They call it the blue bird. Its ancient homeland is India. But now she lives with us - in the gorges of the Tien Shan.

I have been looking for a meeting with her for a long time. And today I am happy. Well, isn't it a joy to see with your own eyes creature that you've never seen before?

At the very river, I squeezed myself between huge cold stones. The heavy water rumble drowns out everything. I see stones falling into the river, but I don’t hear splashes. I see mountain porridge and lentils opening their beaks wide, but I don't hear their songs. I myself scream for a test - and I do not hear myself! In the fierce roar of the water - storms, and the rumble of thunder.

But suddenly a special sound, sharp as a knife, easily and simply penetrated this rumble and roar. Neither a cry, nor a roar, nor a howl could overcome the roar of the river: a whistle, similar to a screech, blocked everything. In this furious rumble, it is heard as easily as the oriole's flute on a quiet morning.

She is the blue bird. Dark blue - it can be seen from afar. She sings, and her song cannot be drowned out. Sitting on a rock in the middle of the river. Like two green wings, two elastic jets of water rise and flutter on the sides of the stone. And a rainbow shimmers in the water dust. And she herself is covered in sequins of water, like pearls. Here she bowed and fanned out her tail: the tail blazed with blue fire.

My back is numb, sharp stones are at my side, black slugs are crawling on my legs squeezed into the crack. I was deaf from the roar and soaked from the spray. But I do not take my eyes off her: will I ever meet a blue bird again ...

Nikolay Sladkov "The Know-It-All"

On a bare branch, a little higher than the green burdocks, similar to donkey ears, sits an owlet. It sits very important, although from the side it looks like a tuft of simple sheep's wool. Only with eyes. Big, shiny, orange. And very stupid. And so he claps his eyes, that everyone can immediately see: bullshit! But puffing up to look like an adult. Probably, he also thinks to himself: “The claws on the paws are bent - I can climb the knots. The wings have already fledged - I want to fly. The beak ossified, as I click, I will scare everyone. You can't take me with your bare hands!"

And so I wanted to take the know-it-all of this with my bare hands! Thought and thought and thought. He sits here all day long. And he's probably bored alone. And there is no one to brag to, and no one to stare at ...

I squat down and make an owlet face. I wink, sticking out my tongue. I shake my head: look, what a huge owlet! My respect, the wisest of the wise!

The owlet is flattered, he is glad-welcome to entertainment. He crouches and bows. Shifts from paw to paw, as if dancing. Even rolls his eyes.

So we have fun with him, and a friend quietly comes in from behind. He went in, stretched out his hand and took the owlet by the scruff of the neck! Don't know!..

The owlet clicks its beak, angrily turns around, pulls its sleeve with its claws. It hurts him, of course. I thought: here I am, how big and cunning, and him, like a little one, with his bare hand behind the scruff of the neck. And I didn’t have time to blink an eye and didn’t take a wing!

- Don't be arrogant! I snapped the owl on the nose. And he let go.

Nikolai Sladkov "On an unknown path"

I got to walk different paths: bear, boar, wolf. I even walked like birds. But this is the first time I've walked this path.

Can I see something on it?

Walked not along the path itself, but next to it. The path is too narrow - like a ribbon. This path was cleared and trampled by ... ants. For them, it was, of course, not a ribbon, but a wide highway. And a lot of ants ran over it. They dragged flies, mosquitoes, horseflies. The mica wings of insects gleamed. It seemed that a trickle of water was pouring down the slope between the blades of grass.

I walk along the ant trail and count the steps: sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five steps... Wow! These are my big ones, but how many ant ones ?! Serious trail. Only at the seventieth step did the trickle disappear under the stone. I sat down on it. I sit, I watch how a living vein beats under my feet. The wind will blow and ripples will run along the living stream. The sun will shine - everything will sparkle.

Suddenly, as if a wave surged along the ant road. The snake wagged along it and - dive! under the rock on which I was sitting. I jerked my leg away—isn't it a viper? Ants boldly attack snakes, stick around the snake - and only bones remain from it. I will take the skeleton of this snake into my collection.

I'm sitting waiting. Underfoot beats and beats a living brook. Now it's time - I've been sitting for over an hour. I carefully lift the stone so as not to damage the snake skeleton. The first thing I saw under the stone was a snake. But not dead, but alive and not at all like a skeleton! On the contrary, it has become even thicker! The snake, which the ants were supposed to eat, calmly and slowly... ate the ants! She pressed them with her muzzle and sent her tongue into her mouth.

It wasn't a viper. I have never seen such snakes before. Scales - like emery, small, the same top and bottom. More like a worm than a snake.

An amazing snake: it lifted its blunt tail up, moved it from side to side, like a head, and suddenly crawled forward with its tail! And the eyes are not visible at all. Either with two heads of a snake, or without a head at all! Does it feed on ants?

The skeleton did not come out, so I took the snake. Named the house. I found her eyes, small, the size of a pinhead. That's why they call it the blind snake. She lives in burrows underground. She doesn't need eyes. But crawling either with your head or with your tail forward is convenient. And she can dig the ground with her nose.

This is what an unknown "beast" led me to an unknown path. Yes, what is there to say. Every path leads somewhere. Just don't be lazy to go.

Nikolai Sladkov "Non Rumor"

Bears are strict mothers. And bear cubs are silly. While they are still sucking, they themselves run behind, get confused in the legs.

And grow up - trouble!

Yes, and bears with a weakness: they like to take a nap in the cold. Is it fun for the cubs to listen to their sleepy sniffling, when there are so many tempting rustles, squeaks, songs around!

From flower to bush, from bush to tree, and wander...

Here is such a non-verbal, who escaped from his mother, I once met in the forest.

I sat by the stream and dipped rusk into the water. I was hungry, and the cracker was hard, so I worked on it for a very long time. So long that the forest dwellers got tired of waiting for me to leave, and they began to crawl out of their hiding places.

Here two little animals crawled out on a stump. Mice squealed in the stones - apparently they had a fight. And suddenly a bear cub jumped out into the clearing. A teddy bear is like a teddy bear: big-headed, lipped, awkward.

The bear cub saw a stump, bucked up with a fat tail - and sideways with a jump straight to him. Shelves - in a mink, but what a trouble! The bear cub remembered well what delicious things his mother treated him to at each such stump. Just make sure you lick it!

The bear walked around the stump on the left - there was no one. Looked to the right - no one. He put his nose in the crack - it smells like shelves! He climbed onto the stump, scratched the stump with his paw. Stump like a stump.

The bear was confused, quieted down. Looked around. And around the forest. Thick. Dark. Rustles in the forest. The bear got off the stump and trotted on. There is a stone on the way. The bear cheered up: it's a familiar thing! He slipped his paw under the stone, rested, pressed his shoulder. The stone succumbed, frightened little mice squeaked under it.

The bear threw a stone - yes, with both paws under it. He hurried: the stone fell and squeezed the bear's paw. The bear howled, shaking his sick paw. Then he licked, licked her and limped on. Weaves, no longer stares around, looks under his feet.

And he sees: a mushroom. The bear became timid. Walked around the mushroom. He sees with his eyes: a mushroom, you can eat it. And he smells with his nose: bad mushroom you can't eat! And I want to eat ... and I'm scared!

The bear got angry - but how it will crack the mushroom with a healthy paw! The mushroom burst. The dust from it is a fountain, yellow, caustic - right in the bear's nose.

It was a puffing mushroom. The bear sneezed, coughed. Then he rubbed his eyes, sat on his back and howled softly.

And who will hear? Around the forest. Thick. Dark. Rustles in the forest.

And suddenly - plop! Frog! Bear right paw - frog to the left. Bear with left paw - frog to the right.

The bear took aim, rushed forward - and crushed the frog under him. He hooked it with his paw, pulled it out from under his belly. Here he would eat a frog with appetite - his first prey. And he, a fool, just to play.

He fell on his back, rides with a frog, sniffs, squeals, as if he was being tickled under the armpits.

That will throw a frog. That will pass from paw to paw. Played, played, and lost a frog.

I sniffed the grass around - there is no frog. And so the bear tumbled on its back, opened its mouth to yell, and remained with its mouth open: an old bear was looking at him from behind the bushes.

The little bear was very happy with his furry mother; she will caress him and find him a frog.

Whining pitifully and limping, he trotted towards her. Yes, he suddenly got such a crack that he immediately stuck his nose into the ground.

That's how caressed!

The bear got angry, reared up, barked at his mother. He barked and again rolled into the grass - from a slap in the face.

He sees it's bad. I jumped up and ran into the bushes.

The bear is behind him.

For a long time I heard how the branches cracked and how the bear cub barked from mother's cracks.

“Look, how he teaches mind and caution!” I thought.

The bears ran away, so they did not notice me. And yet, who knows?

Around the forest. Thick. Dark. Rustles in the forest.

It's better to leave quickly: I don't have a gun.

Nikolai Sladkov "What did the magpie sing about?"

The magpie warmed up in the March sun, closed her eyes, grew mad - she even lowered her wings.

I sat forty and thought. Just what was she thinking? Go guess if she's a bird and you're a human!

If I were in her bird's place, I would now be thinking about this. I would doze off in the sun and remember the past winter. He remembered snowstorms, frosts. I would remember how the wind threw me, a magpie, over the forest, how it blew under the feather and wringed its wings. How on cold nights the frost shot, how cold the legs were, and how the steam from the gray breath covered the black feather.

How I, forty, jumped over the fences, looked out the window with fear and hope: would they throw a herring head or a crust of bread through the window?

I would remember and rejoice: the winter is over and I, forty, are alive! I'm alive and now I'm sitting on the Christmas tree, I'm basking in the sun! I have wintered, I meet spring. Long full days and short warm nights. Everything dark and heavy is behind, everything joyful and light is ahead. There is no better time than spring! Is now the time to take a nap and nod off? If I were a magpie, I would sing!

But shh! Magpie sings on the Christmas tree!

Mutters, chirps, screams, squeaks. Well miracles! For the first time in my life I hear the song of a magpie. It turns out that the magpie bird was thinking about the same thing as me, man! She also wanted to sing. That's great!

Or maybe I didn’t think: in order to sing, you don’t have to think. Spring has come - well, how not to sing! The sun shines on everyone, the sun warms everyone.

Nikolai Sladkov "Vacuum cleaner"

An old story: a sparrow, until the starlings arrived, decided to take the birdhouse. He puffed himself up, chirped for courage and dived into the notch.

He took out the old bedding in bunches. It will jump out, and there is a whole sheaf in its beak. He opens his beak and watches how dry blades of grass fall down.

Large feathers pulled out one at a time. Pull it out and throw it into the wind. And he also watches: will the feather float or spin down like a corkscrew?

Everything old must be thrown away clean: not a speck, not a speck of dust!

It's easy to say - not a speck of dust. And you can’t pinch a speck of dust in your claws, or grab it with your beak.

Here he took out the last straw in his beak, now he threw out the last feather. There was one rubbish left at the bottom. Dust, specks, hairs. Peel from the larvae, dandruff from the feather - the most rubbish!

The sparrow sat on the roof, scratched the back of his head with his paw. And in summer!

I stand, I wait.

A fuss began in the birdhouse, a buzzing and snorting was heard. And from the birdhouse - from all the cracks! dust swirled. Sparrow jumped out, caught his breath and dived again. And again I heard a snort, and again the dust flew. The birdhouse smoked!

What does he have there - a fan or a vacuum cleaner? Neither this nor that. He himself fluttered at the bottom, beat his wings, drove the wind, swirled the dust - his own vacuum cleaner, his own fan!

The birdhouse is clean, like glass.

It's time to wear fresh bedding. Yes, hurry up before the starlings arrive.

Nikolai Sladkov "Dyatlovo ring"

The woodpecker is a master of different things.

It can hollow out. Smooth, round, like a piglet. Can make a machine for cones. Squeeze a cone into it and knock out the seeds.

The woodpecker also has a drum - a sonorous elastic knot.

He will get drunk, he will drum - he will want to drink.

In this case, the woodpecker has a drinking ring. He also makes it himself.

The woodpecker does not like to descend to the ground: he is short-legged - it is awkward for him on the ground. He does not fly to a watering place either - to a river or a stream. Drinks as needed. In winter it will grab a snowball, in summer it will lick off a dewdrop, in autumn - a drop of rain. The woodpecker needs a little. And only in the spring is a special case. In spring, the woodpecker likes to drink birch sap. For this, the woodpecker makes a drinking ring.

Everyone has probably seen the ring. Even on birch logs. Hole to hole on the birch bark - a ring around the trunk. But few people know how the woodpecker makes this ring. And why is it made not somehow, but always with a ring ... I began to follow and realized that the woodpecker ... and does not think of making rings!

He just punches a hole in a birch and licks a drop of juice.

A little later, it will fly again: after all, juice swells on the hole. He sits so that it is convenient to lick, lick a swollen drop - delicious. Yes, it's a pity, the juice from the old prokluvinka quietly flows. The woodpecker will slightly take its head to the side and punches a new hole.

It will fly in again - it sits under a new hole, the old one swam. He will drink juice from the new one - next to it he will hollow out a fresh hole. And again, neither higher nor lower, but on the side, where, without moving, it is convenient to get it with your beak.

There are many things to do in the spring: a hollow, a drum, a machine tool. Hunting and shouting: right in the throat everything is dry! That's why every now and then it flies to a birch - wet the neck. He sits down, licks, adds a hook to the row. So it turns out a ring on a birch. And nothing else can happen.

Hot spring is coming.

The birch woodpecker rings. Lower the ring to the ring.

Master woodpecker on pieces.

Nikolai Sladkov "Why does the fox have a long tail?"

Out of curiosity! Not from the same, in fact, that she seems to cover her tracks with her tail. The long fox tail becomes out of curiosity.

It all starts from the moment when the eyes of the fox cubs erupt. Their tails are still quite small and short at this time. But then the eyes erupted - and the tails immediately begin to stretch! Getting longer and longer. And how can they not grow longer if the cubs are reaching out with all their might to a bright spot - to the exit from the hole. Still: something unprecedented is moving there, something unheard of is making noise and it smells of something unexpected!

It's just scary. It's scary to suddenly break away from the inhabited hole. And therefore, the cubs protrude from it only to the length of their short tail. As if they stick with the tip of the tail to the birth threshold. A little bit - chur-chura - I'm at home!

And the white light beckons. The flowers nod: smell us! The stones are shining: touch us! Beetles creak: catch us! The foxes are stretching, stretching further and further. Their tails are stretched, stretched. And they keep getting longer and longer. Out of curiosity, of course. Why else?

Nikolai Sladkov "Why is a chaffinch a chaffinch?"

For a long time I wondered: why are finches called finches?

Well, the black-headed warbler is understandable: the male has a black beret on his head.

The robin is also clear: it always sings at dawn and her bib is the color of dawn.

Oatmeal - too: on the roads all winter picks up oats.

But why is a finch a finch?

Finches are not finches at all. In spring they arrive as soon as the snow melts, in autumn they often linger until new snow. And it happens, in some places they hibernate, if there is food.

And yet they called the finch a finch!

This summer, I think I solved this riddle.

I was walking along a forest path, I hear - a finch is rattling! He sings great: he threw back his head, his beak gaped, the feathers on his neck trembled - as if he was rinsing his throat with water. And the song from the beak splatters: “witt-tee-tee-tee, wee-chu!” Even the tail is shaking!

And then suddenly a cloud floated on the sun: a shadow covered the forest. And the finch immediately wilted. He frowned, frowned, hung his nose. He sits dissatisfied and dejectedly says: “tr-r-r-r-ryu, tr-r-r-ryu!” As if he doesn’t get a “tooth on a tooth” from the cold, in a sort of trembling voice: “tr-ryu-yu!”

Whoever sees this will immediately think: “Look what a finch! A little sun behind a cloud, and he was already fluffed up, trembling!

That's why the finch became a finch!

They all have this habit: the sun for the cloud - the finches for their "tru".

And it's not from the cold: it gets colder in winter.

There are various speculations about this. Who says - he worries at the nest, who - before the rain screams like that. And, in my opinion, he is unhappy that the sun has hidden. He is bored without the sun. Don't sing! Here he is groaning.

However, maybe I'm wrong. Find out better yourself. Not everything is ready for you to put in your mouth!

Nikolai Sladkov "Animal Bath"

Wild animals also go to the bathhouse. And most of all they like to run to the bathhouse ... wild pigs! Their bath is simple: no heat, no soap, not even hot water. Just one bath - a hole in the ground. In the hole - swamp water. Instead of soap suds - slurry. Instead of a washcloth - bunches of old grass and moss. You would not be lured into such a "bath". And the boars are climbing. That's how they love the bath!

But wild boars go to the bathhouse not at all why we go. Why do we go to the bath? Wash. And wild boars go... to get dirty! We wash off the dirt from ourselves with a washcloth, and the boars deliberately smear the dirt on themselves. And the more they get smeared, the more fun they grunt. And after their pig bath, they are a hundred times dirtier than before. And happy, happy! Now, through the mud shell, no biters will get to their skins: neither mosquitoes, nor mosquitoes, nor horseflies. Their bristles are rare in the summer, so they are smeared. They roll out, get smeared - and do not itch!

Nikolai Sladkov "Home Butterfly"

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

But how I rejoiced at this freak!

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

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

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

She flits around the room. Sits on a print with poppies.

Expanding the spiral of a thin proboscis, he drinks sweet water from a spoon. Again sits on the lampshade, substituting the wings of the hot "sun".

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

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

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

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

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

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

How the bear was turned over

Birds and animals have suffered from the hard winter. Whatever the day - a blizzard, whatever the night - frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in the den. I forgot, probably, that it's time for him to roll over to the other side.
There is forest omen: as the Bear rolls over to the other side, so the sun will turn to the summer.
The patience of birds and animals has burst. Send the Bear to wake up:
- Hey, Bear, it's time! Winter is over for everyone! We missed the sun. Roll over, roll over, bed sores, I suppose?
The bear does not hum in response: it doesn’t move, it doesn’t stir. Know snoring.
- Oh, to beat him in the back of the head! - exclaimed the Woodpecker. - Probably would have moved immediately!
- No, no, - moaned the Elk, - with him it is necessary to respectfully, respectfully. Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and beg: roll over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not nice. We, moose, are standing in an aspen forest, like cows in a stall: you can’t take a step to the side. The snow is deep in the forest! Trouble if the wolves sniff out about us.

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:
- And what do I care about you, moose! The deep snow is good for me: it’s warm and I sleep peacefully.
Here the White Partridge wailed:
- Aren't you ashamed, Bear? All the berries, all the bushes with buds were covered with snow - what do you order us to peck? Well, why should you roll over on the other side, hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!
And the Bear is his:
- Even funny! You are tired of winter, and I turn over from side to side! Well, what do I care about the kidneys and berries? I have a supply of fat under the skin.
The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:
- Oh, you shaggy mattress, turn over him, you see, too lazy! And you would have jumped on the branches with ice cream, you would have skinned your paws to the blood, like me! .. Roll over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!
- Four five six! Bear laughs. - That scared me! And well - shoo otsedova! You interfere with sleep.

The animals tucked their tails in, the birds hung their noses - they began to disperse. And then out of the snow the Mouse suddenly leaned out and how it squeaked:
- So big, but scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, short-haired, like that? He doesn't understand well or badly. It is necessary with him in our way, in a mouse way. You ask me - I will turn it over in an instant!
- Are you a bear? the animals gasped.
- One left paw! - the Mouse boasts.
The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.
Runs on it, scratches with claws, bites with teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a piglet, kicked his legs.
- Oh, I can't! - howls. - Oh, I'll roll over, just don't tickle! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!
And the steam from the lair is like smoke from a chimney.
The mouse leaned out and squeaked:
- Turned over like a little one! I would have been told a long time ago.
Well, as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to the summer. Every day - the sun is higher, every day - spring is closer. Every day - brighter, more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot
H odes under the ice! All fish are sleepy - you alone, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's wrong with you, huh?
- And the fact that for all fish in winter - winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter - summer! You, perches, doze, and we, burbots, play weddings, caviar with a sword, rejoice, have fun!
- Come on, perch brothers, to Burbot for the wedding! We will disperse our sleep, have fun, have a bite of burbot caviar ...
Otter and Raven
- Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?
- I did not expect, Otter, from you such a question. They got wet in the stream, froze, so they kindled a fire. They warm up by the fire.
- Strange... And I always warm myself in the water in winter. There is never frost in the water!
Hare and Vole
- Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, endure until spring. And where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas ...
- Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring, not far off, but under your feet! Dig the snow to the ground - there is a green lingonberry, and a cuff, and a strawberry, and a dandelion. And sniff and eat.
Badger and Bear
- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?
- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. So, brother, I accelerated - the fifth month without waking up. All sides lay down!
- Or maybe, Bear, it's time for us to get up?
- It's not time. Sleep some more.

Why don't we oversleep spring with you?
- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.
- And what is she - will she knock on us, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels? I, Misha, fear is heavy on the rise!
- Whoa! You'll jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under the sides - I suppose you won’t lie down! Sleep while dry.
Magpie and Dipper
- Oh-oh-oh, Olyapka, did you think of swimming in the polynya in any way ?!
- And swim and dive!

Will you freeze?
- My pen is warm!
- Will you get wet?
- I have a water-repellent feather!
- Will you drown?
- I can swim!
- Ah... ah... will you get hungry after swimming?
- Aya, for this I dive, to have a bite with a water bug!

Nikolai Sladkov, a Muscovite by birth, has lived all his life in Leningrad. But led not sedentary life, and business trip. His passion was photography. Yes, and the profession of a topographer, which he received even before the Great Patriotic War allowed me to travel a lot.

Sladkov's routes ran through hot deserts Central Asia, along glaciers, stormy waters of the oceans, one had to climb into the sky-high heights of the mountains - in a word, to be a pioneer, sensitive to everything new, unknown.

Nature is not only wealth. Not only "sun, air and water". Not only "white, black and soft gold". Nature feeds us, waters and clothes, but it still pleases and surprises us. Each of us admires the beauty of nature native land. A Muscovite will tell you about the golden September forests, a Petersburger - about the June white nights, and a resident of Yakutsk - about the gray January frosts! But the Altaian will tell you about the May colors. Nikolay Sladkov visited Altai too! He noticed how different the spring month of May alone can be in these parts.

And how many more miracles lurk in other places!.. For example, in the forest and the field, ordinary watches are not needed at all, birds help out here, who live according to their own time and rarely make mistakes. Together with the writer, you can easily notice the most beautiful things. Even a forest clearing will seem like an open book: go and look around. It is a thousand times more interesting to go than on a normal road!

As soon as you turn, you will immediately feel the cobweb threads, similar to trapping nets and twisted sieves. And when only the spiders had time? The sun rose and illuminated the dewy cobweb with beads. So necklaces, beads and pendants shone. So that's what it is, a web, in fact!

While you are admiring the beads of dew on the cobwebs, you are collecting honey agarics in a box, you suddenly realize that you have lost your way. Only repeated "ow!" can save you from meaningless wanderings, only a reciprocal echo will lead you to a familiar forest path.

When you go, you notice a lot of things. Sladkov's stories begin like this: "Here I am walking along ..." You can walk through a forest clearing, through a swamp, through a field, through a meadow, along the seashore and, together with the writer, notice what you did not see a common person to learn amazingly interesting facts. Sometimes you succumb to the delight of the narrator and smile at some particularly accurate comparison or conclusion.

I would like to visit those places that the writer tells so wonderfully. You flip through one miniature after another, like fairy tales of childhood. Everything seems familiar, and close, and native: a cowardly hare, a lone cuckoo, a sweet-voiced nightingale and a singing oriole. The fairy tale stories of Nikolai Sladkov are everywhere: above the head, on the sides, under the feet. Just take a look!

Nikolai Sladkov

blue may

Wherever you look - everywhere blue and blue! And cloudless blue sky. And on the slopes of the green mountains, as if someone had scattered blue curtains* of sleep-grass. The hairy flowers look like large yellow-bellied bumblebees with blue petaled wings. It seems that just touch - and the blue swarm will buzz! And on the gravelly bare slopes, it was as if a blue-blue veil had been spread to cover the bare ground. The blue veil is woven from myriads of borage flowers. In Altai, they are called borage for their cucumber smell. The flowers arched their neck-stalks and bowed their heads like blue bells. And it even seems that they are quietly ringing in the wind, giving birth to the melody of blue May.

Jackets * - (obsolete) flower meadow.

red may

In mid-May, peonies begin to bloom in the sun, we call them Mary's root. And before they bloom, among the openwork and spreading leaves, their green fist-buds are poured.

Like a precious stone, clenched in a fist, his thin hand of a stalk raised from the earth to the sun. And today the green palms unfolded unanimously. And the red flame of the flower flared up!

One by one, the buds open, and red sparks flare up on the mountain slopes. They flare up and smolder until they set fire to all the slopes of the mountains with a red flame. Red May has arrived!

White May

Grass rose to the knee. And only now meadowsweet and bird cherry blossomed. In one or two days, their dark branches put on a white dress and the bushes become like brides. And from a distance, bird cherry copses resemble the foam of the surf of a restless green sea.

On a fine day, when the heated air is saturated with the aroma of flowering herbs, it is pleasant to relax under the bird cherry trees, buzzing with insects. Bumblebees, flower flies, butterflies and beetles swarm on white clusters. Loaded with pollen and drunk with nectar, they screw into the air and scatter.

Petals fall from the white cherry trees. They fall on the broad leaves of hellebore*, whiten grass and earth.

One morning, at the end of May, I looked out of the window and gasped: the trees had turned white, the road was white, the snow was flickering in the air! Has winter returned? I went out into the street - I understood everything. White airy "snowflakes" of poplar fluff flew from the whitened poplars. A white blizzard is spinning in the wind! I was no less surprised, passing by a scattering of dandelions. Yesterday, flowers were sitting on their stems like yellow canaries, and today white fluffy “chickens” are fluffy in their place.

White underfoot, on the sides, overhead... White May!

Hellebore * - perennial meadow grass with a thick rhizome and panicles of flowers.

Silver May

The Altai feather grass steppe stretches to the horizon. Silky feather grasses play under the sun, and in May the steppe is like a silvery cloud that has descended to the ground. The steppe sparkles, as if winking with the sun. The breeze blew, swayed, she swam, splashing sunlight. Silvery waves of feather grass flow. One by one, the larks take off and ring like silver bells. So it seems that every lark praises silvery May.

Motley May

To the top Altai mountains spring comes at the end of May. Every day the snow recedes higher and higher into the mountains - they become dark white - motley. You look - your eyes run up: dark - white, white - dark! Like a chessboard! And here, at the foot, hazel grouses bloomed together. Their motley heads have risen on thin stalks, peeking out of the grass everywhere. Their bells are brownish, as if the petals have darkened from sunburn. On the petals are light cells and specks. You look at the flowers - and it also ripples in your eyes, just like from a chessboard. It is not for nothing that these fragile flowers of botany are called “chess grouses”. Variegated mountains and variegated flowers of the variegated Altai May!

And what a time it is in Altai when bathing suits bloom! Wherever you look, bathing suits are everywhere. Darkness, darkening them in the meadows, in the glades, in the swamps. Mountain snowfields in orange rings. You look at the flowers - and it seems that one is brighter than the other. No wonder we call them lights. They burn with lights among the lush greenery of the May meadow.

Once, in a clearing orange from blooming bathing suits, I noticed a pure white flower. Anything unusual attracts attention. That's why I noticed this flower from afar. A pearl in a golden meadow! With all the precautions, they dug out a white bathing suit and planted it on a breeding plot in the Altai Botanical Garden.

Many times I have been in the forest and, each time admiring the diversity of the flowering meadow, I tried again to find a white bathing suit - and did not find it. It's very rare indeed. But let's hope that the flower will take root in the garden and there will be a lot of them.

This is how we have May in Altai: colorful, like a rainbow! And you?

bird watch

Not gold, not silver, not manual, not pocket, not sunny, not sandy, but... birdlike. In the forest, it turns out, there are such - and almost on every tree! Like our cuckoo clock.

Only there is still a clock with a robin, a clock with a finch, a clock with a thrush ...

Birds in the forest, it turns out, begin to sing not when anyone pleases, but when it is necessary.

Well, how much is now not on my silver ones, but on forest bird ones? We don't watch, we listen!

The snipe buzzed from above - it means it's already three o'clock. Woodcock held out, grunting and squealing, - the beginning of the fourth. And here the cuckoo cuckooed - the sun will rise soon.

And the morning hours will start working, and they will not only be heard, but also seen. The song thrush sits on the crown of the Christmas tree, whistles - about four. Tenkovka sings and spins on the aspen - the beginning of the fifth. The finch thundered on the pine - soon five.

There is no need to start, repair, or check this clock. Waterproof and shock resistant. True, sometimes they lie, but what clock is not in a hurry or does not lag behind ?! But always with you, you will not forget, you will not lose. A clock with a quail fight, with a cuckoo call, with a nightingale trill, with a ringing of oatmeal, with a lark's bell - a meadow spinning top. For every taste and ear!

clearing

The forest road winds, winds, bypasses the swamps, chooses where it is easier and drier. And the clearing cuts the forest directly: once - and in half!

It's like opening a book. There was a forest on the sides, like unread pages. Go and read.

Walking along a neglected clearing is a hundred times more difficult than walking along a crowded road, but it is also a thousand times more interesting!

Either mossy, gloomy spruce forests on the sides, then cheerful, bright pine forests. Alder thickets, unsteady moss swamps. Windblows and windbreaks, dead stands and fallen trees. And then the trees, scorched by lightning.

You won't see half of it from the road!

And a meeting with the sensitive inhabitants of the forest, who are frightened by well-traveled roads!

The shuffling of someone's wings in the thickets, the clatter of someone's feet. Suddenly the grass moves, suddenly the branch sways. And your ears are on the top of your head, and your eyes are on guard.

Unread half-open book: words, phrases, lines. Finds for all letters of the alphabet. Commas, dots, dots and dashes. Whatever step, the question marks and exclamation marks. Right in the legs are confused.

You walk along the clearing - and your eyes run wide!

Web

The morning turned out to be cold, dewy - and cobwebs shone everywhere! On the grass, on the bushes, on the Christmas trees ... Everywhere there are cobwebs, balls, hammocks and trapping nets. Sita, which is not the hands of the retinue. And when only the spiders had time?

And the spiders were in no hurry. The web hung everywhere before, but was invisible. And the dew covered the web with beads and put it on display. The undergrowth flared up with necklaces, beads, pendants, monists...

So that's what it is, a web, in fact! And we always wiped our face with annoyance when something invisible and sticky stretched over it. And these turned out to be constellations blazing in a dark forest universe. Milky forest paths, galaxies, forest comets, meteorites and asteroids. New and supernovae stars. Suddenly the invisible realm of forest spiders appeared. The universe of eight-legged and eight-eyed! And around - their shining antennas, locators and radars.

Here he sits alone, furry and eight-legged, paws the soundless cobweb strings, tuning the cobweb music inaudible to our ears. And looks into all eight eyes at what we do not see.

But the sun will dry up the dew, and the strange world of forest spiders will disappear without a trace again - until the next dew. And again we will begin to wipe our face with annoyance when something invisible and sticky stretches over it. As a reminder of the spider forest universe.

Honey agarics

Mushrooms, of course, grow on stumps. And, sometimes, it’s so thick that you can’t even see a stump under them. Like a stump autumn leaves fell asleep with his head. And then they revived and sprouted. And there are elegant stump-bouquets.

With a small basket, honey agaric is not collected. Collect so collect! Mushrooms can be taken in armfuls, as they say, raked with a rake or mowed obliquely. There will be enough for roasting and pickles, and it will also remain for drying.

Just collect them, and not just bring them home. For mushrooms, you definitely need a basket. You push it into a backpack or into cellophane bags - and you will bring home not mushrooms, but mushroom porridge. And then all this mess - in the trash.

In a hurry, instead of real mushrooms, you can break false ones. With this and from the basket there is only a place in the trash: they are not suitable for roasting or brewing.

Of course, real mushrooms are far from porcini and red mushrooms. But if there is a crop failure, I am happy with honey agaric. True, if the harvest is still happy. Every stump in the forest is an autumn bouquet! And by all the same you will not pass, you will stop. If not to collect, then at least look, admire.

Mushroom round dance

The mushroom picker does not take fly agaric, but he is happy with fly agaric: send fly agaric - white ones will go too! Yes, and fly agaric delights the eye, although inedible and poisonous. There is another, akimbo, on a white leg in lace knickers, in a red clown cap - you don’t want to, but you admire. Well, if you come across a fly agaric dance - just right to be dumbfounded! A dozen fellows stood in a circle and prepared to dance.

There was a belief: a fly agaric ring marked a circle in which witches dance at night. So they called the ring of mushrooms - "the witch's circle." And although now no one believes in witches, there are no witches in the forest, but it’s still interesting to look at the “witch circle” ... The witch circle is good without witches: the mushrooms are ready for the dance! A dozen good fellows in red hats stood in a circle, one or two! - opened, three-four! - got ready. Now it's five or six! - someone will clap their hands and a round dance will spin. Faster and faster, colorful festive carousel. White legs flash, stale leaves rustle.

You stand and wait.

And fly agarics stand and wait. Waiting for you to finally guess and leave. In order to start dancing without interference and someone else's eyes, stamping their white legs, waving their red hats. Like in the old days...

AU

Lost in the forest - shout "ay!". Until they respond. You can, of course, shout in a different way: “I-ho-ho-ho!”, For example, or: “A-ya-ya!”. But loudest of all is carried through the forest "ay!". You “ay!”, And in response to you from different sides: “Ay!”, “Ay!”.

Or echo...

This is already alarming if only an echo responds. It means you are lost. And you talk to yourself. Well, quickly figure out which side the house is in, otherwise it might spin ...

You walk, you walk, everything is straight and straight, and lo and behold - again the same place! Here is a conspicuous stump on which I sat recently. How so? You clearly remember that you went straight from the stump, did not turn anywhere - how did this stump get in your way again? Here is a candy wrapper from sour candy ...

Time after time you leave a conspicuous place, and it seems to you that you are going straight to the house, as if on a ruler. You walk, you walk, everything is straight and straight, and a noticeable stump is again on your way! And the same fan. And you can’t get away from them, they attract like a magnet. And nothing to understand, and the horror is already moving under the shirt.

For a long time you are no longer up to berries and mushrooms. In confusion and fear, you shout “ay!”, And in response, again and again, one distant echo ...

Cold, you look at a place that does not want to let you go. Nothing special in appearance - ordinary stumps and logs, bushes and trees, dead trees and fallen trees, but it already seems to you that the pines here are somehow wary, and the fir trees are painfully gloomy, and the aspens are whispering fearfully about something. And chill you to the pimples.

And suddenly, far away, at the very edge of hearing, but so welcome and joyful: “Au-u-u!”

“Aw! Aw!" - you shout in response, breaking your voice, and, not understanding the road, you fly to a distant call, throwing branches with your hands.

Here again, “ay!”, a little more audibly, and you clutch at him, like a drowning man at a straw.

Closer, more audible, and you are no longer running, but simply walking quickly, breathing lightly and noisily, shaking off the forest obsession: you are saved!

And you meet friends already as if nothing had happened: well, lagged behind, wandered a little - great trouble! And again general laughter, jokes, practical jokes. Praise, who found what, who collected more. But inside you are still trembling, and a chill is stirring under your shirt. Before our eyes, the same gloomy pines and spruces that did not want to let you go.

And from that day on, the forest “ay!” stays with you forever. And this is no longer just a cry for the sake of noise and pampering, but a call for salvation. You will never again shout “ay” just like that, just to frighten away the silence of the forest, but you will throw it into a wary silence, like throwing a lifebuoy into a dark ox. And for a long time you will remember that first day, when you rushed about in despair and screamed lostly, breaking your voice. And in response I heard only an echo and an indifferent rumble of tree tops.

Song of the wings

The forest dissolved into the dusk and swam. The color also disappeared: everything became gray and dull. Bushes and trees moved like clots of darkness in a viscous viscous haze. They shrank, then suddenly stretched, appeared and disappeared. Evening turned into night.

It's time for thick twilight and shadows, it's time for nighttime forest incidents.

The pensive evening songs were over: song thrushes whistled on the spruce domes, the big-eyed robins had long since scattered their sonorous glass pieces over the knots.

I'm knee-deep in swamp slush. He leaned back against the tree; she moves a little, breathes ... I closed my eyes, they are now useless, now only ears are needed.

The night owl gurgled. You can't see yourself. Flies in the dark from tree to tree owl cry: hoo-hoo-hoo! I turn my ear to the flying cry. Right next to me, he completely gurgled: he probably saw me with yellow eyes and was surprised.

The night cuckoo also cuckooed in the dark for a long time; a distant echo beyond the swamp answered her.

I love listening to the night. Silence, but you can still hear something. The mouse will rustle in dry leaves. Duck wings will whistle in the air. The cranes will suddenly scream frantically in a distant swamp, as if someone had frightened them. Solidly, slowly, a woodcock will fly by: horr, horr - in bass, zvirk, zvirk - in a thin voice.

Even at the deadest midnight, when living voices are not heard, the forest is not silent. Then the wind is brought in at the top. That tree creaks. Knocking on the knots, the bump will fall. At least a thousand times listen to the night - each time will be in a new way. As no two days are the same, so night is not like night.

But there is a time in every night when there is complete silence. In front of her, clots of darkness will stir and float in the viscous haze again; Now darkness is approaching to replace the night. The forest seems to sigh: a quiet breeze will fly over the peaks and whisper something in the ear of each tree. And if there were leaves on the trees, they would answer the wind in their own way: the aspens would hastily murmur, the birches would rustle affectionately. But it's April in the forest - and the trees are bare. Some spruces and pines will hiss in response to the wind, and the viscous rumble of coniferous peaks will float over the forest, like the echo of distant bells.

And at this moment, when the forest has not yet truly woken up, suddenly there comes a time of complete night silence. Drop the needle - and hear!

In such silence I heard something I had never heard before in my life: the song of wings! The early morning rustle of the peaks subsided, and in the stagnant murmuring silence a strange sound was heard, as if someone played along with their lips, beating the dance beat: brryn-brryn, brrn, brrn, brrnn! Bryn-brryn, brryn, brryn, brryn!

If he played along, then someone danced to the beat?

Darkness and silence. Ahead is still a very dark moss swamp, behind is a black spruce island. I'm standing on the side of it, and strange sounds are approaching. Closer, closer, here they are heard overhead, now they are moving away, further, further. And after a while they arise again, approach again and again rush past. Someone flies around the spruce island, beating time in silence with elastic wings. A clear rhythm, a dance beat, not just beats its wings on the fly, but sings! Sings to the motive: so-so, so, so, so! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

The bird is small, but wings and a big bird cannot sing loudly. So the singer chose the time for his strange songs when everything is silent in the forest. Everyone woke up, but did not give a voice, they listen and are silent. Only in this a short time change of night and morning and you can hear such a quiet song. And the thrushes will sing and drown out everything with sonorous whistles. Someone small, voiceless, who can only sing with his wings, has chosen this time of night silence, in a hurry to make himself known.

I spent many spring nights in the forest, but I never heard such a song again. And I couldn't find anything about her in the books. The riddle remained a riddle, a tiny thrilling mystery.

But I still hope: what if I hear again? And now I look at the black spruce islands in the deaf moss swamps in a very special way: there lives one who can sing with wings ... In short moments of silence, he hastily rushes around the black island and beats the beat with his wings: So! And someone, of course, listens to his strange song. But who?

Giant

I'm walking through the woods, I'm not plotting anything bad, but everyone shy away from me! The guards almost scream. Who even silently yells.

Our ear hears well only what we need. And what is not necessary, what is not dangerous - enters in one ear, exits in the other. And to whom we ourselves are dangerous, for those our ear is completely deaf. And now various small fry are screaming around at the top of their lungs on their squeaky ultrasound - sentry, help, save! - and we know we are breaking through. Do not insert the auditory tube into the ear especially for such small fry. What more!

But for many in the forest we are fabulous giants! You only lifted your foot to step, and your sole hung over someone, like thundercloud! We are walking in the forest on a living, sweeping like a cyclone, like a typhoon.

If you look at us from below - we are like a rock to the sky! And suddenly this rock collapses and begins to roll with a roar and whooping. You are simply rejoicing, lying in the grass, kicking your legs and laughing, and under you everything alive is flattened, everything is broken, distorted, everything is in dust. Hurricane, storm, storm! Disaster! And your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes?

The chick was quiet, snuggled up. You extended your kind hands to him from the bottom of your heart, you want to help him. And his eyes roll back in fear! I was sitting quietly on a hummock, and suddenly giant tentacles stretched out from the sky with twisted claws! And the voice rumbles like thunder. And eyes like flashing lightning. And an open red mouth, and teeth in it, like eggs in a basket. If you don't want to, roll your eyes...

And now I'm walking through the forest, I'm not plotting anything bad, but everyone is frightened, everyone shied away. And they even die.

Well, now why not go into the forest because of this? Can't even take a step? Or look under your feet through a magnifying glass? Or cover your mouth with a bandage so as not to inadvertently swallow a midge? What else would you like to do?

And nothing! And go to the forest, and wallow in the grass-ant. Sunbathe, swim, save chicks, pick berries and mushrooms. Just remember one thing.

Remember that you are a giant. Huge fabulous giant. And if you're big, don't forget the little ones. Once fabulous - if you please, be kind. A kind fairy-tale giant, whom Lilliputians always hope for in fairy tales. Just something and everything...

wonder beast

I'm walking through the forest, and towards the guys. They saw my swollen backpack, they ask:

There are no mushrooms, the berries are not ripe, what have you gathered?

I squint enigmatically.

Beast, - I answer, - caught! You have never seen such a thing!

The guys look at each other, not believing.

We, they say, know all the animals.

So guess! I tease the guys.

And guess! Just tell me some sign, even the smallest one.

Please, I say, don't be sorry. The ear of the beast ... bear.

Thought. What animal has a bear's ear? The bear, of course. But I didn’t put a bear in my backpack! The bear won't fit. Yes, and try to put it in a backpack.

And the eye of the beast ... a raven! - I give a hint. - And the paws ... goose.

Here everyone laughed and roared. They decided that I played them. And I still submit:

If you don't like goose, put on cat's paws. And a fox tail!

Offended, turned away. They are silent.

Well, how? - I ask. - Guess yourself or say?

Let's give up! - exhaled the guys.

Slowly I take off my backpack, untie the strings and shake out... an armful of forest grass! And in the grass and a raven's eye, and a bear's ear, goose and cat's paws, and a fox's tail, and a snapdragon. And other herbs: mousetail, frog, toad ...

I show each plant and tell: it’s for a cold, it’s for a cough. It's for bruises and scratches. It's beautiful, it's poisonous, it's fragrant. This is for mosquitoes and midges. This is so that the stomach does not hurt, and this is so that the head is fresh.

This is the "animal" in the backpack. Have you heard of this? They did not hear, but now they have presented. The miracle beast sprawled across the forest in its green skin, hid: it listens with a bear's ear, looks with a crow's eye, waves its fox's tail, moves its cat's paws. The mysterious beast lies and is silent. Waiting to be figured out.

Who is smarter?

I walk through the forest and rejoice: I'm the smartest here. I see right through everyone! The woodcock took off, pretended to be hit, either running, or flying - takes her away. Yes, it looks like sly Fox and she would follow her. But you can't fool me with these bird tricks! I know: since a cautious bird rushes about nearby, it’s not without reason. Her chicks hid here, and she takes away from them.

But it is not enough to know, you must still be able to see them. Woodcocks are the colors of dry leaves sprinkled with old needles. You can step over and not notice: they know how to hide. But it is all the more flattering to look out for such invisibles. And you will see - you can’t take your eyes off, so cute!

I trample carefully - I wouldn’t step on it! Aha - one lies! He fell to the ground and closed his eyes. Still hoping to get me through. No, my dear, you got caught, and there is no salvation for you!

I’m joking, of course, I won’t do anything bad to him - I’ll admire and let him go. But if a fox had been in my place ... then he would have been finished. After all, he has only two ways of salvation: hide or run. And there is no third.

Gotcha, gotcha, darling! If you can't hide, you won't be able to run away. One step, one more step...

Something darted over my head, I ducked and ... the chick disappeared. What happened? And the fact that the mother woodcock sat astride the chick, squeezed it from the side with her legs, lifted it into the air and carried it away!

The woodcock is already heavy, the mother dragged him with difficulty. It seemed that a clumsy heavy bird with two big-nosed heads was flying. To the side, the bird plopped down and split into two - the birds fled into different sides!

Here you are not given a third! I was left without "prey". They took her out from under her nose. Although I am cunning, there are more cunning in the forest!

Confidence

I walk through the forest, squelching through the swamp, I cross the field - there are birds everywhere. And they treat me in their own way: some trust me, others do not. And their trust can be measured... by steps!

Pliska * in the swamp allowed five steps, the lark in the field - fifteen, the thrush in the forest - twenty. Lapwing - forty, cuckoo - sixty, buzzard - one hundred, curlew - one hundred and fifty, and crane - three hundred. That's understandable - and even visible! - a measure of their confidence. Pliska trusts four times more than a thrush, a thrush fifteen times more than a crane. Maybe because a person is fifteen times more dangerous for a crane than for a thrush?

There is something to think about here.

A crow in the forest only trusts a hunter for a hundred paces. But the tractor driver in the field is already fifteen. And from the townspeople in the park, who feed her, she almost takes pieces out of her hands. Understands!

So everything depends on us. It's one thing we're in the forest with a gun, and another - with a piece. Yes, even without a piece, but at least without a stick.

Have you seen wild ducks on city ponds? Blackbirds and squirrels living in parks? This is how we get better. And that's why they trust us more. In the forest and in the field. In the swamp and in the park. Everywhere.

Pliska* is a yellow wagtail.

Persistent Dandelions

Once I go out to the clearing - the whole clearing is strewn with dandelions! Someone stumbled upon these gold placers, their eyes ran wide, their hands itched - let's tear and throw.

And narvali - what to do with such armfuls? Hands sticky, shirts stained with juice. Yes, and these are not the kind of flowers to put them in vases: they smell like grass, they look unprepossessing. And very ordinary! They grow everywhere, they become familiar to everyone.

They raked wreaths and bouquets into a pile and threw them away.

You always feel uneasy when you see such devastation: feathers of a torn bird, peeled birches, scattered anthills ... Or abandoned flowers. What for? A bird pleased someone with songs, birch trees pleased with their whiteness, flowers with a smell. And now everything is ruined and ruined.

But they will say: just think, dandelions! These are not orchids. They are considered weeds.

Maybe there really is nothing special and interesting about them? But they made someone happy. And now...

Dandelions pleased even now! And they surprised.

A week later, I again found myself in the same clearing - the flowers piled up in a heap were alive! Bumblebees and bees, as always, collected pollen from flowers. And the plucked flowers diligently, as they did during life, opened in the morning and closed in the evening. Dandelions woke up and fell asleep as if nothing had happened!

A month later, I went to a clearing before a thunderstorm - the dandelions were closed. The yellow corollas clenched into green fists, but did not wither: they closed before the rain. Doomed, half-dead, they, as they should, predicted the weather! And they predicted exactly as in their best flowering days!

When the storm died down and the sun flooded the glade, the flowers opened! And they were supposed to do this - the flowers did their duty.

But already from the last forces. The dandelions were dying. They lacked the strength to turn into fluffy balls to scatter on parachutes across the clearings and sprout in the grass as bright suns.

But it's not their fault, they did what they could.

And we consider the dandelion the most ordinary flower and do not expect anything unexpected from it!

The unexpected is everywhere.

They cut down a birch in April, and in May it spread its leaves! Birch did not know that she had already been killed, and did what the birch was supposed to do.

A white water lily flower was thrown into a basin, and every evening it carefully folded its petals and dipped into the water, and in the morning it emerged and opened up, just like in a lake. At least check your watch! A water lily and a plucked "saw" distinguished day from night. Isn't that why the water lilies were called the "eyes of the lakes"?

Maybe they see us too?

The forest looks at us with colorful eyes of flowers. It's a shame to drop yourself in those eyes.

All for one

I walked along the seashore and habitually looked under my feet - what waves don’t throw ashore! He sat on the vertebra of a whale, as if on a stump. I found a "fish tooth" - a walrus tusk. Gathered handfuls of openwork skeletons of sea urchins. So I would go and go, but brought me out of the underhand contemplation ... a slap on the back of the head!

It turned out that I wandered into the nesting area of ​​Arctic terns, birds, smaller than a pigeon and very similar to gulls. Seemingly weak and defenseless. But these "weak" ones - I knew for a long time - fly from the Arctic to Antarctica twice a year! Even for an aircraft riveted from metal, such a flight is not easy. And how “defenseless” they are, I found out now ... What started after the slap on the back of the head! A blizzard raged above me, thousands of white wings pierced by the sun fluttered, whirlwinds of white birds rushed about. Ears pawned from a thousand-voiced scream.

There were nests of terns everywhere on the ground under their feet. And I was confusedly stomping between them, afraid to crush them, and the terns swarmed ferociously, chirping and screeching, preparing for a new attack. And they attacked! The cuffs fell down like hail from a cloud - no hiding, no dodging. Nimble angry birds threw themselves from above and with their bodies, paws, and beaks beat in the back and head. My hat fell off. I crouched down, covering the back of my head with my hands - but where is it! White beasts began to pinch his hands, but it hurt, with a twist, to bruises. I got scared and ran. And the terns chased me with cuffs, pokes, pecks and hoots until they drove me over a distant cape. I hid in the fin, and the bird blizzard raged in the sky for a long time.

Rubbing bumps and bruises, I now - from afar! - admired them. What a picture! Bottomless sky and bottomless ocean. And between the sky and the ocean, a swarm of snow-white brave birds. It's a little annoying, though: after all, a man, the king of nature, and suddenly from some birds he jumps like a hare. But then the fishermen told me that it was the same way - like a hare! - even the polar bear, the lord of the Arctic, escapes from terns. Now this is a different matter, now it’s not insulting at all! Both "kings" were hit on the neck. So they, the kings, and it is necessary - do not bother to live in peace!

And they threw it away...

I have a collection of bird feathers. I collected them in different ways: I picked up dropped feathers in the forest - I found out which birds molt and when; he took two or three feathers from a bird torn apart by a predator - he was enlightened who was attacking whom. Finally, there were birds killed and abandoned by hunters: grebes, owls, divers, loons. Here I didn’t learn anything new for myself - everyone knows that many hunters, some out of ignorance, some by mistake, and some just to check the gun, fire at the first birds that turn up.

At home, I laid out the pens on the table, spreading the paper, and slowly looked at them. And it was as interesting as shifting and looking at sea shells, beetles or butterflies. In the same way, you look and marvel at the perfection of the form, the beauty of the colors, the sophistication of the combination of colors that do not match at all in our everyday life: red and green, for example, or blue and yellow.

And overflows! Turn the pen like this - it's green, turn it that way - it's already blue. And then also lilac, and crimson! Masterovity is an artist - nature.

With such an examination - sometimes with a magnifying glass! - you involuntarily notice the smallest specks stuck to the feathers. Most of the time it's just grains of sand. It was worth shaking the feathers over the paper, and the sand fell off, forming a dusty speck on the paper. But some motes clung so firmly that they had to be removed with tweezers. What if it's some sort of seed?

Many birds - thrushes, bullfinches, waxwings - eating wild berries, involuntarily carry seeds of mountain ash, viburnum, buckthorn, bird cherry, juniper through the forest. They are scattered here and there. Why not scatter the "chicky" seeds on their feathers? How many different seeds stick to bird and animal paws! And we are all doing wild sowing without even realizing it.

I continued to pack, and soon I had piled up from a half-match box of various specks and trash. It remains to make sure that there are seeds there.

I knocked together a box, filled it with earth, and dropped everything I collected. And he began to wait patiently: will it sprout or not sprout?

Sprouted!

Many specks sprouted, sprouts popped out and unfolded, the earth turned green.

I recognized almost all the plants. Except for one thing: it didn’t succumb to me in any way, even though I leafed through all my reference guides.

This seed I plucked from a cuckoo feather. In the spring, a hunter shot her, wanted to make a scarecrow, but started spinning with business, there was no time for her, and he threw the cuckoo out of the refrigerator into the trash. She was lying next to the garbage can, so out of place here, so clean and fresh that I could not resist and tore out the cuckoo's tail.

The tail of the cuckoo is large, beautiful; when cuckooing, she moves it from side to side - as if she were conducting herself. I wanted to add this cuckoo's "conductor's baton" to my collection, which already had "whistling" feathers from the wing of a little bustard and duck-eye, a "singing" feather from the tail of a snipe. And now the cuckoo's "conductor's baton".

When I looked at the colorful tail feathers, then at the base of one, at the very stem, I noticed a prickly fruit of some kind of weed, rolled into down. I just pulled it off with tweezers. And this seed sprouted, but I could not identify the sprout.

He showed it to connoisseurs from the botanical garden, they looked at it for a long time and intently, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. And only then - not immediately! - rummaging about their scientific books, they recognized in it a weed from ... South America!

I was very surprised - where did I get it from? They advised to pull it out with a spine - so that it does not inadvertently take root on our land: we have enough of our own weeds. They were even more surprised when they learned that a cuckoo had brought him from over the seas and mountains.

I was also surprised: I did not know that our cuckoos hibernate even in South America. The weed seed has become like a ring for ringing: thousands of kilometers away, the cuckoo brought it home.

I imagined this cuckoo: how she wintered in the tropics, how she waited for spring to return to her homeland, how she hurried through storms and downpours to our northern forests - to cuckoo us for many years ...

And they took her and shot her.

And they threw it away...

beaver lodge

A beaver built a hut on the bank of knots and logs. The cracks were caulked with earth and moss, smeared with silt and clay. He left a hole in the floor - the door directly into the water. In the water he has a reserve for the winter - a cubic meter of aspen firewood.

The beaver does not dry firewood, but wets it: he has them not for the stove, but for food. He is his own oven. It gnaws at the bark from aspen boughs - and warms up from the inside. That's how we are from hot porridge. Yes, it happens that it warms up that steam curls over the hut in the cold! As if he was drowning the hut in black, smoke comes through the roof.

So it hibernates in the hut from autumn to spring. He dives to the bottom for firewood, dries in the hut, gnaws at knots, sleeps under the whistle of a blizzard over the roof or the snapping of frost.

And along with it, beaver brownies winter in the hut. There is such a rule in the forest: where there is a house, there are brownies. Whether in a hollow, in a hole, or in a hut. And the beaver has a big house - that's why there are a lot of brownies. They sit in all corners and crevices: right there is a hostel of brownies!

Hibernate, it happens, bumblebees and hornets, beetles and butterflies. Mosquitoes, spiders and flies. Voles and mice. Toads, frogs, lizards. Even snakes! Not a beaver hut, but a living corner of young naturalists. Noah's Ark!

Winter is long. Day after day, night after night. That frost, then a blizzard. Brought the hut along with the roof. And under the roof, the beaver dozes, warming itself with aspen firewood. His brownies sleep soundly. Only mice scratch in the corners. Yes, on a frosty day, the park above the hut curls like smoke.

hare heart

At the first powder, the hunter ran into the forest with a gun. I found a fresh hare trail, unraveled all its cunning loops and monograms, and set off in pursuit. Here is a “twice”, here is a “discount”, then the hare jumped off his trail and lay down not far. The hare, though cunning, confuses the trail, but always the same. And if you have picked up the key to it, then now quietly open it: somewhere it will be here.

No matter how ready the hunter was, the hare jumped out unexpectedly - how it took off! Bang bang! - and past. The hare is on the run, the hunter is after him.

From a run, from acceleration, a hare tumbled into an unfrozen swamp - he hooted up to his ears! Here is the crushed ice, here are splashes of brown slurry, here are its dirty traces further. On the hard snow, he let go more than before.

He rolled out into the clearing and ... landed on the scythe holes. As the scythes began to take off from under the snow - there were snow fountains and explosions around! A little wings on the ears and on the nose do not whip. He swept obliquely, rolled over his head; the hunter can clearly see everything in the tracks. Yes, it will give you such a kick that the rear dads jump out ahead of the front ones! Yes, I ran into a fox with acceleration.

And the fox did not even think that the hare would jump to her; lingered, but still tsap on the side! It is good that the skin of hares is thin and fragile, get off with a piece of skin; two red drops on the snow.

Come on, imagine yourself this hare. Trouble - one worse than the other! If this happened to me, I would probably stutter.

And he fell into the swamp, and the feathered bombs exploded at the nose, the hunter fired from a gun, the predatory beast grabbed his side. Yes, in his place, the bear and that bear disease would have fallen ill! And then he would die. And at least he...

I was frightened, of course, not without it. But hares are not used to being scared. Yes, if every time they die of fright, so soon the whole hare family will be transferred. And he, the kind of hare, is flourishing! Because their hearts are strong and reliable, hardened and healthy. Bunny heart!

Hare round dance

There is also frost, but a special frost, spring. The ear that is in the shade freezes, and that in the sun burns. During the day, the snows melt and shine, and at night they are covered with infusion. It's time for hare songs and funny hare round dances!

From the tracks you can see how they gather in clearings, forest edges and circle here in loops and figure eights, carousel between bushes and hummocks. As if the heads of hares are spinning and they write out loops and pretzels in the snow. Yes, and they blow: "Gu-gu-gu-gu!"

Where did cowardice go: now they don’t care about foxes, or owls, or wolves, or lynxes. All winter they lived in fear, they were afraid to utter a word. Enough is enough! Spring in the forest, the sun overcomes the frost. It's time for hare songs and hare dances.

How did the bear scare himself?

A bear entered the forest - a dead tree crunched under a heavy paw. The squirrel on the Christmas tree shuddered - dropped the bump. A bump fell and hit the sleeping hare right on the forehead! The hare fell off its bed - and galloped without looking back.

He ran into a grouse brood - he scared everyone to death. The cubs scattered with a noise - they alerted the magpie: it rumbled throughout the forest. They heard moose - magpie chirps, got scared of someone. Is it not a wolf, not a hunter? They rushed ahead. Yes, in the swamp the cranes were alarmed: they began to purr with a trumpet. The curlews whistled, the snail* screamed.

Here the bear pricked up its ears! Something bad is going on in the forest: a squirrel is choking, a magpie is chirping, elks are breaking bushes, marsh birds are screaming. And someone seems to be stomping behind! Wouldn't it be better to get out of here before it's too late?

The bear barked, laid his ears - but how will the strekacha give!

If only he knew that a hare was stomping behind him, the same one that the squirrel had hit on the forehead with a bump. He gave a circle through the forest, alarmed everyone. And he frightened the bear, whom he himself had been afraid of before!

So the bear scared himself, drove himself out of the dark forest. Only footprints remained in the dirt.

Snail * - a bird from the order of sandpipers.

forest gingerbread man

And the hedgehog would like to be fluffy - so they will eat it!

Good for a hare: legs are long, fast. Or a squirrel: a little something - and on a tree! And the hedgehog's legs are short, the claws are blunt: neither on the ground nor on the knots from the enemy will you ride.

And I want to live and eat. And he, the hedgehog, has all hope for his thorns: put out and hope!

And the hedgehog shrinks, shrinks, bristles - and hopes. The fox will roll him with his paw - and leave him. The wolf will push his nose, prick his nose, snort and run away. The bear hangs its lips, saturates its mouth with heat, sniffs displeasedly, and also stings. And I want to eat, but it pricks!

And the hedgehog will lie down with a margin, then turn around a little for a test, put out his nose and eye from under the thorns, look around, sniff - is there anyone? - and roll off into the thickets. That's why he's alive. How about fluffy and soft?

Of course, happiness is not great - all life in thorns from head to toe. But he can't do otherwise. Like it or don't like it, don't. They'll eat it!

dangerous game

Bones, feathers, and bits have accumulated near the fox hole. Of course, flies flocked to them. And where there are flies, there are fly-eating birds. The first to fly to the hole was a thin wagtail. She sat down, squeaked, shook her long tail. And let's run back and forth, clicking the beak. And the cubs from the hole are watching her, their eyes are rolling: right-left, right-left! Could not resist and jumped out - almost caught!

But a little bit does not count for fox cubs. Again they hid in a hole, hid. Now the heater has flown in: this one crouches and bows, crouches and bows. And she does not take her eyes off the flies. The wheatear aimed at the flies, and the cubs aimed at the stove. Who is smarter?

The cubs jumped out - the heater flew away. The fox cubs, out of annoyance, grappled with each other in a ball, started a game with themselves. But suddenly a shadow covered them, blocked the sun! The eagle hovered over the cubs, spreading wide wings. He already dangled his clawed paws, but the cubs managed to hide in the hole. It can be seen, still a young eagle, not experienced. Or maybe he was just playing. But simple, not simple, but these games are dangerous. Play, play, look! And flies, and birds, eagles and foxes. And then you'll play it.

Frost - red nose

In frost, only you and I have a red nose. And also blue. But in birds, their noses bloom when the spring heat comes and the winter cold ends. In spring, not only feathers become bright in birds - but also noses! In finches, the beak becomes blue, in sparrows - almost black. Starlings are yellow, blackbirds are orange, and grosbeaks are blue. In the river gull and garden bunting - red. How are we in the cold!

Someone at the birch ate the whole top of the head. There is a birch, and the top is as if trimmed. Who is so toothy could climb to the top? A squirrel could have climbed in, but squirrels don't gouge the bars in winter. Hares look around, but hares do not climb birch trees. The birch stands like a question mark, like a riddle. What kind of giant reached out to the top of his head?

And this is not a giant, but, nevertheless, a hare! Only he did not reach the dome, but the dome itself leaned towards him. Even at the beginning of winter, heavy snow stuck to the birch - and bent into an arc. The birch bent like a white barrier, buried its top in a snowdrift. And she froze. Yes, like an arc, she stood all winter.

It was then that the hare gnawed all the twigs at the top! No need to climb or jump: twigs at the very nose. And by spring, the top melted out of the snowdrift, the birch straightened up - and the eaten top turned out to be at an unattainable height! There is a birch, even, high - mysterious.

Spring affairs and worries

I look to the left - the blue streaks are blooming, the wolf's bast has turned pink, the coltsfoot has turned yellow. Spring primroses have opened and bloomed!

I turn back - the ants are warming themselves on the anthill, the hairy bumblebee is buzzing, the first bees are in a hurry for the first flowers. Everyone has spring affairs and worries!

Again I look at the forest - and there is already fresh news! The buzzards are circling over the forest, taking a fancy to the place of the day of the future nest.

I turn to the fields - and there is already a new one: the kestrel hovered over the arable land, looking out for voles from a height.

In the swamp, turukhtan sandpipers started spring dances.

And in the sky the geese fly and fly: in chains, wedges, strings.

So much around the news - just have time to turn your head. A dizzying spring - you wouldn't break your neck!

Bear measures height

Every spring, leaving the den, the bear comes to a long-cherished Christmas tree and measures his height: hasn't he grown up during the winter while he was sleeping? It stands at the Christmas tree on its hind legs, and with its front paws it furrows the bark on the Christmas tree so that the chips curl! And bright furrows become visible - like an iron rake. For fidelity, he also bites the bark with fangs. And then he rubs his back against the Christmas tree, leaving shreds of wool and a thick smell of the beast on it.

If no one frightens a bear and he lives in the same forest for a long time, then from these marks you can really see how he grows. But the bear himself does not measure growth, but puts his bearish mark, stakes his site. So that other bears know that the place is occupied here, that they have nothing to do here. If they don't listen, they will deal with him. And what it is, you can see for yourself, you just have to look at its marks. You can also try on - whose mark will be higher?

Marked trees like border posts. On each column there is also a short reference: gender, age, height. Do you think it's worth getting involved? Think well...

swamp herd

On the dark night, my shepherd Misha and I were already in the swamp. Temnozorka - the moment when morning conquers night - in the village only a rooster guesses. Darkness is still an eye, and a rooster stretches its neck, becomes alert, something there in the night will hear and scream.

And in the forest, an invisible bird announces the darkness: it will wake up and be brought in in the branches. Then the morning breeze will stir - and a rustle and whisper will roll through the forest.

And so, when a rooster crowed in the village, and the first bird woke up in the forest, Misha whispered:

Now the shepherd will lead his flock to the swamp, to the blooming water.

From a neighboring village, perhaps, a shepherd? - I ask quietly.

No, Misha smirks. - I'm not talking about a village shepherd, I'm talking about a swamp.

And then a sharp and strong whistle was heard in the thick sedge! The shepherd whistled, putting two fingers in his mouth, invigorating the herd with a whistle. Yes, only where he whistles, the swamp is terrible, the earth is unsteady. There is no way for the herd...

The swamp shepherd... - Misha whispers.

“Be-ee-ee-ee! Be-e-e-e-e! bleated plaintively a lamb in that direction. Are you bogged down in a failed swamp?

No, - Misha laughs, - this lamb will not get stuck. This is a swamp lamb.

The bull mumbled muffledly, - apparently, lagged behind the herd.

Oh, get lost in the quagmire!

No, this one will not disappear, - Misha the shepherd reassures, - this is a swamp bull.

It has already become clear: a gray fog is stirring over a black mound. The shepherd whistles somewhere in two fingers. The lamb is bleating. The bull is roaring. And no one is visible. Swamp herd...

Be patient, Misha whispers. - We'll see.

The whistles are getting closer and closer. With all my eyes I look to where dark silhouettes of kugi - swamp grass move in a gray fog.

You're looking in the wrong direction, - Misha pushes to the side. - Down, look at the water.

And I see: a small bird, from a starling, on high legs, is walking on the colored water. Here she stopped at a bump, rose on her fingers - but how she whistles, whistles! Well, that's exactly how the shepherd whistles.

And this is the shepherd boy, - Misha grins. Everyone in the village calls him that.

Here I am happy.

It can be seen that the whole herd is marsh according to this shepherd?

According to the shepherd and there is, - Misha nods.

We hear: someone else is splashing on the water. We see: a large clumsy bird comes out of the kuga: red, with a wedge nose. She stopped and ... roared like a bull! So this is a bittern - a swamp bull!

Then I realized about the lamb - weevil snipe! The one that sings with its tail. It falls from a height, and the feathers in the tail rattle - like a lamb bleating. Hunters call it that - a swamp lamb. I myself knew that Misha had confused me with his herd.

Here's a gun for you, - I laugh. - I would have shot down a bull and a ram at once!

No, Misha says. - I'm a shepherd, not a hunter. And what kind of shepherd would shoot at the flock? Though and on such, swamp.

Sly already

Almost stepped on a snake in the swamp! Well, I managed to pull my leg back in time. However, the snake seems to be dead. Someone killed her and abandoned her. And for a long time already: it smells, and the flies are circling.

I step over dead meat, go up to a puddle to rinse my hands, turn around, and the snake is dead ... it runs into the bushes! Resurrected and takes away the legs. Well, not legs, of course, what kind of legs do snakes have? But he crawls away quickly and hastily, and is tempted to say: with all his might!

In three leaps I caught up with the revived snake and lightly pressed the tail with my foot. The snake froze, twisted into a ring, then somehow strangely trembled, arched, turned over with its spotted belly up and ... died for the second time!

Her head looks like a flower bud with two orange spots, she tossed back, her lower jaw fell off, a black flyer tongue hung from her red mouth. Lies relaxed - deader than dead! I touch it, it doesn't move. And again there was a whiff of dead meat and the flies were already starting to flock.

Don't believe your eyes! The snake pretended to be dead, the snake lost consciousness!

I watch her out of the corner of my eye. And I see how, and this is him, he begins to slowly “resurrect”. Here he closed his mouth, now he turned over on his belly, raised his big-eyed head, waved his tongue, tasting the wind. There seems to be no danger - you can run away.

To tell such - can and not to believe! Well, if a shy summer resident fainted when she met a snake. And that's a snake! The snake lost consciousness upon meeting a man. Look, they will say, here is the man, at a meeting with whom even snakes faint!

And yet I told. Do you know why? Because I'm not the only one who is terrible for the snakes. And you are no better than me. And if you also scare him, he will shudder, turn over and “sting”. It will lie deader than dead, and it will smell of carrion, and flies will flock to the smell. And go away - and it will rise again! And he will rush into the thicket with all legs. Even if you're legless...

Animal bath

And the animals go to the bath. More often than others go to the bath ... wild pigs! Their bath is simple: no steam, no soap, not even hot water. Just a bath - a hole in the ground. The water in the pit is swampy. Instead of soap suds - slurry. Instead of a washcloth - bunches of grass and moss. You would not be lured into such a bath with Snickers. And the boars are walking. That's how they love the bath!

But wild boars go to the bathhouse not at all for what we go to the bathhouse for. We go to wash, and the boars get dirty! We wash off the dirt with a washcloth, and the boars deliberately smear the dirt on themselves. They toss and turn in the mud, splash, and the dirtier they become, the more fun they grunt. And after the bath they are a hundred times dirtier than before. And they are happy, happy: now, through such a mud shell, no biters and bloodsuckers will get to the body! Their bristles are sparse in the summer - so they are smeared. Like we anti-mosquito. They roll out, they get smeared - and they don't itch!

Cuckoo worries

The cuckoo does not build a nest, does not bring out the cuckoo, does not teach them intelligence. She has no worries. But it only seems so to us. In fact, the cuckoo has many worries. And the first concern is to find a nest in which you can throw your testicle. And in which the cuckoo will then be comfortable.

The cuckoo sits secretly and listens to bird voices. In the birch grove the oriole whistled. Her nest is a feast for the eyes: a cradle-cradle in a fork in the branches. The wind shakes the cradle, cradles the chicks. Yes, try to get close to these desperate birds, they will begin to pounce, scream with nasty cat voices. Better not to mess with them.

By the river on dry land, a kingfisher sits thoughtfully. Like looking at his own reflection. And he looks at the fish. And guarding the nest. How can he plant an egg if his nest is in a deep hole, and you can’t squeeze into the hole? Another must be sought.

In the dark spruce forest, someone grumbles in a terrible voice. But the cuckoo knows that it is a harmless dove cooing. There he has a nest on the tree, and it's easy to throw an egg into it. But the pigeon's nest is so loose that it even shines through. And a small cuckoo's egg can fall out through the gap. Yes, the dove itself will throw it out or trample it: it is very small, it is very different from his testicles. Not worth the risk.

Flew along the river. On a stone in the middle of the water, a dipper - a water sparrow crouches and bows. He was not delighted with the cuckoo, but he had such a habit. Here, under the shore, is his nest: a dense moss ball with a hole-entrance on the side. It seems to be suitable, but some kind of damp, damp. And just below it, the water boils. Here the cuckoo will grow up, jump out - and drown. Even though the cuckoo does not grow cuckoos, it still takes care of them. Rushed further.

Further in the riverside uryom, the nightingale whistles. Yes, so loudly and bitingly that even the nearest leaves tremble! She looked out for his nest in the bushes, and already tried to put hers aside, as she sees - the testicles are cracked in it! This is where the chicks will hatch. The nightingale will not incubate her egg. Then you need to fly, look for another nest.

Where to fly? On an aspen, a pied flycatcher whistles: “Twist, twist, twist!” But she has a nest in a deep hollow - how can you lay a testicle in it? And then how will a big cuckoo get out of it, such a narrow one?

Maybe throw an egg to the bullfinches? The nest is suitable, the cuckoo's bullfinch testicles will be easy to throw away.

Hey, bullfinches, what do you feed the bullfinches?

Delicious porridge from different seeds! Nutritious and vitamin.

Again, not that, the cuckoo is upset, the cuckoo needs meat dishes: spider beetles, larvae caterpillars. He will wither away from your filthy porridge, get sick and die!

The sun is noon, and the testicle is still not attached. I wanted to give a warbler a blackhead, but in time I remembered that her testicles are brown, and hers are blue. The sharp-eyed warbler will immediately see it and throw it away. The cuckoo screamed in a voice that was not her own: “Cli-cli-cli-cli! I've been rushing about all day, I've waved all the wings - I can't pick up a cuckoo's nest! And everyone points a finger: carefree, heartless, she doesn’t care about her children. And I..."

He suddenly hears a very familiar whistle, I still remember it from childhood: “Fyut, tak-tik!” Why, so her foster mother screamed! And waving her red tail. Redstart coot! So I’ll throw my egg to her: since I myself survived and grew up in such a place, then nothing will happen to my foundling. And she will not notice anything: her testicles are the same blue as mine. And so she did. And she laughed merrily, as only female cuckoos can do: “Hee-hee-hee!” Finally!

She demolished her own - she swallowed the master's: so that the score would converge. But her worries did not end there - a dozen more must be thrown up! Run through the forest again, look again, fistula. And who will sympathize? Still called carefree and heartless.

And they will do it right!

Nightingale songs are fed

The nightingale sang in the bird cherry: loudly, bitingly. The tongue in the gaping beak beat like a bell. He sings and sings - when he has time. After all, you will not be full of songs alone.

He hung his wings, threw back his head and clicks out such ringing trills that the park flies out of the beak!

And mosquitoes flock to the park, to the living warmth. They curl over the gaping beak, ask for themselves in the mouth. And the nightingale clicks its songs and ... mosquitoes! Connects pleasant and useful. Does two things at once. And they say that the songs of the nightingale do not feed.

Hawk

The sparrowhawk lives in the forest, where there are no quails in sight. And there is enough of everyone who turns up under his paw: thrushes, finches, tits, skates. And how enough: from the ground, from a bush, from a tree - and even in the air! And small birds are afraid of him almost to the point of fainting.

Just now the ravine rattled with bird songs, but the sparrowhawk swept by, the birds screamed in fright at once - and it was as if the ravine had died out! And fear will hang over him for a long, long time. Until the bravest finch comes to his senses and gives a voice. Then all the others will revive.

By autumn, sparrowhawks fly out of the forest and circle over villages and fields. Now soaring, now flickering with ruffled wings, now they don’t even think of hiding. And they, so noticeable now, are not very much afraid. Now they won't be taken by surprise. And swifts, wagtails and swallows even chase them, trying to pinch them. And the sparrowhawk now runs away from them, then he pounces on them. And this is no longer like hunting, but like a game: a game from youth, from an excess of strength! But beware if he rushes from an ambush!

The sparrowhawk sat in the depths of a spreading willow and patiently waited for the sparrows to appear on the sunflowers. And as soon as they stuck around the sunny "baskets", he rushed at them, spreading his claws. But the sparrows turned out to be shot, experienced, rushed from the hawk straight into the wattle fence and pierced it like fish through a holey net. And the hawk from acceleration almost killed himself on this fence!

He glanced around with piercing eyes, sat on the wattle fence over the hidden sparrows: I didn’t take you from the summer - I’ll exhaust you like that!

There is already someone! The sparrow hawk is up on a stake, the sparrows rustle under the wattle with their mice under the wattle fence, they almost burrow into the ground with fear. A hawk jumped down to them - the sparrows slipped through the cracks on the other side. And the hawk can't get through. Then the hawk through the wattle fence - the sparrows are back in the crack! And he sees the eye, but the beak is numb.

But one young sparrow could not stand it and rushed from a terrible place. The sparrowhawk immediately behind him and already stretched out his paw in order to grab his tail on the fly, and the little sparrow head into the very thick willow in which the sparrowhawk had been hiding before. As if he dived into the water, pierced it like a wattle fence with holes in it. He wasn't that stupid after all. And the hawk got stuck, fluttering in the branches, as in a dense net.

Cunning sparrows led the hawk, flew away with nothing. He went into the fields - to catch quails. Since it's a sparrowhawk.

Pay

The owl robs at night when nothing is visible. And maybe she even thinks that no one will recognize her, the robber. But still, just in case, he hides for a day in the thick of branches. And dozes without moving.

But not every day she manages to sit out. Either the rogue kinglets will see, then the big-eyed tits will notice - they will immediately raise a cry. And if you translate from bird language into human, you get swearing and insults. Everyone who hears flocks to the cry, everyone whom the owl has harmed. They flicker around, flutter around, strive to pinch. The owl only turns its head and snaps its beak. Small birdies are not afraid of her with pinches, but with their cry. Jays, magpies, and crows can fly to their fuss. And these can ask a real bashing - pay for her night raids.

The owl could not stand it, broke loose and flew, silently maneuvering between the branches. And all the little things are behind her! Okay, now I took yours - let's see what happens at night ...

Walking through a fairy tale

What is easier: a snail, a spider, a flower. Without looking to step over - and further.

Yes, only after all, you will step over a miracle!

The same snail at least. He wanders the earth and, on the move, lays a path under himself - silvery, mica. Wherever she goes - a tablecloth to her path! And the house on the back is like a tourist's backpack. Well, imagine: you go and carry the house! Wow! Tired, put the house next to it, climbed into it and sleep without worries. And it does not matter that there are no windows and no doors.

Stay at the spider too: this is not a simple spider, but an invisible spider. Touch it with a blade of grass, it will begin to sway with fright, faster and faster - until it turns into a slightly shining haze - as if it will dissolve in the air. Here he is, but not visible! And you thought that invisible people only exist in fairy tales.

Or this flower. He was blinded by nature, blind and unreasonable - illiterate! - from a lump of earth, a dewdrop and a drop of the sun. And you, literate, can you do this? And here it is, miraculous, in front of you - in all its glory. Watch and remember.

To visit the forest is like leafing through fairy tales. They are everywhere: above the head, on the sides, under the feet.

Don't step over - hold on!

How the bear was turned over

Birds and animals have suffered from the hard winter. Whatever the day - a blizzard, whatever the night - frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in the den. I forgot, probably, that it's time for him to roll over to the other side.

There is a forest sign: as the Bear turns over on the other side, so the sun will turn to the summer.

The patience of birds and animals has burst. Send the Bear to wake up:

- Hey, Bear, it's time! Winter is over for everyone! We missed the sun. Roll over, roll over, bed sores, I suppose?

The bear does not hum in response: it doesn’t move, it doesn’t stir. Know snoring.

- Oh, to beat him in the back of the head! exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I suppose it would immediately move!

“No, no,” moaned the Elk, “you have to be respectful, respectful with him. Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and beg: roll over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not nice. We, moose, are standing in an aspen forest, like cows in a stall: you can’t take a step to the side. The snow is deep in the forest! Trouble if the wolves sniff out about us.

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:

- And what do I care about you, moose! The deep snow is good for me: it’s warm and I sleep peacefully.

Here the White Partridge wailed:

- Aren't you ashamed, Bear? All the berries, all the bushes with buds were covered with snow - what do you order us to peck? Well, why should you roll over on the other side, hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!

And the Bear is his:

- Even funny! You are tired of winter, and I turn over from side to side! Well, what do I care about the kidneys and berries? I have a supply of fat under the skin.

The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:

- Oh, you shaggy mattress, it's too lazy to roll over, you see! And you would have jumped on the branches with ice cream, you would have skinned your paws to the blood, like me! .. Roll over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!

- Four five six! Bear laughs. - That scared me! And well - shoo otsedova! You interfere with sleep.

The animals tucked their tails in, the birds hung their noses - they began to disperse. And then out of the snow the Mouse suddenly leaned out and how it squeaked:

- So big, but scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, short-haired, like that? He doesn't understand well or badly. It is necessary with him in our way, in a mouse way. You ask me - I will turn it over in an instant!

Are you a bear? the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! Mouse boasts.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.

Runs on it, scratches with claws, bites with teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a piglet, kicked his legs.

- Oh, I can't! - howls. - Oh, I'll roll over, just don't tickle! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!

And the steam from the lair is like smoke from a chimney.

The mouse leaned out and squeaked:

- Turned over like a little one! I would have been told a long time ago.

Well, as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to the summer. Every day - the sun is higher, every day - spring is closer. Every day - brighter, more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

H odes under the ice! All fish are sleepy - you alone, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's wrong with you, huh?

- And the fact that for all fish in winter - winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter - summer! You, perches, doze, and we, burbots, play weddings, caviar with a sword, rejoice, have fun!

- Come on, perch brothers, to Burbot for the wedding! We will disperse our sleep, have fun, have a bite of burbot caviar ...

Otter and Raven

- Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?

- I did not expect, Otter, from you such a question. They got wet in the stream, froze, so they kindled a fire. They warm up by the fire.

- Strange ... But in winter I always bask in the water. There is never frost in the water!

Hare and Vole

- Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, endure until spring. And where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas ...

- Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring, not far off, but under your feet! Dig the snow to the ground - there is a green lingonberry, and a cuff, and a strawberry, and a dandelion. And sniff and eat.

Badger and Bear

- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?

- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. So, brother, I accelerated - the fifth month without waking up. All sides lay down!

- Or maybe, Bear, it's time for us to get up?

- It's not time. Sleep some more.

- And we will not oversleep spring with you from acceleration?

- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.

- And what is she - will she knock on us, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels? I, Misha, fear is heavy on the rise!

- Whoa! You'll jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under the sides - I suppose you won’t lie down! Sleep while dry.

Magpie and Dipper

- Oh-oh-oh, Olyapka, did you think of swimming in the wormwood?!

And swim and dive!

- Will you freeze?

- My pen is warm!

- Will you get wet?

- I have a water-repellent feather!

- Will you drown?

- I can swim!

- BUT … a … Are you hungry after swimming?

- Aya, for this I dive, to have a bite with a water bug!

winter debts

Sparrow chirped on a dunghill - and jumps! And the Crow croaks with its nasty voice:

- What, Sparrow, rejoiced at, why chirped?

“The wings itch, Crow, the nose itches,” Sparrow replies. - Passion to fight hunting! And don't croak here, don't spoil my spring mood!

- I'll ruin it! - Crow does not lag behind. How can I ask a question!

- In scared!

- And I'll scare you. Did you peck crumbs in the garbage in the winter?

- Pecked.

- Did you pick up grain at the barnyard?

- Picked.

- Did you have lunch in the bird cafeteria near the school?

Thanks guys for feeding me.

- That's it! - Crow yells. “What are you thinking of paying for all this?” With your chirping?

- Am I the only one who used it? Sparrow was confused. - And the Tit was there, and the Woodpecker, and the Magpie, and the Jackdaw. And you, Crow, were...

- Do not confuse others! - Crow wheezes. - You answer for yourself. Borrowed - give back! Like all decent birds do.

- Decent, maybe they do, - Sparrow got angry. “But are you doing it, Crow?”

- I'll cry first! Do you hear the tractor plowing in the field? And after him, I choose all kinds of root beetles and root rodents from the furrow. And Magpie and Jackdaw help me. And looking at us, other birds are trying.

“You don’t vouch for others either!” - Sparrow rests. - Others may have forgotten to think.

But the Crow does not let up:

- And you fly and check!

Sparrow flew to check. He flew into the garden - there the Tit lives in a new nest box.

- Congratulations on your new home! Sparrow says. - For joy, I suppose I forgot about the debts!

- Do not forget, Sparrow, that you are! - Replies Sinica. - The guys treated me with delicious lard in the winter, and I will treat them with sweet apples in the fall. I guard the garden from codling moths and leafworms.

- For what need, Sparrow, did you fly into the forest to me?

“Yes, they demand payment from me,” Sparrow chirps. - And you, Woodpecker, how do you pay? BUT?

“I’m trying so hard,” Woodpecker answers. - I protect the forest from woodworms and bark beetles. I fight them without sparing my stomach! Even got fat...

“Look at you,” Sparrow thought. - I thought...

Sparrow returned to the dunghill and said to the Crow:

- Yours, hag, the truth! All for winter debts work out. Am I worse than others? How can I start feeding my chicks with mosquitoes, horseflies and flies! So that the bloodsuckers do not bite these guys! I'll pay back my debts!

He said so and let's jump up and chirp again on the dunghill. Bye free time there is. Until the sparrows hatch in the nest.

Polite Jackdaw

I have many acquaintances among wild birds. I know one sparrow. He is all white - an albino. You can immediately distinguish him in a flock of sparrows: everyone is gray, but he is white.

I know forty. I distinguish this one by impudence. In winter, it used to be that people hung food out the window, so she would immediately fly in and ruffle everything.

But I noticed one jackdaw for her politeness.

There was a blizzard.

In early spring there are special blizzards - solar. Snow whirlwinds curl in the air, everything sparkles and rushes! Stone houses look like rocks. There is a snowstorm at the top, from the roofs, as from mountains, snowy waterfalls flow. Icicles from the wind grow in different directions, like a shaggy beard of Santa Claus.

And above the eaves, under the roof, there is a secluded place. There, two bricks fell out of the wall. In this recess, my jackdaw settled down. All black, only on the neck is a gray collar. The jackdaw basked in the sun and even pecked at some tidbit. Cubby!

If I were that jackdaw, I wouldn't give up this place to anyone!

And suddenly I see: another one flies up to my big jackdaw, smaller and dimmer in color. Jump-jump on the ledge. Wag your tail! She sat opposite my jackdaw and looked. The wind flutters it - so it wrings its feathers, so it whips with white grits!

My jackdaw grabbed a piece of her beak - and walked out of the recess onto the ledge! I gave way to a stranger's warm place!

And someone else's jackdaw grabs a piece from my beak - and on her warm place. She pressed someone else's piece with her paw - she pecks. Here is shameless!

My jackdaw on the eaves - under the snow, in the wind, without food. The snow cuts her, the wind wrings her feathers. And she, fool, suffers! Does not kick out the little one.

“Probably,” I think, “someone else’s jackdaw is very old, so they give way to her place. Or maybe this is a well-known and respected jackdaw? Or maybe she is small, but remote - a fighter. I didn't understand anything then...

And recently I see: both jackdaws - mine and someone else's - are sitting side by side on an old chimney and both have twigs in their beaks.

Hey, let's build a nest together! Here everyone will understand.

And the little jackdaw is not at all old and not a fighter. Yes, and she is not a stranger now.

And my friend big jackdaw is not a jackdaw at all, but a gal!

But still my friend gal is very polite. I see this for the first time.

Black grouse notes

Black grouse do not sing in the forests yet. Still only writing notes. This is how they write music. One flies from a birch to a white meadow, puffs out his neck like a rooster. And mince legs in the snow, mince. He drags his half-bent wings, the snow furrows his wings - he draws musical lines.

The second black grouse will fly off and follow the first one through the snow as soon as it starts! So the points with your feet on the musical lines and arrange: “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si!”

The first one immediately into the fray: do not interfere, they say, to compose! Chufyrknet on the second yes on his lines behind him: “Si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do!”

He will drive away, raise his head up, think. He mutters, mutters, turns back and forth and writes down his mumbling on his lines with his paws. For memory.

Fun! They walk, run - line the snow with wings on musical lines. They mumble, they chime, they compose. They compose their spring songs and write them down in the snow with their legs and wings.

But soon the grouse will finish composing songs - they will begin to learn. Then they will fly up to high birch trees - from above, you can clearly see the notes! - and they will sing. Everyone will sing the same way, everyone has the same notes: grooves and crosses, crosses and grooves.

They learn everything and learn it until the snow melts. And it will come down - it does not matter: they sing from memory. During the day they sing, in the evening they sing, but especially in the morning.

They sing well, like the notes!

Whose thaw?

I saw Forty-first thawed patch - a dark speck on white snow.

- My! – shouted. - My thaw, since I saw it first!

There are seeds on the thawed patch, spider bugs swarm, the lemongrass butterfly lies on its side - it warms up. Magpie's eyes fled, and her beak was already open, but out of nowhere - Rook.

“Hey, grow up, I’ve already arrived!” In winter, she roamed through the crow's garbage dumps, and now on my thawed patch! Ugly!

- Why is she yours? - Magpie chirped. - I saw it first!

“You saw it,” Rook barked, “and I dreamed about her all winter.” For a thousand miles to her in a hurry! For her sake, he left the warm countries. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Where there are thawed patches, there we are, rooks. My thaw!

- What is he croaking here! - Magpie rumbled. - All winter in the south, he warmed himself, basked, ate and drank what he wanted, and returned - give him a thawed patch without a queue! And I froze all winter, rushed from the garbage heap to the landfill, swallowed snow instead of water, and now, a little alive, weak, I finally looked out for a thawed patch, and that one is taken away. You, Rook, are only dark in appearance, but you are on your own mind. Shoo from the thawed patch until it pecked at the crown of the head!

Lark flew up to the noise, looked around, listened and chirped:

- Spring, the sun, the sky is clear, and you quarrel. And where - on my thaw! Do not overshadow the joy of meeting her. I want songs!

Magpie and Rook only fluttered their wings.

Why is she yours? This is our thaw, we found it. Magpie waited for her all winter, looked through all her eyes.

And maybe I was in such a hurry from the south to her that I almost dislocated my wings on the way.

- And I was born on it! squeaked the Lark. - If you look, you can also find shells from the egg from which I hatched! I remember, it used to be, in winter in a foreign land, a native nest - and reluctance to sing. And now the song is torn from the beak - even the tongue is trembling.

Skylark jumped up onto a bump, screwed up his eyes, his neck trembled - and the song flowed like a spring stream: it rang, gurgled, murmured. Magpie and Rook gaped their beaks - they listened. They will never sing like that, their throat is not right, they can only chirp and croak.

They would probably have listened for a long time, languishing in the spring sun, but suddenly the earth trembled under their feet, swelled up like a tubercle and crumbled.

And the Mole looked out - sniffed.

- Did you hit the thaw hole right away? So it is: the earth is soft, warm, there is no snow. And it smells... Phew! Does it smell like spring? Spring, is it cha, are you upstairs?

- Spring, spring, digger! - Magpie shouted peevishly.

- Knew where to please! Grach growled suspiciously. Even if you're blind...

- Why do you need our thawed patch? screeched Skylark.

The mole sniffed at the Rook, at the Magpie, at the Lark - with his eyes he sees badly! sneezed and said:

“I don't need anything from you. And I don't need your thaw. Here I will push the earth out of the hole and back. Because I feel: it's bad for you. Quarrel, almost fight. Moreover, it is light, dry, and the air is fresh. Not like in my dungeon: dark, damp, musty. Grace! You still have some kind of spring here ...

- How can you say that? Skylark was horrified. “Do you know, excavator, what spring is!”

I don't know and I don't want to know! Mole snorted. - I don’t need any spring, I have the same underground all year round.

- In the spring, thawed patches appear, - Magpie, Lark and Rook said dreamily.

“And scandals begin on thawed patches,” the Mole snorted again. – And for what? Thaw like thaw.

- Don't tell me! Magpie jumped up. - And the seeds? And the beetles? Are the sprouts green? All winter without vitamins.

- Sit, walk, stretch! Grach growled. - Digging with your nose in the warm earth!

- And it’s good to sing over thawed patches! Skylark yelled. - How many thawed patches in the field - so many larks. And everyone sings! There is nothing better than a thaw in spring.

- Why are you arguing then? Mole didn't understand. - The lark wants to sing - let him sing. Rook wants to march - let him march.

- Correctly! Soroka said. - And while I'm busy with seeds and beetles ...

Here the shouting and squabbling began again.

And while they were shouting and quarreling, new thawed patches appeared in the field. Birds scattered over them to meet spring. Sing songs, dig in the warm earth, kill the worm.

- It's time for me too! The mole said. And he fell into a place where there is no spring, no thawed patches, no sun and no moon, no wind and no rain. And where even to argue with no one. Where it's always dark and quiet.

How the bear was turned over

Birds and animals have suffered from the hard winter. Whatever the day - a blizzard, whatever the night - frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in the den. I forgot, probably, that it's time for him to roll over to the other side.
There is a forest sign: as the Bear turns over on the other side, so the sun will turn to the summer.
The patience of birds and animals has burst. Send the Bear to wake up:
- Hey, Bear, it's time! Winter is over for everyone! We missed the sun. Roll over, roll over, bed sores, I suppose?
The bear does not hum in response: it doesn’t move, it doesn’t stir. Know snoring.
- Oh, to beat him in the back of the head! exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I suppose it would immediately move!
“No, no,” moaned the Elk, “you have to be respectful, respectful with him. Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and beg: roll over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not nice. We, moose, are standing in an aspen forest, like cows in a stall: you can’t take a step to the side. The snow is deep in the forest! Trouble if the wolves sniff out about us.

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:
- And what do I care about you, moose! The deep snow is good for me: it’s warm and I sleep peacefully.
Here the White Partridge wailed:
- Aren't you ashamed, Bear? All the berries, all the bushes with buds were covered with snow - what do you order us to peck? Well, why should you roll over on the other side, hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!
And the Bear is his:
- Even funny! You are tired of winter, and I turn over from side to side! Well, what do I care about the kidneys and berries? I have a supply of fat under the skin.
The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:
- Oh, you shaggy mattress, it's too lazy to roll over, you see! And you would have jumped on the branches with ice cream, you would have skinned your paws to the blood, like me! .. Roll over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!

- Four five six! Bear laughs. - That scared me! And well - shoo otsedova! You interfere with sleep.
The animals tucked their tails in, the birds hung their noses - they began to disperse. And then out of the snow the Mouse suddenly leaned out and how it squeaked:
- So big, but scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, short-haired, like that? He doesn't understand well or badly. It is necessary with him in our way, in a mouse way. You ask me - I will turn it over in an instant!
Are you a bear? the animals gasped.
- With one left paw! Mouse boasts.
The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.
Runs on it, scratches with claws, bites with teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a piglet, kicked his legs.
- Oh, I can't! - howls. - Oh, I'll roll over, just don't tickle! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!
And the steam from the lair is like smoke from a chimney.
The mouse leaned out and squeaked:
- Turned over like a little one! I would have been told a long time ago.
Well, as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to the summer. Every day - the sun is higher, every day - spring is closer. Every day - brighter, more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

H odes under the ice! All fish are sleepy - you alone, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's wrong with you, huh?
- And the fact that for all fish in winter - winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter - summer! You, perches, doze, and we, burbots, play weddings, caviar with a sword, rejoice, have fun!
- Come on, perch brothers, to Burbot for the wedding! We will disperse our sleep, have fun, have a bite of burbot caviar ...

Otter and Raven

- Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?
- I did not expect, Otter, from you such a question. They got wet in the stream, froze, so they kindled a fire. They warm up by the fire.
- Strange ... But in winter I always bask in the water. There is never frost in the water!

Hare and Vole

- Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, endure until spring. And where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas ...
- Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring, not far off, but under your feet! Dig the snow to the ground - there is a green lingonberry, and a cuff, and a strawberry, and a dandelion. And sniff and eat.

Badger and Bear

- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?
- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. So, brother, I accelerated - the fifth month without waking up. All sides lay down!

- Or maybe, Bear, it's time for us to get up?
- It's not time. Sleep some more.
- And we will not oversleep spring with you from acceleration?
- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.
- And what is she - will she knock on us, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels? I, Misha, fear is heavy on the rise!
- Whoa! You'll jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under the sides - I suppose you won’t lie down! Sleep while dry.

Magpie and Dipper

- Oh-oh-oh, Olyapka, did you think of swimming in the wormwood?!
And swim and dive!
- Will you freeze?
- My pen is warm!

- Will you get wet?
- I have a water-repellent feather!
- Will you drown?
- I can swim!
- BUT … a … Are you hungry after swimming?
- Aya, for this I dive, to have a bite with a water bug!

winter debts

Sparrow chirped on a dunghill - and jumps! And the Crow croaks with its nasty voice:
- What, Sparrow, rejoiced at, why chirped?
“The wings itch, Crow, the nose itches,” Sparrow replies. - Passion to fight hunting! And don't croak here, don't spoil my spring mood!
- I'll ruin it! - Crow does not lag behind. How can I ask a question!
- In scared!
- And I'll scare you. Did you peck crumbs in the garbage in the winter?
- Pecked.
- Did you pick up grain at the barnyard?
- Picked.
- Did you have lunch in the bird cafeteria near the school?
Thanks guys for feeding me.
- That's it! - Crow yells. “What are you thinking of paying for all this?” With your chirping?
- Am I the only one who used it? Sparrow was confused. - And the Tit was there, and the Woodpecker, and the Magpie, and the Jackdaw. And you, Crow, were...
- Do not confuse others! - Crow wheezes. - You answer for yourself. Borrowed - give back! Like all decent birds do.
- Decent, maybe they do, - Sparrow got angry. “But are you doing it, Crow?”
- I'll cry first! Do you hear the tractor plowing in the field? And after him, I choose all kinds of root beetles and root rodents from the furrow. And Magpie and Jackdaw help me. And looking at us, other birds are trying.
“You don’t vouch for others either!” - Sparrow rests. - Others may have forgotten to think.
But the Crow does not let up:
- And you fly and check!
Sparrow flew to check. He flew into the garden - there the Tit lives in a new nest box.
- Congratulations on your new home! Sparrow says. - For joy, I suppose I forgot about the debts!
- Do not forget, Sparrow, that you are! - Replies Sinica. - The guys treated me with delicious lard in the winter, and I will treat them with sweet apples in the fall. I guard the garden from codling moths and leafworms.
There is nothing to do, Sparrow flew on. He flew into the forest - there the Woodpecker knocks. I saw Sparrow - I was surprised:
- For what need, Sparrow, did you fly into the forest to me?
“Yes, they demand payment from me,” Sparrow chirps. - And you, Woodpecker, how do you pay? BUT?
“I’m trying so hard,” Woodpecker answers. - I protect the forest from woodworms and bark beetles. I fight them without sparing my stomach! Even got fat...
“Look at you,” Sparrow thought. - I thought...
Sparrow returned to the dunghill and said to the Crow:
- Yours, hag, the truth! All for winter debts work out. Am I worse than others? How can I start feeding my chicks with mosquitoes, horseflies and flies! So that the bloodsuckers do not bite these guys! I'll pay back my debts!
He said so and let's jump up and chirp again on the dunghill. As long as there is free time. Until the sparrows hatch in the nest.

Polite Jackdaw

I have many acquaintances among wild birds. I know one sparrow. He is all white - an albino. You can immediately distinguish him in a flock of sparrows: everyone is gray, but he is white.
I know forty. I distinguish this one by impudence. In winter, it used to be that people hung food out the window, so she would immediately fly in and ruffle everything.
But I noticed one jackdaw for her politeness.
There was a blizzard.
In early spring there are special blizzards - solar. Snow whirlwinds curl in the air, everything sparkles and rushes! Stone houses look like rocks. There is a snowstorm at the top, from the roofs, as from mountains, snowy waterfalls flow. Icicles from the wind grow in different directions, like a shaggy beard of Santa Claus.
And above the eaves, under the roof, there is a secluded place. There, two bricks fell out of the wall. In this recess, my jackdaw settled down. All black, only on the neck is a gray collar. The jackdaw basked in the sun and even pecked at some tidbit. Cubby!
If I were that jackdaw, I wouldn't give up this place to anyone!
And suddenly I see: another one flies up to my big jackdaw, smaller and dimmer in color. Jump-jump on the ledge. Wag your tail! She sat opposite my jackdaw and looked. The wind flutters it - so it wrings its feathers, so it whips with white grits!

My jackdaw grabbed a piece of her beak - and walked out of the recess onto the ledge! I gave way to a stranger's warm place!
And someone else's jackdaw grabs a piece from my beak - and on her warm place. She pressed someone else's piece with her paw - she pecks. Here is shameless!
My jackdaw on the eaves - under the snow, in the wind, without food. The snow cuts her, the wind wrings her feathers. And she, fool, suffers! Does not kick out the little one.
“Probably,” I think, “someone else’s jackdaw is very old, so they give way to her place. Or maybe this is a well-known and respected jackdaw? Or maybe she is small, but remote - a fighter. I didn't understand anything then...
And recently I see: both jackdaws - mine and someone else's - are sitting side by side on an old chimney and both have twigs in their beaks.
Hey, let's build a nest together! Here everyone will understand.
And the little jackdaw is not at all old and not a fighter. Yes, and she is not a stranger now.
And my friend big jackdaw is not a jackdaw at all, but a gal!
But still my friend gal is very polite. I see this for the first time.

Black grouse notes

Black grouse do not sing in the forests yet. Still only writing notes. This is how they write music. One flies from a birch to a white meadow, puffs out his neck like a rooster. And mince legs in the snow, mince. He drags his half-bent wings, the snow furrows his wings - he draws musical lines.
The second black grouse will fly off and follow the first one through the snow as soon as it starts! So the points with your feet on the musical lines and arrange: “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si!”
The first one immediately into the fray: do not interfere, they say, to compose! Chufyrknet on the second yes on his lines behind him: “Si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do!”
He will drive away, raise his head up, think. He mutters, mutters, turns back and forth and writes down his mumbling on his lines with his paws. For memory.
Fun! They walk, run - line the snow with wings on musical lines. They mumble, they chime, they compose. They compose their spring songs and write them down in the snow with their legs and wings.
But soon the grouse will finish composing songs - they will begin to learn. Then they will fly up to high birch trees - from above, you can clearly see the notes! - and they will sing. Everyone will sing the same way, everyone has the same notes: grooves and crosses, crosses and grooves.
They learn everything and learn it until the snow melts. And it will come down - it does not matter: they sing from memory. During the day they sing, in the evening they sing, but especially in the morning.
They sing well, like the notes!

Whose thaw?

I saw Forty-first thawed patch - a dark speck on white snow.
- My! – shouted. - My thaw, since I saw it first!
There are seeds on the thawed patch, spider bugs swarm, the lemongrass butterfly lies on its side - it warms up. Magpie's eyes fled, and her beak was already open, but out of nowhere - Rook.
“Hey, grow up, I’ve already arrived!” In winter, she roamed through the crow's garbage dumps, and now on my thawed patch! Ugly!
- Why is she yours? - Magpie chirped. - I saw it first!
“You saw it,” Rook barked, “and I dreamed about her all winter.” For a thousand miles to her in a hurry! For her sake, he left the warm countries. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Where there are thawed patches, there we are, rooks. My thaw!
- What is he croaking here! - Magpie rumbled. - All winter in the south, he warmed himself, basked, ate and drank what he wanted, and returned - give him a thawed patch without a queue! And I froze all winter, rushed from the garbage heap to the landfill, swallowed snow instead of water, and now, a little alive, weak, I finally looked out for a thawed patch, and that one is taken away. You, Rook, are only dark in appearance, but you are on your own mind. Shoo from the thawed patch until it pecked at the crown of the head!
Lark flew up to the noise, looked around, listened and chirped:
- Spring, the sun, the sky is clear, and you quarrel. And where - on my thaw! Do not overshadow the joy of meeting her. I want songs!
Magpie and Rook only fluttered their wings.
Why is she yours? This is our thaw, we found it. Magpie waited for her all winter, looked through all her eyes.
And maybe I was in such a hurry from the south to her that I almost dislocated my wings on the way.

- And I was born on it! squeaked the Lark. - If you look, you can also find shells from the egg from which I hatched! I remember, it used to be, in winter in a foreign land, a native nest - and reluctance to sing. And now the song is torn from the beak - even the tongue is trembling.
Skylark jumped up onto a bump, screwed up his eyes, his neck trembled - and the song flowed like a spring stream: it rang, gurgled, murmured. Magpie and Rook gaped their beaks - they listened. They will never sing like that, their throat is not right, they can only chirp and croak.
They would probably have listened for a long time, languishing in the spring sun, but suddenly the earth trembled under their feet, swelled up like a tubercle and crumbled.
And the Mole looked out - sniffed.
- Did you hit the thaw hole right away? So it is: the earth is soft, warm, there is no snow. And it smells... Phew! Does it smell like spring? Spring, is it cha, are you upstairs?
- Spring, spring, digger! - Magpie shouted peevishly.
- Knew where to please! Grach growled suspiciously. Even if you're blind...
- Why do you need our thawed patch? screeched Skylark.
The mole sniffed at the Rook, at the Magpie, at the Lark - with his eyes he sees badly! sneezed and said:
“I don't need anything from you. And I don't need your thaw. Here I will push the earth out of the hole and back. Because I feel: it's bad for you. Quarrel, almost fight. Moreover, it is light, dry, and the air is fresh. Not like in my dungeon: dark, damp, musty. Grace! You still have some kind of spring here ...
- How can you say that? Skylark was horrified. “Do you know, excavator, what spring is!”
I don't know and I don't want to know! Mole snorted. - I don’t need any spring, I have the same underground all year round.
- In the spring, thawed patches appear, - Magpie, Lark and Rook said dreamily.
“And scandals begin on thawed patches,” the Mole snorted again. – And for what? Thaw like thaw.
- Don't tell me! Magpie jumped up. - And the seeds? And the beetles? Are the sprouts green? All winter without vitamins.
- Sit, walk, stretch! Grach growled. - Digging with your nose in the warm earth!
- And it’s good to sing over thawed patches! Skylark yelled. - How many thawed patches in the field - so many larks. And everyone sings! There is nothing better than a thaw in spring.
- Why are you arguing then? Mole didn't understand. - The lark wants to sing - let him sing. Rook wants to march - let him march.
- Correctly! Soroka said. - And while I'm busy with seeds and beetles ...
Here the shouting and squabbling began again.
And while they were shouting and quarreling, new thawed patches appeared in the field. Birds scattered over them to meet spring. Sing songs, dig in the warm earth, kill the worm.
- It's time for me too! The mole said. And he fell into a place where there is no spring, no thawed patches, no sun and no moon, no wind and no rain. And where even to argue with no one. Where it's always dark and quiet.

Hare round dance

Frost is still outside. But a special frost, spring. The ear that is in the shade freezes, and that in the sun burns. Drops from green aspens, but the droplets do not reach the ground, they freeze on the fly into ice. On the sunny side of the trees, the water glistens, and the shady side is covered with a frosted shell of ice.
Willows turned red, alder thickets turned red. Snow melts and burns during the day, frost snaps at night. It's time for rabbit songs. It's time for the night hare round dances.
How hares sing, you can hear at night. And how they lead a round dance, you can’t see it in the dark.
But you can understand everything from the footprints: there was a straight hare path - from stump to stump, through bumps, through fallen trees, under white snow gates - and suddenly spun in unimaginable loops! Eights among the birches, round dance circles around the Christmas trees, a carousel between the bushes.
It was as if the heads of the hares were spinning, and they went to wind and confuse.
They sing and dance: “Gu-gu-gu-gu-u! Goo-goo-goo!"
How they blow into birch pipes. Even the split lips are shaking!
They don’t care about foxes and owls now. All winter they lived in fear, all winter they hid and were silent. Enough!
March in the yard. The sun overcomes the frost.
It's time for rabbit songs.
Time for hare dances.

Inhuman steps

Early spring, evening, deep forest swamp. In the light, damp pine forest, there is still snow here and there, and in the warm spruce forest on the hillock it is already dry. I enter a dense spruce forest, as if I were entering a dark barn. I stand, I am silent, I listen.
Around the black trunks of firs, behind them a cold yellow sunset. And an amazing silence when you hear the beats of the heart and your own breathing. A thrush on a spruce crown whistles lazily and loudly in silence. He whistles, listens, and in response to him - silence ...
And suddenly in this transparent and breathless silence - heavy, heavy, inhuman steps! Splashes of water and tinkling of ice. To-py, then-py, then-py! It is as if a heavily laden horse is pulling a cart through the swamp with difficulty. And immediately, like a blow, a stunning rumbling roar! The forest trembled, the earth shook.
The heavy footsteps died away: light, hectic, hasty steps were heard.
Light steps overtook heavy ones. Top-top-slap - and stop, top-top-slap - and silence. It was not easy for hurried steps to catch up with slow and heavy ones.
I leaned back against the trunk.
It became completely dark under the fir trees, and only the swamp between the black trunks was dully white.
The beast roared again - as if it had slammed from a cannon. And again the forest gasped and the earth swayed.
I'm not making this up: the forest really trembled, the earth really shook! A fierce roar - like a hammer blow, like a roll of thunder, like an explosion! But he did not generate fear, but respect for his unbridled strength, for this cast-iron throat, erupting like a volcano.

Light steps hurried, hurried: moss smacked, ice crunched, water splashed.
I have long understood that these are bears: a child and a mother.
The child does not keep up, lags behind, and my mother smells me, gets angry and worried.
Mom warns that the teddy bear is not alone here, that she is close, that it is better not to touch him.
I understood her well: she warns convincingly.
Heavy steps are inaudible: the bear is waiting. And the light ones hurry, hurry. Here is a quiet squeal: the bear cub has been spanked - keep up! Here are heavy and light steps walking side by side: to-py, to-py! Slap-slap-slap! More and more, quieter. And they fell silent.

And again silence.
Drozd stopped whistling. Lunar spots lay on the trunks.
Stars flared in black puddles.
Each puddle is like a window open to the night sky.
It's creepy to step through those windows right into the stars.
Slowly I wander to my fire. Sweet heart squeezes.
And in my ears the mighty call of the forest is buzzing and buzzing.

Thrush and Owl

Listen, explain to me: how to distinguish an owl from an owl?
- It depends on what kind of owl ...
- What an owl ... Ordinary!
- There is no such owl. There is a barn owl, a gray owl, a hawk owl, a marsh owl, a polar owl, a long-eared owl ...
- Well, what kind of owl are you?
- I something? I am a long-tailed owl.
- Well, how to distinguish you from an owl?
- It depends on which owl ... There is a dark owl - forest, there is a light owl - desert, and there is also a fish owl ...
- Ugh, you evil spirits of the night! Everything was so confused that you yourself, go, don’t figure out who is who!
– Ho-ho-ho-ho! Boo!

Five black grouse

A hazel grouse flew to the side of the grouse current and started his song: “Five-yat, five-yat, five black grouse!” I counted: six braids on the current! Five aside in the snow, and the sixth sits next to the hut, on a gray hummock.
And the hazel grouse: “Five-yat, five-yat, five black grouse!”
- Six! I say.
“Five, five, five black grouse!”
- Six! I tapped my knee. - You can't count!
Nearest - the sixth - heard, got scared and flew away.
“Five, five, five black grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.
I am silent. I see five. The sixth one left.
And the hazel grouse does not let up: “Five-yat, five-yat, five black grouse!”
- I'm not arguing! I say. - Five is five!
“Five, five, five black grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.
I can see without you! I barked. - Don't be blind!
How they chirp, how the white wings flutter—and not a single black grouse is left!
And the hazel grouse flew away with them.

Notepad forgot

I walk through the forest and get upset: I forgot my notebook! And in the forest today, as if on purpose, there are so many different events! Spring lingered, lingered, and that's how it burst. It finally turned out to be a warm and wet day, and the winter collapsed at once. The roads are muddy, the snow is swollen, the bare alders are covered in raindrops, warm steam is stirring over the thawed patches. The birds seemed to have escaped from their cages: hubbub, chirping and whistling. In the swamp, cranes trumpet, lapwings squeal over puddles, curlews whistle on melted hummocks. Thrushes, finches, bramblings, greenfinches fly over the forest alone, in groups, in flocks. News from all sides - just have time to turn your head!
The first white-browed thrush sang, the first black-eyed oystercatcher yelled, the first snipe, the wood lamb, bleated. What to do with such a flood of spring news?
How convenient it was: I saw and wrote down, heard and wrote down. You walk through the woods and put the news in your notebook, like mushrooms in a basket. Once - and in a notebook, two - and in a notebook. A full notebook of news, even a pocket pulls ...
And now? Look, listen and remember everything. Be afraid to miss the smallest thing, be afraid to forget, confuse, make a mistake. Put the news not in a notebook, but in yourself. What are you - a backpack or a basket?
With a notepad, it’s convenient and simple: “The first snipe bleated.” Or: "The robin sang on the Christmas tree." And that's it. How printed. Notch for memory, message note.
And now if you please, this very robin, who suddenly decided to sing, and together with a huge Christmas tree, in whose paws, as in wide palms, the fragments of her glass song roll, ringing, manage to put on the shelf of your memory and save.

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