Stories about the native land for a child of 6 years. My motherland

Stories about the Motherland, about our Russian land, about the endless expanses of our native land in the works of Russian classics by famous writers and teachers Mikhail Prishvin, Konstantin Ushinsky, Ivan Shmelev, Ivan Turgenev, Ivan Bunin, Evgeny Permyak, Konstantin Paustovsky.

My homeland (From childhood memories)

Prishvin M.M.

My mother got up early, before the sun. Once I also got up before the sun, in order to place snares on quails at dawn. My mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in an earthenware pot and was always covered with a ruddy froth on top, and under this froth it was unusually tasty, and tea from it became excellent.

This treat decided my life in good side: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning rising that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then I got up early in the city, and now I always write early, when the whole animal and vegetable world awakens and also begins to work in its own way.

And often, often I think: what if we rose like this for our work with the sun! How much health, joy, life and happiness would then come to people!

After tea, I went hunting for quails, starlings, nightingales, grasshoppers, turtledoves, butterflies. I didn’t have a gun then, and even now a gun is not necessary in my hunting.

My hunting was then and now - in the finds. It was necessary to find in nature something that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one else had ever met with this in their life ...

My farm was large, the paths were countless.

My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is the pantry of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only do these treasures need to be protected - they must be opened and shown.

Fish need clean water - we will protect our reservoirs.

There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains.

Fish - water, bird - air, beast - forest, steppe, mountains.

And a man needs a home. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland.

Our fatherland

Ushinsky K.D.

Our fatherland, our motherland - mother Russia. We call Russia Fatherland because our fathers and grandfathers lived in it from time immemorial.

We call it Motherland because we were born in it. They speak our native language in it, and everything in it is native to us; and mother - because she fed us with her bread, watered us with her waters, learned her language, as a mother she protects and protects us from all enemies.

Great is our Motherland - Holy Russian land! It stretches from west to east for almost eleven thousand miles; and from north to south by four and a half.

Russia is spread not in one, but in two parts of the world: in Europe and in Asia...

There are many in the world, and besides Russia, all sorts of good states and lands, but a person has one own mother - he has one and his homeland.

Russian song

Ivan Shmelev

I looked forward to summer with impatience, following its approach by signs well known to me.

The earliest herald of summer was the striped sack. It was pulled out of a huge camphor-smelling chest, and a pile of canvas jackets and trousers were thrown out of it for trying on. I had to stand in one place for a long time, take it off, put it on, take it off again and put it on again, and they turned me around, stabbed me on me, let me in and let go - “half an inch”. I was sweating and twirling, and behind the frames that had not yet been set, poplar branches swayed with buds gilded with glue, and the sky was joyfully blue.

The second and important sign of spring-summer was the appearance of a red-haired painter, who smelled of spring itself - putty and paints. The painter came to put up the frames - “let the spring in” - to make repairs. He always appeared suddenly and spoke gloomily, swaying:

Well, where do you have what? ..

And with such an air he snatched out chisels from behind the ribbon of a dirty apron, as if he wanted to stab. Then he began to tear the putty and angrily purr under his breath:

I-ah and te-we-nay le-so ...

Yes, yehh and te-we-na-ay ...

Ah-ehh and in the dark-on-am le ...

Yes, and in te ... we-us-mm! ..

And he sang louder and louder. And whether because he only sang about the dark forest, or because he shook his head and sighed, looking furiously from under his brows, he seemed very terrible to me.

Then we got to know him well when he pulled my friend Vaska by the hair.

That was the case.

The painter worked, dined, and fell asleep on the roof of the porch, in the sun. After purring about the dark forest, where “sy-toya-la, oh yes, and so-senka,” the painter fell asleep without saying anything else. He lay on his back, and his red beard looked up at the sky. Vaska and I, so that there was more wind, also climbed onto the roof - to let the "monk". But there was no wind on the roof. Then Vaska, having nothing to do, began to tickle the painter's bare heels with a straw. But they were covered with gray and hard skin, like putty, and the painter did not care. Then I bent to the painter's ear and in a trembling thin voice sang:

And-ah and in te-we-nom le-e...

The painter's mouth twisted, and a smile crept out from under his red mustache onto his dry lips. He must have been pleased, but he still didn't wake up. Then Vaska offered to take up the painter properly. And we got on with it.

Vaska dragged a large brush and a bucket of paint up to the roof and painted the painter's heels. The painter kicked and calmed down. Vaska made a face and continued. He circled the painter at the ankles over the green bracelet, and I carefully painted the thumbs and nails.

The painter was snoring sweetly, probably from pleasure.

Then Vaska drew a wide “vicious circle” around the painter, squatted down and sang a song over the very painter’s ear, which I also picked up with pleasure:

redhead asked:

What did you do with your beard?

I'm not paint, not putty,

I was in the sun!

I lay in the sun

He kept his beard up!

The painter stirred and yawned. We quieted down, and he turned on his side and painted himself. That's where it came from. I waved through the dormer window, and Vaska slipped and fell into the paws of the painter. The painter patted Vaska and threatened to dip him into a pail, but soon became cheerful, stroking Vaska on the back and saying:

Don't cry, fool. The same one grows in my village. That the master's paint has exhausted, fool ... and even roars!

From that moment the painter became our friend. He sang to us the whole song about the dark forest, how they cut down a pine tree, like “oh, how good of a good fellow in someone else’s distant sy-that-ronush-ku! ..”. It was a good song. And he sang it so pitifully that I thought: was it not to himself that he sang it? He also sang songs - about "dark night, autumn", and about "birch tree", and also about "clean field" ...

For the first time then, on the roof of the porch, I felt a world unknown to me until then - longing and expanse, lurking in the Russian song, unknown in the depths of my soul of my native people, tender and stern, covered with coarse clothing. Then, on the roof of the canopy, in the cooing of blue-gray doves, in the dull sounds of a painter's song, new world- and the gentle and harsh nature of the Russian, in which the soul yearns and waits for something ... Then, at my early time, - for the first time, perhaps - I felt the strength and beauty of the Russian folk word, its softness, and affection , and expanse. It just came and gently fell into the soul. Then - I knew him: his strength and sweetness. And I know him...

Village

Ivan Turgenev

The last day of the month of June; for a thousand miles around Russia - native land.

The whole sky is filled with even blue; only one cloud on it - either floating or melting. Calm, warm ... air - fresh milk!

The larks are ringing; goiter doves coo; swallows soar silently; horses snort and chew; dogs do not bark and stand quietly wagging their tails.

And it smells of smoke, and grass - and a little tar - and a little skin. The hemp growers have already entered into force and let out their heavy but pleasant spirit.

Deep but gentle ravine. On the sides in several rows are big-headed, splintered willows from top to bottom. A stream runs along the ravine; at the bottom of it, small pebbles seem to tremble through light ripples. In the distance, at the end-edge of the earth and sky - the bluish line of a large river.

Along the ravine - on one side are neat barns, cells with tightly closed doors; on the other side are five or six pine huts with plank roofs. Above each roof is a tall birdhouse pole; above each porch is a carved iron steep-maned horse. The uneven glass of the windows is cast in the colors of the rainbow. Jugs with bouquets are painted on the shutters. In front of each hut there is a serviceable shop decorously; on the mounds the cats curled up in a ball, pricking their transparent ears; behind the high thresholds, the vestibule darkens coolly.

I am lying at the very edge of the ravine on a spread blanket; all around are whole heaps of freshly mowed, to the point of exhaustion, fragrant hay. The quick-witted owners scattered the hay in front of the huts: let it dry a little more in the sun, and then into the barn! That will sleep nicely on it!

Curly baby heads protrude from every heap; crested hens are looking for midges and insects in the hay; a white-lipped puppy flounders in tangled blades of grass.

The fair-haired guys, in clean, low-belted shirts, in heavy boots with a trim, exchange glib words, leaning their chests on a harnessed cart - they scoff.

A round-faced pullet looks out of the window; laughs either at their words, or at the fuss of the guys in the heaped hay.

Another pullet is dragging a large wet bucket from the well with strong hands... The bucket trembles and swings on the rope, dropping long fiery drops.

In front of me is an old hostess in a new checkered coat, in new cats.

Large puffy beads in three rows twisted around a swarthy, thin neck; a gray-haired head is tied with a yellow scarf with red dots; he hung low over his dull eyes.

But senile eyes smile affably; smiles all wrinkled face. Tea, the old woman is living in her seventies ... and now you can still see: there was a beauty in her time!

Spreading the tanned fingers of her right hand, she holds a pot of cold, unskimmed milk, straight from the cellar; the walls of the pot are covered with dewdrops, like beads. In the palm of her left hand, the old woman brings me a large slice of still warm bread. “Eat, they say, to your health, visiting guest!”

The rooster suddenly roared and flapped its wings busily; in response to him, slowly, the locked calf grunted.

Oh, contentment, peace, abundance of the Russian free countryside! Oh, peace and grace!

And I think: why do we need a cross on the dome of Hagia Sophia in Tsar-Grad, and everything that we city people are striving for?

Mowers

Ivan Bunin

We walked along the high road, and they mowed in a young birch forest near it - and sang.

It was a long time ago, it was an infinitely long time ago, because the life that we all lived at that time will not return forever.

They mowed and sang, and the whole birch forest, which had not yet lost its density and freshness, still full of flowers and smells, loudly responded to them.

All around us were fields, the wilderness of central, primordial Russia. It was late afternoon on a June day... The old high road, overgrown with curly ants, carved with decayed ruts, traces of the old life of our fathers and grandfathers, went ahead of us into the endless Russian distance. The sun leaned to the west, began to set in beautiful light clouds, softening the blue behind the distant slopes of the fields and throwing great pillars of light towards sunset, where the sky was already golden, as they are written in church paintings. A herd of sheep was gray in front, an old shepherd with a shepherd was sitting on the boundary, winding a whip ... It seemed that there was no, and never was, neither time, nor its division into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - by God country . And they walked and sang among its eternal field silence, simplicity and primitiveness with some kind of epic freedom and selflessness. And the birch forest accepted and picked up their song as freely and freely as they sang.

They were "distant", Ryazan. They passed in a small artel through our Oryol places, helping our hayfields and moving to the lower classes, to earn money during their working time in the steppes, even more fertile than ours. And they were carefree, friendly, as people are on a long and long journey, on vacation from all family and economic ties, they were “willing to work”, unconsciously rejoicing in its beauty and arrogance. They were somehow older and more solid than ours - in custom, in habit, in language - neat and beautiful clothes, their soft leather shoe covers, white well-knitted onuchs, clean trousers and shirts with red, kumach collars and the same gussets.

A week ago they were mowing in the forest near us, and I saw, riding on horseback, how they came to work, after noon: they drank spring water from wooden jugs - so long, so sweetly, as only animals and good, healthy Russians drink laborers, - then they crossed themselves and cheerfully ran to a place with white, shiny, pointed like a razor braids on their shoulders, on the run they entered a row, the braids let everything go at once, widely, playfully, and went, went in a free, even succession. And on the way back, I saw their dinner. They were sitting in a fresh glade near an extinct fire, dragging pieces of something pink out of cast iron with spoons.

I said:

Bread and salt, hello.

They kindly replied:

Good health, welcome!

The glade descended to the ravine, revealing the still bright west behind the green trees. And suddenly, looking closer, I saw with horror that what they ate were fly agaric mushrooms, terrible with their dope. And they just laughed.

Nothing, they are sweet, pure chicken!

Now they sang: "Forgive me, farewell, dear friend!" - moved through the birch forest, thoughtlessly depriving it of thick herbs and flowers, and sang without noticing it. And we stood and listened to them, feeling that we would never forget this evening hour and never understand, and most importantly, never fully express what is such a wondrous charm of their song.

Its beauty was in the responses, in the sonority of the birch forest. Its charm was that it was by no means itself: it was connected with everything that we and they, these Ryazan mowers, saw and felt. The charm was in that unconscious, but consanguineous relationship that was between them and us - and between them, us and this grain-growing field that surrounded us, this field air that they and we breathed from childhood, this evening time, these clouds in the already pinking west, in this snowy, young forest full of honey grasses up to the waist, innumerable wild flowers and berries, which they constantly plucked and ate, and this high road, its expanse and reserved distance. The beauty was that we were all children of our homeland and were all together and we all felt good, calm and loving without a clear understanding of our feelings, because they are not necessary, should not be understood when they are. And there was also a charm (already completely unaware of us then) that this homeland, this common home of ours was Russia, and that only her soul could sing like the mowers sang in this birch forest that responded to their every breath.

The charm was that it was as if it were not singing, but only sighs, uplifts of a young, healthy, melodious chest. One breast sang, as songs were once sung only in Russia, and with that immediacy, with that incomparable ease, naturalness, which was peculiar only to the Russian in the song. It was felt - a person is so fresh, strong, so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents and so full of song that he only needs to sigh lightly so that the whole forest responds to that kind and affectionate, and sometimes bold and powerful sonority that these sighs filled him with. .

They moved, throwing their scythes around them without the slightest effort, exposing clearings in front of them in wide semicircles, mowing, knocking out a circle of stumps and bushes and sighing without the slightest effort, each in his own way, but in general expressing one thing, making on a whim something unified, completely integral. , extraordinarily beautiful. And those feelings that they told with their sighs and half-words along with the echoing distance, the depth of the forest, were beautiful with a completely special, purely Russian beauty.

Of course, they “said goodbye, parted” with their “dear little side”, and with their happiness, and with hopes, and with the one with whom this happiness was united:

Forgive me, my dear friend,

And, darling, oh yes, goodbye, little side! -

they said, they each sighed differently, with this or that measure of sadness and love, but with the same carefree, hopeless reproach.

Forgive me, goodbye, my dear, unfaithful,

Is it for you that the heart has become blackened with mud! -

they said, complaining and yearning in different ways, differently striking at the words, and suddenly they all merged at once in a completely unanimous feeling of almost rapture before their death, youthful audacity before fate, and some kind of unusual, all-forgiving generosity - as if shaking their heads and throwing them all over the forest:

If you don't love, it's not nice - God is with you,

If you find better - forget it! -

and throughout the forest it responded to the friendly strength, freedom and chest sonority of their voices, died away and again, loudly rattling, picked up:

Ah, if you find a better one, you will forget it,

If you find worse - you will regret it!

What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy with all its supposed hopelessness? In the fact that a person still did not believe, and indeed could not believe, in his strength and incompetence, in this hopelessness. “Oh, yes, all the ways for me, well done, are ordered!” he said, mourning himself sweetly. But they do not weep sweetly and do not sing their sorrows, for whom indeed there is neither way nor road anywhere. “Forgive me, farewell, dear little side!” - the man said - and he knew that he still had no real separation from her, from his homeland, that, wherever his fate threw him, his native sky would be above him, and around him - boundless native Russia, disastrous for him, spoiled, except for their freedom, spaciousness and fabulous wealth. “The red sun set behind the dark forests, oh, all the birds fell silent, everyone sat down in their places!” My happiness has set in, he sighed, the dark night with its wilderness surrounds me, - and yet I felt: he was so close by blood with this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and full of magical powers that everywhere he has a shelter, an overnight stay, there is someone’s intercession, someone’s kind care, someone’s voice whispering: “Do not grieve, the morning is wiser than the evening, nothing is impossible for me, sleep peacefully, child!” - And from all sorts of troubles, according to his faith, the birds and animals of the forest rescued him, the beautiful, wise princesses and even Baba Yaga herself, who pitied him "in his youth." There were flying carpets for him, invisibility caps, rivers of milk flowed, treasures of gems hid, from all mortal spells there were keys of ever-living water, he knew prayers and spells, miraculous again according to his faith, flew away from dungeons, throwing himself a bright falcon , hitting the damp Mother Earth, dense jungles, black swamps, flying sands protected him from dashing neighbors and enemies, and the merciful god forgave him for all the whistling whistles, sharp, hot knives ...

One more thing, I say, was in this song - this is what we and they, these Ryazan peasants, knew well, deep down, that we were infinitely happy in those days, now infinitely distant - and irrevocable. For everything has its time - the fairy tale has passed for us too: our ancient intercessors abandoned us, roaring animals fled, prophetic birds scattered, self-assembled tablecloths curled up, prayers and spells were desecrated, Mother-Cheese-Earth dried up, life-giving springs dried up - and the end has come , the limit of God's forgiveness.

Tale-saying about the native Ural

Evgeny Permyak

In this fairy tale-saying, there is more than enough of all kinds of nonsense. In the forgotten dark times, someone's idle language gave birth to this bike and let it go around the world. Her life was so-so. Malomalskoye. In some places she huddled, in some places she lived to our age and got into my ears.

Do not disappear the same fairy tale-saying! Somewhere, no one, maybe it will do. Get accustomed - let him live. No - my business side. For what I bought, for that I sell.

Listen.

Soon, as our land hardened, as the land separated from the seas, it was inhabited by all sorts of animals, birds, from the depths of the earth, from the steppes of the Caspian Sea, the golden snake crawled out. With crystal scales, with a semi-precious tint, a fiery gut, an ore skeleton, a copper vein...

I thought of encircling the earth with myself. He conceived and crawled from the Caspian midday steppes to the midnight cold seas.

More than a thousand miles crawled like a string, and then began to wag.

In the autumn, apparently, it was something. The full night caught him. Never mind! Like in a cellar. Dawn doesn't even work.

The snake wobbled. I turned from the Mustache River to the Ob and started moving towards Yamal. Cold! After all, he somehow came out of hot, hellish places. Went to the left. And I walked some hundreds of miles, but I saw the Varangian ridges. They did not like, apparently, the snake. And he thought through the ice of the cold seas to wave directly.

He waved something, but no matter how thick the ice, can it withstand such a colossus? Did not take it. Cracked. A donkey.

Then the Serpent went to the bottom of the sea. Him that with an unreachable thickness! It crawls along the seabed with its belly, and the ridge rises above the sea. This one won't sink. Just cold.

No matter how hot the fiery blood of the Snake-Snake, no matter how boiling everything around, the sea is still not a tub of water. You won't heat up.

The crawl began to cool down. From the head. Well, if you get a cold in your head - and the body is over. He became numb, and soon completely petrified.

The fiery blood in him became oil. Meat - ores. Ribs - stone. Vertebrae, ridges became rocks. Scales - gems. And everything else - everything that is only in the depths of the earth. From salts to diamonds. From gray granite to patterned jaspers and marbles.

Years have passed, centuries have passed. The petrified giant is overgrown with a lush spruce forest, pine expanse, cedar fun, larch beauty.

And now it will never occur to anyone that the mountains were once a living snake-snake.

And the years went on and on. People settled on the slopes of the mountains. The snake was called the Stone Belt. After all, he girded our land, though not all of it. That is why they gave him a uniform name, sonorous - Ural.

Where the word came from, I cannot say. That's just what everyone calls him now. Although a short word, it absorbed a lot, like Russia ...

Collection of miracles

Konstantin Paustovsky

Everyone, even the most serious person, not to mention, of course, boys, has his own secret and slightly funny dream. I also had such a dream - be sure to get to Borovoye Lake.

It was only twenty kilometers from the village where I lived that summer to the lake. Everyone tried to dissuade me from going - and the road was boring, and the lake was like a lake, all around there was only forest, dry swamps and lingonberries. Famous painting!

Why are you rushing there, to this lake! - the garden watchman Semyon was angry. - What didn't you see? What a fussy, grasping people went, Lord! Everything he needs, you see, he has to snatch with his hand, look out with his own eye! What will you see there? One reservoir. And nothing more!

Have you been there?

And why did he surrender to me, this lake! I don't have anything else to do, do I? That's where they sit, all my business! Semyon tapped his brown neck with his fist. - On the hump!

But I still went to the lake. Two village boys, Lyonka and Vanya, followed me.

Before we had time to go beyond the outskirts, the complete hostility of the characters of Lenka and Vanya was immediately revealed. Lyonka estimated everything that he saw around in rubles.

Here, look, - he said to me in his booming voice, - the gander is coming. How much do you think he pulls?

How do I know!

Rubles for a hundred, perhaps, pulls, - Lenka said dreamily and immediately asked: - But this pine tree will pull how much? Rubles for two hundred? Or all three hundred?

Accountant! Vanya remarked contemptuously and sniffled. - At the most brains on a dime pull, and to everything asks the price. My eyes would not look at him.

After that, Lenka and Vanya stopped, and I heard a well-known conversation - a harbinger of a fight. It consisted, as is customary, of only questions and exclamations.

Whose brains are pulling a dime? My?

Probably not mine!

You look!

See for yourself!

Don't grab! They did not sew a cap for you!

Oh, how I would not push you in my own way!

And don't be afraid! Don't poke me in the nose! The fight was short but decisive.

Lyonka picked up his cap, spat, and went, offended, back to the village. I began to shame Vanya.

Of course! - Vanya said, embarrassed. - I got into a heated fight. Everyone fights with him, with Lyonka. He's kinda boring! Give him free rein, he hangs prices on everything, like in a general store. For every spike. And he will certainly bring down the whole forest, chop it for firewood. And I am most afraid of everything in the world when they bring down the forest. Passion as I fear!

Why so?

Oxygen from forests. Forests will be cut down, oxygen will become liquid, rotten. And the earth will no longer be able to attract him, to keep him near him. He will fly away to where he is! - Vanya pointed to the fresh morning sky. - There will be nothing for a person to breathe. The forester explained to me.

We climbed the izvolok and entered the oak copse. Immediately, red ants began to seize us. They clung to the legs and fell from the branches by the scruff of the neck. Dozens of ant roads strewn with sand stretched between oaks and junipers. Sometimes such a road passed, as if through a tunnel, under the knotty roots of an oak tree and again rose to the surface. Ant traffic on these roads was continuous. In one direction, the ants ran empty, and returned with goods - white grains, dry paws of beetles, dead wasps and a hairy caterpillar.

Bustle! Vanya said. - Like in Moscow. An old man from Moscow comes to this forest for ant eggs. Every year. Takes away in bags. This is the most bird food. And they are good for fishing. The hook needs to be tiny, tiny!

Behind the oak copse, on the edge, at the edge of the loose sandy road, stood a lopsided cross with a black tin icon. Red, flecked with white, ladybugs crawled along the cross.

A gentle wind blew in your face from the oat fields. Oats rustled, bent, a gray wave ran over them.

Behind the oat field we passed through the village of Polkovo. I noticed a long time ago that almost all regimental peasants differ from the neighboring inhabitants by their high growth.

Stately people in Polkovo! - our Zaborevskys said with envy. - Grenadiers! Drummers!

In Polkovo, we went to rest in the hut of Vasily Lyalin, a tall, handsome old man with a piebald beard. Gray tufts stuck out in disorder in his black shaggy hair.

When we entered the hut to Lyalin, he shouted:

Lower your heads! Heads! All of my forehead on the lintel smash! It hurts in Polkovo tall people, but slow-witted - the huts are put on a short stature.

During the conversation with Lyalin, I finally found out why the regimental peasants were so tall.

Story! Lyalin said. - Do you think we've gone up in vain? In vain, even the Kuzka-bug does not live. It also has its purpose.

Vanya laughed.

You're laughing! Lyalin noted sternly. - Still a little learned to laugh. You listen. Was there such a foolish tsar in Russia - Emperor Pavel? Or was not?

Was, - said Vanya. - We studied.

Was yes swam. And he made such business that we still hiccup. The gentleman was fierce. The soldier at the parade squinted his eyes in the wrong direction - he is now inflamed and begins to thunder: “To Siberia! To hard labor! Three hundred ramrods!” That's what the king was like! Well, such a thing happened - the grenadier regiment did not please him. He shouts: “Step march in the indicated direction for a thousand miles! Campaign! And after a thousand versts to stand forever! And he shows the direction with his finger. Well, the regiment, of course, turned and marched. What will you do! We walked and walked for three months and reached this place. Around the forest is impassable. One hell. They stopped, began to cut huts, knead clay, lay stoves, dig wells. They built a village and called it Polkovo, as a sign that a whole regiment built it and lived in it. Then, of course, liberation came, and the soldiers settled down to this area, and, read it, everyone stayed here. The area, you see, is fertile. There were those soldiers - grenadiers and giants - our ancestors. From them and our growth. If you don't believe me, go to the city, to the museum. They will show you the papers. Everything is written in them. And you think - if they had to walk another two versts and would have come to the river, they would have stopped there. So no, they did not dare to disobey the order - they just stopped. People are still surprised. “What are you, they say, regimental, staring into the forest? Didn't you have a place by the river? Terrible, they say, tall, but guesswork in the head, you see, is not enough. Well, explain to them how it was, then they agree. “Against the order, they say, you can’t trample! It is a fact!"

Vasily Lyalin volunteered to accompany us to the forest, show the path to Borovoye Lake. First we passed through a sandy field overgrown with immortelle and wormwood. Then thickets of young pines ran out to meet us. Pine forest met us after the hot fields with silence and coolness. High in the sun's slanting rays, blue jays fluttered as if on fire. Clean puddles stood on the overgrown road, and clouds floated through these blue puddles. It smelled of strawberries, heated stumps. Drops of dew, or yesterday's rain, glittered on the hazel leaves. The cones were falling.

Great forest! Lyalin sighed. - The wind will blow, and these pines will hum like bells.

Then the pines gave way to birch trees, and water glistened behind them.

Borovoye? I asked.

No. Before Borovoye still walk and walk. This is Larino Lake. Let's go, look into the water, look.

The water in Larino Lake was deep and clear to the very bottom. Only at the shore she trembled a little - there, from under the mosses, a spring poured into the lake. At the bottom lay several dark large trunks. They gleamed with a faint, dark fire as the sun reached them.

Black oak, - said Lyalin. - Stained, age-old. We pulled one out, but it's hard to work with it. The saw breaks. But if you make a thing - a rolling pin or, say, a rocker - so forever! Heavy wood, sinks in water.

The sun shone in dark water. Beneath it lay ancient oak trees, as if cast from black steel. And above the water, reflected in it with yellow and purple petals, butterflies flew.

Lyalin led us to a deaf road.

Go straight ahead, - he showed, - until you run into msharas, into a dry swamp. And the path will go along the msharams to the very lake. Just go carefully - there are a lot of pegs.

He said goodbye and left. We went with Vanya along the forest road. The forest grew taller, more mysterious and darker. Gold resin froze in streams on the pines.

At first, the ruts, long overgrown with grass, were still visible, but then they disappeared, and the pink heather covered the whole road with a dry, cheerful carpet.

The road led us to a low cliff. Msharas spread out under it - thick birch and aspen low forests warmed to the roots. Trees sprouted from deep moss. On the moss here and there were scattered small yellow flowers and lay dry branches with white lichen.

A narrow path led through the mshary. She walked around high bumps.

At the end of the path, the water shone with black blue - Borovoye Lake.

We cautiously walked along the msharams. Pegs, sharp as spears, stuck out from under the moss - the remains of birch and aspen trunks. The lingonberry bushes have begun. One cheek of each berry - the one that is turned to the south - was completely red, and the other was just beginning to turn pink.

A heavy capercaillie jumped out from behind a bump and ran into the undergrowth, breaking dry wood.

We went to the lake. Grass rose above the waist along its banks. Water splashed in the roots of old trees. A wild duck jumped out from under the roots and ran across the water with a desperate squeak.

The water in Borovoye was black and clean. Islands of white lilies bloomed on the water and smelled sickly. The fish struck and the lilies swayed.

Here is grace! Vanya said. - Let's live here until our crackers run out.

I agreed.

We stayed at the lake for two days.

We saw sunsets and twilight and the tangle of plants that appeared before us in the firelight. We heard the calls of wild geese and the sound of night rain. He walked for a short time, about an hour, and tinkled softly across the lake, as if stretching thin, like cobweb, trembling strings between the black sky and the water.

That's all I wanted to tell.

But since then, I will not believe anyone that there are places on our earth that are boring and do not give any food to either the eye, or hearing, or imagination, or human thought.

Only in this way, exploring some piece of our country, you can understand how good it is and how we are attached with our hearts to each of its paths, springs, and even to the timid squeaking of a forest bird.

Three characters

What kid doesn't love holidays?

These days you can sleep to your heart's content, play without interference, and walk around to your heart's content.

And how can you, without adults and a calendar, distinguish an ordinary day from a holiday?

Very simple. It is worth going out into the street, and it is already clear: today is a holiday. Because flags are flying everywhere in the wind. They are not posted on weekdays. Only on holidays.

What does our flag look like?

It is tricolor and consists of three stripes: white on top, red on the bottom, and blue in the middle. White, blue and red are the colors of our flag, that is, the flag of our country - Russia.

The choice of colors is not accidental. It reflected the centuries-old ideas of people about the world around them. Our distant ancestors loved their land very much and affectionately called it red - beautiful. Red in their understanding was

the color of beauty, all that is beautiful. No wonder the main square in our ancient capital Moscow has long been called the Red Square.

Blue is, of course, the color of the sky. If the sky is clear, then everything is calm in nature. The more fine days with blue skies, the better for farmers. And agriculture was the main occupation of our ancestors.

White color is special, divine. Behind the blue sky are the white halls of God, God's kingdom. People believed that the Russian land was under the protection of the Lord himself - the Creator of the world, and the white color conveyed this idea.

It turns out that red is earthly, blue is heavenly, white is divine.

But that's not all.

For a long time in Russia, white means nobility, purity, blue - honesty, red - courage and generosity.

You see, the three stripes on our flag were not accidental. They remind us who we are, where and how long ago we came into this world, how many people and generations lived on our land before us. The colors of the Russian flag tell about our long and glorious history, or, in other words, about the past of our Motherland.

The flag is a distinctive sign, a symbol of the state. Each independent independent country has its own flag, and how many countries in the world, so many flags. This means that if today there are more than two hundred countries on Earth, then each of them has its own flag.

In addition to the flag, every country has two more identification marks-symbols. This is the coat of arms and the anthem.

The coat of arms is the emblem of the state, and of course Russia has its own coat of arms. You probably already know that it is an image of a golden double-headed eagle on a red shield? The eagle is the king of birds, among many nations it personifies power, strength, generosity, nobility.

Our country is the largest in the world. It occupies one sixth of the earth's land and exceeds seventeen million square kilometers. She has no equal in territory. Look how wide the eagle spread its wings on the coat of arms of Russia. One of his heads is turned to the west, the other to the east. This is very symbolic. After all, Russia is located in two parts of the world at once: most of its area is in Asia, the smaller one is in Europe.

Please note that in the very center of the coat of arms, on the chest of the eagle, there is another coat of arms depicting a horseman who strikes a black serpent - a dragon with a sharp spear. Can you guess what this coat of arms means in the coat of arms? A small coat of arms with a rider-serpent fighter is the coat of arms of Moscow, the capital of our state.

Moscow is the heart of Russia. She played a very important role in history, and therefore, by right, the emblem of the great city (St. George the Victorious, smashing a snake) is present on the state emblem of the country.

And now remember: where could you see the coat of arms of Russia? On coins, seals, signs of public institutions, on the facade of the school, on official documents, signs military uniform. And later in Everyday life the coat of arms will always be your companion. When you turn fourteen and you, as a citizen of Russia, receive a passport, there, on the cover and inside, there is an imprint - a golden eagle on a red background.

Dozens of large and small nations have long lived together in Russia. Russians are not only Russians, but also Tatars, Bashkirs, Jews, Udmurts, Chuvashs, Yakuts, Chukchis, Adyghes, Ossetians, Buryats, Kalmyks...

The official name of our country is the Russian Federation (abbreviated as RF). What does "federation" mean? This is a voluntary association of equal territories and peoples. Twenty-one republics are part of Russia. Here are their names in alphabetical order:

Bashkiria (Bashkortostan)

Dagestan

Ingushetia

Kabardino-Balkaria

Kalmykia

Karachay-Cherkessia

Mordovia

North Ossetia Alania

Tatarstan

Tuva (Tuva)

Udmurtia

Sakha (Yakutia)

Russia is a multinational and multilingual country, but it so happened historically that Russian has become the common and state language for all its inhabitants.

Two distinctive signs of Russia - the flag and the coat of arms - are known to you, it's time to learn about the third symbol - the anthem.

Anthem is a solemn song glorifying the Motherland, Fatherland, Fatherland. When the majestic music of the anthem sounds, everyone stands up, thereby paying tribute to the Fatherland - the land of our fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers.

The anthem is performed on especially important and memorable occasions. You probably heard the Russian anthem when our athletes won at the Olympics or other international competitions? And for sure, hearing the solemn music and seeing how the white-blue-red flag rises on the flagpole, you felt a sense of pride for our country!

We love our Motherland, because in Russia everything is our own, dear, everything is close and dear to us. And this feeling of love for the Fatherland, pride in its sovereign power was perfectly conveyed by the authors of the anthem - the composer Alexander Vasilyevich Alexandrov who wrote the music and the poet Sergei Vladimirovich Mikhalkov who composed the words.

Russia is our sacred power,

Russia is our beloved country.

Mighty will, great glory -

Yours forever!

From the southern seas to the polar region

Our forests and fields are spread out,

You are the only one in the world! One you are -

Protected by God native land!

Hail, our free Fatherland,

Fraternal peoples age-old union,

Ancestors given the wisdom of the people!

Hail country! We are proud of you!

Wide scope for dreams and for life

The coming years open up to us.

Our loyalty to the Motherland gives us strength.

So it was, so it is, and so it will always be!

Hail, our free Fatherland,

Fraternal peoples age-old union,

Ancestors given the wisdom of the people!

Hail country! We are proud of you!

The national anthem of Russia is easy to remember. Read it once or twice, and you will be convinced that you already know the text by heart. Here's a tip for you: start with the chorus. It is repeated three times, and you can easily keep it in your memory, and then the turn will come up to three verses. And then, when the anthem is performed, you will also be able to sing along with everyone.

In addition, about the other two state symbols of Russia - the flag and the coat of arms - you are quite capable of telling a solid five. So why don't you make sure that you also know the third symbol - the anthem of the Russian Federation - perfectly well?

I. Tokmakova "George's Miracle about the Serpent"

Let's take a look at our emblem - the State Emblem of the Russian Federation. Gold double-headed eagle on the red field. Three historical crowns are depicted above the heads of the eagle, which symbolize the sovereignty2 of the country, as well as its parts - sovereign republics. In the paws of an eagle - a scepter and orb. These are symbols of state power. And on the chest of the eagle is a rider slaying a dragon with a spear. This is the victory of good over evil, the defense of the Fatherland. And the rider is St. George the Victorious.

It is about him that we will retell the old Russian story, which was translated back in the 11th century from Greek, and the last retelling that has come down to us was made in the 13th century. Of course, in order for us to read it, we have to translate the story from Old Russian into modern Russian.

But first, let's say a few words about St. George. He lived at the end of the third century from the birth of Christ in Cappadocia (Asia Minor, the territory of modern Turkey), which was then under the rule of the Roman Empire. As they say, he was the son of noble parents and joined the army at a young age. He was known as a wonderful, fearless warrior. He served in the troops of the Roman emperor Diocletian. In those centuries, pagan polytheism was the dominant religion in Rome, and Christians were attacked, thrown into prison, tortured, tortured in every possible way, demanding to renounce the Christian faith. So Saint George, who remained faithful to his Christian convictions, in his hour with patience and courage endured the tortures of his pagan persecutors and was executed in 303, only about thirty years old.

With the spread of Christianity in Byzantium, the veneration of St. George began, about a century from the 5th. Byzantine emperors considered him their intercessor. Their example was followed by the Russian princes.

And the famous prince of Kyiv Yaroslav the Wise at baptism took the name George.

From about the 10th century in Russia, especially in the southern Russian lands, St. George becomes almost the most revered among Orthodox saints.

The story about one of the episodes in the life of St. George - his victory over a monstrous serpent, that is, a dragon, and about the liberation of the king's daughter from imminent death, received the greatest fame. This is what is said in the old Russian story, which has come down to us from the distant XIII century and is called "The Miracle of George about the serpent." Here is what is told in this story.

In ancient times there was a city called Ebal. It was a large, populous city. Its inhabitants were pagans, worshiped wooden pagan idols, and, as the story says, "they turned away from God, and God turned away from them." This city stood on the shore of a large lake. And so it happened that a huge and terrible snake settled in this lake. Every day a snake came out of the depths, attacked people with a menacing whistle and dragged them to the bottom. Horror seized the inhabitants of the city of Ebal. They went to the king for advice. But what could the king do with the terrible serpent? Here is how he answered them:

“To appease the serpent, every day we will give him one of his sons and one of his daughters. And when the turn comes to me, then I will give my daughter.

What was to be done? So in turn, both the supreme leaders and the most ordinary citizens gave the cursed snake one of their children.

Moaning and weeping stood in the city of Ebal.

And then the day came when all the inhabitants of the city gave their children to a terrible snake. Then they again went to the king and said to him:

“We all gave up our children, one by one. What would you like us to do next?

And the king answered them in great sorrow:

"I'll give you my only daughter."

And he called the servants, and called his daughter to him, and commanded, having dressed her in the best clothes, to take her to the shore of the lake. The king-father wept bitterly, all those close to the king and servants wept bitterly. But nothing can be done, they took the princess to the shore of the lake and left her there alone.

And this is what is said further in the old Russian story: “The holy and great martyr, sufferer for the faith of Christ George, a warrior honored by the Heavenly King, who lived even after death, shining with great miracles, by God’s permission, wishing to save us, perishing, and save our city from this misfortune, at the same hour he appeared on the spot in the form of a simple warrior, coming from the battle and hurrying to his native places.

St. George saw a luxuriously dressed girl standing on the shore of the lake, and asked:

- What are you doing here alone?

And the king's daughter, without explaining anything, only said to him:

“Get out of here quickly, sir, or you will perish.”

George didn't understand.

- Robbers, perhaps, are attacking here or something else?

Then she told:

- Here, in the lake, a terrible snake nests. You are young and handsome, I feel sorry for you, I beg you very much, get out of here so as not to die in the clutches of a terrible snake.

"Why don't you go and save yourself?" George asked her. He asked to tell him the whole truth and promised not to leave her in trouble.

And then the tsar's daughter told him a sad story about her native city.

“Listen, my lord. I am the daughter of the king here. As you can see, this city is large and rich, there is plenty of everything in it, and my father does not want to leave it. But a terrible and bloodthirsty snake lives here in the lake and, leaving the lake, eats many people. And together with the king, my father, people decided, in order to appease the serpent, to give him a son or daughter in turn every day. The turn came to the father. And he decided, as promised to people, to give me, his only daughter, to be eaten by a snake. And now you know everything. Get out of here as soon as possible, otherwise you may not be saved.

Hearing this, Saint George exclaimed:

- Don't be afraid, girl!

And, looking at the sky, he raised a prayer to God and asked Him to show him mercy and cast the fierce beast at his feet, so that the people of this city would believe in one God and renounce their pagan, idol polytheism.

But then the king's daughter suddenly exclaimed:

- Run away from here, I hear the terrible whistle of an evil monster!

At the same moment, the waters of the lake churned, and appeared huge snake, and opened his terrible mouth, and, uttering a deafening roar, rushed at the girl and St. George. But the mighty warrior was not afraid and cried out:

- In the name of Jesus Christ, the son of God, submit, cruel beast, and follow me.

And, as the story says, “immediately, by the power of God and the great martyr for the faith of Christ, George, the knees of the terrible snake broke.”

And George turned to the princess, saying:

“Take off your belt and reins from my horse, tie them around the head of the serpent and lead him into the city.

She obeyed. And after her obediently trudged a terrible snake. Saint George walked ahead with his horse.

And in the city at that time there were weeping and groaning, and the king and queen were killed about only daughter his. And what do they see?

There is a warrior with a horse, and then their daughter leads a terrible monster on a leash.

And great fear fell upon them, but Saint George said to them:

— Do not be afraid. Just believe in Christ and you will see your salvation.

What is your name, warrior? the king asked him.

- His name is George.

And then all the inhabitants exclaimed:

“Through you we believed in one God and his son Jesus Christ!”

And Saint George drew his sword and cut off the head of the monster. The king and queen and all the saved residents of the city approached George and bowed to him, and praised him and God, by whose mercy the great miracle worker George performed this miracle.

And the king ordered to build a church in the name of St. George and decorated this church with gold and precious stones.

And St. George, seeing their faith, performed another miracle. He sent his shield to the inhabitants of the city and ordered that it be hung in the church above the altar. And his shield hung in the air, not held back by anything, as it is said in the story: "at all times on the faith of the unbelievers."

Let us add from ourselves that the main day of memory of St. George - the day of his death - is April 23, or May 6, according to the new style.

I. Shmelev "Russian song"

I looked forward to summer with impatience, following its approach by signs well known to me.

The earliest herald of summer was the striped sack. It was pulled out of a huge chest, saturated with the smell of camphor, and a pile of canvas jackets and trousers were thrown out of it for trying on. I had to stand in one place for a long time, take it off, put it on, take it off again and put it on again, and they turned me around, stabbed me on me, let me in and let go - “half an inch”. I was sweating and twirling, and behind the frames that had not yet been set, poplar branches swayed with buds gilded with glue, and the sky was joyfully blue.

The second and important sign of spring-summer was the appearance of a red-haired painter, who smelled of spring itself - putty and paints. The painter came to expose the frames - "to let the spring in" - to make repairs. He always appeared suddenly and spoke gloomily, swaying:

- Well, where do you have something here? ..

And with such an air he snatched out chisels from behind the ribbon of a dirty apron, as if he wanted to stab. Then he began to tear the putty and angrily purr under his breath:

I-ah and te-we-nay le-so ...

Yes, yehh and te-we-na-ay ...

Ah-ehh and in the dark-on-am le ...

Yes, and in te ... we-us-mm! ..

And he sang louder and louder. And whether because he only sang about the dark forest, or because he shook his head and sighed, looking furiously from under his brows, he seemed very scary to me.

Then we got to know him well when he pulled my friend Vaska by the hair.

That was the case.

The painter worked, dined, and fell asleep on the roof of the porch, in the sun. After purring about the dark forest, where “sy-toya-la, oh yes, and so-senka,” the painter fell asleep without saying anything else. He lay on his back, and his red beard looked up at the sky. Vaska and I, so that there was more wind, also climbed onto the roof - to let the “monk”. But there was no wind on the roof. Then Vaska, having nothing to do, began to tickle the painter's bare heels with a straw. But they were covered with gray and hard skin, like putty, and the painter did not care. Then I bent to the painter's ear and in a trembling thin voice sang:

And-ah and in te-we-nom le-e...

The painter's mouth twisted, and a smile crept out from under his red mustache onto his dry lips. He must have been pleased, but he still didn't wake up. Then Vaska offered to take up the painter properly. And we got on with it.

Vaska dragged a large brush and a bucket of paint up to the roof and painted the painter's heels. The painter kicked and calmed down. Vaska made a face and continued. He circled the painter at the ankles over the green bracelet, and I carefully painted the thumbs and nails. The painter was snoring sweetly, probably from pleasure. Then Vaska drew a wide “vicious circle” around the painter, squatted down and sang a song over the very painter’s ear, which I also picked up with pleasure:

redhead asked:

- What did you do with your beard?

- I'm not paint, not putty,

I was in the sun!

I lay in the sun

He kept his beard up!

The painter stirred and yawned. We quieted down, and he turned on his side and painted himself. That's where it came from. I waved through the dormer window, and Vaska slipped and fell into the paws of the painter. The painter thrashed Vaska and threatened to dip him into a bucket, but soon became cheerful, stroking Vaska on the back and saying:

"Don't cry, you fool. The same one grows in my village. That the master's paint has exhausted, du-ra ... and even roars!

From that moment the painter became our friend. He sang to us the whole song about the dark forest, how they cut down a pine tree, like “oh, how good of a good fellow in an alien sat-it-onushka! ..”. It was a good song. And he sang it so pitifully that I thought: was it not to himself that he sang it? He also sang songs about “dark autumn night”, and about “birch tree”, and also about “clear field” ...

For the first time then, on the roof of the porch, I felt a world unknown to me until then - longing and expanse, lurking in the Russian song, unknown in the depths of its soul of my native people, tender and stern, covered with coarse clothing. Then, on the roof of the canopy, in the cooing of blue doves, in the dull sounds of a painter's song, a new world opened up to me - both of the gentle and harsh Russian nature, in which the soul yearns and waits for something ... Then, at my early time, - for the first time, perhaps, I felt the strength and beauty of the Russian folk word, its softness, and caress, and expanse. It just came and gently fell into the soul. Then I came to know him: his strength and sweetness. And I know him...

L. Kassil. At the blackboard

They said about the teacher Ksenia Andreevna Kartashova that her hands sing. Her movements were soft, unhurried, rounded, and when she explained the lesson in the class, the guys followed every wave of the teacher's hand, and the hand sang, the hand explained everything that remained incomprehensible in the words. Ksenia Andreevna did not have to raise her voice at the students, she did not have to shout. Noise in the classroom - she will raise her light hand, lead it - and the whole class seems to be listening, it immediately becomes quiet.

- Wow, she is strict with us! The boys boasted. - He immediately notices everything ...

Ksenia Andreevna taught in the village for thirty-two years. The rural militiamen saluted her in the street and, saluting, said:

- Ksenia Andreevna, how is my Vanka doing in science? You make him stronger there.

“Nothing, nothing, he moves a little,” answered the teacher, “a good boy.” Lazy just sometimes. Well, that happened to my father too. Isn't it true?

The policeman straightened his belt in embarrassment: once he himself sat at a desk and answered Ksenia Andreevna at the blackboard and also heard to himself that he was a good fellow, but sometimes he was lazy ... And the chairman of the collective farm was once a student of Ksenia Andreevna, and the director studied at the machine and tractor station from her. Many people have gone through Xenia Andreevna's class in thirty-two years. She was a strict but fair person.

Ksenia Andreyevna's hair had long since turned white, but her eyes had not faded and were as blue and clear as in her youth. And everyone who met this even and bright look involuntarily cheered up and began to think that, honestly, he was not that kind. bad person And the world is definitely worth living. Such were the eyes of Ksenia Andreevna!

And her gait was also light and melodious. Girls from high school tried to adopt it. No one has ever seen a teacher in a hurry, in a hurry. And at the same time, any work quickly argued and also seemed to sing in her capable hands. When she wrote the terms of the problem or examples from grammar on the blackboard, the chalk did not knock, did not creak, did not crumble, and it seemed to the children that a white stream was easily and tasty squeezed out of the chalk, like from a tube, writing letters and numbers on the black smooth surface of the board. "Do not rush! Don't jump, think carefully first!" Ksenia Andreevna would say softly, when the student began to stray in a problem or a sentence, and, diligently writing and erasing what he had written with a rag, floated in clouds of chalk smoke.

Ksenia Andreevna was not in a hurry this time either. As soon as the rattle of motors was heard, the teacher looked sternly at the sky and in a familiar voice told the children that everyone should go to the trench dug in the school yard. The school stood a little away from the village, on a hillock. The windows of the classrooms overlooked the cliff above the river. Ksenia Andreevna lived at the school. There were no jobs. The front passed very close to the village. Fighting raged somewhere nearby. Parts of the Red Army withdrew across the river and fortified there. And the collective farmers gathered a partisan detachment and went into the nearby forest outside the village. Schoolchildren brought them food there, told them where and when the Germans were seen. Kostya Rozhkov - the best swimmer of the school - more than once delivered reports from the commander of the forest partisans to the other side of the Red Army. Shura Kapustina once bandaged the wounds of two partisans who had suffered in battle - this art was taught to her by Ksenia Andreevna. Even Senya Pichugin, a well-known quiet man, once spotted a German patrol outside the village and, having reconnoitered where he was going, managed to warn the detachment.

In the evening, the children gathered at the school and told the teacher about everything. So it was this time, when the engines purred very close. Fascist planes have already flown into the village more than once, throwing bombs, scouring the forest in search of partisans. Kostya Rozhkov once even had to lie in a swamp for an hour, hiding his head under wide sheets of water lilies. And very close, cut down by machine-gun bursts of the aircraft, reeds fell into the water ... And the guys were already used to the raids.

But now they are wrong. It wasn't the planes that rumbled. The guys had not yet managed to hide in the gap, when three dusty Germans ran into the schoolyard, jumping over a low palisade. Car-glasses with folded lenses glittered on their helmets. They were scouts-motorcyclists. They left their cars in the bushes. From three different parties, but all at once they rushed to the schoolchildren and aimed their machine guns at them.

- Stop! shouted a thin, long-armed German with a short red mustache, probably the boss. - Pioneer? - he asked.

The guys were silent, involuntarily moving away from the muzzle of the pistol, which the German took turns thrusting into their faces.

But the hard, cold barrels of the other two machine guns pressed painfully from behind on the backs and necks of the schoolchildren.

— Schneller, Schneller, bistro! shouted the fascist.

Ksenia Andreevna stepped forward straight at the German and covered the guys with herself.

- What would you like? the teacher asked and looked sternly into the German's eyes. Her blue and calm look confused the involuntarily retreating fascist.

— Who is V? Answer this minute ... I can speak Russian with something.

“I understand German too,” the teacher answered quietly, “but I have nothing to talk about with you. These are my students, I am a teacher at a local school. You may lower your pistol. What do you want? Why are you scaring the kids?

- Don't teach me! hissed the scout.

The other two Germans looked around anxiously. One of them said something to the boss. He got worried, looked towards the village and began to push the teacher and the children towards the school with the muzzle of a pistol.

“Well, well, hurry up,” he said, “we are in a hurry ...” He threatened with a pistol. Two little questions and everything will be all right.

The guys, along with Ksenia Andreevna, were pushed into the classroom. One of the Nazis remained on guard on the school porch. Another German and the boss drove the guys to their desks.

"Now I'm going to give you a little exam," said the chief. - Sit down!

But the children stood huddled in the aisle and looked, pale, at the teacher.

“Sit down, guys,” Ksenia Andreevna said in her quiet and ordinary voice, as if another lesson was beginning.

The boys sat down carefully. They sat in silence, not taking their eyes off the teacher. Out of habit, they sat down in their seats, as they usually did in the classroom: Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina in front, and Kostya Rozhkov at the back of everyone, in the last desk. And, finding themselves in their familiar places, the guys gradually calmed down.

Outside the windows of the classroom, on the glass of which protective strips were pasted, the sky was calmly blue, on the windowsill in jars and boxes were flowers grown by the children. On the glass cabinet, as always, hovered a hawk stuffed with sawdust. And the wall of the classroom was decorated with neatly pasted herbariums. The older German touched one of the pasted sheets with his shoulder, and dried daisies, fragile stems and twigs fell on the floor with a slight crunch.

It hurt the guys in the heart. Everything was wild, everything seemed contrary to the habitually established order within these walls. And the familiar class seemed so dear to the children, the desks, on the covers of which dried ink smudges were cast, like the wing of a bronze beetle.

And when one of the fascists approached the table, at which Ksenia Andreevna usually sat, and kicked him, the guys felt deeply offended.

The chief demanded that he be given a chair. None of the guys moved.

- Well! shouted the fascist.

“Here they listen only to me,” said Ksenia Andreevna. — Pichugin, please bring a chair from the corridor.

Quiet Senya Pichugin slipped inaudibly from the desk and followed the chair. He did not return for a long time.

- Pichugin, hurry up! the teacher called Senya.

He appeared a minute later, dragging a heavy chair with a seat upholstered in black oilcloth. Without waiting for him to come closer, the German snatched a chair from him, put it in front of him and sat down. Shura Kapustina raised her hand:

- Ksenia Andreevna ... can I leave the class?

- Sit down, Kapustina, sit down. - And, looking at the girl knowingly, Ksenia Andreevna added in a barely audible voice: - There is still a sentry there.

Now everyone will listen to me! the boss said.

And, mangling the words, the fascist began to tell the guys that the red partisans were hiding in the forest, and he knows this very well, and the guys also know this very well. German scouts have seen schoolchildren running back and forth into the forest more than once. And now the guys must tell the chief where the partisans hid. If the guys say where the partisans are now, naturally, everything will be fine. If the guys don’t say, naturally, everything will be very bad.

“Now I will listen to everyone,” the German finished his speech.

Here the guys understood what they wanted from them. They sat without moving, only had time to look at each other and again froze on their desks.

A tear slowly crept down Shura Kapustina's face. Kostya Rozhkov was sitting, leaning forward, resting his strong elbows on the open desk top. The short fingers of his hands were entwined. Kostya swayed slightly, staring at the desk. From the outside, it seemed that he was trying to disengage his hands, and some kind of force was preventing him from doing this.

The guys sat in silence.

The chief called his assistant and took the map from him.

“Order them,” he said in German to Xenia Andreevna, “to show me this place on a map or on a plan. Well, live! Just look at me ... - He spoke again in Russian: - I warn you that I am understandable to the Russian language and that you will tell the children ...

He went to the board, took a piece of chalk and quickly sketched out a plan of the area - a river, a village, a school, a forest ... To make it clearer, he even drew a chimney on the school roof and scratched curls of smoke.

“Perhaps you will think about it and tell me everything you need yourself?” the chief quietly asked the teacher in German, coming close to her. The children won't understand, speak German.

“I already told you that I've never been there and I don't know where it is.

Fascist, grabbing his long arms Xenia Andreevna by the shoulders, roughly shook her:

Ksenia Andreevna freed herself, took a step forward, went up to the desks, leaned both hands on the front and said:

- Guys! This man wants us to tell him where our partisans are. I don't know where they are. I have never been there. And you don't know either. Truth?

“We don’t know, we don’t know!” the guys rustled. Who knows where they are! They went into the forest and that's it.

“You are really bad students,” the German tried to joke, “he cannot answer such a simple question. Hey, hey...

He looked around the class with mock gaiety, but did not meet a single smile. The guys were strict and wary. It was quiet in the classroom, only Senya Pichugin was sniffing gloomily in the first desk.

The German approached him:

- Well, what's your name?.. You don't know either?

“I don’t know,” Senya answered quietly.

“And what is this, you know? The German jabbed the muzzle of his pistol at Senya's lowered chin.

“I know that,” Senya said. - Automatic pistol of the "Walter" system ...

“Do you know how much he can kill such bad students?”

- I do not know. Think for yourself…” Senya muttered.

— Who is! the German shouted. You said: count yourself! Very well! I'll count to three myself. And if no one tells me what I asked, I will shoot your stubborn teacher first. And then - anyone who does not say. I started counting! Once!..

He grabbed Xenia Andreevna by the arm and pulled her against the classroom wall. Ksenia Andreevna did not utter a sound, but it seemed to the guys that her soft, melodious hands groaned themselves. And the class buzzed. Another fascist immediately pointed his gun at the guys.

“Children, don’t,” Ksenia Andreevna said quietly and, out of habit, wanted to raise her hand, but the fascist hit her wrist with the barrel of a pistol, and her hand fell helplessly.

“Alzo, then, none of you know where the partisans are,” said the German. - Fine, let's count. "One" I already said, now it will be "two".

The fascist began to raise his pistol, aiming at the teacher's head. Shura Kapustina began to sob in the front desk.

“Be quiet, Shura, be quiet,” Ksenia Andreevna whispered, and her lips hardly moved. “Let everyone be silent,” she said slowly, looking around the class, “whoever is afraid, let her turn away.” You don't have to watch guys. Farewell! Learn well. And remember this lesson...

“I’m going to say three now!” the fascist interrupted her.

And suddenly Kostya Rozhkov got up at the back and raised his hand:

She really doesn't know!

- Who knows?

"I know..." Kostya said loudly and distinctly. “I went there myself and I know. She didn't, and she doesn't know.

“Well, show me,” said the chief.

Rozhkov, why are you telling lies? - said Ksenia Andreevna.

“I'm telling the truth,” Kostya said stubbornly and harshly, and looked into the teacher's eyes.

"Kostya..." Ksenia Andreevna began.

But Rozhkov interrupted her:

- Ksenia Andreevna, I myself know ...

The teacher stood, turning away from him, dropping her white head on her chest. Kostya went to the blackboard, at which he had answered the lesson so many times. He took the chalk. He stood indecisively, fingering the white, crumbling pieces. The fascist approached the blackboard and waited. Kostya raised his hand with the chalk.

“Here, look here,” he whispered, “I’ll show you.”

The German approached him and bent down to better see what the boy was showing. And suddenly Kostya hit the black surface of the board with all his might with both hands. This is done when, having written on one side, they are going to turn the board over to the other. The board turned sharply in its frame, screeched and hit the fascist in the face with a sweeping blow. He flew off to the side, and Kostya, jumping over the frame, instantly disappeared behind the board, as if behind a shield. The fascist, clutching his bloodied face, fired at the board to no avail, putting bullet after bullet into it.

In vain... Behind the chalkboard was a window overlooking a cliff above the river. Kostya, without hesitation, jumped into open window, rushed off the cliff into the river and swam to the other side.

The second fascist, pushing Ksenia Andreevna away, ran to the window and began to shoot at the boy with a pistol. The chief shoved him aside, snatched the pistol from him and took aim himself through the window. The guys jumped on the desks. They no longer thought about the danger that threatened them. Only Kostya worried them now. They wanted only one thing now - for Kostya to get to the other side, so that the Germans would miss.

At this time, having heard firing in the village, partisans stalking motorcyclists jumped out of the forest. Seeing them, the German guard on the porch fired into the air, shouted something to his comrades and rushed into the bushes where the motorcycles were hidden. But through the bushes, stitching the leaves, cutting off the branches, a machine-gun burst of the Red Army patrol, which was on the other side, whipped ...

No more than fifteen minutes passed, and the partisans brought three disarmed Germans into the classroom, where the excited children again burst into. The commander of the partisan detachment took a heavy chair, moved it to the table and wanted to sit down, but Senya Pichugin suddenly rushed forward and snatched the chair from him.

- Don't, don't! I'll bring you another one now.

And in an instant he dragged another chair from the corridor, and pushed this one behind the board. The commander of the partisan detachment sat down and called the head of the fascists to the table for interrogation. And the other two, rumpled and hushed, sat side by side on the desks of Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina, diligently and timidly placing their feet there.

“He almost killed Ksenia Andreevna,” Shura Kapustina whispered to the commander, pointing to the Nazi intelligence officer.

“Not quite exactly like that,” the German muttered, “that’s right, not me at all ...

— He, he! shouted the quiet Senya Pichugin. - He still had a mark ... I ... when I was dragging a chair, I accidentally knocked over the ink on the oilcloth.

The commander leaned over the table, looked and grinned: an ink stain darkened on the back of the gray trousers of the fascist ...

Ksenia Andreevna entered the class. She went ashore to find out if Kostya Rozhkov had sailed safely. The Germans, who were sitting at the front desk, looked with surprise at the commander who jumped up.

- Get up! the commander shouted at them. In our class, we are supposed to get up when the teacher comes in. That's not what you, apparently, were taught!

And the two fascists obediently got up.

- Permission to continue our lesson, Ksenia Andreevna? the commander asked.

“Sit down, sit down, Shirokov.

“No, Ksenia Andreevna, take your rightful place,” Shirokov objected, pulling up a chair, “you are our mistress in this room. And I'm here, over there at that desk, I've worked my brains out, and my daughter is here with you ... Sorry, Ksenia Andreevna, that we had to allow these slackers into our class. Well, since it happened so, here you are and ask them properly. Help us: you know their language ...

And Ksenia Andreevna took her place at the table, from which she had learned many good people in thirty-two years. And now, in front of Ksenia Andreevna's desk, next to a blackboard pierced by bullets, a long-armed, red-haired man was squirming, nervously adjusting his jacket, mumbling something and hiding his eyes from the blue, stern gaze of the old teacher.

“Stand properly,” said Ksenia Andreevna, “what are you fidgeting about?” My guys don't keep up. So... And now take the trouble to answer my questions.

And the lanky fascist, timid, stretched out in front of the teacher.

E. Shim "Spring Autumn"

I go into the forest, I look - what spring changes are taking place in it.

Grass sprouted on the dry hillocks. Blue streaks are blooming. The buds on the branches burst, and green tails appeared from them. Soon the trees will be fully dressed.

And what is this?

I went out into the clearing, and the real autumn is still hosting on it. Young oak trees stand around, from head to toe in yellow autumn leaves. And on the ground lies a rustling rug. And stands near a hemp on a thick leg mushroom russula in a red hat on one side.

Is this all a dream?

I blinked my eyes... no, everything is real. And I can't believe it. I can't believe this is happening!

Decided to figure it out, sat down on a stump. And before my eyes - red leaves on oak branches ...

An utter thought began to creep into my head: what if this glade is magical? It's like a fairytale. There is no winter here, there is no summer. Eternal autumn stands. And you can go mushroom picking here in February. And in June - to collect bouquets of crimson leaves.

It even got a little scary.

Silence permeates the clearing. Not a rustle, not a crunch, not a bird's voice.

A dry leaf fell off a nearby branch. Rocked in the air, fell.

And a tight brown bud opened in place of the leaf.

The second sheet broke off. Another bud opened up.

Ah, here's the thing!

I bent the branch and saw that hidden buds were sitting in the axil of each leaf. Probably sheltered from the winter cold. And now they are swollen and pushing out the old foliage. That's why there is a dry yellow rug on the ground ...

I pushed it away with my foot, and under it was green grass.

I tore off the russula then. She is fresh and strong. Cold alone. And then I remembered that we have russula in autumn until the very snow. Not afraid of cold. Persistent.

So why don't they appear in the spring!

Of course: this one is the very first, spring!

So it's spring in this meadow. You just don't recognize it right away. She, a mischievous girl, pretended to be in the fall.

Stories about love for the motherland, even in a foreign land there is longing and very strong sadness for the motherland.

Evgeny Permyak. Tale of the big bell

The sailor who arrived in England by ship and fell ill in the city of London has long since died, but the tale about him lives on.

There was a Russian sailor in the city of London. They put him in a good hospital. Provisions, money left:

“Get well, my friend, and wait for your ship!”

The ship's friends said so and went back to their native Russian land.

The sailor was ill for a short time. He was treated with good medicines. They did not spare the potion, powders, drops. Well, yes, she took her life. A guy of Arkhangelsk blood is a son of native Pomeranian parents. Can you break such a disease!

The sailor was discharged from the hospital. Cleaned the pea jacket, scrubbed the buttons. Well, the hot iron gave the rest of the clothes. I went to the harbor to look for fellow countrymen.

“Your countrymen are not here,” they tell him in the harbor. - Iceland has been driving fogs for the third week. Where can Russian sails come from in London?

"Don't worry," says the sailor. - I'm bright-eyed. And on your ships I will find countrymen.

He said so and set foot on an English ship. He wiped his feet on the mat, saluted the flag. Introduced himself.

The English love it. Because the order of the sea is the same everywhere.

- Look what you are! A sailor in every way. It’s just a pity that you won’t find fellow countrymen on our royal ship.

And the sailor smiles at this, says nothing, goes to the main mast.

“Why,” the sailors think, “does he need our mainmast? »

And the Russian sailor came up to her, stroked her with his hand and said:

- Hello, countrywoman, Arkhangelsk pine!

The mast woke up, came to life.

As if she had woken up from a long sleep. It rustled like a Russian mast forest, shed a tear with an amber resinous tear:

— Hello, countryman! Tell me how things are at home.

English sailors looked at each other:

- Look at you, what a big-eyed one! Found a countrywoman on our ship.

Meanwhile, the sailor is talking intimate conversations with the main mast. What business is at home, he tells, hugs the mast:

- Oh, my dear, good! Mast you are a miracle tree. The spirit of your kind no-forest winds were not blown out. Your pride was not bent by the storm.

English sailors are watching - and the sides of the ship are smiling at the Russian sailor, the deck is spreading under his feet. And he recognizes in them a pattern that is dear to his heart, he sees his native forests and groves.

“Look, how many countrymen he has!” It's like home on a foreign ship, English sailors whisper to themselves. - And the sails fawn on him.

Linen sails caress the sailor, and hemp-ship-ropes-mooring lines at his feet writhe, as if they cling to their own.

“And why are the sails fawning over you?” the captain asks. — After all, they are woven in our city of London.

“That’s right,” the sailor replies. - Only before that, they grew as fiber flax on Pskov land. How can I not snuggle them! Yes, and take the same ropes. And after all, we have four - five-yard hemp born. That's why they complained to you.

The sailor says so, but he looks askance at the anchors, glances at the guns. In those years, our iron, our copper, our cast iron from the Ural Mountains went to many countries: to Sweden, to Norway, to England.

- Well, how did I get into a good company! the sailor rejoices.

- Oh, what a big-eyed Russian sailor you are! You can see your family everywhere. Expensive, you can see it.

- Expensive, - the sailor answered and began to tell such things about our lands that the swell on the sea subsided, the seagulls sat on the water.

The whole team listened.

And at this time, on the main London bell tower, the clock began to strike. The big bell was struck. Far away, its velvet ringing over the fields, forests, rivers floated and went over the sea.

The Russian sailor listens to this ringing, he does not hear enough. Even closed his eyes. And the ringing spreads further and further, on a low, sloping wave, it sways. There is no equal voice in all the belfries of old England. The old man will stop, he will sigh, the girl will smile, the child will be quiet when this big bell rings.

They are silent on the ship, they listen. It is pleasant for them that the ringing of their bell pleased the Russian sailor.

Here the sailors, laughing, ask the sailor:

- Didn't you recognize your fellow countryman in the bell again?

And the sailor answered them:

The English captain was surprised how this Russian sailor could not only see his native, but could also hear. He was surprised, but he didn’t say anything about the bell, although he knew for sure that this bell was cast by Russian craftsmen in Muscovy for England and Russian blacksmiths forged his own language.

The ship's captain spoke up. And for what reason he kept silent, the fairy tale is silent about that. And I will shut up.

And as for the big bell on the largest, Westminster, belfry of old England, it strikes the English clock with Russian forged tongue to this day. Velvet beats, with a Moscow accent.

Not for everyone, of course, his ringing in their hearts and ears, only now nothing can be done. Don't take off the bell!

And take it off - so he will begin to preach the gospel even louder in people's rumors.

Let it hang, as it hung, and call back with the Moscow Kremlin brothers-bells, and talk about blue sky, about still water,

about sunny days... About friendship.

Mikhail Prishvin. spring of light

At night, with electricity, snowflakes were born from nothing: the sky was starry, clear.

The powder formed on the pavement not just like snow, but an asterisk over an asterisk, without flattening one another.

It seemed that this rare powder was taken directly from nothing, and meanwhile, as I approached my dwelling in Lavrushinsky Lane, the asphalt from it was gray.

Joyful was my awakening on the sixth floor.

Moscow lay covered with starry powder, and like tigers on the ridges of mountains, cats walked everywhere on the roofs. How many clear traces, how many spring romances: in the spring of light, all the cats climb onto the roofs.

And even when I went downstairs and drove along Gorky Street, the joy of the spring of light did not leave me. With a light matinee in the rays of the sun, there was that neutral environment when the very thought smells: you think about something, and you smell it.

Sparrow descended from the roof of the Moscow City Council and drowned up to his neck in star powder.

Before our arrival, he managed to bathe well in the snow, and when he had to fly away because of us, his wings flew apart from the wind.

there are so many stars around that the circle, almost the size of a large hat, turned black on the pavement.

- Have you seen it? one boy said to three girls.

And the children, looking up at the roof of the Moscow City Council, began to wait for the second gathering of the cheerful sparrow.

The spring of light is warmed by middays.

The powder melted by noon, and my joy was dulled, but it did not disappear, no!

As soon as the puddles froze over in the evening, the smell of the evening frost again brought me back to the spring of light.

It was getting dark like that, but the blue evening stars did not appear in Moscow: the whole sky remained blue and slowly turned blue.

Against this new blue background, lamps with multicolored lampshades flared here and there in the houses; you will never see these lampshades at dusk in winter.

Near the half-frozen puddles, from the melted starry powder, a child's enthusiastic cry was heard everywhere, childish joy filled the whole air.

So children in Moscow begin spring, as sparrows begin it in the village, then rooks, larks, black grouse in the forests, ducks on the rivers and sandpipers in the swamps.

From the children's spring sounds in the city, as well as from the cries of birds in the forests, my shabby clothes with melancholy and the flu suddenly collapsed.

A real tramp, at the first rays of spring, indeed often leaves his rags on the road ...

Puddles quickly froze everywhere. I tried to poke one with my foot, and the glass shattered into smithereens with a special sound: dr... dr... dr...

Pointlessly to myself, as happens with poets, I began to repeat this sound, adding suitable vowels: dra, drya, dri, drian.

And suddenly, from this senseless rubbish, first my beloved goddess Driana (the soul of a tree, forest) came out, and then Dryandia, the desired country, to which I began my journey in the morning with starry powder.

I was so happy about this that several times aloud, trying for sonority, I repeated, not paying attention to anyone around:

— Dryandia.

- What did he say? one girl asked another behind me. - What did he say?

Then all the girls and boys from the other puddle rushed to catch up with me.

- Did you say something? they asked me all at once.

“Yes,” I replied, “my words were: “Where is Malaya Bronnaya?”

What disappointment, what despondency my words produced: it turned out that we were just standing on this Malaya Bronnaya.

“It seems to me,” said one little girl with roguish eyes, “you said something completely different.

“No,” I repeated, “I need Malaya Bronnaya, I’m going to my good friends at number thirty-six. Goodbye!

They remained in the circle, dissatisfied, and, probably, were now discussing this oddity among themselves: there was something like Dryandia, and it turned out - an ordinary Malaya Bronnaya!

Moving away from them at a considerable distance, I stopped at the lantern and shouted loudly to them:

— Dryandia!

Hearing this for the second time, having made sure, the children rushed with a unanimous cry:

Dryandia, Dryandia!

- What is it? they asked.

“The country of free Svans,” I answered.

— And who are they?

“These,” I began to say calmly, “are not very big people, but heavily armed.

We entered under the black, old trees of Pioneer Ponds.

Large opaque electric lanterns, like moons, were shown to us from behind the trees. The edges of the pond were covered with ice.

One girl tried to become, the ice crackled.

- Yes, you will leave with your head! I shouted.

- With the head? she laughed. - How is it - with the head?

- With the head, with the head! the boys repeated.

And, seduced by the opportunity to get away with their heads, they rushed to the ice.

When everything ended happily and no one left headlong, the children again came to me, as to their old friend, and asked me to tell more about the small, but heavily armed people of Driandia.

“These people,” I said, “always stay in twos. One is resting, and the other is carrying him on a sleigh, and therefore their time is not wasted. They help each other in everything.

Why are they heavily armed?

They must protect their homeland from enemies.

“Why are they on sleds, do they have eternal winter?”

- No, they always have, as now with us - neither summer nor winter, they always have a spring of light: the ice crunches under their feet, sometimes falls, and then the poor Svans go under the ice with their heads, others immediately save them. Blue stars do not appear in their evenings: their sky is so blue, bright, and as soon as it is evening, multi-colored light bulbs light up everywhere in the windows ...

I told them the same thing that happens in Moscow in the spring of light, as it is now, and none of them guessed that my magical Dryandia was right there in Moscow, and that so soon we would all go to war for this Dryandia.

Irina Pivovarova. We went to the theater

We went to the theatre.

We were walking in pairs, and everywhere there were puddles, puddles, puddles, because it had just rained.

And we jumped over puddles.

My new blue tights and my new red shoes are all splattered with black.

And Lyuska's tights and shoes too!

And Sima Korostyleva ran up and jumped into the very middle of the puddle, and the entire hem of her new green dress became black! Sima began to wring it out, and the dress became like a washcloth, all crumpled and wet underneath. And Valka decided to help her and began to smooth the dress with her hands, and this caused some gray stripes to form on Simin's dress, and Sima was very upset.

But we told her:

And Sima stopped paying attention and again began to jump over the puddles.

And all our link jumped - and Pavlik, and Valka, and Burakov. But the best jumper, of course, was Kolya Lykov. His trousers were wet to the knees, his boots were completely wet, but he did not lose heart.

Yes, and it was ridiculous to be discouraged by such trifles!

The whole street was wet and shone from the sun.

Steam rose from the puddles.

Sparrows crackled on the branches.

Beautiful houses, all as good as new, freshly painted in yellow, light green and pink color, looked at us with clean spring windows. They joyfully showed us their black carved balconies, their white stucco decorations, their columns between the windows, their colorful tiles under the roofs, their merry dancing aunts in long robes fashioned over the porches and serious sad uncles with small horns in curly hair.

All the houses were so beautiful!

So old!

These are not like one another!

And that was the Center. Center of Moscow. Sadovaya street. And we went to the puppet theater. Went from the subway! On foot! And jumped over puddles! How I love Moscow! I'm even scared how much I love her! I even want to cry, how I love her! Everything in my stomach tightens when I look at these old houses, and how people run somewhere, run, and how cars rush, and how the sun sparkles in the windows of tall houses, and cars squeal, and sparrows yell in the trees.

And now behind all the puddles - eight large, ten medium and twenty-two small - and we are at the theater.

And then we went to the theater and watched the play. An interesting performance. We watched for two hours, we were even tired. And on the way back, everyone was already in a hurry to go home and did not want to walk, no matter how I asked, and we got on the bus and rode the bus all the way to the metro.

Stories for children about the Motherland, about native land, about native land. for reading at school, for family reading. Stories by Mikhail Prishvin, Konstantin Ushinsky, Ivan Shmelev, Ivan Turgenev.

Mikhail Prishvin

My homeland (From childhood memories)

My mother got up early, before the sun. Once I also got up before the sun, in order to place snares on quails at dawn. My mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in an earthenware pot and was always covered with a ruddy froth on top, and under this froth it was unusually tasty, and tea from it became excellent.

This treat decided my life in a good way: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning rising that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then I got up early in the city, and now I always write early, when the whole animal and plant world wakes up and also begins to work in its own way.

And often, often I think: what if we rose like this for our work with the sun! How much health, joy, life and happiness would then come to people!

After tea, I went hunting for quails, starlings, nightingales, grasshoppers, turtledoves, butterflies. I didn’t have a gun then, and even now a gun is not necessary in my hunting.

My hunting was then and now - in the finds. It was necessary to find in nature something that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one else had ever met with this in their life ...

My farm was large, the paths were countless.

My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is the pantry of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only do these treasures need to be protected - they must be opened and shown.

Fish need clean water - we will protect our reservoirs.

There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains.

Fish - water, bird - air, beast - forest, steppe, mountains.

And a man needs a home. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland.

Konstantin Ushinsky

Our fatherland

Our fatherland, our motherland - mother Russia. We call Russia Fatherland because our fathers and grandfathers lived in it from time immemorial.

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Stories for children about the Motherland, about the native land, about the native land. Stories for reading at school, for family reading. Stories by Mikhail Prishvin, Konstantin Ushinsky, Ivan Shmelev, Ivan Turgenev.

Mikhail Prishvin

My homeland (From childhood memories)

My mother got up early, before the sun. Once I also got up before the sun, in order to place snares on quails at dawn. My mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in an earthenware pot and was always covered with a ruddy froth on top, and under this froth it was unusually tasty, and tea from it became excellent.

This treat decided my life in a good way: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning rising that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then I got up early in the city, and now I always write early, when the whole animal and plant world wakes up and also begins to work in its own way.

And often, often I think: what if we rose like this for our work with the sun! How much health, joy, life and happiness would then come to people!

After tea, I went hunting for quails, starlings, nightingales, grasshoppers, turtledoves, butterflies. I didn’t have a gun then, and even now a gun is not necessary in my hunting.

My hunting was then and now - in the finds. It was necessary to find in nature something that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one else had ever met with this in their life ...

My farm was large, the paths were countless.

My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is the pantry of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only do these treasures need to be protected - they must be opened and shown.

Fish need clean water - we will protect our reservoirs.

There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains.

For a fish - water, for a bird - air, for a beast - a forest, a steppe, mountains.

And a man needs a home. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland.

Konstantin Ushinsky

Our fatherland

Our fatherland, our motherland is Mother Russia. We call Russia Fatherland because our fathers and grandfathers lived in it from time immemorial.

Motherland we call it because we were born in it. They speak our native language in it, and everything in it is native to us; and as a mother, because she fed us with her bread, made us drink with her waters, learned her language, as a mother she protects and protects us from all kinds of enemies.

Great is our motherland - Holy Russian land! It stretches from west to east for almost eleven thousand miles; and from north to south by four and a half.

Russia is spread not in one, but in two parts of the world: in Europe and in Asia...

There are many in the world, and besides Russia, all sorts of good states and lands, but a person has one own mother - he has one and his homeland.

Ivan Shmelev

Russian song

I looked forward to summer with impatience, following its approach by signs well known to me.

The earliest herald of summer was the striped sack. It was pulled out of a huge camphor-smelling chest, and a pile of canvas jackets and trousers were thrown out of it for trying on. I had to stand in one place for a long time, take it off, put it on, take it off again and put it on again, and they turned me around, stabbed me on me, let me in and let go - “half an inch”. I was sweating and twirling, and behind the frames that had not yet been set, poplar branches swayed with buds gilded with glue, and the sky was joyfully blue.

The second and important sign of spring-summer was the appearance of a red-haired painter, who smelled of spring itself - putty and paints. The painter came to expose the frames - "to let the spring in" - to make repairs. He always appeared suddenly and spoke gloomily, swaying:

- Well, where do you have something here? ..

And with such an air he snatched out chisels from behind the ribbon of a dirty apron, as if he wanted to stab. Then he began to tear the putty and angrily purr under his breath:

I-ah and te-we-nay le-so ...

Yes, yehh and te-we-na-ay ...

Ah-ehh and in the dark-on-am le ...

Yes, and in te ... we-us-mm! ..

And he sang louder and louder. And whether because he only sang about the dark forest, or because he shook his head and sighed, looking furiously from under his brows, he seemed very terrible to me.

Then we got to know him well when he pulled my friend Vaska by the hair.

That was the case.

The painter worked, dined, and fell asleep on the roof of the porch, in the sun. After purring about the dark forest, where “sy-toya-la, oh yes, and so-senka,” the painter fell asleep without saying anything else. He lay on his back, and his red beard looked up at the sky. Vaska and I, so that there was more wind, also climbed onto the roof - to let the “monk”. But there was no wind on the roof. Then Vaska, having nothing to do, began to tickle the painter's bare heels with a straw. But they were covered with gray and hard skin, like putty, and the painter did not care. Then I bent to the painter's ear and in a trembling thin voice sang:

And-ah and in te-we-nom le-e...

The painter's mouth twisted, and a smile crept out from under his red mustache onto his dry lips. He must have been pleased, but he still didn't wake up. Then Vaska offered to take up the painter properly. And we got on with it.

Vaska dragged a large brush and a bucket of paint up to the roof and painted the painter's heels. The painter kicked and calmed down. Vaska made a face and continued. He circled the painter at the ankles over the green bracelet, and I carefully painted the thumbs and nails.

The painter was snoring sweetly, probably from pleasure.

Then Vaska drew a wide “vicious circle” around the painter, squatted down and sang a song over the very painter’s ear, which I also picked up with pleasure:

redhead asked:

- What did you do with your beard?

- I'm not paint, not putty,

I was in the sun!

I lay in the sun

He kept his beard up!

The painter stirred and yawned. We quieted down, and he turned on his side and painted himself. That's where it came from. I waved through the dormer window, and Vaska slipped and fell into the paws of the painter. The painter patted Vaska and threatened to dip him into a pail, but soon became cheerful, stroking Vaska on the back and saying:

"Don't cry, you fool. The same one grows in my village. That the master's paint has exhausted, fool ... and even roars!

From that moment the painter became our friend. He sang to us the whole song about the dark forest, how they cut down a pine tree, how “Uh-huh-whether the good fellow is in a strange-distant sy-that-ronush-ku! ..”. It was a good song. And he sang it so pitifully that I thought: was it not to himself that he sang it? Sang and more songs - about "dark night, autumn", and about " birch", and more about "field clear"...

For the first time then, on the roof of the porch, I felt a world unknown to me until then - longing and expanse, lurking in the Russian song, unknown in the depths of its soul of my native people, tender and stern, covered with coarse clothing. Then, on the roof of the canopy, in the cooing of blue-gray doves, in the dull sounds of a painter's song, a new world opened up to me - both of the tender and harsh Russian nature, in which the soul yearns and waits for something ... Then, at my early time, - for the first time, perhaps - I felt the strength and beauty of the Russian folk word, its softness, and caress, and expanse. It just came and gently fell into the soul. Then I came to know him: his strength and sweetness. And I know him...

Ivan Turgenev

Village

The last day of the month of June; for a thousand miles around Russia is a native land.

The whole sky is filled with even blue; only one cloud on it - either floating or melting. Calm, warm ... the air is fresh milk!

The larks are ringing; goiter doves coo; swallows soar silently; horses snort and chew; dogs do not bark and stand quietly wagging their tails.

And it smells of smoke, and grass - and a little tar - and a little skin. The hemp growers have already entered into force and let out their heavy but pleasant spirit.

Deep but gentle ravine. On the sides in several rows are big-headed, splintered willows from top to bottom. A stream runs along the ravine; at the bottom of it, small pebbles seem to tremble through light ripples. In the distance, at the end-edge of the earth and sky - the bluish line of a large river.

Along the ravine, on one side, are tidy barns, cubicles with tightly closed doors; on the other side are five or six pine huts with plank roofs. Above each roof is a tall birdhouse pole; above each porch is a carved iron steep-maned horse. The uneven glass of the windows is cast in the colors of the rainbow. Jugs with bouquets are painted on the shutters. In front of each hut there is a serviceable shop decorously; on the mounds the cats curled up in a ball, pricking their transparent ears; behind the high thresholds, the vestibule darkens coolly.

I am lying at the very edge of the ravine on a spread blanket; all around are whole heaps of freshly mowed, to the point of exhaustion, fragrant hay. The quick-witted owners scattered the hay in front of the huts: let it dry a little more in the sun, and then into the barn! That will sleep nicely on it!

Curly baby heads protrude from every heap; crested hens are looking for midges and insects in the hay; a white-lipped puppy flounders in tangled blades of grass.

Russo-haired guys, in clean, low-belted shirts, in heavy boots with a trim, exchange glib words, leaning their chests on a harnessed cart - they scoff.

A round-faced pullet looks out of the window; laughs either at their words, or at the fuss of the guys in the heaped hay.

Another pullet is dragging a large wet bucket from the well with strong hands... The bucket trembles and swings on the rope, dropping long fiery drops.

In front of me is an old hostess in a new checkered coat, in new cats.

Large puffy beads in three rows twisted around a swarthy, thin neck; a gray-haired head is tied with a yellow scarf with red dots; he hung low over his dull eyes.

But senile eyes smile affably; smiles all wrinkled face. Tea, the old woman is living in her seventies ... and now you can still see: there was a beauty in her time!

Spreading the tanned fingers of her right hand, she holds a pot of cold, unskimmed milk, straight from the cellar; the walls of the pot are covered with dewdrops, like beads. In the palm of her left hand, the old woman brings me a large slice of still warm bread. “Eat, they say, to your health, visiting guest!”

The rooster suddenly roared and flapped its wings busily; in response to him, slowly, the locked calf grunted.

Oh, contentment, peace, abundance of the Russian free countryside! Oh, peace and grace!

And I think: why do we need a cross on the dome of Hagia Sophia in Tsar-Grad, and everything that we city people are striving for?