And falcons mikit stories. On the warm earth (compilation)

© Sokolov-Mikitov I. S., heirs, 1954

© Zhekhova K., foreword, 1988

© Bastrykin V., illustrations, 1988

© Design of the series. Publishing house "Children's Literature", 2005

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and corporate networks, for private and public use, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

I. S. SOKOLOV-MIKITOV

Sixty years active creative activity in the turbulent XX century, full of so many events and upheavals - such is the result of the life of the remarkable Soviet writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov.

He spent his childhood in the Smolensk region, with its sweet, truly Russian nature. In those days, the old way of life and way of life was still preserved in the village. The boy's first impressions were festive festivities, village fairs. It was then that he joined native land th, with her immortal beauty.

When Vanya was ten years old, he was sent to a real school. Unfortunately, this institution was distinguished by bureaucracy, and the teaching went badly. In the spring, the smells of awakened greenery irresistibly attracted the boy beyond the Dnieper, to its banks, covered with a gentle haze of blossoming foliage.

Sokolov-Mikitov was expelled from the fifth grade of the school "on suspicion of belonging to student revolutionary organizations." It was impossible to enter anywhere with a “wolf ticket”. The only educational institution that did not require a certificate of trustworthiness was the St. Petersburg private agricultural courses, where he was able to get a year later, although, as the writer admitted, he agriculture he did not feel, just as, indeed, he never felt any attraction to settled way of life, property, domesticity ...

Boring coursework soon turned out to be not to the liking of Sokolov-Mikitov, a man with a restless, restless character. Having settled in Reval (now Tallinn) on a merchant fleet steamer, he wandered around the wide world for several years. I saw many cities and countries, visited European, Asian and African ports, made close friends with working people.

The First World War found Sokolov-Mikitov in a foreign land. With great difficulty he got from Greece to his homeland, and then he volunteered for the front, flew the first Russian bomber "Ilya Muromets", served in the sanitary detachments.

In Petrograd, he met the October Revolution, listened with bated breath to the speech of V. I. Lenin in the Tauride Palace. In the editorial office of Novaya Zhizn, he met Maxim Gorky and other writers. In these critical years for the country, Ivan Sergeevich becomes a professional writer.

After the revolution - a short job as a teacher of a unified labor school in his native Smolensk places. By this time, Sokolov-Mikitov had already published the first stories noticed by such masters as I.

Bunin and A. Kuprin.

"Warm Land" - this is how the writer called one of his first books. And it would be difficult to find a more accurate, more capacious name! After all, the native Russian land is really warm, because it is warmed by the warmth of human labor and love.

The stories of Sokolov-Mikitov about the campaigns of the flagships of the icebreaker fleet "Georgy Sedov" and "Malygin", which laid the foundation for the development of the Northern Sea Route, date back to the time of the first polar expeditions. On one of the islands of the Arctic Ocean, a bay was named after Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov, where he found the buoy of the dead Ziegler expedition, whose fate was unknown until that moment.

Sokolov-Mikitov spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian, traveled around the Kola and the Taimyr Peninsula, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan mountains, the Northern and Murmansk regions. He wandered through the dense taiga, saw the steppe and the sultry desert, traveled all over the Moscow region. Each such trip not only enriched him with new thoughts and experiences, but was also captured by him in new works.

Hundreds of stories and novels, essays and sketches were given to people by this man of good talent. The pages of his books are illuminated with wealth and generosity of soul.

The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is close to Aksakov's, Turgenev's, and Bunin's style. However, his works have their own special world: not outside observation, but live communication with the surrounding life.

About Ivan Sergeevich in the encyclopedia it is written: "Russian Soviet writer, sailor, traveler, hunter, ethnographer." And although there is a point further, this list could be continued: a teacher, a revolutionary, a soldier, a journalist, a polar explorer.

Sokolov-Mikitov's books are written in a melodious, rich and at the same time very simple language, the same language that the writer learned in his childhood.

In one of his autobiographical notes, he wrote: “I was born and grew up in a simple working Russian family, among the forest expanses of the Smolensk region, its wonderful and very feminine nature. The first words I heard were bright folk words, the first music I heard were folk songs that once inspired the composer Glinka.

In search of new visual means, the writer, back in the twenties of the last century, turned to a peculiar genre of short (not short, but short) stories, which he successfully dubbed bylits.

To an inexperienced reader, these tales may seem like simple notes from a notebook, made on the go, in memory of the events and characters that struck him.

The best examples of such brief real stories we have already seen in L. Tolstoy, I. Bunin, V. Veresaev, M. Prishvin.

Sokolov-Mikitov in his bylits comes not only from the literary tradition, but also from folk art, from the immediacy of oral stories.

For his bylits "Redheads and blacks", "To your own grave", "Terrible dwarf", "Groomsmen" and others are characterized by extraordinary capacity and accuracy of speech. Even in the so-called hunting stories, he has a person in the foreground. Here he continues the best traditions of S. Aksakov and I. Turgenev.

Reading short stories Sokolova-Mikitov about the Smolensk places ("On the river Bride") or about the bird's winter quarters in the south of the country ("Lenkoran"), one involuntarily imbued with sublime feelings and thoughts, a feeling of admiration native nature turns into something else, more noble, - into a feeling of patriotism.

“His creativity, having its source in a small homeland (that is, the Smolensk region), belongs to a large Motherland, our great land with its vast expanses, innumerable riches and diverse beauty - from north to south, from the Baltic to the Pacific coast,” said Sokolov-Mikitov A. Tvardovsky.

Not all people are able to feel and understand nature in an organic connection with the human mood, and only a few can paint nature simply and wisely. Sokolov-Mikitov possessed such a rare gift. This love for nature and for people who live in friendship with it, he was able to convey to his very young reader. Our preschool and school children have long been fond of his books: “Kuzovok”, “House in the Forest”, “Fox Subterfuges” ... And how picturesque are his stories about hunting: “On the capercaillie current”, “Tightening”, “First hunt” and others. You read them, and it seems that you yourself are standing on the edge of the forest and, holding your breath, follow the majestic flight of the woodcock or, in the early, predawn hour, listen to the mysterious and magical song of the capercaillie...

The writer Olga Forsh said: “You read Mikitov and wait: a woodpecker is about to knock over your head or a hare jumps out from under the table; how great it is, really told!”

The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is autobiographical, but not in the sense that he wrote only about himself, but because he always talked about everything as an eyewitness and participant in certain events. This gives his works a vivid persuasiveness and that documentary authenticity that attracts the reader so much.

“I was lucky to get close to Ivan Sergeevich in early years his literary work- recalled K. Fedin. - It was shortly after civil war. For half a century, he devoted me to his life so much that it sometimes seems to me that it has become mine.

He never set out to write his biography in detail. But he is one of those rare artists whose life, as it were, summed up everything that he wrote.

Kaleria Zhekhova

IN THE NATIVE LAND

Sunrise

Even in early childhood I had a chance to admire the sunrise. In the early spring morning, on a holiday, my mother sometimes woke me up, carried me to the window in her arms:

- Look how the sun plays!

Behind the trunks of old lindens, a huge flaming ball rose above the awakened earth. He seemed to swell, shone with a joyful light, played, smiled. My childish soul rejoiced. For the rest of my life I remember my mother's face, illuminated by the rays of the rising sun.

In adulthood, I have watched the sunrise many times. I met him in the forest, when before dawn the pre-morning wind passes above the tops of the head, one after another the pure stars go out in the sky, the black peaks are more and more clearly indicated in the lightened sky. There is dew on the grass. A cobweb stretched in the forest sparkles with many sparkles. Clean and transparent air. On a dewy morning, it smells like resin in a dense forest.

I saw the sunrise over my native fields, over a green meadow covered with dew, over the silver surface of the river. Pale morning stars, a thin sickle of the month, are reflected in the cool mirror of water. Dawn breaks in the east, and the water appears pink. As if in a steamy light haze, the sun rises above the earth to the singing of countless birds. Like the living breath of the earth, a light golden mist spreads over the fields, over the motionless ribbon of the river. The sun is rising higher. Cool transparent dew in the meadows shines like diamonds.

Watched the sun rise in frosty winter morning When the deep snow shone unbearably, a light frosty hoarfrost scattered from the trees. Loved the sunrise high mountains Tien Shan and Caucasus, covered with sparkling glaciers.

The sunrise over the ocean is especially beautiful. Being a sailor, standing on watch, I watched many times how the rising sun changes its color: either it swells up with a flaming ball, then it is covered with fog or distant clouds. And everything around suddenly changes. Distant shores, crests of oncoming waves seem different. The color of the sky itself changes, covering the endless sea with a golden-blue tent. The foam on the crests of the waves seems to be golden. Gulls flying behind the stern seem golden. The masts shine with scarlet gold, the painted side of the ship glistens. You used to stand on watch at the bow of the ship, your heart filled with unspeakable joy. A new day is born! How many meetings and adventures he promises to a young happy sailor!

Residents of big cities rarely admire the sunrise. High stone masses of city houses cover the horizon. Even villagers wake up for the short hour of sunrise, the beginning of the day. But in the living world of nature, everything is awakening. On the edges of the forest, over the illuminated water, the nightingales sing loudly. Soar from the fields into the sky, disappearing in the rays of dawn, light larks. Cuckoos happily cuckoo, thrushes whistle.

Only sailors, hunters, people who are closely connected with mother earth, know the joy of a solemn sunrise when life awakens on earth.

My friends, readers, I strongly advise you to admire the sunrise, the pure early morning dawn. You will feel your heart fill with fresh joy. In nature, there is nothing more charming than early morning, early morning dawn, when the earth breathes maternal breath and life awakens.

Russian Winter

Good, clean Russians snowy winters. Deep snowdrifts sparkle in the sun. Large and small rivers hid under the ice. In frosty quiet morning above the roofs of village houses, smoke rises in pillars into the sky. Under the snow coat, gaining strength, the earth is resting.

Quiet and bright winter nights. Pouring the snow with a thin light, the moon shines. Fields and tree tops shimmer in the moonlight. The winter road is clearly visible. Dark shadows in the forest. The winter night frost is strong, tree trunks crackle in the forest. High stars are scattered across the sky. The Big Dipper shines brightly with a clear North Star pointing north. The Milky Way stretched from end to end across the sky - a mysterious heavenly road. In the Milky Way, Cygnus spread its wings - a large constellation.

There is something fantastic, fabulous in a moonlit winter night. I recall Pushkin's poems, Gogol's stories, Tolstoy, Bunin. Whoever had to drive on a moonlit night on winter country roads will probably remember his impressions.

And how beautiful is the winter dawn, the morning dawn, when the snow-covered fields and hillocks are illuminated by the golden rays of the rising sun and the dazzling whiteness will sparkle, sparkle! Unusual Russian winter, bright winter days, moonlit nights!

Once hungry wolves roamed the snowy fields and roads; foxes ran, leaving thin chains of footprints in the snow, looking for mice hiding under the snow. Even during the day one could see a mouse fox in the field. Carrying a fluffy tail over the snow, she ran through the fields and copses, with a sharp ear smelling mice hiding under the snow.

Wonderful winter sunny days. Expanse for skiers running on light skis on slippery snow. I did not like well-trodden ski tracks. It is difficult to see an animal or a forest bird near such a ski track, where a person runs in a chain after a person. On skis, I went into the forest alone. Skis gliding quickly, almost inaudibly over untouched snow. The pines raise their curly whitened tops to the high sky. White snow lies on the green prickly branches of sprawling fir trees. Under the weight of frost, young tall birches bent into an arc. Dark ant heaps are covered with snow. Black ants hibernate in them.

Full of life winter, it would seem, a dead forest.

Here a woodpecker tapped on a dry tree. Carrying a bump in his beak, he flew with a colorful handkerchief to another place - to his "forge", arranged in the fork of an old stump, deftly set the bump into his workbench and began to peck with his beak. Resinous scales flew in all directions. There are a lot of pecked cones lying around the stump. A nimble squirrel jumped from tree to tree. A large white snow cap fell from the tree, crumbling into snow dust.

On the edge of the forest, you can see black grouse sitting on birch trees. In winter they feed on birch buds. Wandering through the snow, picking black juniper berries. Cross-shaped traces of grouse paws are written between the bushes on the surface of the snow. On cold winter days, black grouse, falling from birches, burrow into the snow, into deep holes. A lucky skier sometimes manages to pick up black grouse hiding in the snow holes. One by one, in the diamond snow dust, birds fly out of the deep snow. Stop, admiring the marvelous spectacle.

Many wonders can be seen in the winter sleeping forest. A hazel grouse will fly by with noise or a heavy capercaillie will rise. All winter capercaillie feed on young pines with hard needles. Timber mice are scampering under the snow. Hedgehogs sleep under tree roots. They run through the trees, chasing squirrels, evil martens. A flock of red-breasted merry crossbills, dropping their snowy overhang, perched with a pleasant whistle on the branches of a spruce covered with resinous cones. You stand and admire how quickly and deftly they pull heavy cones, extracting seeds from them. A light trace of a squirrel stretches from tree to tree. Clinging to the branches, a gnawed cone fell off from above, fell to the feet. Raising my head, I see how the branch swayed, freed from gravity, how it jumped over, the nimble forest naughty hid in the dense peak. Somewhere in a dense forest, bears sleep in their lairs with an almost deep sleep. How stronger frost the more sound the bear sleeps. Horned moose roam in the aspen forest.

The surface of deep snowdrifts is covered with an intricate letter of animal and bird tracks. At night, a white hare, fattening in the aspen forest, ran through here, leaving round nutlets of droppings on the snow. Brown hares run through the fields at night, dig out winter bread, leave tangled tracks in the snow. No, no, yes, and he will sit down on his hind legs, his ears up, listening to the distant barking of dogs. In the morning, hares hide in the forest. They double and build their tracks, make long marks, lie down somewhere under a bush or spruce branch, head to their track. It is difficult to see a hare lying in the snow: he is the first to notice a person and quickly runs away.

Near the villages and ancient parks you see swollen red-throated bullfinches, and nimble, bold titmouse squeak near the houses. It happens that on a frosty day, tits fly into open windows or in the canopy of houses. I tamed the tits that flew into my little house, and they quickly settled down in it.

The crows left to spend the winter fly from tree to tree. Grey-headed jackdaws call to each other with womanish voices. Just under the window, a nuthatch flew in, sat on a tree, an amazing bird that can crawl upside down along the trunk. Sometimes a nuthatch, like tits, flies into an open window. If you do not move, do not frighten him, he will fly into the kitchen, picking up bread crumbs. Birds are hungry in winter. They forage in the crevices of tree bark. Bullfinches feed on seeds of plants wintering over the snow, wild rose berries, and stay near grain sheds.

It seems that the river has frozen under the ice, the river is sleeping. But there are fishermen on the ice by the holes. They are not afraid of frost, cold, piercing wind. Inveterate anglers get cold hands, but small perches come across on the hook. In winter, burbots spawn. They prey on dormant fish. Skilful fishermen in winter catch burbots in the spaced peaks and burrows, block the river with spruce branches. They catch burbots in winter and on hooks, on bait. In the Novgorod region, I knew an old fisherman who brought me live burbot every day. Delicious burbot ear and liver. But, unfortunately, there are few burbots left in the polluted rivers who love clean water.

And how beautiful in winter are forest lakes covered with ice and snow, frozen small rivers, in which life invisible to the eye continues! Aspen trees are good in winter with the finest lace of their bare branches against the background of a dark spruce forest. In some places, wintered berries turn red in the forest on mountain ash, bright clusters of viburnum hang.

March in the forest

In the riches of the calendar of Russian nature, March is listed as the first month of spring, a joyful holiday of light. The cold, blizzard February has already ended - “crooked roads”, as the people call it. According to the popular apt word, even "winter shows its teeth." In early March, frost often returns. But the days are getting longer, earlier and earlier the bright spring sun rises above the snowy shroud. Deep snowdrifts lie untouched in the forests and on the field. You will go out on skis - such unbearable whiteness will sparkle around!

The air smells like spring. Casting purple shadows on the snow, the trees stand motionless in the forest. Clear and clear skies high lungs clouds. Under the dark fir trees, the porous snow is sprinkled with fallen needles. A sensitive ear catches the first familiar sounds of spring. Here, almost above the head, a ringing drum trill was heard. No, this is not the creak of an old tree, as inexperienced city people usually think when they find themselves in the forest in early spring. This, having chosen a dry, sonorous tree, is drummed in spring by a forest musician - a motley woodpecker. If you listen carefully, you will certainly hear: here and there in the forest, closer and further, as if calling to each other, drums solemnly sound. This is how woodpecker drummers greet the arrival of spring.

Here, warmed by the rays of the March sun, it fell off the top of the tree by itself, crumbled into snow dust white hat. And, as if alive, sways for a long time, as if waving his hand, green branch freed from winter shackles. A flock of spruce crossbills, whistling merrily, scattered like a wide red lingonberry necklace over the tops of fir trees hung with cones. Only a few observant people know that these cheerful, sociable birds spend the whole winter in coniferous forests. In the most severe cold, they skillfully arrange warm nests in thick boughs, take out and feed their chicks. Leaning on ski poles, you admire for a long time how nimble birds pick cones with their crooked beaks, choosing seeds from them, how, circling in the air, light husks quietly fall on the snow.

An almost invisible and inaudible life, accessible only to a keen eye and a sensitive ear, lives at this time a barely awakened forest. Here, dropping a gnawed cone, a light squirrel perched on a tree. Jumping from twig to twig, the titmouses are already spring-like shadows above the snowdrift. Flickering behind the trunks of trees, the reddish jay will silently fly by and disappear. A fearful hazel grouse will flutter, thunder and hide in the depths of a forest overgrown ravine.

Illuminated by the rays of the sun, the bronze trunks of pine trees rise, raising their sprawling peaks into the very sky. The greenish branches of bare aspens were intertwined in the finest lace. It smells of ozone, resin, wild rosemary, the hard evergreen branches of which have already appeared from a broken snowdrift near a high stump warmed by the March sun.

Festive, clean in the illuminated forest. Bright spots of light lie on branches, on tree trunks, on compacted dense snowdrifts. Gliding on skis, you used to go out onto a sunny, sparkling clearing surrounded by a birch forest. Unexpectedly, almost from under the very feet, in the diamond snow dust, black grouse begin to break out of the holes. All morning they fed on spreading, bud-strewn birch trees. One after another, red-browed black scythes, yellowish-gray female grouse, fly out resting in the snow.

AT clear days in the mornings you can already hear the first spring muttering of the current mowers. In the frosty air, their booming voices can be heard far away. But the real spring current will not begin soon. This is only a test of strength, sharpening weapons clad in black armor, red-browed fighters.

Nice and free in the summer in the forest.
The trees are covered with green leaves. It smells of mushrooms, ripe, fragrant strawberries.
Birds sing loudly. Orioles whistle, cuckoo, flying from tree to tree, restless cuckoos. Nightingales fill the bushes above the streams.
Animals roam under the trees in the forest. Bears roam, moose graze, cheerful squirrels frolic. A lynx robber is hiding in the dark thicket.
At the very top of the old spruce, in dense branches, goshawks-hawks built a nest. Lots of forest secrets fabulous wonders they see from a high dark peak.

summer dawn

The warm summer night is over. The dawn breaks over the forest.
A light mist still hangs over the forest fields. Cool dew covers the leaves of the trees.
The songbirds have already woken up. The cuckoo cuckooed and choked awake.
“Ku-ku! Kuk-kuk-kuk!" Her chirping sounded loudly through the forest.
Soon it will rise, the warm sun will dry the dew. Greeting the sun, the birds will sing even louder and the cuckoo will crow. Fog is rising over the meadow.
Here a tired hare is returning from a night fishing.
The little bunny has many enemies. A cunning fox chased him, a terrible owl frightened him, a lynx-robber caught him.
A little bunny left all the enemies.

Owl

Before sunrise, a night robber, an eagle owl, hid in a deep, dark hollow.
Spreading his huge wings, all night he silently flew over forest edges, looking out for prey. Even in the darkness of the night, his round evil eyes see well. A lot of animals and gullible birds were caught and eaten by an eared robber.
Afraid of daylight, bright light eagle owl. If birds see an owl during the day, a commotion begins in the forest. Magpies crackle loudly, busy jays scream. Crows and hawks flock to this cry from all sides. Even the smallest forest birds are going to judge and punish the night robber, blinded by the sunny, bright light.
An agile jumping squirrel saw in the hollow of an eared eagle owl, squealed piercingly to the whole forest:
"Robber! The robber lives here!

On clearing

The warm sun illuminated the forest clearing.
The night cold dew has dried up.
Calm and quiet in a deaf clearing in the forest. It smells of rosemary, ripe, fragrant strawberries.
An old capercaillie mother led her brood to the edge of the clearing. Like fluffy, soft balls, small wood grouse scattered. They catch midges in the grass, peck at sweet strawberries.
An old capercaillie flew up on a stump. He looks at the sky, then he looks into the forest. Will a goshawk appear, will a cunning fox run, will a nimble ermine flash through the tall grass?
A cautious capercaillie vigilantly guards its brood.
As in the present kindergarten, nimble, little capercaillie run through the forest clearing.

forest watchmen

The most sensitive and intelligent bird is the raven.
Clever crows, vigilant forest watchmen, see everything, smell everything.
Here, with prey in its teeth, burying itself in the bushes, a wolf ran through the forest. The vigilant crows saw the wolf, circled over the robber, shouted at the top of their raven throat:
"Karrr! Karrr! Beat the robber! Beat the robber!
The wolf heard this cry, pressed his ears, and quickly ran to his lair.
On the shore of a forest lake, crows noticed a fox. Quietly the gossip made her way into the hole. Ruined many bird nests, offended many chicks.
They saw crows and a fox:
"Karrr! Karrr! Catch, catch the robber!
Frightened, the fox hid in the dark forest. He knows that sensitive forest watchmen will not let her destroy nests, offend little chicks.

Fox

AT pine forest the fox dug a deep hole.
Yet early spring here, in a hole, blind little fox cubs were born.
Every day the fox leaves for prey, leaves cubs in the hole. The red fox cubs grew up, got stronger, began to emerge from the tight dark hole. It is free to play and frolic in the forest under the trees, somersaulting on soft moss.
Buried behind the trees, the old fox returns with prey.
Hungry fox cubs will greedily attack the prey.
They grow quickly, lively fox cubs eat a lot.

Above a river

Along the banks of the river is a pine forest.
The wind blows over the river. Noisy waves splash on the shore. White-haired lambs walk along the waves.
A huge white-tailed eagle soared over the waves. Holds a live, trembling fish in its claws.
Vigilant eagles are able to catch fish. From a great height, they rush to the waves like a stone, tenaciously seizing prey.
In the most large forests Eagles nest on the tops of tall trees. A lot of prey is brought to gluttonous chicks.
Vigilant and strong eagles see far. Under the very clouds they hover on clear days. They can see well where the hare hid in the grass, with his ears flattened, where the fish splashed over the waves, where the cautious capercaillie mother led her brood to the forest clearing.

Lynx and lynx

A lynx stretched out under an old pine tree, basking in the sun.
Quiet in the deep forest. The lynx hears how a hazel grouse flutters from tree to tree, how a titmouse squeaks, swaying on a branch, a forest mouse rustles.
A small fluffy lynx climbed onto the back of a lynx. The old lynx is stretching, purring, playing with a small cheerful lynx.
At night, the lynx leaves for prey. Silently sneaks under the trees, catches birds and careless, timid hares.
No one can escape sharp claws lynx robbers: neither a gaping white hare, nor an old black grouse and a heavy capercaillie, nor a dozing shy hazel grouse.
A lot of harm is done in the forest by an evil lynx robber.

Moose

Evening has come in the forest. The sun has set behind the tops of the trees.
An elk elk grazes on the edge of the swamp with her long-legged clumsy calf.
They ate their fill of juicy grass.
Annoying mosquitoes are ringing over the swamp. Moose fight off mosquitoes, shake their long ears.
To escape from mosquitoes, moose sometimes climb into the water. Neither water, nor large viscous swamps, nor deaf, impassable thickets are not afraid of strong elk.
Moose roam the forest everywhere - they cross swamps, swim across wide rivers and deep forest lakes.
Where people do not offend moose, they trustfully come out of the forest. Often people see moose on the outskirts of villages and cities. It happens that they wander into gardens and suburban parks.
Real hunters protect, do not shoot moose. They admire large, beautiful animals that do no harm to humans.

Summer night

It's a warm night in the forest
The moon shines on a clearing surrounded by forest. Night grasshoppers are chirping, nightingales are pouring in the bushes.
Long-legged, nimble corncrakes cry without rest in the tall grass.
“Whoa, whoa! Whoops, whoops! Whoops, whoops!" their loud hoarse cry is heard from all sides.
Bats fly silently through the air.
At the edge of the path, green lanterns of fireflies lit up here and there.
Quiet in the night forest. A hidden forest brook murmurs a little audibly. Fragrant smell of night beauties - violets.
Here he hobbled, crunched with a knot, going to fish, a white hare. Casting a light shadow on the clearing, an owl flew by and disappeared.
In the depths of the forest suddenly hooted and laughed, as in a terrible fairy tale, a scarecrow owl.
The eagle owl was frightened, woke up in the nest, a small forest bird squeaked timidly ...

When reading books, we are taught from childhood to pay attention to the author, and already in primary school, need to know short biography writer. Let's take a look at the life of a Russian prose writer, meet Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov. A biography for children will be described by me as for schoolchildren in grades 2-3, as well as for fifth graders.

1. Biography in full version
2. Brief biography for grades 2-3

Hello dear readers blog, today we will plunge a little deeper into the world of literature. I recently purchased a wonderful book with stories about winter. We read it with my son in one evening, but since the boy is in grade 2, it's time to start reader's diary. Having studied the information on how to do it correctly, as well as remembering my school experience, I decided to start with a biography.

Even in early childhood, reading books to my son, I always called who wrote them. Subsequently, having learned to read, he began to do it himself. But after all, we all understand that the style and themes of the author depend on his fate, which leaves an imprint on knowledge and preferences. Here we will try to understand why Ivan Sergeevich wrote mainly about nature and animals.

Sokolov-Mikitov: a biography for children

Sokolov-Mikitov is a Russian writer, born in May 1892. He lived for 82 years and died in February 1975. At first, his family lived in the Kaluga province (now Kaluga region), where his father, Sergei Nikitich, worked as a forest land manager for the Konshin merchants. When Ivan was a three-year-old boy, the family moved to the village of Kislovo (Smolensk region), where his father was from. But seven years later, at the age of ten, he entered the Smolensk Alexander School, where he studied only up to grade 5, as he was expelled for participating in underground revolutionary circles.

In 1910, Ivan Sergeevich continued his studies, but already in St. Petersburg, where he entered the courses of agriculture. It was at this time that his first fairy tale “The Salt of the Earth” was written, which is known today to all Russian people. From that moment on, Sokolov-Mikitov began to seriously think about writing, attending literary circles, and getting to know colleagues of that time. The future writer gets a job as a secretary of the Revel Leaflet newspaper in the city of Reval (now Tallinn), then, continuing to look for himself, he goes on a merchant ship with which he travels around the world.

The First World War began and it was necessary to return to Russia, it was 1915. During the war, he flew the Ilya Muromets bomber. And after its completion, in 1919 he returned as a sailor to a merchant ship, this time "Omsk". But 12 months later, the unexpected happened: in England, the ship was arrested for debts. The writer is forced to live for a year in a foreign country. And in 1921 he finds an opportunity to get to Berlin (Germany), where he was lucky enough to meet Maxim Gorky. He helped to make the documents that were required to return to Russia.

Returning to Russia, Sokolov-Mikitov goes on expeditions to the Arctic Ocean on the icebreaker Georgy Sedov. Then he travels to Franz Josef Land and Severnaya Zemlya and even participates in the rescue of the Malygin icebreaker. He writes about what he saw for the Izvestia newspaper, in which he works as a correspondent.

In just two years (1930-1931), the prose writer publishes his works: “Overseas Stories”, “On the White Earth”, the story “Childhood”. Living and working in Gatchina, such famous personalities as Evgeny Zamyatin, Vyacheslav Shishkov, Vitaly Bianchi, Konstantin Fedin come to him. In 1934, Sokolov-Mikitov was accepted as a member of the Union of Soviet Writers, and later was awarded the Order of the Red Banner of Labor three times.

During the Second World War, he continued to work for the Izvestia newspaper in Perm (then Molotovo). And after the onset of victory, he returns to Leningrad.

The personal life of Ivan Sergeevich is quite tragic. In 1952, he began to live in his own house in the village of Karacharovo with his wife Lidia Ivanovna Sokolova. They had three children: Irina, Elena and Lydia. All the girls died during the life of their parents. The writer had only a grandson - Professor Alexander Sergeevich Sokolov.

Brief biography for children in grades 2-3

Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov is a Russian writer who wrote many stories about nature, birds and animals. And this is not surprising, because his father was a forest land manager. The boy recognized the forest early, fell in love with it. In his youth, he studied agriculture, which also added to his knowledge of our Earth. But realizing that he likes literature, he went to work as a sailor on ships. He visited different countries, went on expeditions to the north of our country.

The writer managed to survive two wars: the First World War and the Second World War. During the first, he flew a bomber. Secondly, he stayed in the rear and worked as a newspaper correspondent.

Sokolov-Mikitov wrote his first fairy tale “The Salt of the Earth” at the age of 18. In 1951, he settled with his family in a rural house that he built himself. There he had enough time to study literary activity. He lived a long and fruitful life, living to the age of 82.

Conclusion

Dear readers, you must agree that having understood the life of the author, it will be easier for children to feel into the works they read. I hope you enjoyed our biography work with my son. You can support the project, it's very easy to do, just share the article on social networks. networks by clicking on the buttons below. And I say goodbye to you, in the next article we will talk about the stories of this great Russian prose writer.

Ivan Sergeevich SOKOLOV-MIKITOV

found meadow

stories

Compiled by Kaleria Zhekhova

Fascinating stories about Russian nature, written by the oldest Soviet writer, have long been loved by the young reader. This collection is a miniature encyclopedia of the forest near Moscow, it tells about everything that lives in the forest all year round: about birds and animals, about flowers, herbs and trees.

The stories contained in the book allow us to feel the diversity of life more fully and brighter, to see the beauty of the forest, to unravel its mysteries, to better understand the beauty of our native nature, to become its friend.

The book is dedicated to the 85th anniversary of the writer.

With love for wildlife. Introductory article by V. Soloukhin

IN THE NATIVE LAND

Sunrise

Russian Winter

March in the forest

Spring sounds

Pinwheel

Russian forest

RUSSIAN FOREST

Juniper

bird cherry

Snowdrops - copses

sleep-grass

bathing suit

bells

forget-me-nots

Lungwort

Wolf's bast

Dandelion

Ivan da Marya

night violets

cat paws

kaluzhnitsa

cornflowers

northern flowers

SOUNDS OF THE EARTH

Sounds of the earth

lark

Swallows and swifts

cuckoo

Wagtails

Nuthatch

Kingfisher

Raven Petka

Rooks and jackdaws

Sparrow Owl

BEASTS IN THE FOREST

Guide Bear

sweet tooth

Naydenov meadow

Ermine

Otters and minks

Chipmunk

The last hare

AN OLD HUNTER'S TALES

birds of prey

woodcocks

Dupeliny current

On a bear hunt

disturbed

On a fishing trip

I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov. Kaleria Zhekhova.

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WITH LOVE TO WILD NATURE

Since childhood, since school bench a person gets used to the combination of words: "love for the motherland." He realizes this love much later, and to understand the complex feeling of love for the motherland - that is, what exactly and for what he loves is already given in adulthood.

The feeling is really complex. Here is the native culture, and native history, all the past and all the future of the people, everything that the people managed to accomplish throughout their history and what they still have to do.

Without going into deep considerations, we can say that one of the first places in the complex feeling of love for the motherland is love for the native nature.

For a person born in the mountains, nothing can be sweeter than rocks and mountain streams, snow-white peaks and steep slopes. It would seem that what to love in the tundra? A monotonous swampy land with countless glassy lakes, overgrown with lichens, but the Nenets reindeer herder will not exchange his tundra for any southern beauties there.

In a word, to whom the steppe is dear, to whom the mountains, to whom the sea coast smelling of fish, and to whom the native Central Russian nature, the quiet beauties of the river with yellow water lilies and white lilies, the kind, quiet sun of Ryazan ... And so that the lark sings over the field rye, and to the birdhouse on the birch in front of the porch.

It would be pointless to list all the signs of Russian nature. But thousands of signs and signs add up to that common thing that we call our native nature and that we, while loving, perhaps, both the sea and the mountains, still love more than anything else in the whole world.

All this is so. But it must be said that this feeling of love for our native nature is not spontaneous in us, it not only arose by itself, since we were born and grew up among nature, but was brought up in us by literature, painting, music, by those great teachers of ours who lived before us. , also loved their native land and passed on their love to us, the descendants.

Don't we remember from childhood by heart the best lines about the nature of Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrasov, Alexei Tolstoy, Tyutchev, Fet? Do they leave us indifferent, do they not teach anything about nature from Turgenev, Aksakov, Leo Tolstoy, Prishvin, Leonov, Paustovsky?.. And painting? Shishkin and Levitan, Polenov and Savrasov, Nesterov and Plastov - didn't they teach and still don't teach us to love our native nature? Among these glorious teachers, the name of the remarkable Russian writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov occupies a worthy place.

Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov was born in 1892 on the land of Smolensk, and his childhood passed among the very Russian nature. At that time, folk customs, rituals, holidays, way of life and way of life were still alive. Shortly before his death, Ivan Sergeevich wrote about that time and about that world:

"My life began in native peasant Russia. This Russia was my real homeland. I listened to peasant songs, watched how bread was baked in a Russian oven, memorized village thatched huts, women and peasants ... I remember merry Christmas time, Shrovetide, village weddings, fairs, round dances, village friends, guys, our fun games, skiing from the mountains ... I remember a cheerful haymaking, a village field sown with rye, narrow fields, blue cornflowers along the borders ... I remember how, having changed into holiday sundresses, women and girls went out to reap the ripened rye, scattered like colorful bright spots across the golden clean field, as the reapers were celebrating. was Russia, which Pushkin knew, Tolstoy knew" *.

* S o k o l o V-M and k and t o v I. S. Long-standing meetings.

Ivan Sergeevich lived a long and rich life. For several years he sailed as a sailor on all seas and oceans, served in a sanitary detachment during the First World War, worked as a teacher, spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian Sea, traveled through the Kola and Taimyr Peninsulas, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan mountains, wandered through the dense taiga ... He was a sailor, traveler, hunter, ethnographer. But most importantly, he was a talented and brilliant writer. Even Kuprin once praised Sokolov-Mikitov as a writer:

"I really appreciate your gift for writing for your vivid depiction, true knowledge of folk life, for a lively and truthful language. Most of all, I like that you have found your own, exclusively your style and your own form. Both of these do not allow you to be confused with anyone anything, and that's the most expensive."

Sokolov-Mikitov wrote many books about his Smolensk lands, about ordinary Russian people, peasants, polar explorers, hunters, about everyone with whom fate brought him together on life path. And he was a long one, this path: more than half a century of active writing, and in total he was already over eighty.

The last twenty years of Sokolov-Mikitov's life were associated with Karacharovo on the Volga in the Kalinin region, where Ivan Sergeevich, a hundred paces from the water, on the edge of the forest, had a simple log house. A wide expanse of water, copses and villages on the other side, an abundance of flowers, forest birds, mushrooms - all this brought the writer even closer to his native nature. From a hunter, as often happens with people in old age, he turned into an attentive observer, and not only because, say, his eyesight or hand weakened, but because a careful, loving, truly filial attitude towards Russian nature woke up in his soul, when a person understands that it is better to admire a live bird on a tree branch than a dead bird in a hunting bag. During these years, Ivan Sergeevich wrote his best pages about his native Russian nature, about trees and birds, about flowers and animals.