Description: War Thunder is a next generation military MMO game dedicated to...
... And little by little the beginning back
Pull him: to the village, to the dark garden,
Where the lindens are so huge, so shady,
And lilies of the valley are so virginally fragrant,Where are the round willows above the water
From the dam they leaned in succession,
Where a fat oak grows over a fat cornfield,
Where it smells of hemp and nettles ...There, there, in the open fields,
Where the earth turns black with velvet,
Where is the rye, wherever you throw your eyes,
It flows quietly with soft waves.And a heavy yellow beam falls
Because of transparent, white, round clouds;It's good there. . . . . . . . .
(From a poem burnt)
The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to confine myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot but say a few words about the hunt.
Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, fur sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot but envy our brother... Listen.
Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to leave in the spring before dawn? You go out onto the porch ... In the dark gray sky, stars twinkle here and there; a damp breeze occasionally runs in a light wave; a restrained, indistinct whisper of the night is heard; the trees faintly rustle, drenched in shade. Here they put a carpet on the cart, put a box with a samovar at the feet. The tie-downs huddle, snort, and dapperly step over their feet; a pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the wattle fence, in the garden, the watchman snores peacefully; each sound seems to stand in the frozen air, stands and does not pass. Here you sat down; the horses set off at once, the cart rattled loudly ... You drive - you drive past the church, from the mountain to the right, across the dam ... The pond barely begins to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with the collar of your overcoat; you are dozing. Horses slap their feet loudly through the puddles; the coachman whistles. But now you have driven off about four versts ... The edge of the sky is turning red; in birch trees they wake up, jackdaws awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air is brighter, the road is more visible, the sky is clearer, the clouds are turning white, the fields are turning green. Splinters burn with red fire in the huts, sleepy voices are heard outside the gates. And meanwhile the dawn flares up; golden streaks have already stretched across the sky, vapors swirl in the ravines; the larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blew - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will rush in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, love! Visible all around. There is a village beyond the grove; over there is another one with a white church, over there is a birch forest on the mountain; behind it is a swamp, where are you going ... Quicker, horses, quicker! Big trot ahead! .. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising fast; the sky is clear... The weather will be nice. The herd stretched out of the village towards you. You climbed the mountain... What a view! The river winds for ten versts, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery-green meadows; gentle hills beyond the meadows; in the distance, lapwings hover over the swamp with a cry; through the damp sheen, spilled in the air, the distance clearly stands out ... not like in summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring! ..
A summer, July morning! Who, except the hunter, has experienced how gratifying it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? A green line lies the trace of your feet on the dewy, whitened grass. You will move apart a wet bush - you will be showered with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the air is full of fresh bitterness of wormwood, honey of buckwheat and "porridge"; in the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and the sun shines and reddens; still fresh, already felt the proximity of the heat. Head languidly spinning from an excess of fragrance. There is no end to the shrub... In some places, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. Here the cart creaked; a peasant makes his way at a step, puts the horse in advance in the shade ... You greeted him, moved away - the sonorous clang of a scythe is heard behind you. The sun is getting higher and higher. Grass dries quickly. It's already hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; the still air blazes with prickly heat.
Where, brother, here to get drunk? - you ask the mower.
And over there, in the ravine, a well.
Through dense hazel bushes, entangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Precisely: under the very cliff there is a source; an oak bush greedily spread its palmate boughs over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom, covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe odorous dampness; you feel good, but against you the bushes become hot and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came up and rushed; the air trembled all around: is it not thunder? You are coming out of a ravine… what is that lead line in the sky? Is the heat thickening? Is a cloud approaching?.. But then the lightning flashed weakly ... Eh, yes, this is a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing: its front edge is stretched out by a sleeve, tilted by a vault. Grass, bushes, everything suddenly darkened ... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see a hay shed ... hurry up! .. You ran and entered ... What is the rain like? what are lightning bolts? In some places, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay ... But then the sun began to play again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles all around, how fresh and liquid the air, how it smells of wild strawberries and mushrooms!..
But then the evening comes. The dawn blazed with fire and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; in the distance lies a soft steam, warm in appearance; together with the dew, a scarlet gleam falls on the glades, until recently drenched in streams of liquid gold; long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the high stacks of hay... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of the sunset... Here it is turning pale; blue sky; separate shadows disappear, the air is filled with haze. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing your gun over your shoulders, you go quickly, despite your fatigue ... And meanwhile, night is coming; for twenty steps it is no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky is vaguely clear ... What is it? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. And down below, to the right, the lights of the village are already flickering ... Finally, your hut. Through the window you see a table covered with a white tablecloth, a burning candle, dinner ...
And then you order to lay the racing droshky and go to the forest for hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears of wheat softly beat you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; long, hanging branches of birches hardly move; a mighty oak stands like a fighter, next to a beautiful linden. You are driving along a green, shadowy path; big yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, brightening in the shade, darkening in the sun; the birds howl peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds innocent, talkative joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest is dying... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and the surroundings are so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came up, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown foliage; mushrooms stand separately under their caps. A hare suddenly jumps out, a dog with a sonorous bark rushes after ...
And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in soft air an autumn smell is poured, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...
And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...
Foggy summer days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you can’t shoot: a bird, fluttering out from under your feet, immediately disappears in a whitish haze of a motionless fog. But how still, how inexpressibly still all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it basks. Through thin steam, evenly poured in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You mistake her for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of sagebrush on the boundary. Above you, all around you, fog is everywhere ... But then the wind stirs slightly - a patch of pale blue sky vaguely emerges through the thinning, as if smoking steam, a golden-yellow ray bursts suddenly, streams in a long stream, hits the fields, rests against a grove - and now again everything was screwed up. This struggle has been going on for a long time; but how unspeakably splendid and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread out like tablecloths, or soar and disappear into the deep, gently shining heights ...
But now you have gathered in the outgoing field, in the steppe. About ten versts you made your way along country roads - here, finally, is a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through boundless fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from rakita to rakita; women, with a long rake in their hands, wander into the field; a passer-by in a worn nanke coat, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, harnessed by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. A corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the heels, on a bag, holding on to a string, a footman in an overcoat sits sideways, spattered to the very eyebrows. Here is a county town with crooked wooden houses, endless fences, merchants' uninhabited stone buildings, an old bridge over a deep ravine ... Further, further! .. Let's go to the steppe places. You look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed up and sown to the top, scatter in broad waves; ravines overgrown with bushes wind between them; small groves are scattered in oblong islands; narrow paths run from village to village; the churches are whitening; a river sparkles between the vines, intercepted by dams in four places; far away in the field, drachvas stick out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, the trees are almost invisible. Here it is, finally - the boundless, boundless steppe!
And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts for hares, breathing in frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring in green the sky above the reddish forest!.. And the first days of spring, when everything around it glitters and collapses, through the heavy vapor of melted snow it already smells of warmed earth, on the thawed patches, under the slanting beam of the sun, larks sing trustingly, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, from ravine in the ravine swirling streams ...
However, it's time to end. By the way, I started talking about spring: in spring it is easy to part, in spring the happy ones are drawn into the distance ... Farewell, reader; I wish you continued well-being.
And then you order to lay the racing droshky and go to the forest for hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears of wheat softly beat you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; long, hanging branches of birches hardly move; a mighty oak stands like a fighter, next to a beautiful linden. You are driving along a green, shadowy path; big yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, brightening in the shade, darkening in the sun; the birds howl peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds innocent, talkative joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest is dying... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and the surroundings are so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came up, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown foliage; mushrooms stand separately under their caps. A hare suddenly jumps out, a dog with a sonorous bark rushes after ...
And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...
And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...
Foggy summer days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you can’t shoot: a bird, fluttering out from under your feet, immediately disappears in a whitish haze of a motionless fog. But how still, how inexpressibly still all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it basks. Through thin steam, evenly poured in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You mistake her for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of sagebrush on the boundary. Above you, all around you, fog is everywhere ... But then the wind stirs slightly - a patch of pale blue sky vaguely emerges through the thinning, as if smoking steam, a golden-yellow ray bursts suddenly, streams in a long stream, hits the fields, rests against a grove - and now again everything was screwed up. This struggle has been going on for a long time; but how unspeakably splendid and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread out like tablecloths, or soar and disappear into the deep, gently shining heights ...
But now you have gathered in the outgoing field, in the steppe. About ten versts you made your way along country roads - here, finally, is a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through boundless fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from rakita to rakita; women, with a long rake in their hands, wander into the field; a passer-by in a worn nanke coat, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, harnessed by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. A corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the heels, on a bag, holding on to a string, a footman in an overcoat sits sideways, spattered to the very eyebrows. Here is a county town with crooked wooden houses, endless fences, merchants' uninhabited stone buildings, an old bridge over a deep ravine ... Further, further! .. Let's go to the steppe places. You look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed up and sown to the top, scatter in broad waves; ravines overgrown with bushes wind between them; small groves are scattered in oblong islands; narrow paths run from village to village; the churches are whitening; a river sparkles between the vines, intercepted by dams in four places; far away in the field, drachvas stick out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, the trees are almost invisible. Here it is, finally - the boundless, boundless steppe!
And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts after hares, breathing in frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring the green color of the sky over a reddish forest! .. And the first spring days, when everything around shines and collapses, through The steam of melted snow already smells of warm earth, on the thawed patches, under the slanting ray of the sun, larks sing trustingly, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, streams swirl from ravine to ravine ...
However, it's time to end. By the way, I started talking about spring: in spring it is easy to part, in spring the happy ones are drawn into the distance ... Farewell, reader; I wish you continued well-being.
There is no wind and no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly rush by; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before your eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...
And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when the birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in the pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, quietly lifting scattered geese and ducks, in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...
G. Skrebitsky
November
According to the calendar, November is considered the last autumn month. But in our middle lane it is often the beginning of winter. Every day the morning frosts are getting stronger and stronger. When the children go to school, ice is already crunching under their feet.
The river near the banks also froze, only in the middle the water is still free of ice. And wide ice rims appeared on the lakes. A small pond near the village has already completely covered with ice, but you can’t walk on it - it is still very thin.
Reservoirs, large and small, are covered with ice. And here is the snow. More and more often white flies of winter fly in the air, sit on the ground, on the roofs of houses and sheds. They will sit and disappear again - they will melt. And again the bare deserted fields and forests frown.
Cold, uncomfortable. All living things hid from the storm.
Animals dress in winter fur coats, warm and fluffy. In such a fur coat, they are not afraid of the piercing autumn wind.
Late fall. A sad time of the year, but it is a wonderful time for hunters. While deep snow has not yet fallen in the fields and forests, you don’t need to put on a short fur coat, felt boots, you don’t need to drag heavy skis with you. Put on a padded jacket, threw a gun over his shoulder and go wherever you want. You can travel dozens of kilometers in a day.
At this time in the forest it is very convenient to follow the animals and birds. There are no more leaves on the bushes and trees, the grass has dried up, the autumn rains have nailed it to the ground. It is not easy at this time for the four-legged and winged inhabitants of the forest to hide from the keen eye of the hunter-tracker.
For young naturalists it is good time to observe the life of forest dwellers.
For those of you guys who hardened themselves in the summer, who are not afraid of rain and cold, there are many things that can and should be observed in the autumn fields and forests.
A. Blok
Bunny
little bunny
On a damp valley
Before the eyes were amused
White flowers...burst into tears in autumn
thin blades,
Paws are advancing
On yellow leaves.Gloomy, rainy
Autumn has come,
Removed all the cabbage
Nothing to steal.The poor bunny is jumping
Near the wet pines
Scary in the paws of the wolf
Gray to get ...Thinking about summer
presses his ears,
Squinting at the sky -
Can't see the sky...Just to be warmer
Just to dry...
Very unpleasant
Walk on water!
S. Aksakov
Autumn
I love autumn, even the latest, but not the one everyone loves.
I love not frosty, red, windy days almost from morning to evening; I love warm, gray, quiet and, perhaps, rainy days.
I am disgusted by the harshness of irritable dry air, and the mild humidity, even the dampness of the atmosphere, is pleasant to me; from the rain, of course, not torrential, you can always protect yourself.
Autumn, deep autumn! The sky is gray, low, heavy, damp clouds, gardens, groves and forests become bare and transparent. Everything is visible through and through in the most deaf woody thicket, where in the summer the human eye did not penetrate.
The old trees have long since fallen, and only young individual birch trees still retain their withered yellowish leaves, shining with gold when the slanting rays of the low autumn sun touch them.
Evergreen spruces and pines, as if rejuvenated, stand out brightly through the reddish network of birch branches, refreshed by cold air, fine, like steam, rains and damp night fogs.
The earth is covered with dry, varied and multi-colored leaves: soft and puffy in wet weather, so that the rustle of the feet of a cautiously stepping hunter is not heard, and hard, fragile in frosts, so that birds flutter far from the rustle of human feet.
If it is quiet in the air, then cautious jumps of a hare and a squirrel and all sorts of forest animals are heard at a great distance, easily distinguished by the experienced and sensitive ear of the hunter.
Tits of all kinds, which do not fly away for the winter, except for the roadside tit, which has long since disappeared, have advanced towards human habitation, especially the Muscovite tit, which is called the Novgorod tit in St.
Her sonorous, piercing whistle is often heard in the house through the closed windows. The bullfinches also got out of the forest thicket and appeared in the gardens and orchards, and their creaking singing, not without some pleasant melody, is quietly heard in the bare bushes and trees.
Blackbirds that had not yet flown away with choking and squealing, gathered in large flocks, fly to gardens and urems, where elderberries, honeysuckle and even more red brushes of mountain ash and viburnum beckon them. The bird cherry berries they love have long dried up and fallen off, but they will not be wasted: all will be picked up from the ground by greedy guests. Here a village of blackbirds flies noisily - and right into the park. Some will sit on the trees, while others will descend to the ground and jump in all directions.
First, they will quiet down for two hours, quietly satisfying their hunger, and then, having satiated themselves, stuffing their goiters, they will gather in a heap, sit on several trees and begin to sing, because they are song thrushes.
Not everyone sings well, but probably old ones; others only squeal; but the general chorus is very pleasant; he will amaze and delight the one who hears him for the first time, because they have long been silent bird voices and in such late autumn you will not hear the former varied singing, but only the cries of birds, and then for the most part of woodpeckers, bullfinches and demons.
The river took on a special appearance, as if changed, straightened in its bends, became much wider, because the water is visible through the bare branches of the leaning alder branches and the leafless twigs of the coastal bushes, and even more because the water color has disappeared from the cold and that the coastal water grasses , beaten by frost, withered and sank to the bottom.
In rivers, lakes and ponds with a clay and especially sandy bottom, the water brightened and became transparent as glass; but the rivers and rivers are dammed, flowing slowly, get a bluish-green color, however, this is an optical illusion; the water in them is completely clear, but the bottom is covered with settled scum, small green moss or short water silk - and the water gets a greenish color from its lining, just like crystal or glass, lined with green foil, seems green.
I love this kind of autumn not only as a hunter, but as a passionate lover of nature in all its various changes.
... And little by little the beginning back
Pull him: to the village, to the dark garden,
Where the lindens are so huge, so shady,
And lilies of the valley are so virginally fragrant,
Where are the round willows above the water
From the dam they leaned in succession,
Where a fat oak grows over a fat cornfield,
Where it smells of hemp and nettles ...
There, there, in the open fields,
Where the earth turns black with velvet,
Where is the rye, wherever you throw your eyes,
It flows quietly with soft waves.
And a heavy yellow beam falls
Because of transparent, white, round clouds;
It's good there. . . . . . . . .
(From a poem burnt)
The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to confine myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot but say a few words about the hunt.
Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, fur sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot but envy our brother... Listen.
Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to leave in the spring before dawn? You go out onto the porch ... In the dark gray sky, stars twinkle here and there; a damp breeze occasionally runs in a light wave; a restrained, indistinct whisper of the night is heard; the trees faintly rustle, drenched in shade. Here they put a carpet on the cart, put a box with a samovar at the feet. The tie-downs huddle, snort, and dapperly step over their feet; a pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the wattle fence, in the garden, the watchman snores peacefully; each sound seems to stand in the frozen air, stands and does not pass. Here you sat down; the horses set off at once, the cart rattled loudly ... You drive - you drive past the church, from the mountain to the right, across the dam ... The pond barely begins to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with the collar of your overcoat; you are dozing. Horses slap their feet loudly through the puddles; the coachman whistles. But now you have driven off about four versts ... The edge of the sky is turning red; in birch trees they wake up, jackdaws awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air is brighter, the road is more visible, the sky is clearer, the clouds are turning white, the fields are turning green. Splinters burn with red fire in the huts, sleepy voices are heard outside the gates. And meanwhile the dawn flares up; golden streaks have already stretched across the sky, vapors swirl in the ravines; the larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blew - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will rush in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, love! Visible all around. There is a village beyond the grove; over there is another one with a white church, over there is a birch forest on the mountain; behind it is a swamp, where are you going ... Quicker, horses, quicker! Big trot ahead! .. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising fast; the sky is clear... The weather will be nice. The herd stretched out of the village towards you. You climbed the mountain... What a view! The river winds for ten versts, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery-green meadows; gentle hills beyond the meadows; in the distance, lapwings hover over the swamp with a cry; through the damp sheen, spilled in the air, the distance clearly stands out ... not like in summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring! ..
A summer, July morning! Who, except the hunter, has experienced how gratifying it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? A green line lies the trace of your feet on the dewy, whitened grass. You will move apart a wet bush - you will be showered with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the air is full of fresh bitterness of wormwood, honey of buckwheat and "porridge"; in the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and the sun shines and reddens; still fresh, already felt the proximity of the heat. Head languidly spinning from an excess of fragrance. There is no end to the shrub... In some places, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. Here the cart creaked; a peasant makes his way at a step, puts the horse in advance in the shade ... You greeted him, moved away - the sonorous clang of a scythe is heard behind you. The sun is getting higher and higher. Grass dries quickly. It's already hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; the still air blazes with prickly heat.
Where, brother, here to get drunk? - you ask the mower.
And over there, in the ravine, a well.
Through dense hazel bushes, entangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Precisely: under the very cliff there is a source; an oak bush greedily spread its palmate boughs over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom, covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe odorous dampness; you feel good, but against you the bushes become hot and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came up and rushed; the air trembled all around: is it not thunder? You are coming out of a ravine… what is that lead line in the sky? Is the heat thickening? Is a cloud approaching?.. But then the lightning flashed weakly ... Eh, yes, this is a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing: its front edge is stretched out by a sleeve, tilted by a vault. Grass, bushes, everything suddenly darkened ... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see a hay shed ... hurry up! .. You ran and entered ... What is the rain like? what are lightning bolts? In some places, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay ... But then the sun began to play again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles all around, how fresh and liquid the air, how it smells of wild strawberries and mushrooms!..
But then the evening comes. The dawn blazed with fire and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; in the distance lies a soft steam, warm in appearance; together with the dew, a scarlet gleam falls on the glades, until recently drenched in streams of liquid gold; long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the high stacks of hay... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of the sunset... Here it is turning pale; blue sky; separate shadows disappear, the air is filled with haze. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing your gun over your shoulders, you go quickly, despite your fatigue ... And meanwhile, night is coming; for twenty steps it is no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky is vaguely clear ... What is it? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. And down below, to the right, the lights of the village are already flickering ... Finally, your hut. Through the window you see a table covered with a white tablecloth, a burning candle, dinner ...
And then you order to lay the racing droshky and go to the forest for hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears of wheat softly beat you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; long, hanging branches of birches hardly move; a mighty oak stands like a fighter, next to a beautiful linden. You are driving along a green, shadowy path; big yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, brightening in the shade, darkening in the sun; the birds howl peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds innocent, talkative joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest is dying... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and the surroundings are so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came up, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown foliage; mushrooms stand separately under their caps. A hare suddenly jumps out, a dog with a sonorous bark rushes after ...
And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...
And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...
Foggy summer days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you can’t shoot: a bird, fluttering out from under your feet, immediately disappears in a whitish haze of a motionless fog. But how still, how inexpressibly still all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it basks. Through thin steam, evenly poured in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You mistake her for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of sagebrush on the boundary. Above you, all around you, fog is everywhere ... But then the wind stirs slightly - a patch of pale blue sky vaguely emerges through the thinning, as if smoking steam, a golden-yellow ray bursts suddenly, streams in a long stream, hits the fields, rests against a grove - and now again everything was screwed up. This struggle has been going on for a long time; but how unspeakably splendid and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread out like tablecloths, or soar and disappear into the deep, gently shining heights ...
But now you have gathered in the outgoing field, in the steppe. About ten versts you made your way along country roads - here, finally, is a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through boundless fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from rakita to rakita; women, with a long rake in their hands, wander into the field; a passer-by in a worn nanke coat, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, harnessed by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. A corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the heels, on a bag, holding on to a string, a footman in an overcoat sits sideways, spattered to the very eyebrows. Here is a county town with crooked wooden houses, endless fences, merchants' uninhabited stone buildings, an old bridge over a deep ravine ... Further, further! .. Let's go to the steppe places. You look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed up and sown to the top, scatter in broad waves; ravines overgrown with bushes wind between them; small groves are scattered in oblong islands; narrow paths run from village to village; the churches are whitening; a river sparkles between the vines, intercepted by dams in four places; far away in the field, drachvas stick out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, the trees are almost invisible. Here it is, finally - the boundless, boundless steppe!
And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts after hares, breathing in frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring the green color of the sky over a reddish forest! .. And the first spring days, when everything around shines and collapses, through The steam of melted snow already smells of warm earth, on the thawed patches, under the slanting ray of the sun, larks sing trustingly, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, streams swirl from ravine to ravine ...
However, it's time to end. By the way, I started talking about spring: in spring it is easy to part, in spring the happy ones are drawn into the distance ... Farewell, reader; I wish you continued well-being.
Current page: 6 (total book has 6 pages)
G. Skrebitsky
September
The air got cold. Leaves turned yellow on bushes and trees. The forest is dressed in a multi-colored dress. Rooks and other migratory birds have long gathered in flocks. And finally, in the cool autumn sky, the farewell chirping of cranes is heard.
Summer is over - it's time for fun walks in the forest for berries, for mushrooms. Swimming in the river is over. The carefree days of complete rest are over for the guys. Now, with new forces, you need to take up the teachings, and only Sundays remain for trips to the forest or to the river.
But these few days young naturalists must make the best use of them.
Autumn - September, October, November - the most interesting time for observations in nature. After all, at this time, all animals are preparing for winter. Most of the birds fly away for the winter warm countries. Many animals insulate nests and dens for winter, and some drag food supplies to their “pantries” and “cellars”. The squirrel prepares nuts and acorns in hollows and wood lye, and dries mushrooms on tree branches.
Insects: butterflies, beetles, ants, as soon as it gets cold, they hide in all directions. Some hide in different cracks, others climb into earthen minks. There, insects, those that do not die in autumn, fall asleep until spring.
Frogs, snakes, lizards and even some animals also fall asleep for the winter: hedgehogs, dormouse, chipmunks. The largest of our forest animals - the bear - also arranges a "winter bedroom" for itself and dozes in it all the long winter.
Since autumn, he has been choosing dense forest convenient place for a den. He drags fallen leaves, moss, dry grass there. Makes a great bed. Now he is not afraid of frost or wind. Lie down and lie down until warm spring days.
Have you guys forgotten to keep track of the calendar? Remember: June 21 was the longest day and the most short night. But from the twentieth of June, the day began to wane. And on September 21, the length of the day and night will again be equal. There will come a day autumn equinox. From this date, the night will lengthen, and the day will begin to wane and wane, and so on until the second half of December.
The dark time is coming, the time of long autumn nights and short days.
N. Sladkov
gold autumn
All summer the leaves exposed their palms and cheeks, backs and tummies to the sun. And before that they were filled and soaked with the sun that by autumn they became like the suns - crimson and gold. They poured, became heavy and flowed. Golden rain rustled in the forest!
A drop will click on the leaf - the leaf will fall off. Tits on the branches are imported - leaves will splatter on the sides. The wind will suddenly fly in - a motley tornado will spin. And if a heavy kosach breaks into branches in flight, a sparkling leafy waterfall will gush!
Christmas trees were decorated with colorful leaves, mushrooms hid under the leaves, ferns warmed up under the leaves.
The leaves rustle, scrape, murmur. Leaves fly, jump, swim. Leaves sway on cobwebs. Leaves above, below and around.
Noisy golden rain.
K. Balmont
Autumn
Cowberry ripens
The days got colder.
And from the bird's cry
The heart is only sadder.Flocks of birds fly away
Away, beyond the blue sea.
All the trees are shining
In multi-colored attire.The sun laughs less
There is no incense in flowers.
Soon autumn will wake up -
And cry awake.
M. Lermontov
motherland
(Excerpt)
... I like to ride in a cart on a country road
And, with a slow gaze piercing the shadow of the night,
Meet around, sighing about an overnight stay,
The trembling lights of sad villages;I love the smoke of the burnt stubble,
In the steppe, an overnight convoy
And on a hill in the middle of a yellow field
A couple of whitening birches.With joy, unknown to many,
I see a complete threshing floor
Thatched hut,
With carved shutters window ...
I. Sokolov-Mikitov
The cranes are flying away
In the golden, autumn days, the cranes were going to fly away. Preparing for a long journey, they circled over the river, over their native swamp. Having gathered in slender shoals, they pulled to distant warm countries. Through the forests, through the fields, through the noisy cities, cranes flew high in the sky. In a dense forest, on the edge of a swamp, we stopped to rest.
Even before dawn, sensitive cranes woke up. A little glimmers over the river, over the forest black tops of the early dawn. The dense forest seems dark and gloomy at this time. One by one, the cranes rise from the swamp.
At this early hour, birds wake up in the forest, agile waders run along the shore. Soon the cheerful sun will rise over the river and the forest. Everything will then shine, everything will change in the autumn dark forest.
Cranes will rise high. From the high clear sky we will hear their parting voices.
Goodbye, goodbye, cranes! See you in the spring!
G. Skrebitsky
October
The sky frowns. Often from low clouds splashes on the ground small cold rain. The forest has long shed its leaves, it is all naked, hushed. In the fields and on the river, too, is not more fun. Everywhere is empty, cold and gloomy. The water in the river seems to be some kind of gray, thick. It reflects low clouds. And when the wind rises, steep waves run along the river one after another. They hiss angrily and whip up dirty yellow foam near the shore.
Entire flocks of migratory northern ducks visit us at this time, rest and feed, so that later they can move on their way to the south.
Underwater inhabitants of rivers and lakes are also preparing for wintering. This is well known to every angler.
With the onset of cold weather, different fish behave differently. Inhabitants of stagnant waters - ponds and lakes - lazy, clumsy crucian carp and tench in autumn, as soon as it gets cold, hide to the bottom in underwater thickets, sometimes even burrow into the silt and doze there. Try to catch a crucian or tench on a bait in the cold - it is unlikely to succeed. But River fish- roach, perch, ruff - at this time eagerly grabs the bait. The toothy pike is also in a hurry to eat up for the winter. But burbot has a particularly large appetite. All summer he dozed in a hole under snags or among stones. But autumn came, cold, bad weather began, then the burbot woke up from a nap, crawled out from under the snag and began to hunt for fish, frogs and other living creatures. To this glutton, whatever living thing gets caught, it will eat everything.
K. Ushinsky
From childhood memories
The Intercession is our temple holiday. How many people were in the church, and how cheerful everyone was! AT this year big harvest!
The last apples were picked in our garden yesterday; only on one mountain ash the berries still turn red and wait for the first frost.
The green groves have turned into colorful ones; the aspen trembles, all gold and purple; the wind breaks off the last leaves, the wings of the mills do not stop spinning, my new kite flies high, and in the entrance there are already prepared winter frames.
I. Turgenev
Forest in autumn
There is no wind and no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly rush by; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before your eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...
And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when the birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in the pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, quietly raising scattered geese and ducks, in the distance the mill knocks, half-closed with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...
G. Skrebitsky
November
According to the calendar, November is considered the last month of autumn. But in our middle lane it is often already the beginning of winter. Every day the morning frosts are getting stronger and stronger. When the children go to school, ice is already crunching under their feet.
The river near the banks also froze, only in the middle the water is still free of ice. And wide ice rims appeared on the lakes. A small pond near the village is completely covered with ice, but you can’t walk on it - it is still very thin.
Reservoirs, large and small, are covered with ice. And here is the snow. More and more often white flies of winter fly in the air, sit on the ground, on the roofs of houses and sheds. They will sit and disappear again - they will melt. And again the bare deserted fields and forests frown.
Cold, uncomfortable. All living things hid from the storm.
Animals dress in winter fur coats, warm and fluffy. In such a fur coat, they are not afraid of the piercing autumn wind.
Late fall. A sad time of the year, but it is a wonderful time for hunters. While deep snow has not yet fallen in the fields and forests, you don’t need to put on a short fur coat, felt boots, you don’t need to drag heavy skis with you. Put on a padded jacket, threw a gun over his shoulder and go wherever you want. You can travel dozens of kilometers in a day.
At this time in the forest it is very convenient to follow the animals and birds. There are no more leaves on the bushes and trees, the grass has dried up, the autumn rains have nailed it to the ground. It is not easy at this time for the four-legged and winged inhabitants of the forest to hide from the keen eye of the hunter-tracker.
For young naturalists, this is a good time to observe the life of forest dwellers.
For those of you guys who hardened themselves in the summer, who are not afraid of rain and cold, there are many things that can and should be observed in the autumn fields and forests.
A. Blok
Bunny
little bunny
On a damp valley
Before the eyes were amused
White flowers...burst into tears in autumn
thin blades,
Paws are advancing
On yellow leaves.Gloomy, rainy
Autumn has come,
Removed all the cabbage
Nothing to steal.The poor bunny is jumping
Near the wet pines
Scary in the paws of the wolf
Gray to get ...Thinking about summer
presses his ears,
Squinting at the sky -
Can't see the sky...Just to be warmer
Just to dry...
Very unpleasant
Walk on water!
S. Aksakov
Autumn
I love autumn, even the latest, but not the one everyone loves.
I love not frosty, red, windy days almost from morning to evening; I love warm, gray, quiet and, perhaps, rainy days.
I am disgusted by the harshness of irritable dry air, and the mild humidity, even the dampness of the atmosphere, is pleasant to me; from the rain, of course, not torrential, you can always protect yourself.
Autumn, deep autumn! The sky is gray, low, heavy, damp clouds, gardens, groves and forests become bare and transparent. Everything is visible through and through in the most deaf woody thicket, where in the summer the human eye did not penetrate.
The old trees have long since fallen, and only young individual birch trees still retain their withered yellowish leaves, shining with gold when the slanting rays of the low autumn sun touch them.
Evergreen spruces and pines, as if rejuvenated, stand out brightly through the reddish network of birch branches, refreshed by cold air, fine, like steam, rains and damp night fogs.
The earth is covered with dry, varied and multi-colored leaves: soft and puffy in wet weather, so that the rustle of the feet of a cautiously stepping hunter is not heard, and hard, fragile in frosts, so that birds flutter far from the rustle of human feet.
If it is quiet in the air, then cautious jumps of a hare and a squirrel and all sorts of forest animals are heard at a great distance, easily distinguished by the experienced and sensitive ear of the hunter.
Titmouse of all kinds, which do not fly away for the winter, except for the roadside tit, which has disappeared for a long time, have advanced to human habitation, especially the Muscovite tit, called the Novgorod tit in St. Petersburg, but in the Orenburg province - beskom.
Her sonorous, piercing whistle is often heard in the house through the closed windows. The bullfinches also got out of the forest thicket and appeared in the gardens and orchards, and their creaking singing, not without some pleasant melody, is quietly heard in the bare bushes and trees.
Thrushes that have not yet flown away with choking and screeching, having gathered in large flocks, fly into gardens and urems. 49
Urema - forest and bushes near the river, flooded with water.
Where elder berries, honeysuckle and even more red brushes of mountain ash and viburnum beckon them. The bird cherry berries they love have long dried up and fallen off, but they will not be wasted: all will be picked up from the ground by greedy guests. Here a village of blackbirds flies noisily - and straight into the park. Some will sit on the trees, while others will descend to the ground and jump in all directions.
First, they will quiet down for two hours, quietly satisfying their hunger, and then, having satiated themselves, stuffing their goiters, they will gather in a heap, sit on several trees and begin to sing, because they are song thrushes.
Not everyone sings well, but probably old ones; others only squeal; but the general chorus is very pleasant; he will amaze and delight the one who hears him for the first time, because the bird voices have long been silent and in such a late autumn you will not hear the former varied singing, but only the cries of birds, and then mostly woodpeckers, bullfinches and demons.
The river took on a special appearance, as if changed, straightened in its bends, became much wider, because the water is visible through the bare branches of the leaning alder branches and the leafless twigs of the coastal bushes, and even more because the water color has disappeared from the cold and that the coastal water grasses , beaten by frost, withered and sank to the bottom.
In rivers, lakes and ponds with a clay and especially sandy bottom, the water brightened and became transparent as glass; but the rivers and rivers are dammed, flowing slowly, get a bluish-green color, however, this is an optical illusion; the water in them is completely clear, but the bottom is covered with settled scum 50
Shmara - mud on the water.
Small green moss or short water silk - and the water gets a greenish color from its lining, just like crystal or glass lined with green foil appears green.
I love this kind of autumn not only as a hunter, but as a passionate lover of nature in all its various changes.
A. Chekhov
Belated flowers
(Excerpt)
... The day is clear, transparent, slightly frosty, one of those autumn days, in which you willingly put up with the cold, and with dampness, and with heavy galoshes. The air is so transparent that you can see the beak of a jackdaw sitting on the highest bell tower; it is all saturated with the smell of autumn. You will go out into the street, and your cheeks will be covered with a healthy, wide blush, reminiscent of a good Crimean apple. Long-fallen yellow leaves, patiently waiting for the first snow and trampled underfoot, turn golden in the sun, emitting rays from themselves like gold coins. Nature falls asleep quietly, quietly. No wind, no sound. She, motionless and mute, as if tired for spring and summer, basks under the warming, caressing rays of the sun, and looking at this beginning peace, you yourself want to calm down ...
A. Pushkin
* * *
Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less
The day was getting shorter
Forests mysterious canopy
With a sad noise she was naked,
Fog fell on the fields
Noisy geese caravan
Stretched to the south: approaching
Pretty boring time;
November was already at the yard.
G. Snegirev
How birds and animals prepare for winter
The she-bear dug a lair under the roots of an old spruce, covered it with branches, dragged moss. In winter, cubs will appear in her den.
Autumn in the forest. No bird songs are heard. Fieldfare thrushes gather in flocks and feed before moving to warmer climes.
The crake was the first to set off, because it either flies south or walks on foot.
Jay buries acorns in reserve. He chooses the most ripe ones, but often forgets about them, and in the spring young oaks grow from these acorns.
While the ground has not yet been frozen, woodcocks feed in the swamp. The woodcock launches its beak into the ground - pulls out worms and larvae.
Capercaillie swallows pebbles on the river bank. In winter, he pecks at needles, frozen cranberries, and pebbles, like millstones, grind food in capercaillie goiter.
The badgers have gorged themselves during the summer, accumulated fat, and do not go far from the hole.
The squirrel will soon turn gray, put on a winter coat, but for now it stores nuts and acorns. Folds them into a hollow. And he hangs mushrooms on prickly knots - to dry.
The hedgehog found a hole in a rotten stump, dragged leaves there - that's the housing for the winter.
The fox silently sneaks on autumn forest. The leaves in the forest are red, and the fur of the fox is red. It is easy for a fox to sneak up on prey unnoticed.
Fallen hares hid. They don't jump, they don't leave marks. And then the fox will find them and eat them. A hare will run past, feed him milk and then jump into the aspen forest.
Flocks of cranes stretched high in the sky. With sad cries they say goodbye to their homeland. Cranes will winter in warm Africa. But as soon as the streams ring in the spring, the grass turns green on the hillocks, the cranes return home to their homeland.
The first snowflakes swirled in the air, and the flocks of geese also flew south.
folk calendar
The folk calendar calls September ryuyin(for yellowing leaves) Sunday(from flowering heather). And also - howler and frowning. The winds howl, the weather frowns, it rains. Summer is over, street festivities and round dances have died down. Goodbye, red sun! It got colder. That's why September was called flight attendant.
AT October fine, clear days will not last long, golden leaves fall. And then comes the storm - october-dirty. It will sow a fine cold rain, dissolve the slush - neither drive nor pass: "October rides on a piebald mare - does not like wheels or runners." October - leaf cutting, October - wedding man. Village weddings began in October.
Breast- so called november(from piles of frozen earth). Leaf purulent- from rotten leaves; semi-winter road- winter and autumn are fighting.
The day is waning, the night is coming, the frosts are getting stronger. Autumn turns into winter.
Riddles autumn
empty fields,
Wet earth,
The rain is pouring.
When does it happen? 51
(in autumn)
Redhead Egorka
Fell on the lake
Didn't drown myself
And he didn't stir up the water. 52
(Autumn leaf)
Grew-grew, from the bush
It got out, it rolled down my arms,
It felt on the teeth. 53
(Hazelnut)
Lying a man in gold
Kaftan, belted, not a belt,
If you don't lift it, it won't get up. 54
(Sheaf)
Old men are standing - red caps;
Whoever approaches, he will bow. 55
(Redhead mushrooms)
Folk proverbs and sayings
Summer with sheaves, autumn with pies.
In the autumn storm, there are seven weathers in the yard - it sows, blows, twists, stirs, and roars, and pours, and sweeps from below!
September is cold, but full.
In the spring the rain grows, and in the autumn it rots.
In November, winter fights with autumn.
The first snowball is not lying.
Folk omens
Thunder in September - warm autumn.
October thunder - to a snowless winter.
From the first snow to the toboggan run 6 weeks.
There are a lot of mountain ash in the forest - autumn will be rainy, few - dry.
Autumn questions
1. On which side of the tree should you look for mushrooms? 56
From the north. Mushrooms do not have green leaves, and they do not need the sun. Mushrooms need moisture.
2. Where can you see spring in autumn? 57
In a small swamp, near the water, where the marigold blooms. It blooms a second time in autumn.
3. What forest bush does not know leaf fall? 58
Lingonberries, heather and cranberries.
4. Whose leaves fall green? 59
In the garden - lilac leaves, in the forest - alder leaves.
5. Which animal will give birth to cubs in autumn in leaf fall? 60
At the hare.
6. Which tree leaves turn red in autumn? 61
Rowan, aspen, maple.
K. Ushinsky
Four wishes
Mitya rode on a sledge from an icy mountain and skated on a frozen river, ran home ruddy, cheerful and said to his father: “How fun it is in winter! I wish it were all winter!”
“Write your wish in my pocket book,” said the father. Mitya wrote.
Spring came. Mitya ran plenty of colorful butterflies across the green meadow, picked flowers, ran to his father and said: “What a charm this spring is! I wish it were all spring."
Father again took out a book and ordered Mitya to write down his wish.
It's summer. Mitya and his father went to haymaking. The boy had fun all day long: he fished, picked berries, somersaulted in fragrant hay, and in the evening he said to his father: “Today I had plenty of fun! I wish there was no end to summer." And this desire of Mitya was written down in the same book.
Autumn has come. In the garden they picked fruits - ruddy apples and yellow pears. Mitya was delighted and said to his father: “Autumn is the best of all seasons!” Then the father took out his notebook and showed the boy that he said the same thing about spring, and about winter, and about summer.
