occurred to him that Chizhik-Pyzhik had been gone for a long time.

How could Mavrik know that forest birds - siskins, tits, goldfinches - after living in a cage even for a little while, then die when they find themselves in the wild.

Grandpa's glasses

My grandfather had a grandson. Not such a gem - a guy and a guy. Only the old man loved his grandson very much. And how can you not love when he is a grandfather’s portrait, a grandmother’s smile, a son’s blood, a daughter-in-law’s eyebrow and her own blush.

Father, mother are at work, and grandson is with grandfather.

The old man himself hemmed felt boots for the whole family and made shoes at home. The grandson is hanging around his grandfather - he wants to know what's what. Helps grandpa with his eyes. And he doesn’t refuse to help with his hands.

Let's say, grandpa waxes the draught, but the bristle at its end cannot wax.

Let me wax, grandpa. You don't see well.

Will you wake up, grandson? The matter is simple, but difficult.

The grandson fights for an hour, two, three, but he learns. Always like this.

Oh, grandpa's glasses! - the old man will say. “It’s not scary to be left with you even without eyes.” I'll see.

Somehow they propped up some crowns near an old hut. It needs to be changed.

Come on, grandson, let's change the crowns ourselves.

“Come on,” the grandson answers. - Only I, grandfather, have never done this.

It’s not a problem, the grandfather answers. - If only there were eyes, and with good eyes, hands will do whatever you want. Get the saw. We'll sharpen. We'll give the teeth a good spread.

The grandson brought a saw and is afraid that his grandfather won’t hurt his hands.

Me myself, grandpa. Just show me how to set the teeth, how to hold a file at a point.

Grandfather showed me how to set teeth and how to hold a file. The grandson hurried and was slightly injured. And grandfather bandages his finger and says:

The saw-axe has no mercy on the hasty. And we will deceive them with patience and outwit them with skill.

The grandson deceived the saw with patience, and outwitted the ax with dexterity. I sharpened them so that they fit into wood like a knife into butter.

Let's go now, grandson, into the forest to cut down trees for crowns. Just protect me, Vasya, from death in the forest.

From what death, grandfather?

Do you know which trees are harmful? You fall from yourself, and they will fall on you. I'm afraid that some tree will slam me. I began to see even worse.

Nothing, grandpa. But I will look into both eyes.

We came to the forest. Grandfather began to show how to cut a tree, where the tree slopes, how to fell a tree in the wind.

The grandson does a good job and protects his grandfather. He cuts down trees carefully, wisely, and protects his feet.

The time has come to let down the crowns. Grandfather again complains about his eyes:

Vasenka, you have now become my glasses. Look, I'll tell you.

Grandfather told me how to measure a log, how to choose a groove in a log, how to cut a corner into a paw.

The grandson is trying. What grandpa says is what he does. And the old man checks by touch with his hands where and what is wrong - he points out.

The grandson brought the crowns, laid the grooves with new moss, and caulked them. Vasya’s father and mother were amazed.

How can you do all this, son?

And Vasya to them:

Yes, it’s not me, but grandfather.

Some time passed, and the grandfather began to complain more than ever.

I, Vasily, cannot live without work. Hands without use become blind, the soul grows old, the heart stops.

And the grandson fell to his grandfather and let’s reassure him:

Don't worry, grandpa. I see for two. My eyes are enough for both of us. Let's work. Just talk, and I'll see for myself.

Grandfather and grandson work. They look with two eyes, they craft with four hands. The stoves are rebuilt, the pipes are taken out, the frames are glassed, the floors are laid, the roofs are covered with wood chips. The master is in great demand. Once they were screwing awnings to the frames, and the grandson lost the screwdriver. I searched and searched and couldn't find it. And his grandfather:

Yes, there she is, Vasenka, lying in the shavings.

How did you, grandpa, see her?

Apparently, grandson, his eyes have begun to see clearly from work.

Maybe this happens, but I have not heard that in old age the eyes begin to see better.

Another week passed again, then another. The grandfather and grandson took on the delicate work. They hired to correct the old pattern in the manor house for the collective farm teahouse.

“You,” says the grandson, “sit down, grandfather, it’s not for your eyes, but I’ll draw veins on the leaves.”

The grandson began to draw out the veins with a brush, and the grandfather said:

Vaska, what are you? Veins must be given to the leaves with all their living force, but you remove them thinner than a hair.

Vasily gets down from the scaffolding and asks:

How is it that you, grandfather, can see the veins on the sheets from the floor when I can’t look at them well?

But grandfather was not lost and said:

He’s still young, which means he’s a master. You can't work without your grandfather's glasses.

Then the grandson asks:

So who is the glasses for whom? Are you for me or am I for you?

And you, granddaughter, should know this better. The big one has grown. Then Vasily understood about his grandfather’s blindness. Hugged the old man:

You are cunning to me, grandfather. Trouble is, he's so cunning! And the old man openly answers this:

If the grandfather is not cunning, then how will the grandson grow up smart and hard-working?

Many years have passed. Vasily began to work loudly. His labor glory blossomed in full force. They started calling him Vasily Petrovich, calling him a rare master. When Vasily Petrovich grew old, he himself began to put on cunning “grandfather’s glasses” for the young masters. To see your business more deeply and look at your work more broadly.

Stubborn firewood

Andryusha Usoltsev was ill a lot as a child, and by the age of twelve the illness left him and he began to catch up with his peers. To catch up - in height, in running, in blush and endurance.

Everyone’s grandson is growing up well, but he doesn’t show his father’s character,” Andryushin’s grandmother lamented. - Apparently, he took after his mother not only with his white curls, but also with his soft heart and pliability.

For the granddaughter, this is all a treasure, but for the grandson, the grandmother would like a thicker dough, more burrowing. It’s not for nothing that her favorite was nicknamed “mama’s flower.”

And, left alone in the house with Andryusha, Varvara Egorovna, as if by the way, began to tell:

Your father, Andrei, harrowed at the age of twelve. Whatever he grabbed onto, he didn’t let go. He did not run from the arable land or from the battlefield. Born into Andrian's grandfather. Character like a birch branch. Even if you are his cleaver, even if you are his wedge, he cracks and does not prick. Serious firewood... And in my younger years I was also sick with everything. Seventy-seven sick. And scrofula, and rubella, and anemone. And then he leveled out...

The old woman looked at the quiet, thoughtful grandson and encouraged:

Well, you'll still show yourself. And the white hair turns black. And a narrow palm can become wider... Nowadays they are quieter: they give a lot of lessons.

Listening to his grandmother, Andryusha felt resentment for his mother. Although he was not happy with his narrow palms and thin fingers, he did not regret it. These were my mother's hands. And Andryusha loved everything about his mother, even her ugly maiden name - Nedopekina.

You never know what kind of offensive names were given to ordinary people under the kings. But my mother had the most beautiful name in the whole world - Evgenia. And also look for the middle name - Ilyinichna. And with her thin fingers, the mother managed to milk three cows while others were milking two. She is not such a “bastard” as her grandmother saw.

“No, grandma,” thought Andrei, “you shouldn’t love your mother less than your father.”

Three days ago, while leaving for the district hospital, Andryusha’s mother kissed him for a long time and told him to be more affectionate with his grandmother. Andryusha was not rude to her. Only he was sad without his mother, because they were never separated. And then there are two separations at once. The second is with my father. My father had been bothered by shrapnel for many years now. And now he got rid of them. I was recovering. Andryushin’s mother went after him. But they are discharged from the hospital not at the request of the patient, but when possible. So they were delayed, and the chopped firewood ran out. Five logs left for two stoves. Varvara Yegorovna was at a time when chopping wood was difficult for her, and it didn’t suit her. Not a woman's business. And she said:

Andryusha, you should run to the Nedopekins and call Uncle Tikhon. Let him chop some wood for us to heat without looking back. It's freezing outside. And the father will return - it is necessary to heat it well.

Now, grandma. - And, throwing on his fur coat, Andryusha ran away.

It was getting dark outside. The old woman dozed off on the couch. And when I woke up, it was already dark outside the window. “I must have slept for an hour,” thought Varvara Yegorovna and remembered the firewood. Neither Andrei, nor Drov, nor Tikhon.

Where could the guy have gone?

Hearing a dull knock outside the window, she pulled back the curtain. I looked at the yard.

An electric light was burning brightly on the pole. Last year we built it to prevent us from stumbling. With such lighting, Varvara Egorovna could see not only the wood splitter, but also the branches on the firewood. And the firewood, I must say, this year turned out to be twisted and cross-layered. A bitch on a bitch, and even with a twist. This was the same harmful firewood that is easier to saw with a rip saw than to split. Andryusha, having taken off his sheepskin coat, was trying to pull out an ax planted in a heavy round birch tree. Steam was pouring out of the boy. And the grandmother wanted to knock on the window and call her grandson. But something stopped her. And she began to watch Andryusha’s struggle with the birch log.

No matter how hard he tried, the ax seemed to be frozen into the tree. Leaving the stubborn round piece, Andrei went to the woodpile and chose the second one - it was easier.

“He’s thinking,” thought the grandmother.

The grandson began to hit the butt of the planted ax with all his might with the round piece he had brought. In vain. Kruglyash only beat off his hands, but the ax remained as it was.

It’s a pity,” Varvara Yegorovna said to herself, “perhaps he won’t be able to overcome this block of wood.” Today he won’t overcome a birch log, tomorrow he’ll give up on another...

But the grandson made more and more attempts to pull out the ax and, when he lost all hope, he decided to lift the damned log over himself and hit the butt against another log.

It's going to get even worse! - Varvara Yegorovna was frightened and wanted to knock on the window again. But the knotty log shattered in half. It scattered so well that the old woman shouted:

Yeah! The curse has broken...

Andryusha unwillingly bewitched his grandmother to the window glass. Having wiped his forehead, spitting into his hands in the same way as his father did, the boy raised the ax over the log placed standing. Hit. The ax slid to the side. The log swayed and fell. Andryusha put the log down again and hit it with the ax again. The log cracked. It seemed to the grandmother that she not so much guessed about this crack as distinguished it.

The log rose above your head... Impact... Luck! Things went well. Now it was easier to chop halves into quarters, quarters into octopuses. Now we could rest. Go for a run. Make two or three free movements with inhalation and exhalation, as if doing exercises.

An hour passes again. With varying degrees of success, Andryusha fights with firewood. Some scatter so loudly that you can hear them through the double frames. Other knotty, crooked logs compete, but Andryusha did not return any of the stubborn logs to the woodpile.

The pot of milk noodles has long been taken out of the Russian oven, the plate has long been placed on the table and, not without purpose, my father’s spoon has been placed in front of it.

Finally the door opens. The cold blew into the hut like white steam. On the threshold is a red-cheeked woodcutter with a blue bump on his forehead. Grandma doesn't want to notice the bruise. She sees only rosy cheeks and the sparkle of blue eyes.

Andryusha placed firewood next to the stove - exactly as his father always did. Not by throwing, but log by log, one to one.

Having laid the firewood like this, he said to his grandmother:

Drown, mother, don't look back. There are five or six burdens left in the yard. Enough until Saturday...

He brushed his felt boots with a broom, hung up his sheepskin coat and asked:

What's in our oven, grandma?

Andrey has never eaten the hated milk noodles with such gusto.

When Andryusha finished dinner, grandmother took an old silver fifty-kopeck piece from the chest and began to lightly rub the blue lump, saying:

We got some serious firewood today... Whether you use a cleaver or a wedge. They crack, not prick. I don’t understand how Tikhon manages them...

Andryusha responded to this:

Nedopekins are also full of character, grandma, although their surname is not as famous as yours and mine.

The old woman turned away to hide her smile and pretended that she had not heard what her grandson said. Andrei went to the upper room to finish his lessons.

Late in the evening Andryusha's father and mother arrived. There was no end to the joy. The mother was the first to notice the bruise:

Where did you get this from, Andryushenka?

It’s better not to ask,” the grandmother intervened and quietly added: “Mama’s flowers have given a good ovary today.” Thank you for your grandson, Evgeniy.