Hare paws part 2. K.G

The book includes stories and fairy tales about animals and nature of the Central Russian zone. They teach to love all living things, to be observant, kind and responsive. For middle school age.

A series: School Library (Children's Literature)

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by the LitRes company.

STORIES

summer days

Everything that is told here can happen to anyone who reads this book. To do this, you only need to spend the summer in those places where there are centuries-old forests, deep lakes, rivers with clear water, overgrown along the banks with tall grasses, forest animals, village boys and talkative old people. But this is not enough. Everything that is told here can only happen to anglers!

Me and the Reuben described in this book, we are both proud to be part of a great and carefree fishing tribe. In addition to fishing, we also write books.

If someone tells us that he does not like our books, we will not be offended. One likes one thing, another completely different - there's nothing you can do about it. But if some bully says that we don't know how to fish, we won't forgive him for a long time.

We spent the summer in the woods. We had a strange boy with us; his mother went to the sea for treatment and asked us to take her son with us.

We willingly took this boy, although we were not at all adapted to messing around with children.

The boy turned out to be a good friend and comrade. He arrived in Moscow tanned, healthy and cheerful, accustomed to spending the night in the forest, to rain, wind, heat and cold. The rest of the boys, his comrades, envied him later. And they were not envious for nothing, as you will now see from several short stories.

golden tench

When there are mowing in the meadows, it is better not to fish in the meadow lakes. We knew this, but still went to Prorva.

Trouble began immediately behind the Devil's Bridge. Multicolored women were digging hay. We decided to bypass them, but they noticed us.

- Where to, falcons? the women shouted and laughed. - Whoever fishes will have nothing!

- Butterflies have gone to Prorva, believe me! - shouted a tall and thin widow, nicknamed the Pear-prophetress. - They have no other way, my miserable ones!

The women have been harassing us all summer. No matter how many fish we caught, they always said with pity:

- Well, at least they caught themselves on the ear, and then happiness. And my Petka brought ten crucians, and how smooth they are - fat is dripping from the tail!

We knew that Petka brought only two thin crucians, but we were silent. With this Petka, we had our own scores: he cut Reuben's hook and tracked down the places where we baited the fish. For this, Petka, according to fishing laws, was supposed to be blown up, but we forgave him.

When we got out into the unmowed meadows, the women quieted down.

Sweet horse sorrel whipped us across the chest. The lungwort smelled so strongly that the sunlight that flooded the Ryazan distances seemed like liquid honey.

We breathed the warm air of the grasses, bumblebees buzzed loudly around us and grasshoppers chirped.

Overhead, the leaves of hundred-year-old willows rustled like dull silver. Prorva smelled of water lilies and clean cold water.

We calmed down, threw in our fishing rods, but suddenly grandfather, nicknamed Ten Percent, dragged in from the meadows.

- Well, how is the fish? he asked, squinting at the water, sparkling from the sun. - Is it caught?

Everyone knows that you can't talk while fishing.

Grandfather sat down, lit a shag and began to take off his shoes.

- No, no, now you won’t peck, now the fish is stuck. The jester knows what kind of nozzle she needs!

The grandfather was silent. A frog cried sleepily near the shore.

- Look chirping! - muttered grandfather and looked at the sky.

Dull pink smoke hung over the meadow. A pale blue shone through this smoke, and a yellow sun hung over the gray willows.

- Sukhomen! .. - Grandfather sighed. - One must think that by the evening ha-a-rosh rain will pull.

We were silent.

“The frog doesn’t scream in vain either,” explained the grandfather, slightly disturbed by our gloomy silence. - The frog, my dear, is always worried before a thunderstorm, jumping anywhere. Nadys I spent the night at the ferryman's, we cooked fish soup in a cauldron by the fire, and the frog - a kilo in it weighed no less - jumped right into the cauldron, and there it was cooked. I say: “Vasily, you and I were left without an ear,” and he says: “Damn me in that frog! I was in France during the German war, and they eat frogs there for nothing. Eat, don't be afraid." So we sipped that ear.

- And nothing? I asked. - Is it possible?

“Bad food,” answered the grandfather. - And-and-them, dear, I look at you, you are all staggering along the Abysses. Do you want me to weave a bast jacket for you? I wove, my dear, from the bast a whole trio - a jacket, trousers and a vest - for the exhibition. Opposite me there is no better master in the whole village.

Grandfather left only two hours later. Our fish, of course, did not bite.

No one in the world has as many diverse enemies as anglers. First of all, the boys. At best, they will stand behind their backs for hours, sniffing and staring numbly at the float.

We noticed that under this circumstance the fish immediately ceased to bite.

In the worst case, the boys will start swimming nearby, blowing bubbles and diving like horses. Then you need to reel in the fishing rods and change the place.

In addition to boys, women and talkative old men, we had more serious enemies: underwater snags, mosquitoes, duckweed, thunderstorms, bad weather and the profit of water in lakes and rivers.

It was very tempting to fish in stubbly places - large and lazy fish were hiding there. She took it slowly and surely, drowned the float deeply, then tangled the fishing line on a snag and cut it off along with the float.

A subtle mosquito itch made us tremble. For the first half of the summer, we walked all in blood and tumors from mosquito bites. On windless hot days, when the same puffy, cotton-like clouds stood in the sky for days on end, small algae, similar to mold, duckweed, appeared in creeks and lakes. The water was drawn into a sticky green film, so thick that even the sinker could not penetrate it.

Before a thunderstorm, the fish stopped pecking - she was afraid of a thunderstorm, a calm, when the earth trembles deafly from a distant thunder.

In bad weather and during the arrival of water, there was no biting.

But on the other hand, how beautiful were the foggy and fresh mornings, when the shadows of the trees lay far on the water and unhurried goggle-eyed chubs walked in flocks right under the very shore! On such mornings, dragonflies liked to sit on feather floats, and with bated breath we watched how the float with the dragonfly suddenly slowly and obliquely went into the water, the dragonfly took off, wetting its paws, and at the end of the fishing line, a strong and cheerful fish walked tightly along the bottom.

How good were the rudd, falling like living silver into the thick grass, jumping among dandelions and porridge! The sunsets in the half-sky over the forest lakes, the thin smoke of the clouds, the cold stalks of lilies, the crackle of the fire, the quacking of wild ducks were good.

Grandfather turned out to be right: a thunderstorm came in the evening. She grumbled for a long time in the woods, then rose to the zenith like an ashen wall, and the first lightning whipped into the distant haystacks.

We stayed in the tent until night. At midnight the rain stopped. We kindled a big fire, dried off and lay down to take a nap.

In the meadows the night birds were crying mournfully, and the white star shimmered over the Abyss in the clear pre-dawn sky.

I dozed off. The cry of a quail woke me up.

"Time to drink! It's time to drink! It's time to drink!" he shouted somewhere nearby, in the thickets of wild rose and buckthorn.

We went down the steep bank to the water, clinging to roots and grasses. The water shone like black glass; on the sandy bottom, paths made by snails were visible.

Reuben cast a fishing rod not far from me. A few minutes later, I heard his low whistle calling. This was our fishing language. A short whistle three times meant: "Drop everything and come here."

I cautiously approached Reuben. He silently pointed to the float. Some strange fish pecked. The float swayed, carefully fidgeting now to the right, then to the left, trembling, but not sinking. He became oblique, slightly dipped and resurfaced.

Reuben froze - only very large fish peck like that.

The float quickly went to the side, stopped, straightened up and began to slowly sink.

“Heat,” I said. - Drag!

Reuben is hooked. The rod bent into an arc, the fishing line crashed into the water with a whistle. Invisible fish slowly and tightly led the line in circles. Sunlight fell on the water through the thickets of willows, and I saw a bright bronze shine under the water: it was the caught fish bending and backing into the depths. We pulled it out only after a few minutes. It turned out to be a huge lazy tench with swarthy golden scales and black fins. He lay in the wet grass and slowly moved his thick tail.

Reuben wiped the sweat from his forehead and lit a cigarette.

We didn't fish any more, we reeled in our fishing rods and went to the village.

Reuben carried the line. It hung heavily from his shoulder. Water dripped from the line, and the scales sparkled as dazzlingly as the golden domes of the former monastery. On clear days, the domes were visible thirty kilometers away.

We deliberately walked through the meadows past the women. When they saw us, they quit their work and looked at the tench, covering their eyes with their palms, as they look at the unbearable sun. The grandmothers were silent. Then a slight whisper of delight passed through their motley ranks.

We walked through the line of women calmly and independently. Only one of them sighed and, taking up the rake, said after us:

- What beauty they suffered - it hurts the eyes!

Slowly we carried the line through the whole village. The old women leaned out of the windows and looked at our backs. The boys ran after them and moaned:

- Uncle, and uncle, where did you smoke? Uncle, and uncle, what did you peck at?

Grandfather Ten Percent snapped the tench on the hard golden gills and laughed:

- Well, now the women will tighten their tongues! And then they have all hahanki and giggles. Now the matter is different, serious.

Since then, we have ceased to bypass the women. We went straight to them, and they affectionately shouted to us:

- You can’t catch it! It would not be a sin to bring us fish.

Thus justice prevailed.

last damn thing

Grandfather went for wild raspberries to the Deaf Lake and returned with a face twisted with fear. He shouted for a long time around the village that there were devils on the lake. As proof, the grandfather showed his torn trousers: the devil allegedly pecked the grandfather in the leg, tore it in a row and stuffed a large abrasion on his knee.

Nobody believed my grandfather. Even angry old women mumbled that devils never had beaks, that devils do not live in lakes, and, finally, that after the revolution there are no devils at all and cannot be - they have been wiped out to the last root.

But still, the old women stopped going to the Deaf Lake for berries. They were ashamed to admit that in the seventeenth year of the revolution they were afraid of devils, and therefore, in response to the reproaches of the old woman, they answered in a singsong voice, hiding their eyes:

- And-and-and, dear, there are no berries today even on the Deaf Lake. Since birth, such an empty summer has never happened. Judge for yourself: why should we go in vain?

Grandfather was not believed also because he was an eccentric and a loser. Grandfather's name was Ten Percent. This nickname was incomprehensible to us.

“That’s why they call me so, my dear,” grandfather once explained, “that I have only ten percent of my former strength left. The pig got me. Well, there was a pig - just a lion! As he goes out into the street, he grunts - the circle is empty! The women grab the guys, throw them into the hut. The peasants go out into the yard only with pitchforks, and those who are timid do not go out at all. Direct war! That pig fought hard. You hear what happened next. That pig climbed into my hut, sniffs, glares at me with an evil eye. Of course, I poked her with a crutch: go, they say, dear, to the devil, well, you! This is where it went up! Then she jumped on me! Knocked me off my feet; I'm lying, screaming out loud, and she's tearing me, she's tormenting me! Vaska Zhukov shouts: “Give the fire truck, we will drive it away with water, because now it is forbidden to kill pigs!” The people are crowding, crying, and she is tearing me, she is tormenting me! Forcibly, the men beat me off with flails from her. I was in the hospital. The Doctor was surprised. “From you,” he says, “Mitry, according to medical appearance, there are no more than ten percent left.” Now I'm just getting by on those percentages. That's how it is, honey! And that pig was killed with an explosive bullet: the other did not take it.

In the evening we called the grandfather to us - to ask about the devil. Dust and the smell of fresh milk hung over the village streets - cows were driven from the forest glades, women shouted mournfully and affectionately at the gates, calling out to the calves:

- Tyalush, tyalush, tyalush!

Grandfather said that he met the devil on the channel, near the lake. There he rushed at his grandfather and pecked so hard with his beak that the grandfather fell into the raspberry bushes, squealed in a voice that was not his own, and then jumped up and ran all the way to the Burnt Swamp.

“A little heart skipped a beat. Here's what the wrap turned out to be!

- And what kind of a hell is this?

Grandpa scratched the back of his head.

“Well, like a bird,” he said hesitantly. - The voice is harmful, hoarse, as if from a cold. A bird is not a bird - the dog will take it apart.

- Shouldn't we go to the Deaf Lake? Still curious, - said Reuben, when the grandfather left, having drunk tea with bagels.

“There is something here,” I replied.

We left the next day. I took a double shot.

We went to Glukhoe Lake for the first time and therefore took our grandfather with us as an escort. At first he refused, referring to his "ten percent", then he agreed, but asked that he be paid two workdays on the collective farm for this. The collective farm chairman, Komsomol member Lenya Ryzhov, laughed:

- You can see it there! If you beat the fool out of the heads of the women with this expedition, then I will write it out. Until then, keep walking!

And grandfather, bless him, walked off. On the way, he was reluctant to talk about the devil, more silent.

“Does he eat anything, damn it?” Reuben asked.

- Presumably, it eats little fish, climbs the ground, eats berries, - said the grandfather. - He, too, needs to earn something, for nothing that evil spirits.

- Is he black?

“Look, you’ll see,” answered the grandfather mysteriously. - How he pretends to be, so he will show himself.

All day we walked through pine forests. We walked without roads, crossed dry swamps - msharas, where the leg sank knee-deep in dry brown mosses, listened to the subtle whistling of birds.

The heat was thick in the needles. The bears were screaming. On dry glades, grasshoppers rained down from under their feet. The grass drooped tiredly, and there was a smell of hot pine bark and dry strawberries. Hawks hung motionless in the sky above the tops of the pines.

The heat has worn us down. The forest was heated, dry, and it seemed that it was quietly smoldering from the heat of the sun. It even smelled like burning. We did not smoke - we were afraid that from the very first match the forest would flare up and crackle like a dry juniper, and white smoke would lazily crawl towards the yellow sun.

We rested in the dense thickets of aspens and birches, made our way through thickets to damp places and breathed in the mushroom, rotten smell of grass and roots. We lay for a long time on halts and listened to the pine tops rustle with the ocean surf - a slow summer wind blew high above our heads. He must have been very hot.

Just before sunset, we reached the shore of the lake. Silent night moved cautiously over the forests in a dull blue. Barely noticeable, like drops of silver water, the first stars shone. Ducks with a heavy whistle flew to the lodging for the night. The lake, closed by a belt of impenetrable thickets, gleamed below. Wide circles spread across the black water - fish played at sunset. The night began over the forest edge, long twilight thickened in the thickets, and only the fire crackled and flared up, breaking the forest silence.

Grandfather was sitting by the fire.

- Well, where is your devil, Mitri? I asked.

- Tama ... - Grandfather waved his hand vaguely into the thickets of aspen. - Where are you going? We'll look for it in the morning. Today it's night, dark, you have to wait.

At dawn I woke up. A warm mist dripped from the pines. Grandfather sat by the fire and hurriedly crossed himself. His wet beard trembled slightly.

- What are you, grandfather? I asked.

- You are going to die with you! - muttered the grandfather. - Hear, screaming, anathema! Do you hear? Wake up everyone!

I listened. Waking up, a fish struck in the lake, then a piercing and furious cry swept through.

"Wack! someone shouted. - Wack! Wack!"

In the darkness, a fuss began. Something alive thrashed heavily in the water, and again the evil voice shouted triumphantly: “Wack! Wack!"

- Save me, Lady Three-Handed! - muttered, stammering, grandfather. - Do you hear how he clicks his teeth? It made me jump here with you, you old fool!

From the lake came a strange clicking and wooden clatter, as if boys were fighting with sticks there.

I pushed Reuben. He woke up and said frightened:

- Gotta catch it!

I took the gun.

- Well, - said the grandfather, - act as you wish. I don't know anything! You will also have to answer. Well, to hell with you!

Grandfather went completely mad with fear.

“Go shoot,” he muttered angrily. - The authorities will not indulge in this either. Is there something you can shoot at the devil? Look what you've come up with!

"Wack!" the devil shouted desperately.

Grandfather pulled his coat over his head and fell silent.

We crawled to the shore of the lake. Mist rustled in the grass. A huge white sun slowly rose above the water.

I parted the wolfberry bushes on the shore, peered into the lake and slowly pulled the gun:

- Strange ... What kind of bird, I just don’t understand.

We climbed carefully. A huge bird floated on the black water. Its plumage shimmered with lemon and pink. The head was not visible - it was all under water, up to its long neck.

We are numb. The bird pulled out of the water a small head, the size of an egg, overgrown with curly fluff. A huge beak with a red leather bag was glued to the head.

- Pelican! Reuben said softly. - It's a curly pelican. I know them.

"Wack!" the pelican shouted warningly and looked at us with a red eye.

The tail of a fat perch protruded from the pelican's beak. The pelican shook its neck to push the perch into its stomach.

Then I remembered the newspaper - smoked sausage was wrapped in it. I rushed to the fire, shook the sausage out of my knapsack, straightened the greasy newspaper and read the ad in bold type:

DURING THE CARRIAGE OF THE ZUENAGE ON THE NARROW GAUGE RAILWAY, AN AFRICAN BIRD PELICAN Escaped. SIGNS: PINK AND YELLOW FEATHER, LARGE BEAK WITH A FISH BAG, DOWN ON THE HEAD. THE BIRD IS OLD, VERY EVIL, DOES NOT LIKE AND BEATS CHILDREN, RARELY TOUCHES ADULTS. ABOUT THE FIND, REPORT TO THE ZUENICE FOR A DECENT REMUNERATION.

“Well,” Reuben said, “what are we going to do? It's a pity to shoot, and in the autumn he will die from the cold.

“Grandfather will report to the menagerie,” I replied. And, by the way, he will be grateful.

We went to grandfather. Grandfather could not understand for a long time what was the matter. He was silent, blinking his eyes and scratching his thin chest. Then, when I realized, I went cautiously to the shore to look at the devil.

“Here he is, your goblin,” said Reuben. – Look!

- And-and-and, dear! .. - Grandfather giggled. - Is that what I'm saying? Of course, it's not black. Let him live in the wild, catch fish. And thank you. Weakened the people from fear. Now the girls will come here for berries - just hold on! Naughty bird, never seen such a thing.

In the afternoon we caught fish and carried it to the fire. The pelican hurriedly climbed ashore and hobbled to our halt. He looked at his grandfather with narrowed eyes, as if trying to remember something. Grandfather trembled. But then the pelican saw a fish, opened its beak, clicked it with a wooden thud, shouted “wack!” and began to frantically beat his wings and stamp his duck paw. From the side it looked like a pelican pumping a heavy pump.

Coals and sparks flew from the fire.

- What is he? Grandpa got scared. - Freaky, or what?

“He asks for fish,” Reuben explained.

We gave the pelican a fish. He swallowed it, but still managed to casually pinch me on the back and hiss.

Then he again began to pump air with his wings, squat and stamp his foot - beg for fish.

- Go, go! - grumbled at him grandfather. - Look swung!

All day long the pelican wandered around us, hissing and shouting, but it did not give into hands.

By evening we left. The pelican climbed onto a bump, beat us with its wings and angrily shouted: “Wack, wack!” He was probably unhappy that we were leaving him on the lake and demanded that we return.

Two days later, grandfather went to the city, found a menagerie in the market square and told about the pelican. A pockmarked man came from the city and took the pelican away.

Grandfather received forty rubles from the menagerie and bought new trousers with them.

- My ports are first class! - he said and pulled his trousers. - My ports are discussed all the way to Ryazan. They say that even in the newspapers they printed about this foolish bird. Here it is, our life, my dear!

hare paws

- Are you crazy? the vet shouted. - Soon you will be dragging mice to me, bald!

“Don’t bark, this is a special hare,” Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. - His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.

- What is the treatment for?

- His paws are burned.

The veterinarian turned Vanya to face the door, pushed him in the back and shouted after him:

- Get on, get on! I can't heal them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will have a snack.

Vanya did not answer. He went out into the passage, blinked his eyes, pulled his nose and bumped into a log wall. Tears ran down the wall. The hare shivered quietly under the greasy jacket.

What are you, little one? - the compassionate grandmother Anisya asked Vanya; she brought her only goat to the vet. - Why are you, my dear ones, shedding tears together? Ay what happened?

“He is burnt, grandfather hare,” Vanya said quietly. - He burned his paws in a forest fire, he cannot run. Here, look, die.

“Don’t die, little one,” Anisya murmured. - Tell your grandfather, if he has a great desire to go out a hare, let him carry him to the city to Karl Petrovich.

Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the woods to Lake Urzhenskoe. He did not walk, but ran barefoot on a hot sandy road. A recent forest fire passed by, to the north, near the lake itself. There was a smell of burning and dry cloves. It grew in large islands in glades.

The hare moaned.

Vanya found fluffy leaves covered with soft silver hair on the way, pulled them out, put them under a pine tree and turned the hare around. The hare looked at the leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.

What are you, grey? Vanya asked quietly. - You should eat.

The hare was silent.

The hare moved his torn ear and closed his eyes.

Vanya took him in his arms and ran straight through the forest - it was necessary to quickly give the hare a drink from the lake.

Unheard-of heat stood that summer over the forests. In the morning, strings of dense white clouds floated up. At noon, the clouds were rapidly rushing up to the zenith, and before our eyes they were carried away and disappeared somewhere beyond the boundaries of the sky. The hot hurricane had been blowing for two weeks without a break. The resin flowing down the pine trunks turned into an amber stone.

The next morning, grandfather put on clean shoes and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece of bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried the hare from behind.

The hare was completely quiet, only occasionally shuddered all over and sighed convulsively.

Dry wind blew a cloud of dust over the city, soft as flour. Chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw flew in it. From a distance it seemed that a quiet fire was smoking over the city.

The market square was very empty, sultry; the cab horses dozed near the water booth, and they wore straw hats on their heads. Grandfather crossed himself.

- Not the horse, not the bride - the jester will sort them out! he said and spat.

Passers-by were asked for a long time about Karl Petrovich, but no one really answered anything. We went to the pharmacy. A fat old man in pince-nez and in a short white coat shrugged his shoulders angrily and said:

- I like it! Pretty weird question! Karl Petrovich Korsh, a specialist in childhood diseases, has stopped seeing patients for three years. Why do you need him?

Grandfather, stuttering from respect for the pharmacist and from timidity, told about the hare.

- I like it! the pharmacist said. - Interesting patients wound up in our city! I like this wonderful!

He nervously took off his pince-nez, wiped it, put it back on his nose and stared at his grandfather. Grandfather was silent and stomped. The pharmacist was also silent. The silence was becoming painful.

– Post street, three! - Suddenly the pharmacist shouted in his hearts and slammed some disheveled thick book. - Three!

Grandfather and Vanya made it to Pochtovaya Street just in time - a high thunderstorm was setting in from behind the Oka. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon, as a sleepy strongman straightened his shoulders, and reluctantly shook the ground. Gray ripples went along the river. Noiseless lightnings surreptitiously, but swiftly and strongly struck the meadows; far beyond the Glades, a haystack, lit by them, was already burning. Large drops of rain fell on the dusty road, and soon it became like the surface of the moon: each drop left a small crater in the dust.

Karl Petrovich was playing something sad and melodic on the piano when his grandfather's disheveled beard appeared in the window.

A minute later Karl Petrovich was already angry.

“I'm not a veterinarian,” he said, and slammed the lid of the piano shut. Immediately thunder rumbled in the meadows. - All my life I have been treating children, not hares.

“What a child, what a hare is all the same,” grandfather muttered stubbornly. - All the same! Lie down, show mercy! Our veterinarian has no jurisdiction over such matters. He horse-drawn for us. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him my life, I must show gratitude, and you say - quit!

A minute later, Karl Petrovich, an old man with gray, tousled eyebrows, was anxiously listening to his grandfather's stumbling story.

Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. The next morning, grandfather went to the lake, and left Vanya with Karl Petrovich to follow the hare.

A day later, the entire Pochtovaya Street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that Karl Petrovich was treating a hare that had been burned in a terrible forest fire and had saved some old man. Two days later, the whole small town already knew about this, and on the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich, introduced himself as an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked for a conversation about a hare.

The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in a cotton rag and carried him home. Soon the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor tried for a long time to get his grandfather to sell him the hare. He even sent letters with stamps to answer. But my grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote a letter to the professor:

“The hare is not corrupt, a living soul, let him live in the wild. At this I remain Larion Malyavin».

This autumn I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on Lake Urzhenskoe. The constellations, cold as grains of ice, floated in the water. Noisy dry reeds. The ducks shivered in the thickets and plaintively quacked all night.

Grandpa couldn't sleep. He sat by the stove and repaired a torn fishing net. Then he set up the samovar. From him, the windows in the hut immediately fogged up and the stars from fiery points turned into muddy balls. Murzik was barking in the yard. He jumped into the darkness, clanged his teeth and bounced off - he fought with the impenetrable October night. The hare slept in the passage and occasionally in his sleep he loudly pounded with his hind paw on a rotten floorboard.

We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and indecisive dawn, and over tea my grandfather finally told me the story of the hare.

In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. The forests were dry as gunpowder. Grandfather got a hare with a torn left ear. Grandfather shot him with an old, wire-bound gun, but missed. The hare got away.

Grandfather realized that a forest fire had started and the fire was coming right at him. The wind turned into a hurricane. Fire drove across the ground at an unheard of speed. According to my grandfather, even a train could not escape such a fire. Grandfather was right: during the hurricane, the fire went at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.

Grandfather ran over the bumps, stumbled, fell, the smoke was eating away at his eyes, and behind him a wide rumble and crackle of the flame was already audible.

Death overtook the grandfather, grabbed him by the shoulders, and at that time a hare jumped out from under the grandfather's feet. He ran slowly and dragged his hind legs. Then only the grandfather noticed that they were burned by the hare.

Grandfather was delighted with the hare, as if it were his own. As an old forest dweller, grandfather knew that animals smell much better than a person where the fire comes from, and always escape. They die only in those rare cases when the fire surrounds them.

The grandfather ran after the rabbit. He ran, crying with fear and shouting: “Wait, dear, don’t run so fast!”

The hare brought grandfather out of the fire. When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and grandfather both fell down from fatigue. Grandfather picked up the hare and carried it home. The hare had scorched hind legs and belly. Then his grandfather cured him and left him.

“Yes,” said the grandfather, looking at the samovar as angrily, as if the samovar was to blame for everything, “yes, but in front of that hare, it turns out that I have been very guilty, dear man.

- What did you do wrong?

- And you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will know. Get a flashlight!

I took a lantern from the table and went out into the vestibule. The hare was sleeping. I bent over him with a lantern and noticed that the left ear of the hare was torn. Then I understood everything.

thief cat

We are in despair. We didn't know how to catch this ginger cat. He robbed us every night. He hid so cleverly that none of us really saw him. Only a week later it was finally possible to establish that the cat's ear was torn off and a piece of dirty tail was cut off.

It was a cat that had lost all conscience, a cat - a tramp and a bandit. They called him behind the eyes Thief.

He stole everything: fish, meat, sour cream and bread. Once he even tore open a tin can of worms in a closet. He did not eat them, but chickens came running to the open jar and pecked at our entire supply of worms.

Overfed chickens lay in the sun and moaned. We walked around them and swore, but the fishing was still disrupted.

We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat.

The village boys helped us with this. Once they rushed over and, out of breath, told that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged a kukan with perches in its teeth.

We rushed to the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perches caught on Prorva.

It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.

The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it.

We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage; she fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly.

But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.

The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof.

The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All the days, from dawn to dark, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets. To get to the shores of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their aureoles swayed over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust.

We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the new tricks of the ginger cat.

But finally the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.

We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait.

But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, howling continuously and without any fatigue.

An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves.

Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lyonka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house.

Lyonka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground.

The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat bit into the head of a fish. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lyonka dragged him by the line. The cat resisted desperately, but Lyonka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the tasty fish.

A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole.

Lyonka grabbed the cat by the collar and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.

Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:

"What are we to do with him?"

- Rip out! - I said.

“It won’t help,” said Lyonka, “he has had such a character since childhood.

The cat waited with closed eyes.

Then Reuben suddenly said:

“We need to feed him properly!”

We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream. The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed himself, looking at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes.

After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head.

Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.

From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing.

The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act.

The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates.

The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the chickens and, with a short cry of victory, jumped onto the table.

The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.

Ahead rushed, hiccuping, an ankle-legged rooster, nicknamed Gorlach.

The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Inside him, from each blow, something thumped and buzzed, as if a cat hit a rubber ball.

After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water on him and he walked away.

Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and a hustle.

The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers.

rubber boat

We bought an inflatable rubber boat for fishing.

We bought it back in the winter in Moscow and since then have not known peace. Reuben was the most worried. It seemed to him that in all his life there had never been such a protracted and boring spring, that the snow was deliberately melting very slowly and that the summer would be cold and rainy.

Reuben clutched his head and complained about bad dreams. Either he dreamed that a big pike was dragging him along with a rubber boat along the lake and the boat dives into the water and flies back with a deafening gurgling, then he dreamed of a piercing robber whistle - it was from the boat, torn open by a snag, the air was rapidly escaping - and Reuben, escaping, fussily swam to the shore and held a box of cigarettes in his teeth.

The fears passed only in the summer, when we brought the boat to the village and tested it on a shallow spot near the Devil's Bridge.

Dozens of boys swam near the boat, whistling, laughing and diving to see the boat from below.

The boat rocked calmly, gray and fat, like a turtle.

A white furry puppy with black ears - Murzik - barked at her from the shore and dug the sand with his hind legs.

This meant that Murzik was angry for at least an hour.

The cows in the meadow raised their heads and, as if on cue, they all stopped chewing.

The women walked across the Devil's Bridge with wallets. They saw a rubber boat, squealed and cursed at us:

- Look, crazy, what did they come up with! People in vain muddy!

After the test, grandfather Ten Percent felt the boat with clumsy fingers, sniffed it, picked it, slapped its inflated sides and said with respect:

- Blower thing!

After these words, the boat was recognized by the entire population of the village, and the fishermen even envied us.

But the fears didn't go away. The boat has a new enemy - Murzik.

Murzik was slow-witted, and therefore misfortunes always happened to him: either he was stung by a wasp - and he lay screeching on the ground and crushed the grass, then his paw was crushed, then he, stealing honey, smeared his shaggy muzzle to the very ears. Leaves and chicken fluff stuck to his muzzle, and our boy had to wash Murzik with warm water. But most of all Murzik plagued us with barking and attempts to gnaw everything that came to his hand.

He barked mainly at incomprehensible things: at a red cat, at a samovar, a primus stove, and at clocks.

The cat was sitting on the window, washing himself thoroughly and pretending not to hear the annoying barking. Only one ear quivered strangely from hatred and contempt for Murzik. Sometimes the cat looked at the puppy with bored impudent eyes, as if saying to Murzik: “Get off, otherwise I’ll move you like that ...”

Then Murzik jumped back and no longer barked, but squealed, closing his eyes.

The cat turned its back to Murzik and yawned loudly. With all his appearance, he wanted to humiliate this fool. But Murzik did not let up.

Gryz Murzik silently and for a long time. He always took the gnawed and greasy things to the closet, where we found them. So he ate a book of poems, Reuben's suspenders, and a wonderful bobber made from a porcupine's quill—I bought it on occasion for three roubles.

Finally Murzik reached the rubber boat.

He tried for a long time to grab her overboard, but the boat was very tight inflated, and his teeth slipped. There was nothing to grab.

Then Murzik climbed into the boat and found there the only thing that could be chewed - a rubber cork. She was plugged valve that releases air.

At that time we drank tea in the garden and did not suspect anything bad.

Murzik lay down, squeezed the cork between his paws and grumbled - he began to like the cork.

He chewed on it for a long time. The rubber didn't budge. Only an hour later he gnawed it, and then a completely terrible and incredible thing happened: a thick stream of air burst out of the valve with a roar, like water from a fire hose, hit in the face, raised Murzik's fur and threw him into the air.

Murzik sneezed, squealed and flew into the thickets of nettles, and the boat whistled and growled for a long time, and its sides were shaking and losing weight before our eyes.

Chickens cackled in all the neighboring yards, and a red cat rushed at a heavy gallop through the garden and jumped onto a birch. From there, he watched for a long time as the strange boat gurgled, spitting out the last air in jerks.

After this incident, Murzik was punished. Reuben spanked him and tied him to the fence.

Murzik apologized. Seeing one of us, he began to sweep the dust near the fence with his tail and look guiltily into our eyes. But we were adamant - a hooligan trick demanded punishment.

We soon went twenty kilometers away, to Glukhoe Lake, but they did not take Murzik. When we left, he squealed and cried for a long time on his rope near the fence. Our boy felt sorry for Murzik, but he held on.

We spent four days on Glukhoe Lake.

On the third day at night, I woke up because someone was licking my cheeks with a hot and rough tongue.

I raised my head and by the light of the fire I saw Murzika's furry muzzle, wet with tears.

He squealed with joy, but did not forget to apologize: all the time he swept dry needles on the ground with his tail. A piece of gnawed rope dangled around his neck. He was trembling, his fur was full of debris, his eyes were red from fatigue and tears.

I woke everyone up. The boy laughed, then cried, and laughed again. Murzik crawled up to Reuben and licked his heel - for the last time he asked for forgiveness. Then Reuben uncorked a can of beef stew - we called it "relish" - and fed Murzik. Murzik swallowed the meat in a few seconds.

Then he lay down next to the boy, put his muzzle under his armpit, sighed and whistled through his nose.

The boy covered Murzik with his coat. In the dream, Murzik sighed heavily from fatigue and shock.

I thought about how terrible it must have been for such a small dog to run alone through the night forests, sniffing out our tracks, to go astray, to whine with his paw between his legs, to listen to the cry of an owl, the crackling of branches and the incomprehensible noise of grass, and, finally, to rush headlong , pressing his ears when somewhere, at the very edge of the earth, a trembling howl of a wolf was heard.

I understood Murzik's fear and fatigue. I myself had to spend the night in the forest without comrades, and I will never forget my first night on Nameless Lake.

It was September. The wind threw wet and odorous leaves from the birches. I was sitting by the fire, and it seemed to me that someone was standing behind my back and looking hard at the back of my head. Then, in the depths of the thickets, I heard the distinct crackle of human steps on deadwood.

I got up and, obeying an inexplicable and sudden fear, poured out a fire, although I knew that there was not a soul around for tens of kilometers. I was all alone in the night forests.

I sat until dawn by an extinct fire. In the fog, in the autumn dampness above the black water, the bloody moon rose, and its light seemed to me ominous and dead...

In the morning we took Murzik with us in a rubber boat. He sat quietly, paws apart, looked askance at the valve, wagged the very tip of his tail, but just in case he grumbled softly. He was afraid that the valve would again throw out some brutal thing with him.

After this incident, Murzik quickly got used to the boat and always slept in it.

Once a red cat climbed into the boat and also decided to sleep there. Murzik bravely rushed at the cat. The cat stumbled, hit Murzik on the ears with his paw, and with a terrible thorn, as if someone had splashed water on a hot frying pan with bacon, flew out of the boat and did not approach her again, although he sometimes really wanted to sleep in it. The cat only looked at the boat and Murzik from the thickets of burdock with green envious eyes.

The boat survived until the end of the summer. She did not burst and never ran into a snag. Reuben was jubilant.

badger nose

The lake near the shores was covered with heaps of yellow leaves. There were so many of them that we couldn't fish. The fishing lines lay on the leaves and did not sink.

I had to go on an old canoe to the middle of the lake, where water lilies were blooming and the blue water seemed black as tar. There we caught multi-colored perches, pulled out tin roach and ruff with eyes like two small moons. The pikes caressed at us with their teeth as small as needles.

It was autumn in the sun and fog. Distant clouds and thick blue air were visible through the circled forests.

At night, low stars stirred and trembled in the thickets around us.

We had a fire in the parking lot. We burned it all day and night to keep the wolves away, howling softly along the far shores of the lake. They were disturbed by the smoke of the fire and cheerful human cries.

We were sure that the fire frightened the animals, but one evening in the grass, by the fire, some animal began to sniff angrily. He was not visible. He was anxiously running around us, rustling through the tall grass, snorting and getting angry, but he did not even stick his ears out of the grass. Potatoes were fried in a frying pan, a sharp, tasty smell came from it, and the beast, obviously, ran to this smell.

A boy came to the lake with us. He was only nine years old, but he tolerated spending the night in the forest and the cold of autumn dawns well. Much better than us adults, he noticed and told everything. He was an inventor, this boy, but we adults were very fond of his inventions. We could not, and did not want to prove to him that he was telling a lie. Every day he came up with something new: now he heard fish whispering, then he saw how ants arranged a ferry for themselves through a stream of pine bark and cobwebs and crossed in the light of an unprecedented night rainbow. We pretended to believe him.

Everything that surrounded us seemed unusual: the late moon shining over the black lakes, and high clouds, like mountains of pink snow, and even the habitual sea noise of tall pines.

The boy was the first to hear the snort of the beast and hissed at us to keep us quiet. We quieted down. We tried not even to breathe, although our hand involuntarily reached for the double-barreled shotgun - who knows what kind of animal it could be!

Half an hour later, the beast stuck out a wet black nose, resembling a pig's snout, out of the grass. The nose sniffed the air for a long time and trembled with greed. Then a sharp muzzle with black piercing eyes appeared from the grass. Finally, a striped skin appeared. A small badger crawled out of the thickets. He folded his paw and looked at me carefully. Then he snorted in disgust and took a step towards the potatoes.

She fried and hissed, splashing boiling lard. I wanted to shout to the animal that he would burn himself, but I was too late: the badger jumped to the pan and stuck his nose into it ...

It smelled like burnt leather. The badger squealed and, with a desperate yell, threw himself back into the grass. He ran and shouted throughout the forest, broke bushes and spat out of indignation and pain.

Confusion began on the lake and in the forest: frightened frogs screamed without time, birds were alarmed, and near the shore, like a cannon shot, a pood pike struck.

In the morning the boy woke me up and told me that he himself had just seen a badger treating his burnt nose.

I didn't believe. I sat down by the fire and half-awake listened to the morning voices of the birds. In the distance, white-tailed waders whistled, ducks quacked, cranes cooed in dry swamps - msharas, turtle doves cooed softly. I didn't want to move.

The boy pulled my hand. He was offended. He wanted to prove to me that he wasn't lying. He called me to go see how the badger is being treated. I reluctantly agreed. We carefully made our way into the thicket, and among the thickets of heather I saw a rotten pine stump. He smelled of mushrooms and iodine.

Near the stump, with its back to us, stood a badger. He opened the stump and stuck his burnt nose into the middle of the stump, into the wet and cold dust. He stood motionless and cooled his unfortunate nose, while another little badger ran around and snorted. He was worried and pushed our badger with his nose in the stomach. Our badger growled at him and kicked with his furry hind legs.

End of introductory segment.

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The following excerpt from the book Hare paws (collection) (K. G. Paustovsky) provided by our book partner -

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Summary: In the cognitive tale Hare's Paws by the brilliant author Paustovsky, it is said that an old man, along with his grandson, came to the aid of a hare and saved him from certain death. The unfortunate gray hare's hind legs were burned during the fire, and this one did not allow him to run. This story took place on Lake Urzhenskoye. Grandfather Vanya at that moment was on the banks of the river, where he was engaged in hunting. Suddenly he noticed a small young hare, there was a wound on one ear and blood was flowing. He fired from his gun, the bullet did not hit the gray, but only flew past him. From fear, he only set off into the forest even faster. When the grandfather went into the forest to catch up with the hare, smoke and burning got into his throat, and strong gusts of wind brought the burning right to him. He began to turn around and flee from the fire that pursued him. It is not yet known how this story would have ended if on his way he had not met a hare that ran with him. It was very difficult for the poor fellow to run, since his paws were badly burned from the flames of fire. All animals can always very correctly and quickly determine the direction of fire and flame. Grandfather, with the help of a hare, still managed to get out of the burning forest. Stopping by the river and resting a little, he took the wounded hare and brought it to his house. He really wanted to help his savior get back on his feet and began to treat the injured hare. Finding a suitable specialist who could take away the poor animal, as it turned out, is not so easy. To save Vanya, together with his grandfather, he had to carry the hare to the city in order to come to an appointment with the animal doctor Karl Petrovich. You can read the fairy tale Hare's paws online for free on this page. You can listen to it on audio. Leave your feedback and comments after reading this fabulous story.

The text of the fairy tale Hare's paws

Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Lake Urzhensky and brought a small warm hare wrapped in a torn wadded jacket. The hare was crying and often blinking his eyes red from tears ...
- Are you crazy? shouted the vet. - Soon you'll be dragging mice to me, bald!
“Don’t bark, this is a special hare,” Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. - His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.
- From what to treat something?
- His paws are burned.
The veterinarian turned Vanya to face the door,
pushed in the back and shouted after:
- Get on, get on! I can't heal them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will have a snack.
Vanya did not answer. He went out into the passage, blinked his eyes, pulled his nose and bumped into a log wall. Tears ran down the wall. The hare shivered quietly under the greasy jacket.
What are you, little one? - the compassionate grandmother Anisya asked Vanya; she brought her only goat to the vet. Why are you, my dear ones, shedding tears together? Ay what happened?
- He is burned, grandfather hare, - Vanya said quietly. - He burned his paws in a forest fire, he cannot run. Here, look, die.
"Don't die, little one," Anisya muttered. - Tell your grandfather, if he has a great desire to go out a hare, let him carry him to the city to Karl Petrovich.
Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the woods to Lake Urzhenskoe. He did not walk, but ran barefoot on a hot sandy road. A recent forest fire passed by, to the north, near the lake itself. There was a smell of burning and dry cloves. It grew in large islands in glades.
The hare moaned.
Vanya found fluffy leaves covered with soft silver hair on the way, pulled them out, put them under a pine tree and turned the hare around. The hare looked at the leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.
What are you, grey? Vanya asked quietly. - You should eat.
The hare was silent.
“You should have eaten,” Vanya repeated, and his voice trembled. - Do you want to drink?
The hare moved his torn ear and closed his eyes.
Vanya took him in his arms and ran straight through the forest - he had to quickly give the hare a drink from the lake.
Unheard-of heat stood that summer over the forests. In the morning, strings of dense white clouds floated up. At noon, the clouds were rapidly rushing up to the zenith, and before our eyes they were carried away and disappeared somewhere beyond the boundaries of the sky. The hot hurricane had been blowing for two weeks without a break. The resin flowing down the pine trunks turned into an amber stone.
The next morning, grandfather put on clean shoes and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece of bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried the hare from behind.
The hare was completely quiet, only occasionally shuddered all over and sighed convulsively.
Dry wind blew a cloud of dust over the city, soft as flour. Chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw flew in it. From a distance it seemed that a quiet fire was smoking over the city.
The market square was very empty, sultry; the cab horses dozed near the water booth, and they wore straw hats on their heads. Grandfather crossed himself.
- Not the horse, not the bride - the jester will sort them out! he said and spat.
Passers-by were asked for a long time about Karl Petrovich, but no one really answered anything. We went to the pharmacy. A fat old man in pince-nez and in a short white coat shrugged his shoulders angrily and said:
- I like it! Pretty weird question! Karl Petrovich Korsh, a specialist in childhood diseases, has stopped seeing patients for three years. Why do you need him?
Grandfather, stuttering from respect for the pharmacist and from timidity, told about the hare.
- I like it! said the pharmacist. - Interesting patients wound up in our city! I like this wonderful!
He nervously took off his pince-nez, wiped it, put it back on his nose and stared at his grandfather. Grandfather was silent and stomped. The pharmacist was also silent. The silence was becoming painful.
- Post street, three! - suddenly the pharmacist shouted in his hearts and slammed some disheveled thick book. - Three!
Grandfather and Vanya made it to Postal Street just in time - a high thunderstorm was setting in from behind the Oka. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon, as a sleepy strongman straightened his shoulders, and reluctantly shook the ground. Gray ripples went along the river. Noiseless lightnings surreptitiously, but swiftly and strongly struck the meadows; far beyond the Glades, a haystack, lit by them, was already burning. Large drops of rain fell on the dusty road, and soon it became like the surface of the moon: each drop left a small crater in the dust.
Karl Petrovich was playing something sad and melodic on the piano when his grandfather's disheveled beard appeared in the window.
A minute later Karl Petrovich was already angry.
"I'm not a veterinarian," he said, and slammed the lid of the piano shut. Immediately thunder rumbled in the meadows. - All my life I have treated children, not hares.
- What a child, what a hare - all the same, - stubbornly muttered the grandfather. - All the same! Lie down, show mercy! Our veterinarian has no jurisdiction over such matters. He horse-drawn for us. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him my life, I must show gratitude, and you say - quit!
A minute later, Karl Petrovich, an old man with gray, tousled eyebrows, was anxiously listening to his grandfather's stumbling story.
Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. The next morning, grandfather went to the lake, and left Vanya with Karl Petrovich to follow the hare.
A day later, the entire Pochtovaya Street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that Karl Petrovich was treating a hare that had been burned in a terrible forest fire and had saved some old man. Two days later, the whole small town already knew about this, and on the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich, introduced himself as an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked for a conversation about a hare.
The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in a cotton rag and carried him home. Soon the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor tried for a long time to get his grandfather to sell him the hare. He even sent letters with stamps to answer. But my grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote a letter to the professor:
“The hare is not corrupt, a living soul, let him live in the wild. At the same time, I remain Larion Malyavin.
This autumn I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on Lake Urzhenskoe. The constellations, cold as grains of ice, floated in the water. Noisy dry reeds. The ducks shivered in the thickets and plaintively quacked all night.
Grandpa couldn't sleep. He sat by the stove and repaired a torn fishing net. Then he put the samovar on - the windows in the hut immediately fogged up from it, and the stars turned from fiery points into muddy balls. Murzik was barking in the yard. He jumped into the darkness, clanged his teeth and bounced off - he fought with the impenetrable October night. The hare slept in the passage and occasionally in his sleep he loudly pounded with his hind paw on a rotten floorboard.
We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and indecisive dawn, and over tea my grandfather finally told me the story of the hare.
In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. The forests were dry as gunpowder. Grandfather got a hare with a torn left ear. Grandfather shot him with an old, wire-bound gun, but missed. The hare got away.
The grandfather went on. But suddenly he became alarmed: from the south, from the side of Lopukhov, there was a strong smell of burning. The wind got stronger. The smoke thickened, it was already carried in a white veil through the forest, the bushes were drawn in. It became difficult to breathe.
Grandfather realized that a forest fire had started and the fire was coming right at him. The wind turned into a hurricane. Fire drove across the ground at an unheard of speed. According to my grandfather, even a train could not escape such a fire. Grandfather was right: during the hurricane, the fire went at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.
Grandfather ran over the bumps, stumbled, fell, the smoke was eating away at his eyes, and behind him a wide rumble and crackle of the flame was already audible.
Death overtook the grandfather, grabbed him by the shoulders, and at that time a hare jumped out from under the grandfather's feet. He ran slowly and dragged his hind legs. Then only the grandfather noticed that they were burned by the hare.
Grandfather was delighted with the hare, as if it were his own. As an old forest dweller, grandfather knew that animals smell much better than humans where the fire comes from, and always escape. They die only in those rare cases when the fire surrounds them.
The grandfather ran after the rabbit. He ran, crying with fear and shouting: “Wait, dear, don’t run so fast!”
The hare brought grandfather out of the fire. When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and grandfather both fell down from fatigue. Grandfather picked up the hare and carried it home.
The hare had scorched hind legs and belly. Then his grandfather cured him and left him.
- Yes, - said the grandfather, looking at the samovar so angrily, as if the samovar was to blame for everything, - yes, but in front of that hare, it turns out that I was very guilty, dear man.
- What did you do wrong?
- And you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will know. Get a flashlight!
I took a lantern from the table and went out into the vestibule. The hare was sleeping. I bent over him with a lantern and noticed that the left ear of the hare was torn. Then I understood everything.