Stories about the forest of Russian writers. Fairy tales about nature - a pantry of goodness and wisdom

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "The Last Mushrooms"

The wind scattered, the linden sighed and seemed to exhale a million golden leaves from itself. The wind still scattered, rushed with all its might - and then all the leaves flew off at once, and remained on the old linden, on its black branches only rare gold coins.

So the wind played with the linden, crept up to the cloud, blew, and the cloud splashed and immediately dispersed into rain.

The wind caught up and drove another cloud, and bright rays burst out from under this cloud, and the wet forests and fields sparkled.

Red leaves were covered with mushrooms, but I found a little mushrooms, and boletus, and boletus.

These were the last mushrooms.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "The conversation of trees"

The buds open, chocolate-colored, with green tails, and a large transparent drop hangs on each green beak.

You take one kidney, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.

You sniff a bird cherry bud and immediately remember how you used to climb up a tree for berries, shiny, black-lacquered. He ate handfuls right with the bones, but nothing but good came from this.

The evening is warm, and such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And now the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a birch with another white birch from afar echoes; a young aspen came out into the clearing, like a green candle, and calls to itself such a green aspen candle, waving a twig; bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds.

If you compare with us, we echo with sounds, and they have a fragrance.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "Birch bark tube"

I found an amazing birch bark tube. When a person cuts a piece of birch bark for himself on a birch, the rest of the birch bark near the cut begins to curl up into a tube. The tube will dry out, curl up tightly. There are so many of them on birch trees that you don’t even pay attention.

But today I wanted to see if there was anything in such a tube.

And in the very first tube I found a good nut, stuck so tightly that I could hardly push it out with a stick.

There was no hazel around the birch. How did he get there?

“Probably the squirrel hid it there, making its winter supplies,” I thought. “She knew that the pipe would curl up tighter and tighter and grab the nut tighter and tighter so it wouldn’t fall out.”

But later I guessed that it was not a squirrel, but a nutlet bird stuck a nut, maybe stealing from a squirrel's nest.

Looking at my birch bark tube, I made another discovery: I settled under the cover of a walnut - who would have thought? - the spider and the entire inside of the tube tightened with its cobweb.

Eduard Yurievich Shim "The Frog and the Lizard"

- Hello, Lizard! Why are you without a tail?

- It remained in the puppy's teeth.

- Hee hee! I, the Frog, even have a small tail. A. you could not save!

- Hello, Frog! Where is your ponytail?

- I lost my tail...

- Hee hee! And I, the Lizard, have grown a new one!

Eduard Yurievich Shim "Lily of the Valley"

- What flower in our forest is the most beautiful, most delicate, most fragrant?

- Of course it's me. Lily of the valley!

- What kind of flowers do you have?

- My flowers are like snow bells on a thin stem. They seem to glow at dusk.

- What's the smell like?

- The smell is such that you will not inhale!

- And what do you have on the stem now, in place of the little white bells?

- Red berries. Also beautiful. A feast for the eyes! But don't rip them off, don't touch them!

- Why do you delicate flower, poisonous berries?

- So that you, sweet tooth, do not eat!

Eduard Yurievich Shim "Stripes and spots"

Two kids met in a clearing: Roe deer - a forest goat and Boar - a forest pig.

They stood nose to nose and looked at each other.

— Oh, how funny! - says Kosulenok. - All striped, striped, as if you were painted on purpose!

- Oh, you are so funny! - says Kabanchik. - All in specks, as if you were deliberately splashed!

- I'm spotted in order to play hide and seek better! - said Kosulenok.

- And I'm striped, so I can play hide-and-seek better! — said Kabanchik.

- It's better to hide with spots!

— No, stripes are better!

- No, with spots!

— No, with stripes!

And argued, and argued! No one wants to give up

And at this time, the branches crackled, the deadwood crunched. She went out into the clearing Bear with cubs. The Kabanchik saw her and goaded into the thick grass.

All the grass is striped, striped, - the Boar disappeared into it, as if it had fallen through the ground.

I saw the Bear Roe — and shot into the bushes. Between the leaves the sun breaks through, everywhere there are yellow specks, specks, - the Roe deer disappeared into the bushes, as if he had not been.

Bear did not notice them, passed by.

So, both have learned to play hide and seek well. They argued in vain.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy "Swans"

Swans flocked from the cold side to warm lands. They flew across the sea. They flew day and night, and another day and another night they flew without rest over the water. Was in heaven full month, and the swans below saw blue water below them.

All the swans are tired, flapping their wings; but they did not stop and flew on. Old, strong swans flew in front, those that were younger and weaker flew behind.

One young swan flew behind everyone. His strength has weakened.

He flapped his wings and could not fly further. Then he spread his wings and went down. He descended closer and closer to the water, and his comrades farther and farther whitened in the moonlight. The swan landed on the water and folded its wings. The sea stirred under him and rocked him.

A flock of swans was seen as a white line in the bright sky. And it was barely audible in the silence how their wings rang. When they were completely out of sight, the swan bent its neck back and closed its eyes. He did not move, and only the sea, rising and falling in a wide strip, raised and lowered him.

Before dawn, a light breeze began to stir the sea. And the water splashed into the white chest of the swan. The swan opened his eyes. In the east the dawn was reddening, and the moon and the stars became paler.

The swan sighed, stretched out his neck and flapped his wings, rose and flew, clinging to the water with his wings. He rose higher and higher and flew alone over the gently swaying waves.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy "Bird Cherry"

One bird cherry grew on a hazel path and drowned out the hazel bushes. I thought for a long time - to chop or not to chop it, I was sorry. This bird cherry did not grow as a bush, but as a tree three inches in length and four fathoms in height, all forked, curly and all sprinkled with a bright, white, fragrant color. Her scent could be heard from afar. I would not have cut it down, but one of the workers (I told him before to cut down all the bird cherry trees) started cutting it without me. When I arrived, he had already cut an inch and a half into it, and the juice squished under the ax when it hit the old chopper. “There is nothing to do, apparently, fate,” I thought, took the ax itself and began to chop together with the peasant.

Any work is fun to work, fun and chop. It's fun to drive the ax deep obliquely, and then cut straight through the mowed down, and further and further cut into the tree.

I completely forgot about the bird cherry and only thought about how to dump it as soon as possible. When I was out of breath and put the ax down, I ran into a tree with the peasant and tried to knock him down. We shook: the tree trembled with leaves, and dew dripped on us from it and white, fragrant flower petals fell down.

At the same time, as if something screamed, it crunched in the middle of the tree; we leaned on it, and, as if weeping, it crackled in the middle, and the tree fell down. It was torn at the notch and, swaying, lay down in branches and flowers on the grass. Branches and flowers trembled after the fall and stopped.

“Oh, something important! - said the man. "It's a pity!" And I was so sorry that I quickly went to other workers.

Leo Tolstoy "Apple Trees"

I planted two hundred young apple trees, and for three years in spring and autumn I dug them in, and wrapped them in straw for winter. In the fourth year, when the snow melted, I went to look at my apple trees. They got fat in the winter; the bark on them was glossy and poured; the knots were all intact, and on all ends and on the forks sat round, like peas, flower buds. In some places, the raspukalki had already burst and the scarlet edges of the flower leaves could be seen. I knew that all the unravelings would be flowers and fruits, and I rejoiced looking at my apple trees. But when I unfolded the first apple tree, I saw that below, above the ground itself, the bark of the apple tree was gnawed all around to the very wood, like a white ring. The mice did it. I unrolled another apple tree - and the other one had the same thing. Of the two hundred apple trees, not a single one remained intact. I smeared the gnawed places with pitch and wax; but when the apple trees blossomed, their flowers immediately fell asleep. Little leaves came out - and they withered and withered. The bark was wrinkled and blackened. Of the two hundred apple trees, only nine remained. On these nine apple trees, the bark was not eaten around, but a strip of bark remained in the white ring. On these strips, in the place where the bark diverged, outgrowths became, and although the apple trees got sick, they went. The rest all disappeared, only shoots went below the gnawed places, and then they are all wild.

The bark of trees is the same veins in a person: through the veins the blood goes through a person - and through the bark the juice goes through the tree and rises into branches, leaves and flowers. It is possible to hollow out the whole inside of a tree, as is the case with old vines, but if only the bark was alive, the tree would live; but if the bark is gone, the tree is gone. If a person's veins are cut, he will die, firstly, because the blood will flow out, and secondly, because the blood will no longer flow through the body.

So the birch dries up when the guys make a hole to drink the juice, and all the juice will flow out.

So the apple trees disappeared because the mice ate the whole bark around, and the juice no longer had a way from the roots to the branches, leaves and color.

Leo Tolstoy "Hares"

Description

Hares feed at night. In winter, forest hares feed on the bark of trees, field hares - on winter crops and grass, bean gooses - on grains on the threshing floor. During the night, hares make a deep, visible trail in the snow. Before hares, hunters are people, and dogs, and wolves, and foxes, and crows, and eagles. If the hare walked simply and straight, then in the morning he would now be found on the trail and caught; but the hare is cowardly, and cowardice saves him.

The hare walks at night through the fields and forests without fear and makes straight tracks; but as soon as morning comes, his enemies wake up: the hare begins to hear either the barking of dogs, or the screech of sleighs, or the voices of peasants, or the crackling of a wolf in the forest, and begins to rush from side to side with fear. It will jump forward, be frightened of something and run back in its wake. He will hear something else - and with all his might he will jump to the side and gallop away from the previous trace. Again something will knock - again the hare will turn back and again jump to the side. When it becomes light, he will lie down.

In the morning, the hunters begin to disassemble the hare's trail, get confused by double tracks and long jumps, they are surprised at the tricks of the hare. And the hare did not think to be cunning. He's just afraid of everything.

Leo Tolstoy "Owl and Hare"

It got dark. Owls began to fly in the forest along the ravine, looking out for prey.

A big hare jumped out into the clearing, began to preen. The old owl looked at the hare and sat on the bough, and the young owl said:

- Why don't you catch a hare?

The old one says:

- Unbearable - a great hare: you will cling to him, and he will drag you into the thicket.

And the young owl says:

- And I will grab with one paw, and with the other I will quickly hold on to the tree.

And a young owl set off after a hare, clung to its back with its paw so that all the claws were gone, and prepared the other paw to cling to a tree. As a hare dragged an owl, she clung to a tree with her other paw and thought: “It won’t leave.”

The hare rushed and tore the owl. One paw remained on the tree, the other on the hare's back.

The next year, the hunter killed this hare and marveled at the fact that he had overgrown owl claws in his back.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy "Bulka"

Officer's Tale

I had a face... Her name was Bulka. She was all black, only the tips of her front paws were white.

In all muzzles, the lower jaw is longer than the upper and the upper teeth extend beyond the lower ones; but Bulka's lower jaw protruded so far forward that a finger could be placed between the lower and upper teeth. Bulka's face was broad; the eyes are large, black and shiny; and white teeth and fangs always stuck out. He looked like an arap. Bulka was quiet and did not bite, but he was very strong and tenacious. When he used to cling to something, he would grit his teeth and hang like a rag, and he, like a tick, could not be torn off in any way.

Once they let him attack a bear, and he grabbed the bear's ear and hung like a leech. The bear beat him with his paws, pressed him to himself, threw him from side to side, but could not tear him off and fell on his head to crush Bulka; but Bulka kept on him until they poured cold water on him.

I adopted him as a puppy and fed him myself. When I went to serve in the Caucasus, I did not want to take him and left him quietly, and ordered him to be locked up. At the first station, I was about to sit down on another sling, when I suddenly saw that something black and shiny was rolling along the road. It was Bulka in his copper collar. He flew at full speed to the station. He rushed towards me, licked my hand and stretched out in the shade under the cart. His tongue stuck out to the palm of his hand. He then pulled it back, swallowing saliva, then again stuck it out on a whole palm. He was in a hurry, did not keep up with breathing, his sides were jumping. He turned from side to side and tapped his tail on the ground.

I later found out that after me he broke through the frame and jumped out of the window and directly, in my wake, galloped along the road and galloped about twenty versts in the heat.

Leo Tolstoy "Bulka and the boar"

Once in the Caucasus we went hunting for wild boars, and Bulka came running with me. As soon as the hounds drove off, Bulka rushed to their voice and disappeared into the forest. It was in the month of November: wild boars and pigs then are very fat.

In the Caucasus, in the forests where wild boars live, there are many delicious fruits: wild grapes, cones, apples, pears, blackberries, acorns, blackthorn. And when all these fruits ripen and are touched by frost, the boars eat up and grow fat.

At that time, the boar is so fat that it can not run under the dogs for long. When he is chased for two hours, he hides in a thicket and stops. Then the hunters run to the place where he is standing and shoot. By the barking of dogs, you can know whether the boar has stopped or is running. If he runs, then the dogs bark with a squeal, as if they were being beaten; and if he is standing, then they bark, as if at a person, and howl.

During this hunt, I ran for a long time through the forest, but not once did I manage to cross the path of a wild boar. Finally, I heard the long-drawn-out barking and howling of the hounds and ran to that place. I was already close to the boar. I've already heard more crackling noises. It was a boar tossing and turning with dogs. But it was heard by barking that they did not take him, but only circled around. Suddenly I heard something rustling behind me and saw Bulka. He apparently lost the hounds in the forest and got confused, and now he heard their barking and, just like me, that was the spirit rolled in that direction. He ran through the clearing, along the tall grass, and all I could see from him was his black head and bitten tongue in his white teeth. I called out to him, but he did not look back, overtook me and disappeared into the thicket. I ran after him, but the farther I went, the forest became more and more often. The knots knocked off my hat, hit me in the face, the needles of the blackthorn clung to my dress. I was already close to barking, but I couldn't see anything.

Suddenly I heard that the dogs barked louder, something crackled violently, and the boar began to puff and wheeze. I thought that now Bulka got to him and was messing with him. With the last of my strength, I ran through the thicket to that place. In the most remote thicket I saw a motley hound. She barked and howled in one place, and something blackened and fussed about three steps away from her.

When I moved closer, I examined the boar and heard that Bulka squealed piercingly. The boar grunted and poked at the hound - the hound tucked its tail and jumped away. I could see the side of the boar and his head. I aimed to the side and fired. I saw that it hit. The boar grunted and crackled away from me more often. The dogs squealed and barked after him, and more often I rushed after them. Suddenly, almost under my feet, I saw and heard something. It was Bulka. He lay on his side and squealed. There was a pool of blood underneath. I thought, "The dog is missing"; but now I was not up to it, I was breaking further. Soon I saw a boar. The dogs grabbed him from behind, and he turned first to one side, then to the other. When the boar saw me, he leaned towards me. I fired another time, almost at point-blank range, so that the bristles on the boar caught fire, and the boar wheezed, staggered, and slammed his whole carcass heavily to the ground.

When I approached, the boar was already dead, and only here and there it was swollen and twitching. But the dogs, bristling, some tore at his belly and legs, while others lapped up the blood from the wound.

Then I remembered Bulka and went to look for him. He crawled towards me and groaned. I went up to him, sat down and looked at his wound. His stomach was torn open, and a whole lump of intestines from his stomach dragged along the dry leaves. When the comrades approached me, we set Bulka's intestines and sewed up his stomach. While they sewed up the stomach and pierced the skin, he kept licking my hands.

The boar was tied to the horse's tail to be taken out of the forest, and Bulka was put on the horse and so they brought him home.

Bulka was ill for six weeks and recovered.

Leo Tolstoy "Milton and Bulka"

I got myself a setter dog for the pheasants.

This dog was called Milton: it was tall, thin, speckled in grey, with long beaks and ears, and very strong and intelligent.

They did not squabble with Bulka. Not a single dog has ever snapped at Bulka. He would only show his teeth, and the dogs would curl their tails and walk away.

Once I went with Milton for pheasants. Suddenly Bulka ran after me into the forest. I wanted to drive him away, but I couldn't. And it was a long way to go home to take him away. I thought that he would not interfere with me, and went on; but as soon as Milton sensed a pheasant in the grass and began to search, Bulka rushed forward and began to poke his head in all directions. He tried before Milton to raise the pheasant. He heard something like that in the grass, jumped, twirled; but his instincts are bad, and he could not find a trace alone, but looked at Milton and ran where Milton was going. As soon as Milton sets off on the trail, Bulka will run ahead. I recalled Bulka, beat him, but could not do anything with him. As soon as Milton began to search, he rushed forward and interfered with him. I wanted to go home already, because I thought that my hunting was spoiled, but Milton figured out better than me how to deceive Bulka. This is what he did: as soon as Bulka runs ahead of him, Milton will leave a trace, turn in the other direction and pretend that he is looking. Bulka will rush to where Milton pointed, and Milton will look back at me, wag his tail and follow the real trail again. Bulka again runs to Milton, runs ahead, and again Milton deliberately takes ten steps to the side, deceives Bulka and again leads me straight. So all the hunting he deceived Bulka and did not let him ruin the case.

Leo Tolstoy "Turtle"

Once I went hunting with Milton. Near the forest, he began to search, stretched out his tail, raised his ears and began to sniff. I prepared my gun and followed him. I thought he was looking for a partridge, a pheasant, or a hare. But Milton did not go into the forest, but into the field. I followed him and looked ahead. Suddenly I saw what he was looking for. In front of him ran a small turtle, the size of a hat. Bare dark gray head long neck was stretched out like a pestle; the turtle moved widely with its bare paws, and its back was all covered with bark.

When she saw the dog, she hid her legs and head and sank down on the grass so that only one shell was visible. Milton grabbed it and began to gnaw, but could not bite through it, because the turtle has the same shell on its belly as on its back. Only in front, behind and on the sides there are holes where she passes her head, legs and tail.

I took the tortoise from Milton and looked at how its back is painted, and what kind of shell, and how it hides there. When you hold it in your hands and look under the shell, then only inside, as in a basement, you can see something black and alive.

I threw the turtle on the grass and went on, but Milton did not want to leave it, but carried it in his teeth behind me. Suddenly Milton yelped and let her go. The turtle in his mouth released a paw and scratched his mouth. He was so angry with her for this that he began to bark and grabbed her again and carried her after me. I again ordered to quit, but Milton did not listen to me. Then I took the turtle from him and threw it away. But he didn't leave her. He began to hurry with his paws to dig a hole near her. And when he dug a hole, he filled the tortoise into the hole with his paws and covered it with earth.

Turtles live both on land and in water, like snakes and frogs. They hatch their children with eggs, and they lay the eggs on the ground, and do not incubate them, but the eggs themselves, like fish caviar, burst - and turtles hatch. Turtles are small, no more than a saucer, and large, three arshins in length and weighing twenty pounds. Large turtles live in the seas.

One turtle lays hundreds of eggs in the spring. The shell of a turtle is its ribs. Only in humans and other animals the ribs are each separately, and in the turtle the ribs are fused into a shell. The main thing is that all animals have ribs inside, under the meat, while a turtle has ribs on top, and meat under them.

Nikolay Ivanovich Sladkov

Day and night rustles are heard in the forest. It's whispering trees, bushes and flowers. Birds and animals are talking. Even fish speak words. You just need to be able to hear.

They will not reveal their secrets to the indifferent and indifferent. But the inquisitive and patient will tell everything about themselves.

In winter and summer rustles are heard,

In winter and summer, conversations do not stop.

Day and night...

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov "Forest Strongmen"

The first drop of rain hit, and the competition began.

Three competed: mushroom boletus, mushroom boletus and mushroom mushroom.

The birch boletus was the first to squeeze out the weight. He picked up a birch leaf and a snail.

The second number was the boletus mushroom. He picked up three aspen leaves and a frog.

Mokhovik was third. He got angry, boasted. He parted the moss with his head, crawled under a thick twig and began to squeeze. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry - did not squeeze. He only forked his hat: it became like a hare's lip.

The boletus was the winner.

His reward is the scarlet cap of the champion.

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov "Songs Under the Ice"

It happened in winter. My skis are up! I ran on skis on the lake, and the skis sang. They sang well, like birds.

And around the snow and frost. Nostrils stick together and teeth freeze.

The forest is silent, the lake is silent. The roosters in the village are silent. And the skis are singing!

And their song - like a stream, it flows, it rings. But it’s not the skis, in fact, that sing, where are they, wooden ones! Under the ice someone sings, right under my feet.

If I had gone then, the under-ice song would have remained a wonderful forest mystery. But I didn't leave...

I lay down on the ice and hung my head into the black hole.

During the winter, the water in the lake dried up, and the ice hung over the water like an azure ceiling. Where it hung, and where it collapsed, and steam curls from dark failures. But it's not the fish that sing with bird voices there, is it? Maybe there really is a stream there? Or maybe the icicles born from steam are ringing?

And the song is ringing. She is alive and pure; no stream, no fish, no icicles can sing like this. Only one creature in the world can sing such a song - a bird ...

I hit the ski on the ice - the song stopped. I stood quietly - the song rang out again.

Then I slammed my ski on the ice with all my might. And just then a miracle bird fluttered out of the dark basement. She sat down on the edge of the hole and bowed to me three times.

— Hello, under-ice songbird!

The bird nodded again and sang an under-ice song in plain sight.

“But I know you!” - I said. - You are a dipper - a water sparrow!

Olyadka did not answer: he could only bow and squat politely. Again he darted under the ice, and his song thundered from there. So what if it's winter? There is neither wind nor frost under the ice. Under the ice black water and mysterious green twilight. There, if you whistle louder, everything will ring: the echo will rush, knocking on the icy ceiling, hung with ringing icicles. What would a dipper not sing!

Why don't we listen to him!

Valentin Dmitrievich Berestov "Honest caterpillar"

The caterpillar considered itself very beautiful and did not miss a single drop of dew so as not to look into it.

- How good am I! the Caterpillar rejoiced, looking with pleasure at her flat face and arching her shaggy back to see two golden stripes on it. It's a pity no one notices this.

But one day she got lucky. A girl walked through the meadow and picked flowers. The caterpillar climbed onto the most beautiful flower and waited. And the girl saw her and said:

- That's disgusting! Even looking at you is disgusting!

- Ah well! The Caterpillar got angry. - Then I give an honest caterpillar word that no one will ever, anywhere, for anything and for no reason, in any case, under any circumstances, see me again!

I gave my word - you need to keep it, even if you are a Caterpillar.

And the caterpillar crawled up the tree. From trunk to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to leaf. She took out a silk thread from her belly and began to wrap herself around it.

She labored for a long time and finally made a cocoon.

“Ugh, how tired I am!” The Caterpillar sighed. - Totally screwed up.

It was warm and dark in the cocoon, there was nothing else to do, and the Caterpillar fell asleep.

She woke up because her back was itching terribly. Then the Caterpillar began to rub against the walls of the cocoon. Rubbed, rubbed, rubbed them through and fell out. But she fell somehow strange - not down, but up.

And then the Caterpillar in the same meadow saw the same girl.

"Horrible! thought the Caterpillar. - Even though I'm not beautiful, it's not my fault, but now everyone will know that I'm also a liar. I gave an honest caterpillar that no one would see me, and did not restrain him. A shame!"

And the caterpillar fell into the grass.

And the girl saw her and said:

- Such a beauty!

“So trust people,” grumbled the Caterpillar. “Today they say one thing, and tomorrow they say something completely different.

Just in case, she looked into the dewdrop. What? In front of her is an unfamiliar face with long, long mustaches. The caterpillar tried to bend its back and saw that large multi-colored wings appeared on its back.

— Ah, that's it! she guessed. “A miracle happened to me. Most ordinary miracle: I became a Butterfly! This happens.

And she spun merrily over the meadow, because she did not give an honest butterfly word that no one would ever see her.

Mikhail Prishvin "Forest Master"

That was on a sunny day, otherwise I’ll tell you how it was in the forest just before the rain. There was such silence, there was such tension in anticipation of the first drops, that it seemed that every leaf, every needle tried to be the first and catch the first drop of rain. And so it became in the forest, as if each smallest essence received its own, separate expression.

So I go in to them at this time, and it seems to me: they all, like people, turned their faces to me and, out of their stupidity, they ask me, like a god, for rain.

“Come on, old man,” I ordered the rain, “you will torment us all, go, go, start!”

But the rain did not listen to me this time, and I remembered my new straw hat: it will rain - and my hat is gone. But then, thinking about the hat, I saw an unusual Christmas tree. She grew up, of course, in the shade, and that is why her branches were once lowered down. Now, after selective felling, she found herself in the light, and each branch of her began to grow upwards. Probably, the lower boughs would have risen over time, but these branches, having touched the ground, released their roots and clung ... So, under the tree with the branches raised up below, a good hut turned out. Having cut the spruce branches, I compacted it, made an entrance, and laid the seat below. And as soon as I sat down to start a new conversation with the rain, as I see, a large tree is burning very close to me. I quickly grabbed a spruce branch from the hut, gathered it into a broom and, quilting over the burning place, little by little extinguished the fire before the flame burned through the bark of the tree around and thus made it impossible for the juice to flow.

Around the tree, the place was not burned by a fire, cows were not grazed here, and there could not be undershepherds on which everyone blamed for the fires. Remembering my childhood robber years, I realized that the tar on the tree was most likely set on fire by some boy out of mischief, out of curiosity to see how the tar would burn. As I descended into my childhood years, I imagined how pleasant it was to strike a match and set fire to a tree.

It became clear to me that the pest, when the tar caught fire, suddenly saw me and disappeared immediately somewhere in the nearest bushes. Then, pretending that I was continuing my way, whistling, I left the place of the fire and, having taken several dozen steps along the clearing, jumped into the bushes and returned to the old place and also hid.

I did not have long to wait for the robber. A fair-haired boy of seven or eight years old came out of the bush, with a reddish sunny bake, bold, open eyes, half-naked and with excellent build. He looked hostilely in the direction of the clearing where I had gone, raised fir cone and, wanting to let it into me, he swung so hard that he even turned over around himself.

This didn't bother him; on the contrary, like a real master of the forests, he put both hands in his pockets, began to look at the place of the fire and said:

- Come out, Zina, he's gone!

A girl came out, a little older, a little taller, and with a large basket in her hand.

“Zina,” the boy said, “you know what?

Zina looked at him with large calm eyes and answered simply:

— No, Vasya, I don't know.

- Where are you! said the owner of the forests. “I want to tell you: if that person hadn’t come, if he hadn’t put out the fire, then, perhaps, the whole forest would have burned down from this tree.” If only we could have a look!

- You are an idiot! Zina said.

“True, Zina,” I said, “I thought of something to brag about, a real fool!”

And as soon as I said these words, the perky owner of the forests suddenly, as they say, "flee away."

And Zina, apparently, did not even think of answering for the robber, she calmly looked at me, only her eyebrows rose a little in surprise.

At the sight of such a reasonable girl, I wanted to turn the whole story into a joke, win her over and then work together on the master of the forests.

Just at this time, the tension of all sentient beings waiting for rain reached its extreme.

“Zina,” I said, “look how all the leaves, all the blades of grass are waiting for the rain. Won hare cabbage even climbed onto a stump to capture the first drops.

The girl liked my joke, she graciously smiled at me.

- Well, old man, - I said to the rain, - you will torment us all, start, let's go!

And this time the rain obeyed, went. And the girl seriously, thoughtfully focused on me and pursed her lips, as if she wanted to say: “Jokes are jokes, but still it started to rain.”

“Zina,” I said hurriedly, “tell me, what do you have in that big basket?”

She showed: there were two white mushrooms. We put my new hat in the basket, covered it with a fern, and headed out of the rain to my hut. Having broken another spruce branch, we covered it well and climbed in.

“Vasya,” the girl shouted. - It will fool, come out!

And the owner of the forests, driven by the pouring rain, did not hesitate to appear.

As soon as the boy sat down next to us and wanted to say something, I raised my index finger and ordered the owner:

- No gu-gu!

And all three of us froze.

It is impossible to convey the delights of being in the forest under a Christmas tree during a warm summer rain. A crested hazel grouse, driven by the rain, burst into the middle of our thick Christmas tree and sat down right above the hut. Quite in sight under a branch, a finch settled down. The hedgehog has arrived. A hare hobbled past. And for a long time the rain whispered and whispered something to our tree. And we sat for a long time, and everything was as if the real owner of the forests was whispering to each of us separately, whispering, whispering ...

Mikhail Prishvin "Dead Tree"

When the rain passed and everything around sparkled, we went out of the forest along the path broken by the feet of passers-by. At the very exit, there was a huge and once mighty tree that had seen more than one generation of people. Now it stood completely dead, it was, as the foresters say, "dead."

Looking around this tree, I said to the children:

“Perhaps a passer-by, wanting to rest here, stuck an ax into this tree and hung his heavy bag on the ax. After that, the tree got sick and began to heal the wound with resin. Or maybe, fleeing from the hunter, a squirrel hid in the dense crown of this tree, and the hunter, in order to drive it out of the shelter, began to knock on the trunk with a heavy log. Sometimes just one blow is enough to make a tree sick.

And many, many things can happen to a tree, as well as to a person and to any living creature, from which the disease will be taken. Or maybe lightning struck?

It started with something, and the tree began to fill its wound with resin. When the tree began to fall ill, the worm, of course, found out about it. The bark climbed under the bark and began to sharpen there. In its own way, the woodpecker somehow found out about the worm and, in search of a stub, began to hollow out a tree here and there. Will you find it soon? And then, perhaps, it’s so that while the woodpecker is hammering and gouging so that it could be grabbed by him, the stump will advance at that time, and the forest carpenter needs to hammer again. And not just one shorthand, and not one woodpecker too. This is how woodpeckers hammer a tree, and the tree, weakening, fills everything with resin.

Now look around the tree at the traces of fires and understand: people walk along this path, stop here to rest and, despite the ban on making fires in the forest, they collect firewood and set it on fire. And in order to quickly kindle, they cut off a resinous crust from a tree. So, little by little, from the cutting, a white ring formed around the tree, the upward movement of the juices stopped, and the tree withered. Now tell me who's to blame for the death beautiful tree, which stood for at least two centuries in place: illness, lightning, stag, woodpeckers?

- A shorthand! Vasya said quickly.

And, looking at Zina, he corrected himself:

The children were probably very friendly, and fast Vasya was used to reading the truth from the face of the calm, clever Zina. So, probably, he would have licked the truth from her face this time, but I asked her:

- And you, Zinochka, what do you think, my dear daughter?

The girl put her hand around her mouth, looked at me with intelligent eyes, as at school at a teacher, and answered:

“Maybe people are to blame.

“People, people are to blame,” I picked up after her.

And, like a real teacher, I told them about everything, as I think for myself: that the woodpeckers and the squiggle are not to blame, because they have neither a human mind nor a conscience that illuminates the guilt in a person; that each of us will be born a master of nature, but only has to learn a lot to understand the forest in order to get the right to dispose of it and become a real master of the forest.

I didn’t forget to tell about myself that I still study constantly and without any plan or idea, I don’t interfere in anything in the forest.

Here I did not forget to tell about my recent discovery of fiery arrows, and about how I spared even one cobweb.

After that, we left the forest, and it always happens to me now: in the forest I behave like a student, and I leave the forest as a teacher.

Mikhail Prishvin "Forest floors"

Birds and animals in the forest have their own floors: mice live in the roots - at the very bottom; various birds, like the nightingale, build their nests right on the ground; thrushes - even higher, on bushes; hollow birds - woodpecker, titmouse, owls - even higher; at different heights along the tree trunk and at the very top, predators settle: hawks and eagles.

I once had to observe in the forest that they, animals and birds, with floors are not like ours in skyscrapers: we can always change with someone, with them each breed certainly lives on its own floor.

Once, while hunting, we came to a clearing with dead birches. It often happens that birch trees grow to a certain age and dry up.

Another tree, having dried up, drops its bark on the ground, and therefore the uncovered wood soon rots and the whole tree falls, while the bark of a birch does not fall; this resinous, white bark on the outside - birch bark - is an impenetrable case for a tree, and a dead tree stands for a long time, like a living one.

Even when the tree rots and the wood turns into dust, weighed down by moisture, in appearance White birch stands as if alive. But it is worthwhile, however, to give such a tree a good push, when suddenly it will break everything into heavy pieces and fall. Felling such trees is a very fun activity, but also dangerous: with a piece of wood, if you don’t dodge it, it can really hit you on the head. But still, we, hunters, are not very afraid, and when we get to such birches, we begin to destroy them in front of each other.

So we came to a clearing with such birches and brought down a rather tall birch. Falling, in the air it broke into several pieces, and in one of them there was a hollow with a nest of a Gadget. Little chicks were not injured when the tree fell, only fell out of the hollow together with their nest. Naked chicks, covered with feathers, opened wide red mouths and, mistaking us for parents, squeaked and asked us for a worm. We dug up the earth, found worms, gave them a snack, they ate, swallowed and squeaked again.

Very soon, parents flew in, titmouse, with white puffy cheeks and worms in their mouths, sat on nearby trees.

“Hello, dear ones,” we said to them, “misfortune has come; we didn't want that.

The Gadgets could not answer us, but, most importantly, they could not understand what had happened, where the tree had gone, where their children had disappeared. They were not at all afraid of us, fluttering from branch to branch in great alarm.

- Yes, here they are! We showed them the nest on the ground. - Here they are, listen how they squeak, what your name is!

Gadgets did not listen to anything, fussed, worried and did not want to go downstairs and go beyond their floor.

“Maybe,” we said to each other, “they are afraid of us. Let's hide! - And they hid.

Not! The chicks squeaked, the parents squeaked, fluttered, but did not go down.

We guessed then that the birds are not like ours in skyscrapers, they cannot change floors: now it just seems to them that the whole floor with their chicks has disappeared.

“Oh-oh-oh,” said my companion, “well, what fools you are! ..

It became a pity and funny: they are so nice and with wings, but they don’t want to understand anything.

Then we took that large piece in which the nest was located, broke the top of the neighboring birch and put our piece with the nest on it just at the same height as the destroyed floor.

We did not have to wait long in ambush: in a few minutes, happy parents met their chicks.

Mikhail Prishvin "Old Starling"

The starlings hatched and flew away, and their place in the birdhouse has long been occupied by sparrows. But until now, on the same apple tree, on a good dewy morning, an old starling flies and sings.

That's strange!

It would seem that everything is already over, the female brought out the chicks long ago, the cubs grew up and flew away...

Why does the old starling fly every morning to the apple tree where his spring passed, and sing?

Mikhail Prishvin "Spider web"

It was a sunny day, so bright that the rays penetrated even into the darkest forest. I walked forward along such a narrow clearing that some trees on one side were bent over to the other, and this tree whispered something with its leaves to another tree on the other side. The wind was very weak, but still it was: and aspens babbled above, and below, as always, the ferns swayed importantly.

Suddenly I noticed: from side to side across the clearing, from left to right, some small fiery arrows constantly fly here and there. As always in such cases, I concentrated my attention on the arrows and soon noticed that the movement of the arrows was in the wind, from left to right.

I also noticed that on the trees their usual shoots-paws came out of their orange shirts and the wind blew away these unnecessary shirts from each tree in a great multitude: each new paw on the tree was born in an orange shirt, and now how many paws, so many shirts flew off - thousands, millions...

I could see how one of these flying shirts met with one of the flying arrows and suddenly hung in the air, and the arrow disappeared.

I realized then that the shirt was hanging on a cobweb invisible to me, and this gave me the opportunity to go point-blank to the cobweb and fully understand the phenomenon of arrows: the wind blows the cobweb to the sunbeam, the brilliant cobweb flares up from the light, and from this it seems as if the arrow is flying.

At the same time, I realized that there were a great many of these cobwebs stretched across the clearing, and, therefore, if I walked, I tore them, without knowing it, by the thousands.

It seemed to me that I had such an important goal - to learn in the forest to be its real master - that I had the right to tear all the cobwebs and make all the forest spiders work for my goal. But for some reason I spared this cobweb that I noticed: after all, it was she who, thanks to the shirt hanging on her, helped me unravel the phenomenon of arrows.

Was I cruel, tearing thousands of cobwebs?

Not at all: I did not see them - my cruelty was the result of my physical strength.

Was I merciful in bending my weary back to save the gossamer? I don’t think: in the forest I behave like a student, and if I could, I wouldn’t touch anything.

I attribute the salvation of this cobweb to the action of my concentrated attention.

Who doesn't remember their first books? Probably no such person exists. From the first thick pages of "baby" books, children begin to get acquainted with the world around them. They learn about the inhabitants of the forest and their habits, about domestic animals and their benefits to humans, about the life of plants and the seasons. Books gradually, with each page, bring kids closer to the world of nature, teach them to take care of it, to live in harmony with it.

special, unique place among literary works intended for children's reading, take Prishvin's stories about nature. An unsurpassed master of the short genre, he subtly and clearly described the world forest dwellers. Sometimes a few sentences were enough for this.

Observation of a young naturalist

As a boy, M. Prishvin felt his vocation for writing. Stories about nature appeared in the first notes of his own diary, which began in the childhood of the future writer. He grew up as an inquisitive and very attentive child. The small estate where Prishvin spent his childhood was located in the Oryol province, famous for its dense forests, sometimes impenetrable.

Fascinating stories of hunters about encounters with the inhabitants of the forest early childhood excite the boy's imagination. No matter how the young naturalist asked to hunt, for the first time his desire was fulfilled only at the age of 13. Until that time, he was allowed to walk only in the district, and for such solitude he used every opportunity.

First forest impressions

During his favorite walks in the forest, the young dreamer listened with pleasure to the singing of birds, carefully looked at the slightest changes in nature and looked for meetings with its mysterious inhabitants. Often he got from his mother for a long absence. But the boy's stories about his forest discoveries were so emotional and full of delight that parental anger was quickly replaced by mercy. The little naturalist immediately wrote down all his observations in his diary.

It was these first recordings of impressions from meetings with the secrets of nature that entered the stories about the nature of Prishvin and helped the writer find those exact words that even kids could understand.

Attempt at writing

The writing talent of the young nature lover was first truly noticed at the Yelets Gymnasium, where the writer V. Rozanov worked as a geography teacher at that time. It was he who noted the attentive attitude of the teenager to his native land and the ability to accurately, briefly, very clearly describe his impressions in school essays. The teacher's recognition of Prishvin's special powers of observation subsequently played an important role in the decision to devote himself to literature. But it will be accepted only by the age of 30, and all previous years his diary will become a treasury of naturalistic impressions. Many of Prishvin's stories about nature, written for young readers, will appear from this piggy bank.

Member of the expedition to the northern regions

The craving of the future writer for biology manifested itself first in the desire to acquire the profession of an agronomist (he studied in Germany). Then he successfully applied the acquired knowledge in agricultural science (he worked at the Moscow Agricultural Academy). But the turning point in his life was his acquaintance with academician-linguist A.A. Chess.

The general interest in ethnography prompted the writer to go with scientific expedition in northern regions Russia for studying folklore and collecting local legends.

The nature of native places has overcome doubts

The virginity and purity of the northern landscapes made an indelible impression on the writer, and this fact became a turning point in determining his destination. It was on this journey that his thoughts were often carried away to childhood, when as a boy he wanted to escape to distant Asia. Here, among the untouched forest expanses, he realized that native nature became for him that same dream, but not distant, but close and understandable. “Only here for the first time did I understand what it means to live on my own and be responsible for myself,” Prishvin wrote on the pages of his diary. Stories about nature formed the basis of impressions from that trip and were included in the naturalistic collection "In the land of fearless birds." The wide recognition of the book opened the doors for its author to all literary societies.

Having received invaluable experience as a naturalist in his travels, the writer gives birth to books one after another. Travel notes and essays by a naturalist will form the basis of such works as "Behind the Magic Kolobok", "Light Lake", "Black Arab", "Bird Cemetery" and "Glorious Tambourines". In Russian literary circles, it is Mikhail Prishvin who will be recognized as the “singer of nature”. The stories about nature written by this time were already very popular and served as an example for the study of literature in primary school gymnasiums.

nature singer

In the 1920s, Prishvin's first stories about nature appeared, marking the beginning of a whole series of short sketches about the life of the forest - children's and hunting. Naturalistic and geographical notes at this stage of creativity receive a philosophical and poetic coloring and are collected in the book "Calendar of Nature", where Prishvin himself becomes "a poet and singer of pure life". Nature stories are now all about celebrating the beauties that surround us. The kind, humane and easy-to-understand language of the narration cannot leave anyone indifferent. In these literary sketches, little readers not only discover new world forest dwellers, but also learn to understand what it means to be attentive to them.

The moral core of M. Prishvin's children's stories

Having received a certain baggage of knowledge in the first years of life, children continue to replenish it, having crossed the threshold of the school. Thrift to natural wealth of the earth is formed both at the stage of cognition and in the process of their creation. Man and nature in Prishvin's stories are the very basis for the education of moral values, which should be laid from early childhood. And a special effect on the fragile feelings of children has fiction. It is the book that serves as a platform of knowledge, a support for the future integral personality.

The value of Prishvin's stories for the moral education of children lies in his own perception of nature. The author himself becomes the main character on the pages of short stories. Reflecting his childhood impressions through hunting sketches, the writer conveys to the kids an important idea: it is necessary to hunt not for animals, but for knowledge about them. He went hunting for starlings, quails, butterflies and grasshoppers without a gun. Explaining this strangeness for experienced foresters, he said that his main trophy was finds and observations. The hunter for finds very subtly notices any changes around, and under his pen, between the lines, nature is filled with life: it sounds and breathes.

Live pages with sounds and breath

From the pages of the books of the writer-naturalist you can hear the real sounds and dialect of forest life. The inhabitants of the green spaces whistle and cuckoo, yell and squeak, buzz and hiss. Grass, trees, streams and lakes, paths and even old stumps - all live real life. In the story "Golden Meadow" simple dandelions fall asleep at night and wake up at sunrise. Just like people. A mushroom familiar to everyone, with difficulty lifting foliage on its shoulders, is compared with a hero in "Strongman". In "The Edge", children through the eyes of the author see a spruce tree, similar to a lady dressed in a long dress, and her companions - fir-trees.

Prishvin's stories about nature, so easily perceived by children's imagination and forcing kids to look at the natural world with the eyes of joy and surprise, undoubtedly indicate that the writer kept the world of the child in his soul until old age.

G. Skrebitsky "Winter is Coming"

I like to wander through the forest in late autumn, just before the arrival of winter. Everything in him somehow fell silent, as if waiting for something. The bushes and trees have long shed their leaves and stand completely bare, darkened by the autumn rains. Fallen leaves do not rustle underfoot, as in the very beginning of autumn. Now it is firmly nailed to the ground, lying in a brown rotten mass. Throughout the forest, it smells so nice of rustic cold kvass.

And what silence in the forest! Only somewhere in the tops of pines and firs titmouse and kinglets squeak. They flit from twig to twig, swarm among the branches, looking for bugs there.

From time to time, a hazel grouse whistles thinly, lingeringly in the spruce forest, and again everything is silent.

You walk on the damp ground completely silently, you walk and look around, you want to remember the forest just like that - gloomy, frowning. After all, very soon, maybe in a day or two, he will become completely different: he will brighten all over, dress in a white snow cap, immediately transform, like in a fairy tale. And do not recognize the very bushes and trees that I am now looking at.

Issues for discussion

What kind of autumn is mentioned in the story of G. Skrebitsky “Winter is coming” - about early or late? What signs of late autumn did you learn from this story? Why does the author call the forest in late autumn gloomy, frowning? What do trees and grass look like in such a forest? What sounds can be heard at this time? Why do you think everything is silent in the forest? Where did the forest dwellers go? And how will the forest change from the first snow, what will it become?

Listen to the story of G. Skrebitsky again. Try to talk about the autumn forest so that it is clear that you are admiring it. I will start the sentence and you will finish it:

1. I like to wander...

2. Everything in him fell silent, as if ...

3. Bushes and trees... foliage...

4. She smells nice...

5. Silence in the forest, only ...

6. Do you want to remember the forest ...

7. After all, very soon he will become ...

8. And do not know ...

Now try to tell yourself about the autumn forest.

Winter

Winter. The forest clearing is covered with white fluffy snow. Now it is quiet and empty, not like in summer. It seems that no one lives in the clearing in winter. But that's just how it seems.

Near the bush, an old, rotten stump sticks out from under the snow. This is not just a stump, but a real tower-teremok. It has a lot of cozy winter apartments for various forest dwellers.

Small insects hid under the bark from the cold, and a tired lumberjack beetle immediately settled down to spend the winter. And in the hole between the roots, curled up in a tight ringlet, an agile lizard lay down. Everyone climbed into the old stump, each took a tiny bedroom in it, and fell asleep in it for the whole long winter.

At the very edge of the clearing, in a ditch, under the fallen leaves, under the snow, as if under a thick blanket, the frogs are sleeping. They sleep and do not know that right there, not far away, under a pile of brushwood, curled up in a ball, fell asleep their worst enemy - a hedgehog.

Quiet and empty in winter in a forest clearing. Only occasionally will a flock of goldfinches or tits fly over it, or a woodpecker, sitting on a tree, will begin to beat delicious seeds out of a cone with its beak.

And sometimes a white fluffy hare will jump out into the clearing. It jumps out, becomes a column, listens to see if everything is calm around, looks, and runs further into the forest.

Issues for discussion

Do you know how forest dwellers spend their winter? Listen to how G. Skrebitsky tells us about this. What are you listening to now - a story, a fairy tale or a poem? Why do you think so? Does this work talk about any miracles? Is it possible to say that this work is melodic, melodious, that there is a rhyme in it? What unfamiliar words and expressions did you come across in the story? (“Rotten stump”, “pile of brushwood”, “knock out with a beak”). What new did you learn from this story? Why do you think the author calls the common stump a terem-teremk for various forest dwellers? Tell me what kind of “cozy winter apartments” they found for themselves in a rotten stump. What new things did you learn from this story?

I. Bunin "Frost"

Morning. I look out of a piece of the window, not sketched with frost, and do not recognize the forest. What splendor and tranquility!

Above the deep, fresh and fluffy snows that have filled up the thickets of fir trees, there is a blue, huge and surprisingly tender sky ... The sun is still behind the forest, a clearing in the blue shade. In the ruts of the toboggan track, cut in a bold and clear semicircle from the road to the house, the shadow is completely blue. And on the tops of the pines, on their lush green crowns, golden sunlight is already playing ...

Two jackdaws loudly and joyfully said something to each other. One of them flew away from the topmost branch of a densely green, slender spruce, swayed, almost losing its balance, and rained down thickly and slowly began to fall rainbow snow dust. The jackdaw laughed with pleasure, but immediately fell silent ... The sun rises, and it becomes quieter in the clearing ...

M. Prishvin "Golden Meadow"

My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. We used to go somewhere to our trade - he was in front, I was in the heel.

"Seryozha!" - I will call him in a businesslike manner. He'll look back, and I'll blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, as you gape, he also fuknet. And so we plucked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.

We lived in the village, in front of the window we had a meadow, all golden from many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: “Very beautiful! The meadow is golden. One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if our fingers were yellow on the side of the palm of our hand and, clenched into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw how dandelions open their palms, and from this the meadow becomes golden again.

Since then, the dandelion has become one of the most interesting flowers for us, because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.

M. Prishvin "The conversation of trees"

The buds open, chocolate-colored, with green tails, and a large transparent drop hangs on each green beak.

You take one kidney, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.

You sniff a bird cherry bud and immediately remember how you used to climb up a tree for berries, shiny, black-lacquered. I ate them in handfuls right with the bones, but nothing but good came from this.

The evening is warm, and such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And now the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a white birch and another white birch from afar call to each other, a young aspen has entered the clearing, like a green candle, and calls to itself the same green aspen candle, waving a twig; Bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds.

If you compare with us, we echo with sounds, and they have a fragrance.

Issues for discussion

What plant is mentioned in M. Prishvin's story "Golden Meadow"? What do you know about dandelion? Why did the guys at first consider the dandelion an uninteresting flower? How did they feel about this plant? How do you understand the expression "golden meadow"? How did you imagine him? What discovery did the author of the story once make? What beautiful image did he come up with to tell us about the green and golden meadow? Why is the dandelion the most interesting flower for children now?

Was it interesting for you to listen to the story of M. Prishvin "The conversation of trees"? What surprised you the most about this piece? What new did you learn from the story? How can trees talk to each other? Why do you think the author calls chocolate buds on trees? Are they made from chocolate? Tell me how you imagined opening buds. What does the author compare the young aspen with? How does the aspen look like a thin green candle? What sounds do you think can be heard in this story? (Rustle of trees.) And what smells can you catch? (Aroma from resin different trees.) Do you think the trees in the story look like people? How did the author achieve this similarity?

L. N. Tolstoy "The Lion and the Dog"

In London, they showed wild animals and took money or dogs and cats for food for wild animals.

One man wanted to look at the animals; he grabbed a dog in the street and brought it to the menagerie. They let him watch, but they took the little dog and threw it into a cage to be eaten by a lion.

The dog tucked its tail between its legs and snuggled into the corner of the cage. The lion walked up to her and sniffed her.

The dog lay on its back, raised its paws and began to wag its tail.

The lion touched her with his paw and turned her over.

The dog jumped up and stood in front of the lion on its hind legs.

The lion looked at the dog, turned its head from side to side and did not touch it.

When the owner threw meat to the lion, the lion tore off a piece and left it for the dog.

In the evening, when the lion went to bed, the dog lay down beside him and laid her head on his paw.

Since then, the dog has lived in the same cage with the lion. The lion did not touch her, ate food, slept with her, and sometimes played with her.

Once the master came to the menagerie and recognized his little dog; he said that the dog was his own, and asked the owner of the menagerie to give it to him. The owner wanted to give it back, but as soon as they began to call the dog to take it out of the cage, the lion bristled and growled.

So the lion and the dog lived for a whole year in one cage.

A year later, the dog fell ill and died. The lion stopped eating, but kept sniffing, licking the dog and touching it with his paw.

When he realized that she was dead, he suddenly jumped up, bristled, began to whip his tail on the sides, threw himself on the wall of the cage and began to gnaw the bolts and the floor.

All day long he fought, rushed around the cage and roared, then lay down beside the dead dog and calmed down. The owner wanted to carry away the dead dog, but the lion would not let anyone near it.

The owner thought that the lion would forget his grief if he was given another dog, and let a live dog into his cage; but the lion immediately tore her to pieces. Then he hugged the dead dog with his paws and lay like that for five days.

On the sixth day the lion died.

S. T. Aksakov "Marmot"

Once, sitting at the window (from that moment on I remember everything clearly), I heard some kind of plaintive screeching in the garden; mother also heard him, and when I began to ask them to send to see who was crying, that “it’s true, it hurts someone,” mother sent the girl, and in a few minutes she brought in her handfuls a tiny, still blind puppy, who, trembling and resting unsteadily on his crooked paws, poking his head in all directions, squealing plaintively, or bored, as my nanny put it. I felt so sorry for him that I took this puppy and wrapped him in my dress.

The mother ordered to bring warm milk in a saucer, and after many attempts, pushing the blind kitten into the milk with her stigma, she taught him to lap.

Since then, the puppy has not parted with me for whole hours, feeding him several times a day has become my favorite pastime; they called him Marmot; he later became a little cur and lived with us for seventeen years - of course, no longer in the room, but in the yard, always retaining an unusual attachment to me and to my mother.

Issues for discussion

The story of L. N. Tolstoy “The Lion and the Dog” can be read to the words: “... the dog was taken and thrown into a cage to be eaten by a lion. The dog tucked its tail and snuggled into the corner of the cage ... "

Then interrupt the reading and offer to answer the question: “What do you think will happen to the dog? After listening to several answers, you need to continue reading to the end in order to check the assumptions made. After that, you can offer the child questions to work on the text.

Did you like the story of Leo Tolstoy "The Lion and the Dog"? What surprised you in this story told by Leo Tolstoy? How did you imagine the lion and the dog when you listened to the story? Which of them did you like more? Why? Remember how the dog behaved when a huge formidable lion approached her. Was she scared of the lion? Why do you think the lion didn't touch the dog? Tell me how a lion and a dog lived in the same cage. How did the lion treat the dog? Why did he growl when the menagerie owner tried to take the dog? What happened when the dog died? How do you think the lion felt at that moment? Remember what words in the story help the author convey the state of the lion after the death of his little friend (“... he suddenly jumped up, bristled, began to whip his tail on the sides, rushed to the wall of the cage and began to gnaw the bolts and the floor ...”) How did the story end? What did the author help you understand?

G. Snegiryov "Swallow"

As soon as the swallows fly home from the sea, they immediately begin to build nests.

Swallows build their nest from river clay and just from mud. From dawn to evening, swallows fly with a twitter, carry clay in their beaks and mold, mold - build a nest. Now the clay ball under the roof of the barn is ready - the swallow's nest. From the inside, the swallow lines it with soft blades of grass, horse hair, feathers.

As the chicks hatch, from morning to evening the swallow flies over the river and over the field, catches insects, feeds the chicks.

Young swallows will grow up and leave the nest, soon it is time to gather on a long journey, beyond the seas, to warm countries.

I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov "Nest"

The thrush placed the first bunch of dry grass in a birch fork. He put it down, straightened it with his beak and thought.

Here it is - a solemn moment, when everything is behind and everything is ahead. Behind wintering in strangers southern forests, hard long flight. Ahead is a nest, chicks, labors and anxieties.

A fork of a birch and a bunch of grass as the beginning of a new life.

Whatever the day, the nest is higher and wider. Once a blackbird sat in it and remained seated. She was completely drowned in the nest, her nose and tail were sticking out.

But the blackbird saw and heard everything.

Clouds stretched across the blue sky, and their shadows crawled across the green earth. An elk walked on stilts. The hare hobbled clumsily. Willow warbler, fluffy like a willow lamb, sings and sings about spring.

The birch cradles the bird's house. And guarding him - the tail and nose. They stick out like two sentries. Once they stick out, then everything is fine. So it's quiet in the forest. So, everything is ahead!

Issues for discussion

What do most birds usually build their nests with? How did you understand the expression from the story “The Nest” by I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov: “A birch fork and a bunch of grass as the beginning of a new life”? Do you know why a bird must always stay in the nest until the chicks hatch? With what did the author compare the tail and nose of a blackbird sitting in a nest? Do you think this is the correct comparison?

When you listened to the story of G. Snegiryov, you probably imagined how it all happened. Tell me how the swallow builds its nest. Where is the nest located? What material are swallows made of? What shape is it, what is it lined with from the inside? What is unusual about the nest that swallows build?

G. Snegirev "Beetle"

I have a sister, Galya, she is a year younger than me, and such a crybaby, I must definitely yield everything to her. Mom will give something tasty, Galya will eat hers and ask me for more. If you don't, he starts crying. She only thought of herself, but I weaned her from this.

I once went for water. Mom is at work, I had to bring water myself. Scooped up half a bucket. It was slippery around the well, the whole earth was icy, I could hardly drag the bucket to the house. I put it on a bench, I look, and a swimming beetle swims in it, a big one, with furry legs. I took the bucket out into the yard, poured water into a snowdrift, and caught the beetle and put it in a jar of water. The beetle in the jar is spinning, can't get used to it.

I went to fetch water again, brought clean water, nothing came across this time. I undressed and wanted to see the beetle, but there was no jar on the window.

I ask Gali:

- Galya, did you take the beetle?

“Yes,” he says, “I, let him live in my room.”

- Why, - I say, - in yours, let the beetle be common!

I take a jar from her room and put it on the window: I also want to look at the beetle.

Galya cried and said:

“I’ll tell my mother everything about how you took the beetle from me!”

I ran to the window, grabbed a jar, water even on the floor

spilled it and put it back in her room.

I got angry.

- No, - I say, - my beetle, I caught it! I took it and put it back on the window. Galya began to roar as she began to dress.

“I,” he says, “I will go to the steppe and freeze there because of you.”

“Well,” I think, “let it go!” It is always like this: if you don’t give something, then it immediately starts to scare that it will freeze in the steppe.

She slammed the door and left. I watch from the window what she will do, and she goes straight to the steppe, only quietly, quietly, waiting for me to run after her. “No,” I think, “you won’t wait, that’s enough, I ran after you!”

She walks, the snow is knee-deep, and holds her face with her hands: she roars, that means. Farther and farther from the house goes into the steppe. “And what, I think, will really freeze?” I felt sorry for her. “Maybe go after her, return? And I don’t need a beetle, let him take it for good. Only again it will always make a roar. No, I’d rather wait, come what may!”

Galya has gone far, only a small dot is visible. I wanted to get dressed, to follow her - I see, the point is getting bigger: back, that means she’s coming. She came up to the house, holding her hands in her pockets, looking down at her feet. She is afraid to raise her eyes: she knows that I am looking at her from the window.

She came home, undressed silently and went to her room. She sat there for a long time, and then went to the window and said:

- What a good beetle, you need to feed him!

We began to take care of the beetle together.

When my mother came home from work, Galya did not tell her anything, and neither did I.

N. Sladkov "Home Butterfly"

At night, the box suddenly rustled. And something mustachioed and furry crawled out of their boxes. And on the back is a folded fan of yellow paper.

But how I rejoiced at this freak!

I put him on a lampshade, and he hung motionlessly down on his back. The fan folded like an accordion began to sag and straighten.

Before my eyes, an ugly furry worm turned into a beautiful butterfly. Probably, this is how the frog turned into a princess!

All winter the pupae lay dead and motionless, like pebbles. They patiently waited for spring, as its seeds wait in the ground. But the room heat deceived: "the seeds sprouted" ahead of time. And then a butterfly crawls through the window. And outside the window is winter. And on the window are ice flowers. living butterfly crawling over dead flowers.

She flits around the room. Sits on a print with poppies. Expanding the spiral of a thin proboscis, he drinks sweet water from a spoon. Again sits on the lampshade, substituting the wings of the hot "sun".

I look at her and think: why not keep butterflies at home, as we keep songbirds? They will delight in color. And if these are not harmful butterflies, in the spring they, like birds, can be released into the field.

There are, after all, singing insects: crickets and cicadas. The cicadas sing matchbox and even in a loosely clenched fist. And the desert crickets sing just like birds.

We would have beautiful beetles at home: bronze beetles, ground beetles, deer and rhinos. And how many wild plants can be tamed!

A wolf's bast, a bear's ear, a raven's eye! And why not plant beautiful fly agarics, huge umbrella mushrooms or bunches of honey mushrooms in pots?

It will be winter outside, and summer will be on your windowsill. The ferns will stick their green fists out of the ground. Lilies of the valley will hang wax bells. A miracle flower of a white water lily will open. And the first butterfly flutters. And the first cricket will sing.

And what can you think of, looking at a butterfly drinking tea with jam from a spoon!

Issues for discussion

Where do butterflies go in winter? Listen to the story about one winter butterfly, which was told to us by N. Sladkov ("Domestic Butterfly"). Why did this butterfly wake up early? What did she look like when she crawled out of the box she was in? Why was the author so happy about this "freak"? Tell me what the butterfly was doing in the apartment. What mood do the lines of the story evoke in you: “A living butterfly crawls over dead flowers” ​​- joy, surprise, sadness, regret? Why? What illustration would you draw for this piece?

G. Skrebitsky "In the forest clearing"

Warm spring sun. The winter quarters in the old stump were empty. A long-tailed newt crawled out of the dust. I woke up, got out of the mink on a stump, basked in the sun.

Warm, bright sunlight is necessary for the lizard in order to become mobile. The lizard will warm up and start hunting. It is very voracious and destroys many slugs, as well as flies and various small insects that harm plants.

Lizards are useful animals. Take care of them!

We have a live-bearing lizard with a lemon-yellow belly. She does not lay eggs in the ground, but gives birth to live cubs. The second, agile lizard, with beautiful pattern on the body, with a green spring color, lays eggs in loose earth, often in earthen heaps of black ants.

To portray the vibrant world of nature for the youngest readers, many writers turned to such a genre of literature as a fairy tale. Even in many folk tales main actors natural phenomena, forest, frost, snow, water, plants act. These Russian fairy tales about nature are very fascinating and informative, they talk about the change of seasons, the sun, the moon, various animals. It is worth recalling the most famous of them: "The winter hut of animals", "Sister Chanterelle and Grey Wolf", "Mitten", "Teremok", "Kolobok". Tales about nature were also composed by many Russians and it is worth noting such authors as K. Paustovsky, K. Ushinsky, V. Bianki, D. Mamin-Sibiryak, M. Prishvin, N. Sladkov, I. Sokolov-Mikitov, E. Permyak Fairy tales about nature teach children to love the world around them, to be attentive and observant.

The magic of the surrounding world in the fairy tales of D. Ushinsky

The Russian writer D. Ushinsky, like a talented artist, wrote fairy tales about natural phenomena, different seasons. Children from these small works learn how the stream roars, the clouds float and the birds sing. The most famous tales of the writer: "The Raven and the Magpie", "Woodpecker", "Goose and Crane", "Horse", "Bishka", "Wind and Sun", as well as a huge number of stories. Ushinsky skillfully uses animals and nature to reveal to young readers such concepts as greed, nobility, betrayal, stubbornness, cunning. These fairy tales are very kind, they are recommended to be read to children before going to bed. Ushinsky's books are very well illustrated.

Creations by D. Mamin-Sibiryak for children

Man and nature is a very urgent problem for modern world. Mamin-Sibiryak devoted many works to this topic, but the collection "Alyonushka's Tales" should be especially singled out. The writer himself raised and cared for a sick daughter, and this interesting collection was intended for her. In these fairy tales, children will get acquainted with Komar Komarovich, Ersh Ershovich, Shaggy Misha, Brave Hare. From these entertaining works, children learn about the life of animals, insects, birds, fish, plants. Since childhood, almost everyone has been familiar with a very touching cartoon filmed based on the fairy tale of the same name by Mamin-Sibiryak "The Gray Neck".

M. Prishvin and nature

Short tales about the nature of Prishvin are very kind and fascinating, they tell about the habits of forest inhabitants, about the grandeur and beauty of their native places. Little readers will learn about the rustle of leaves, forest smells, the murmur of a stream. All these stories end well, evoke in readers a feeling of empathy for the smaller brothers and a desire to help them. The most famous stories: "Pantry of the sun", "Khromka", "Hedgehog".

Tales of V. Bianchi

Russian fairy tales and stories about plants and animals are presented by another wonderful writer - Vitaly Bianki. His fairy tales teach children to unravel the mysteries of the life of birds and animals. Many of them are intended for the youngest readers: "The Fox and the Mouse", "Cuckoo", "Golden Heart", "Orange Neck", "First Hunt" and many others. Bianchi knew how to observe the life of nature through the eyes of children. Some of his tales about nature are endowed with tragedy or humor, they contain lyrical meditation and poetry.

Forest fairy tales by Nikolai Sladkov

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov wrote more than 60, he was also the author of the radio program "News from the Forest". The heroes of his books are kind, funny little animals. Each story is very sweet and kind, tells about funny habits and Little readers will learn from them that animals can also worry and grieve, as they store food for the winter. Sladkov's favorite fairy tales: "Forest Rustles", "Badger and Bear", "Polite Jackdaw", "Hare Dance", "Desperate Hare".

Pantry of fairy tales by E. Permyak

Fairy tales about nature were composed by the famous playwright and writer Yevgeny Andreevich Permyak. They are representatives of the golden fund. These small works teach children to be hardworking, honest, responsible, to believe in themselves and their strengths. It is necessary to highlight the most famous tales of Evgeny Andreevich: " Birch Grove", "Smorodinka", "How Fire Married Water", "The First Fish", "About a Hasty Tit and a Patient Tit", "Ugly Christmas Tree". Permyak's books were very colorfully illustrated by the most famous Russian artists.