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Stories about autumn
Birds and leaves
In the rays of the sun penetrating the autumn forest, you will not understand where the leaves are and where the birds are flying.
And on a large forest clearing, even fallen leaves do not find rest: some, like mice, run across the clearing, others circle, whirl, rush about in a round dance, and when they fall over the forest during the wind, rush headlong under blue, almost black clouds and between them blue shining clouds. heavenly clearings, and here you no longer understand where the leaves are rushing, and where the migratory birds are.
The fern was still quite green, but now it was covered to the top with leaves, fragrant, rustling under foot.
Latest 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.
Ivan da Marya
Late autumn sometimes happens just like early spring: there is white snow, there is black earth. Only in spring from the thawed patches it smells of earth, and in autumn of snow. It certainly happens: we get used to the snow in winter, and in the spring we smell the earth, and in the summer we smell the earth, and late autumn smells like snow to us.
Rarely, it happens, the sun will peep through for an hour, but what a joy it is! Then it gives us great pleasure to have a dozen already frozen, but surviving from the storms, leaves on a willow or a very small blue flower under our feet.
I lean towards blue flower and with pleasure I recognize Ivan in him: this is Ivan alone left from the former double flower, the well-known Iva na da Marya.
In truth, Ivan is not a real flower. It is composed of very small curly leaves, and only its color is purple, for which it is called a flower. A real flower with pistils and stamens is only yellow Marya. It was from Marya that seeds fell on this autumn land in order to again cover the earth with Ivans and Maryamis in the new year.
Marya's case is much more difficult, that's right, that's why she fell out of favor before Ivan.
But I like that Ivan endured frosts and even turned blue. Following the blue autumn flower with my eyes, I say slowly:
Ivan, Ivan, where is your Marya now?
Parting
Which wonderful morning: and dew, and mushrooms, and birds ... But only it's already autumn. The birch trees turn yellow, the quivering aspen whispers:
“There is no support in poetry: the dew will dry up, the birds will fly away, the tight mushrooms will all fall apart into dust ... There is no support ...” And so I need to accept separation and go somewhere
fly along with the leaves.
You can either write your own.
Short stories about the nature of the autumn season by Prishvin Mikhail Mikhailovich in the form of notes convey that touching mood of romance and pleasant sadness that hovers in nature in autumn. The first yellow leaves, the wonderful time of golden autumn and the onset of cold weather, the events through which autumn nature, lovingly described in lines by a writer of Russian nature.
Beginning of autumn
Today at dawn one lush birch stepped out of the forest into a clearing, as if in a crinoline, and another, timid, slender, dropped leaf after leaf onto the dark Christmas tree. Following this, as more and more dawn dawned, different trees I began to see differently. This always happens at the beginning of autumn, when, after a lush and common summer, a big change begins and the trees all begin to experience leaf fall in different ways.
I looked around me. Here is a tussock, combed by the paws of black grouse. Previously, it used to be that in the hole of such a hummock you would certainly find a feather of a black grouse or a capercaillie, and if it is pockmarked, then you know that the female was digging, if black - a rooster. Now, in the pits of combed tussocks, there are not feathers of birds, but fallen yellow leaves. And then here is an old, old russula, huge, like a plate, all red, and the edges are wrapped up from old age, and a yellow birch leaf floats in the dish.
Aspen is cold
On a sunny day in autumn, young multi-colored aspens gathered at the edge of the spruce forest, densely one to the other, as if it had become cold there, in the spruce forest, and they went out to bask on the edge, as in our villages people go out into the sun and sit on the rubble.
autumn dew
It was overshadowing. Flies bang on the ceiling. The sparrows are herding. Rooks - in harvested fields. Magpie families graze on the roads. Roski cold, gray. Another dewdrop in the bosom of the leaf sparkles all day.
Windy day
This fresh wind knows how to speak tenderly to the hunter, just as the hunters themselves often chat among themselves from an excess of joyful expectations. You can speak and you can be silent: conversation and silence are easy for a hunter. It happens that the hunter tells something animatedly, but suddenly something flashed in the air, the hunter looked there and then: “What was I talking about?” I didn’t remember, and - nothing: you can start something else. So the hunting wind in autumn constantly whispers about something and, without saying one thing, goes on to another; here came the muttering of a young black grouse and stopped, the cranes cry.
Dew
From the fields, from the meadows, from the waters fogs rose and melted in the azure sky, but in the forest the fogs stuck for a long time. The sun rises higher, the rays through the forest fog penetrate into the depths of the thicket, and you can look directly at them there, in the thicket.
The green paths in the forest all seem to be smoking, the fog rises everywhere, the water sits in bubbles on the leaves, on the needles of the fir trees, on the cobwebs, on the telegraph wire. And, as the sun rises and the air warms up, the drops on the telegraph wire begin to merge with one another and thin out. Probably, the same thing is done on the trees: drops merge there too.
And when, finally, the sun began to warm decently on the telegraph wire, large iridescent drops began to fall to the ground. And the same thing in the coniferous and deciduous forest - it didn’t rain, but as if joyful tears were shed. The aspen was especially quivering and joyful, when a single drop falling from above set in motion a sensitive leaf, and so on lower and stronger all the aspen, sparkling in complete calmness, trembled from the falling drop.
At this time, some of the highly alert webs of spiders dried up, and the spiders began to pull up their signal threads. The woodpecker knocked on the tree, the thrush pecked on the mountain ash.
leaf fall
Here a hare came out of the thick fir trees under a birch and stopped when he saw a large clearing. He did not dare to go straight to the other side and went around the whole clearing from birch to birch. So he stopped and listened. Whoever is afraid of something in the forest, it is better not to go while the leaves are falling and whispering. The hare listens: everything seems to him as if someone is whispering from behind and sneaking. It is possible, of course, for a cowardly hare to gain courage and not look back, but something else happens here: you were not afraid, you did not succumb to the deception of falling leaves, but just then someone took advantage and grabbed you in the teeth from behind under the guise.
rowan blushes
Morning is light. There are no cobwebs at all on clearings. Very quiet. I hear zhelnu, jay, thrush. Mountain ash is very red, birches begin to turn yellow. White, a little more moths, butterflies occasionally fly over the mowed grass.
backwater
Among the burnt forest fire last year there was one small aspen on the very edge of the high ravine, opposite our Kazennaya backwater. A haystack was placed near this aspen in the summer, and now in autumn it has turned yellow from time to time, and the aspen is bright red, flaming. From a distance you see this haystack and aspen and you recognize our creek, where there are as many catfish as there are inhabitants in a big city, where in the mornings a shelesper, a terrible predator, throws itself on a flock of fish and whips its tail on the water so that the fish turn over belly up, and their predator eats.
There are so many small fish (fry) in the water that from the impact of the oar in front, a flock often jumps up, as if someone had thrown it up. The fish are already badly taken for bait, and the catfish go to the frog at night, only there are very few frogs this year on the occasion of dryness, there are also few spiders, and these red autumn days there are no cobwebs in the forest at all.
Despite the frosts, there are still blooming lilies on Kubra, and small small flowers, similar to wild strawberries, on the water are whole meadows, like white tablecloths.
White lilies lay on green saucers, and their graceful legs clean water they were so deeply visible that if you got them, measured them, then, perhaps, two of us would not have been enough for them.
Ivan da Marya
In late autumn it sometimes happens just like in early spring there is white snow, there is black earth. Only in spring from the thawed patches it smells of earth, and in autumn of snow. It certainly happens: we get used to the snow in winter, and in the spring the earth smells to us, and in the summer we sniff the earth, and in late autumn it smells of snow to us.
It rarely happens that the sun peeps through for an hour, but what a joy it is! Then a dozen of already frozen, but surviving from the storm leaves on a willow, or a very small blue flower under our feet, gives us great pleasure.
I lean towards the blue flower and with surprise recognize Ivan in it: this is Ivan alone left from the former double flower, the well-known Ivan da Marya.
In truth, Ivan is not a real flower. It is made up of very small curly leaves, and only its color is purple, for which it is called a flower. A real flower with pistils and stamens is only yellow Marya. It was from Marya that seeds fell on this autumn land in order to again cover the earth with Ivans and Maryamis in the new year. Marya's case is much more difficult, that's right, that's why she fell out of favor before Ivan.
But I like that Ivan endured frosts and even turned blue. Following the blue flower of late autumn with my eyes, I say quietly:
Ivan, Ivan, where is your Marya now?
autumn leaves
Just before sunrise, the first frost falls on the clearing. Hide, wait at the edge - what is only being done there, in a forest clearing! In the twilight of dawn, invisible forest creatures come and then begin to spread white canvases all over the clearing. The very first rays of the sun remove the canvases, and a green place remains on the white. Little by little, everything white disappears, and only in the shade of trees and hummocks do little white wedges remain for a long time.
On the blue sky between the golden trees you will not understand what is happening. The wind blows leaves or small birds gather in flocks and rush to warm distant lands.
Wind - caring owner. During the summer, he will visit everywhere, and even in the densest places he does not have a single unfamiliar leaf. But autumn has come - and the caring owner is harvesting his crops.
Leaves, falling, whisper, saying goodbye forever. After all, it’s always like this with them: since you broke away from your native kingdom, then say goodbye, you died.
last flowers
Another frosty night. In the morning on the field I saw a group of surviving blue bells - a bumblebee was sitting on one of them. I tore off the bell, the bumblebee did not fly off, shook off the bumblebee, it fell. I put him under a hot beam, he came to life, recovered and flew. And on the neck of the cancer, in the same way, a red dragonfly froze overnight and, before my eyes, recovered under the hot beam and flew away. And grasshoppers in huge numbers began to fall from under their feet, and among them were cracklings, flying up with a crack, blue and bright red.
M. Prishvin "Seasons"
Stories about autumn
Birds and leaves
In the rays of the sun penetrating the autumn forest, you will not understand where the leaves are and where the birds are flying.
And on a large forest clearing, even fallen leaves do not find rest: some, like mice, run across the clearing, others circle, whirl, rush about in a round dance, and when they fall over the forest during the wind, rush headlong under blue, almost black clouds and between them blue shining clouds. heavenly clearings, and here you no longer understand where the leaves are rushing, and where the migratory birds are.
The fern was still quite green, but now it was covered to the top with leaves, fragrant, rustling under foot.
Latest 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.
Ivan da Marya
Late autumn sometimes happens just like early spring: there is white snow, there is black earth. Only in spring from the thawed patches it smells of earth, and in autumn of snow. It certainly happens: we get used to the snow in winter, and in the spring we smell the earth, and in the summer we sniff the earth, and in late autumn it smells like snow to us.
Rarely, it happens, the sun will peep through for an hour, but what a joy it is! Then it gives us great pleasure to have a dozen already frozen, but surviving from the storms, leaves on a willow or a very small blue flower under our feet.
I lean towards the blue flower and with pleasure recognize Ivan in it: this is Ivan alone left from the former double flower, the well-known Iva na da Marya.
In truth, Ivan is not a real flower. It is composed of very small curly leaves, and only its color is purple, for which it is called a flower. A real flower with pistils and stamens is only yellow Marya. It was from Marya that seeds fell on this autumn land in order to again cover the earth with Ivans and Maryamis in the new year.
Marya's case is much more difficult, that's right, that's why she fell out of favor before Ivan.
But I like that Ivan endured frosts and even turned blue. Following the blue autumn flower with my eyes, I say slowly:
Ivan, Ivan, where is your Marya now?
Parting
What a wonderful morning: dew, mushrooms, and birds... But it's already autumn. The birch trees turn yellow, the quivering aspen whispers:
“There is no support in poetry: the dew will dry up, the birds will fly away, the tight mushrooms will all fall apart into dust ... There is no support ...” And so I need to accept separation and go somewhere
fly along with the leaves.
Stranger, we advise you to read the fairy tale "Ivan da Marya" by A. N. Tolstoy to yourself and your children, this is a wonderful work created by our ancestors. It is amazing that with sympathy, compassion, strong friendship and unshakable will, the hero always manages to resolve all troubles and misfortunes. "Good always conquers evil" - on this foundation is built, similar to this one and this creation, with early years laying the foundation for our understanding of the world. Once again, rereading this composition, you will certainly discover something new, useful and instructive, and essentially important. Reading such creations in the evening, the pictures of what is happening become more vivid and rich, filled with a new range of colors and sounds. The plot is simple and old as the world, but each new generation finds in it something relevant and useful for itself. Each time, reading this or that epic, one feels the incredible love with which the images are described. environment. The tale "Ivan da Marya" by A. N. Tolstoy is certainly useful to read online for free, it will bring up in your child only good and useful qualities and concepts.
The tenth week after Easter is Kupala days.
The sun bakes the very navel of the earth, and the marvelous Wormwood-grass blooms. In the lakes, on the greenest bottom, under the underwater snags, under the algae, the fiery sun looks.
There is no place for mermaids to hide, and on quiet evenings, on moonlit nights, they leave the waters of the lake and bury themselves in trees, and then they are called woodworts.
This is a saying, and this is what a fairy tale is.
Once upon a time, brother Ivan and sister Marya lived in a hut on the shore of a lake.
The lake is quiet, and the fame of it is bad: the water is naughty.
A month will rise above the lake, they will begin to gurgle and roar in the reed pools, slosh through the water like rolls, and roll out of the reeds on an oak snag, a water one, a cap on its head, wrapped in mud. You will see, hide - it will be pulled under the water.
Strictly brother Ivan punished sister Marya:
“I’ll go away, so after dusk you leave the hut - not with your foot, don’t sing songs over the lake water, sit quietly, quietly, like mice sit ...
Listen, brother! Marya says.
Ivan went into the forest. It became boring for Marya to sit at the machine alone; she leaned back and sang:
Where are you, golden moon? —
A month walks over water, -
I looked into the gloomy lake,
AT dark waters drowned...
Suddenly there was a knock on the shutter.
- Who is here?
“Come to us, come to us,” thin voices say behind the shutters.
Maria ran out and gasped.
From the lake to the hut - mermaid round dances.
Mavka mermaids joined hands, spinning, laughing, playing.
Maria threw up her hands. Where is it! - Mavki surrounded her, put on a wreath ...
- To us, to us in a round dance, you are the most beautiful of all, be our queen. - They took Mary by the hands and spun.
Suddenly a blue swollen head in a cap crawled out of the reeds.
“Hello, Marya,” the merman wheezed, “I have been waiting for you for a long time ... - And he reached out for her with his paws ...
Ivan arrived late in the morning. There, here - there is no sister. And he sees - on the shore her shoes and a belt lie.
Ivan sat down and wept.
And the days go by, the sun is coming closer to the earth.
Bathing week has arrived.
“I’ll leave,” Ivan thinks, “to live a century with strangers, but I’ll just make new bast shoes.”
I found a sticky tree across the lake, stripped it off, wove bast shoes and went to strangers.
He walked, walked, he sees - there is a naked sticky tree with which he tore his barks.
“Look, you turned back,” thought Ivan and went in the other direction.
He circled through the forest and again sees a bare sticky tree.
- An obsession, - Ivan was frightened, ran at a trot. And the bast shoes themselves bend to the old place ...
Ivan got angry, swung his ax and wants to chop sticky. And she says in a human voice:
“Don’t cut me, dear brother…”
Ivan and the ax fell out.
- Sister, is it you?
— I, brother; the king of the water took me as his wife, now I am a tree woman, and in the spring I will again be a mermaid ... When you tore bast off me, I slandered not to go far from here.
“Can’t you get away from the water one?”
- You can, you need to find Wormwood-grass in a shaky place and throw it in my face.
And as soon as she said, they picked up the bast shoes themselves, carried Ivan through the forest.
The wind whistles in my ears, bast shoes fly over the ground, rise, and Ivan rushes up into a black cloud.
“Don’t fall,” he thought, and caught on to a gray cloud - a shaky place.
I went through the cloud - not a bush around, not a blade of grass.
Suddenly a little man with an elbow, a little red riding hood, stirred under his feet and jumped out of the cloud hole.
- Why did you come here? the peasant roared like a bull, where did the voice come from.
- I'm behind Wormwood-grass, - Ivan bowed.
- I'll give you Wormwood-grass, just beat me with a gypsy grip.
They lay down on their backs, lifted one leg at a time, hooked, pulled.
A strong man with an elbow, and bast shoes help Ivan.
Ivan began to pull.
- Your happiness, - the peasant growls, - if you were in seventh heaven, I threw a lot of your brother there. Get Wormwood-grass. - And threw him a bunch.
Ivan grabbed the grass, ran downstairs, and a peasant with an elbow roared, how he rumbled, and his red tongue from the cloud would either throw it, or draw it in.
Ivan ran up to the sticky and sees - a terrible grandfather is sitting on the ground, moving his mustache ...
“Let me go,” shouts Ivan, “I know who you are, don’t you want this?” And he poked Wormwood-grass in the face of the merman.
The water one swelled up, burst and ran in a fast stream into the lake.
Despite the frosts, there are still blooming lilies on Kubra, and small small flowers, similar to wild strawberries, on the water are whole meadows, like white tablecloths.
White lilies lay on green saucers, and their graceful legs in the clear water were so deeply visible that if you took them out and measured them, then, perhaps, two of us would not have been enough for them.
"FIRST FROST"
The night passed under a large clear moon, and by morning the first frost fell. Everything was gray, but the puddles did not freeze. When the sun came up and warmed up, the trees and grasses were covered with such strong dew, the fir branches looked out of the dark forest with such luminous patterns that the diamonds of all our land would not be enough for this decoration.
The queen, pine, sparkling from top to bottom, was especially good. Joy jumped in my chest like a young dog.
"FIGHT FOR LIFE"
The time when birch trees pour their last gold on spruces and dormant anthills. I even notice the sparkle of the needles on the path in the rays of the setting sun, and I keep walking, admiring, walking endlessly along the forest path, and the forest becomes to me the same as the sea, and its edge, like the shore on the sea, and the clearing in the forest, like an island . On this island there are several fir trees, under them I sat down to rest. These trees, it turns out, have their whole life at the top. There, in the wealth of cones, squirrels, crossbills and, probably, many more creatures unknown to me manage. Below, under the fir trees, as if on a back door, everything is gloomy, and you just watch how the husk flies.
If you use intelligent attention to life and have sympathy for every creature, you can read a fascinating book here, at least about these seeds of fir trees that fall down when the cones are peeled by crossbills and squirrels. Once, one such seed fell under a birch between its bare roots. The tree, covered from sunburn and frost by birch, began to grow, moving down between the outer roots of the birch, met new birch roots there, and the tree had nowhere to put its roots. Then she raised her roots over the birch trees, went around them and let them into the ground on the other side. Now this spruce has overtaken the birch and stands next to it with intertwined roots.
At the first dawn we go out one at a time different sides in the spruce forest for squirrels. The sky is heavy and so low that it seems that it is only supported by the fir trees. Many green tops are completely red from a lot of cones, and if their harvest is large, then there are a lot of proteins.
In the group of firs where I look, there are those that seem to be combed from top to bottom with a comb, and there are curly ones, there are young ones with tar, and then old ones with gray-green beards (lichens). One old tree at the bottom is almost dead, and a long gray-green beard hangs from each branch, but a whole barn can be collected on top of the fruits. Here is one branch on it trembled. The squirrel, however, noticed me and froze. The old tree, under which I had to wait, was burned down on one side and is standing in a wide round hole, as if in a dish. I unearthed the rotten leaves that had fallen into the dish from neighboring birches, and a black, ash-covered earth opened up. By this sign, and by the fact that the lower part of the trunk was burned, I guessed the origin of the dish. Last year, in this forest, a hunter followed the trail of a marten in winter. She probably rode, jumping from tree to tree, leaving footprints on the snowy branches, dropping her litter. The pursuit of an expensive animal carried away, twilight caught the hunter in the forest, I had to spend the night.
Under the tree where I now stand lived a huge anthill, perhaps the largest ant state in this forest. The hunter cleared it of snow, set it on fire, the whole state burned down, and hot ashes remained. The man lay down in a warm place, covered himself with a jacket, covered himself with ashes on top, fell asleep, and at dawn he went further for the marten.
In the spring, water poured into the dish where the anthill was. In autumn, a leaf of neighboring birches filled it up, a lot of husks from cones were poured on top of the squirrel, and now I came for furs.
I really wanted to use the time, waiting for the squirrel, and write something for myself in a little book about this anthill. Quietly, with a very slow movement of my hand, I take out a book and a pencil from my bag. I am writing that this anthill was a huge state in the forest, as in our human world China. And as soon as “China” was written, a husk from a cone falls right into the book from above. I guess that just above me sits a squirrel with a spruce cone. She hid when I arrived, but now she is tormented by curiosity, whether I am alive or completely stopped, like a tree, and she is no longer dangerous. Perhaps even she deliberately put a husk on me for a test, waited a little and let another and a third. She is tormented by curiosity, now she will not go anywhere until she finds out. I continue to write about the great state of ants, created by great ant labor: that a giant came and, in order to spend the night, spent the entire state. At this time, the squirrel threw a whole bump and almost knocked the book out of my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I see how she carefully descends from twig to twig, closer, closer, and now, right from behind, over my shoulder, she looks, fool, at my lines about a giant who spent an ant state for spending the night in the forest.
It happened once too, I shot at a squirrel, and immediately a bump fell from three neighboring firs. It was not difficult to guess that on each of these firs there was a squirrel, and when I shot, everyone released a bump from their paws and betrayed themselves.
So in the “taiga near Moscow” we go for squirrels in November until eleven in the afternoon and from two to evening: during these hours, the squirrels peel the cones on the trees, shake the twigs, drop the litter, and run from tree to tree in search of better food. From eleven to two we do not go, at this time the squirrel sits on a knot in great density and washes its paws.
"SHADOW OF A MAN"
Morning moon. East closed. Still, finally, a strip of dawn appears from under the blanket, and blue glades remain near the moon.
The lake seemed to be covered with ice floes, so strangely and angrily the fogs collapsed. The village roosters and swans crowed.
I am a bad musician, but I think that the swans have a crane in the upper octave - that very cry with which they seem to cause light in the mornings in the swamps, and the lower octave is goose, in a bass-talk.
I don’t know, probably from the moon or from the dawn in the blue clearings above, I finally noticed the rooks, and then it soon turned out that the whole sky was covered with them - rooks and jackdaws: the rooks were maneuvering before flying away, the jackdaws, as usual, saw them off. Where can I find out why jackdaws always accompany rooks? There was a time when I thought that everything in the world was known and only I, the unfortunate man, knew nothing, and then it turned out that in wildlife scientists often do not know even the simplest things.
So recently we have learned that some of our crows are migratory. Why can't some of the jackdaws fly away with the rooks?
The morning wind blew and knocked down my Christmas tree, placed in the middle of the field, so that I could crawl up to the geese because of it. I went to put it on, but just at the moment when I put it on, the geese appeared. Conscientiously, I crawled around the Christmas tree, hiding from the geese, but they made several circles, the Christmas tree still seemed suspicious to them, and so they flew away and sat down near Dubovitsy. I began to crawl towards them from behind a large willow bush in the middle of the field. There was a white frost on the stubble, and my shadow on the white crawled out before me, for a long time I did not notice it, but suddenly I noticed in horror that it, huge, terrible, was creeping up to the very geese. The terrible shadow of a man in the white frost trembled, a commotion began among the geese, and suddenly all of them, with a cry of two hundred voices, each of which was no weaker than a human “cheer” during the attack, rushed straight at my bush. I managed to jump inside the bush and stick out a double trunk towards the long necks.
"BADGER"
Last year, at this time, the ground was already white, now autumn has overgrown, and on the black ground, far visible, white hares walk and lie down. Who's in trouble now! But why be afraid of a gray badger. I think the badgers are still walking. How fat they are now! I'm trying to guard the hole. At this gloomy time in the spruce forest you will not immediately reach that silence where there is no our room rate of gloomy and cheerful seasons, but everything invariably moves and in this tireless movement finds its meaning and joy. This ravine, where badgers live, is so steep that, climbing there, you often have to leave your five on the sand next to the badger. At the trunk of an old spruce, I sit down and follow the main hole through the lower spruce lapin. The squirrel, laying moss over its gaino for the winter, dropped a litter, and here that very silence began, listening to which the hunter can, without getting bored, sit for hours at the badger's hole.
Under this heavy sky, propped up by dense fir trees, there is not the slightest hint of the movement of the sun, but when the sun sets, the badger knows this in his dark hole and, a little later, with great caution tries to go out on his nightly hunt. More than once, sticking out his nose, he snorts and hides, and suddenly jumps out with extraordinary vivacity - and the hunter does not have time to blink. It is much better to sit down before dawn, when the badger returns, - then he just goes and rustles far away. But now it would be time for the badger to lie in hibernation, now it doesn’t come out every day, and it’s a pity to sit in vain at night and then sleep off during the day.
You are not sitting in an armchair, your legs have become lifeless, but the badger suddenly stuck out his nose, and everything became better than in the armchair. He showed his nose a little and at the same moment hid. Half an hour later he showed, thought, and disappeared altogether into a hole.
Yes, it didn't come out. And I had not yet managed to reach the forester, white flies flew. Did the badger, just sticking his nose out of the hole, smelled it?
"POWER OF BEAUTY"
The artist Boris Ivanovich crept up to the swans in the fog, began to aim closely, but, thinking that you would kill more on the heads with small shot, he opened his gun, took out a buckshot, put in duck shot. And if only to shoot, it began to seem that you were shooting not at a swan, but at a person. Lowering his gun, he admired for a long time, then quietly backed away, backed away and walked away so that the swans did not know the terrible danger at all.
I have heard that the swan is an unkind bird, does not tolerate geese, ducks near it, often kills them. Is it true? However, if true, this does not interfere with anything in our poetic idea of a girl turned into a swan: this is the power of beauty.
IVAN DA MARIA
In late autumn it sometimes happens just like in early spring there is white snow, there is black earth. Only in spring from the thawed patches it smells of earth, and in autumn of snow. It certainly happens: we get used to the snow in winter, and in the spring the earth smells to us, and in the summer we sniff the earth, and in late autumn it smells of snow to us.
It rarely happens that the sun peeps through for an hour, but what a joy it is! Then a dozen of already frozen, but surviving from the storm leaves on a willow, or a very small blue flower under our feet, gives us great pleasure.
I lean towards the blue flower and with surprise recognize Ivan in it: this is Ivan alone left from the former double flower, the well-known Ivan da Marya.
In truth, Ivan is not a real flower. It is made up of very small curly leaves, and only its color is purple, for which it is called a flower. A real flower with pistils and stamens is only yellow Marya. It was from Marya that seeds fell on this autumn land in order to again cover the earth with Ivans and Maryamis in the new year. Marya's case is much more difficult, that's right, that's why she fell out of favor before Ivan.
But I like that Ivan endured frosts and even turned blue. Following the blue flower of late autumn with my eyes, I say quietly:
“Ivan, Ivan, where is your Marya now?”
A starry and unusually warm night. In the predawn hour, I went out onto the porch, and I could hear - only one drop fell from the roof to the ground. At first light the mists began to stir, and we found ourselves on the shores of an endless sea.
Precious and most mysterious time from the first light to sunrise, when the patterns of completely leafless trees are only indicated: birch trees were combed down, maple and aspen - up. I witnessed the birth of frost, how it dried and whitened the old, red grass, covered the puddles with the thinnest glass.
At sunrise, the structure of that shore appeared in the clouds and hung high in the air. AT sunshine Finally, out of the mist, a lake appeared. In the translucent fog, everything seemed greatly enlarged, a long line of mallards was the front of the advancing army, and a group of swans was like a fabulous white-stone city emerging from the water.
One black grouse appeared flying from the night, and undoubtedly on an important matter and not by chance, because from the other side it also flew in the same direction, and again, and again. When I arrived there, to the lake swamp, there had already gathered big flock, a few sat on a tree, most ran over bumps, jumped up and down in exactly the same way as in spring.
Only by the very bright green winter could one distinguish such a day from the early spring, and perhaps also by itself, that spring wine does not wander inside you and joy does not prick: joy is now calm, as it happens when something hurts , you rejoice that you are ill, and you will sadly change your mind: but this is not pain, this life itself has passed.
During this great winter, the lake was completely black in the ice ring, and every day the ring squeezed more and more strongly the black water in the white shores. Now the ring broke up, the liberated water sparkled, rejoiced. Streams rushed from the mountains, rustled like spring. But when the sun was covered with clouds, it turned out that it was only thanks to its rays that the water, and the front of mallards, and the city of swans were visible. The fog covered everything again, even the lake itself disappeared, and for some reason only the structure of the other shore, hanging high in the air, remained.
"SWAN GEESE"
The night was clear, stellar and lunar. hard frost, in the morning everything is white. Geese graze in their places. A new caravan was added, and in total about two hundred began to fly from the lake to the field. Black grouse until noon were all in the trees and muttered. Then the sky closed, it became dark and cold.
In the afternoon the sun came out again, and until evening it was beautiful. We rejoiced at our two golden birches that had survived from the general defeat. The wind was, however, north, the lake lay black and fierce. A whole caravan of swans arrived. I heard that the swans do not stay with us for very long, and when it is already so cold that only a small middle remains and the carts are already driving along the winter road in a straight line on the ice, it can be heard at night in the darkness, in silence, as there, in the middle, where - then they talk thickly, you think - people, and then swans on an unfrozen middle between themselves.
In the evening, from the ravine, I got very close to the geese and could have made a real defeat from them with a shotgun, but while climbing steeper, I got tired, my heart was beating too fast, or maybe I just wanted to be naughty. There was a stump at the very top of the ravine, and I sat down on it so that I could only raise my head, and a neighing with geese would appear, ten paces from me nearest. The gun was ready, it seemed to me that even with a sudden takeoff, it big losses you can't fly away from me, and I lit a cigarette, expelling the smoke very carefully, scattering it with my palm near my lips. Meanwhile, behind this small finger there was another beam, and from there, just like me, taking advantage of the twilight, a fox crawled up to the geese. I did not have time to raise my gun, when a whole huge flock of geese took off and stood out of the shot. It’s also good that I guessed about the fox and did not immediately stick my head out. She walked like a dog, following goose tracks, moving noticeably closer and closer to me. I settled down, fixed my elbows, tried on my eye, whistled softly with the mouse - she looked here, whistled another time, she went at me.
"AUTUMN LEAVES"
Just before sunrise, the first frost falls on the clearing. Hide, wait at the edge - what is only being done there, in a forest clearing! In the twilight of dawn, invisible forest creatures come and then begin to spread white canvases all over the clearing. The very first rays of the sun remove the canvases, and a green place remains on the white. Little by little, everything white disappears, and only in the shade of trees and hummocks do little white wedges remain for a long time.
In the blue sky between the golden trees you won't understand what's going on. The wind blows leaves or small birds gather in flocks and rush to warm distant lands.
The wind is a caring master. During the summer, he will visit everywhere, and even in the densest places he does not have a single unfamiliar leaf. But autumn has come - and the caring owner is harvesting his crops.
Leaves, falling, whisper, saying goodbye forever. After all, it’s always like this with them: since you broke away from your native kingdom, then say goodbye, you died.
"LATE FALL"
Autumn lasts like a narrow path with steep turns. Then frost, then rain, and suddenly snow, like in winter, a white blizzard with a howl, and again the sun, again warm and green. In the distance, at the very end, a birch tree stands with golden leaves: as it froze, it remained, and the wind can no longer pluck the last leaves from it - it plucked everything that could be.
The most late fall- this is when the mountain ash wrinkles from frost and becomes, as they say, “sweet”. At this time, the latest autumn converges so closely with the earliest spring that you can only recognize the difference between autumn and spring days by yourself - in the fall you think: “I’ll survive this winter and rejoice at another spring.”
Then you think that everything in life must certainly be like this: you have to wear yourself out, work hard, and after that you can rejoice at something. I recalled the fable “The Dragonfly and the Ant” and the harsh speech of the ant: “You all sang - this is the case, so go and dance.” And in early spring, on exactly the same day, you expect joy without any merit; spring will come, you will come to life in it and fly like a dragonfly, without thinking about the ant at all.
"QUICK"
Here is a clearing where I recently picked porcini mushrooms between two streams. Now it is all white: every stump is covered with a white tablecloth, and even the red mountain ash is powdered with frost. A large and calm stream has frozen over, but a small fast one is still beating.
"TREES IN THE FOREST"
Snow powder. It is very quiet in the forest and so warm that it just does not melt. The trees are surrounded by snow, the fir trees have hung their huge heavy paws, the birch trees have bowed down and some even bent their tops to the very ground and have become lacy arches. So it is with trees, as with people: not a single fir-tree will bend under any weight, unless it breaks, and a birch tree will bend a little. Spruce reigns with its upper whorl, and birch weeps.
In the forest snowy silence, the figures from the snow became so expressive that it becomes strange: “Why do you think they won’t say anything to each other, unless they noticed me and are embarrassed?” And when the snow flew, it seemed as if you heard the whisper of snowflakes, like a conversation between strange figures.
"CRYSTAL DAY"
We finished hunting for hares: double tracks began, the hare was chasing the hare. The whole day sparkled with crystal from dawn to dusk. In the middle of the day, the sun warmed considerably, the breeze swayed the branches of the trees, and therefore the figures fell, were scattered in the air with dust, and this smallest dust again took off and sparkled in the sun.
The upper whorl of a tall spruce, like a vase, collected more and more snow inside itself, until, finally, this lump hid in itself even that tall finger of spruce, on which a small bird sits sometimes at the evening dawn and sings its song.
"BADERS"
I went in the winter around Christmas to the floodplain for hay, moved the haystack with a pitchfork, and in it the badger hibernated.
And then there was: the kids were going to beat the badgers. They let the dog into the hole. The badger ran out. The children saw that the badger was running quietly, that they could catch up, did not shoot and rushed after her. Caught up. What to do? They threw the guns at the holes, there were no sticks in their hands, it was scary to take it with bare hands. Meanwhile, the badger found herself a new way underground and disappeared. The dog pulled out a nest and a badger: decent, from a good puppy.
"TREES IN CAPTIVITY"
The tree with its upper whorl, like a palm, took away the falling snow, and such a lump grew from this that the top of the birch began to bend. And it happened in the thaw snow fell again and stuck to that coma, and the top branch with a lump arched the whole tree, until, finally, the top with that huge lump sank into the snow on the ground and was thus fixed until spring itself. Animals and people occasionally skied under this arch all winter. Nearby, proud firs looked down on the bent birch, as people born to command look at their subordinates.
In the spring, the birch returned to those firs, and if this one especially snowy winter she did not bend, then in winter and summer she would remain among the fir trees, but since she was bent, now with the smallest snow she leaned over and in the end, without fail every year, leaned over the path like an arch.
It is terrible to enter a young forest in a snowy winter: but it is impossible to enter. Where in the summer I walked along a wide path, now bent trees lie across this path, and so low that only a hare can run under them. But I know one simple magic tool to walk along such a path without bending your back yourself. I break out a good weighty stick for myself, and as soon as I hit the leaning tree with this stick, the snow falls down with all its figures, the tree jumps up and gives way. Slowly so I go and release many trees with magical blows.
"SQUIRREL MEMORY"
I think about squirrels, it’s clear if there is a large supply, you remember it easily, but now we see in the footsteps that here the squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since autumn, ate them right there, then, running back ten meters , dived again, again left the shells of two or three nuts in the snow, and after a few meters made the third climb. It cannot be assumed that she smelled the nut through the melted layer of snow and frozen ice. So, since the autumn she remembered about two nuts in the moss, so many centimeters from the spruce. Moreover, remembering, she could not measure centimeters, but directly determine with accuracy: she dived and got it.
"PURPLE SKY"
In December, if the sky is covered with clouds, it gets strangely dark in coniferous forest, almost scary: the sky above becomes even purple, hangs down, lowers and hurries to escape, otherwise the forest will soon begin its own, inhuman order.
We hurried back home along our morning path and saw on it a fresh hare footprint. We walked a little more and saw a new trail. This meant that the hares, for whom our day is considered night and night is their working day, got up from their bed and began to walk.
The terrible purple sky at dusk was like a joyful morning dawn to us.
There were only four hours in total. I said:
What a long night it will be!
- The longest, - Yegor answered - to walk, walk for a hare, sleep, sleep for a peasant.
"BIRTH OF THE MONTH"
The sky is clear. Sunrise luxurious in silence. Frost minus 12. The trumpeter drives along the white path with one flair.
The whole day in the forest was golden, and in the evening the dawn burned in half the sky. It was a northern dawn, all raspberry-shiny, as in Christmas decorations, it used to be in bombonnieres with a shot, a special transparent paper through which you can look at the light, and everything is painted in some kind of cherry color. However, in the living sky there was not only red, in the middle there was a thick blue lancet strip, lying on red like a zeppelin, but along the edges there were various layers of the finest shades, additional to the primary colors.
The full dawn of dawn lasts some quarter of an hour. The young moon stood against the red on the blue, as if he saw it for the first time and was surprised.
