How the bear was turned over

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

There is forest omen: as the Bear rolls over to the other side, so the sun will turn to the summer.

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

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

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

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

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

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:

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

Here the White Partridge wailed:

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

And the Bear is his:

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

The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:

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

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

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

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

Are you a bear? the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! Mouse boasts.

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

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

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

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

The mouse leaned out and squeaked:

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

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

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

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

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

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

Otter and Raven

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

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

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

Hare and Vole

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

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

Badger and Bear

- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?

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

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

- It's not time. Sleep some more.

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

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

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

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

Magpie and Dipper

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

And swim and dive!

- Will you freeze?

- My pen is warm!

- Will you get wet?

- I have a water-repellent feather!

- Will you drown?

- I can swim!

- BUT … a … Are you hungry after swimming?

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

winter debts

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

- What, Sparrow, rejoiced at, why chirped?

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

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

- In scared!

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

- Pecked.

- Did you pick up grain at the barnyard?

- Picked.

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

Thanks guys for feeding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the Crow does not let up:

- And you fly and check!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sparrow returned to the dunghill and said to the Crow:

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

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

Polite Jackdaw

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

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

But I noticed one jackdaw for her politeness.

There was a blizzard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black grouse notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They sing well, like the notes!

Whose thaw?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magpie and Rook only fluttered their wings.

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

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

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

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

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

And the Mole looked out - sniffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Sit, walk, stretch! Grach growled. - nose in warm earth rummage!

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

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

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

Here the shouting and squabbling began again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nikolay Sladkov "The Know-It-All"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "On an unknown path"

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

Can I see something on it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "Non Rumor"

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

And grow up - trouble!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's how caressed!

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

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

The bear is behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "What did the magpie sing about?"

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

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

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

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

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

But shh! Magpie sings on the Christmas tree!

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "Vacuum cleaner"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stand, I wait.

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

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

The birdhouse is clean, like glass.

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

Nikolai Sladkov "Dyatlovo ring"

The woodpecker is a master of different things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot spring is coming.

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

Master woodpecker on pieces.

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

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

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

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "Why is a chaffinch a chaffinch?"

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

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

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

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

But why is a finch a finch?

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

And yet they called the finch a finch!

This summer, I think I solved this riddle.

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

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

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

That's why the finch became a finch!

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

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

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "Animal Bath"

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

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

Nikolai Sladkov "Home Butterfly"

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

But how I rejoiced at this freak!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sladkov's stories about forest life. Stories about nature for younger students. Stories for students primary school. extracurricular reading in grades 1-4. Informative stories about the natural world for schoolchildren.

Nikolay Sladkov. sly dandelion

They say there is no more cunning fox and beast. There may not be an animal, but here is a dandelion smarter than a fox! Looks like a simpleton. But actually on my mind. Passion is cunning!

Cold spring, hungry. All the flowers are sitting in the ground, waiting for their warm hour. The dandelion has already bloomed! Shines like a bright sun. Since autumn, he has stored food in the roots; jumped everyone. Insects rush to its flowers. It's okay for him: let them pollinate.

Seeds will tie, the dandelion will close the bud and, like a cradle with twins, will quietly lower the bud down. After all, babies need peace and warmth: let them gain strength, lying calmly on the ground in a warm cradle.

And the kids will grow up, their flying wings will grow - it's time to hit the road, to new lands, to green distances. Now they need height, they need space and wind. And the dandelion again raises its stem, straightens it like an arrow, above all anemones, cat's paws, wood lice and weeds. Scatter and grow!

What a fox: she has four legs, sharp teeth. And foxes only heels. She would try to raise a hundred children, when instead of legs there is only a root, and instead of teeth - a stem and a leaf. Don't run, don't hide, don't dodge. The bug is threatening. So the dandelion is cunning, not leaving the spot. And nothing - flourishes.

Nikolay Sladkov. forest hiding places

The forest is dense, green and full of rustles, squeaks, songs.

But then a hunter entered it - and in an instant everything hid and became alert. Like a wave from a stone thrown into the water, anxiety rolled from tree to tree. All for a bush, for a knot - and silence.

Now if you want to see, become invisible yourself; if you want to hear, become inaudible; If you want to understand, shut up.

I know it. I know that of all forest hiding places fast eyes follow me, wet noses catch the wind running from me. Lots of animals and birds around. And try to find it!

I came here to see a splyushka - a tiny, from a starling, owl.

For whole nights she, as if wound up, screams her own: “I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping! - as if a forest clock is ticking: “Tick! Teak! Teak! Teak!.."

By dawn, the forest clock will become: splyushka will fall silent and hide. Yes, she hides so cleverly, as if she had never been in the forest.

Splyushka's voice - night hours - who has not heard, but what does she look like? I only knew her from a picture. And I so wanted to see her alive that I wandered through the forest all day, examined every tree, every branch, looked into every bush. Tired. Hungry. But never found her.

Sat on an old stump. Please, I'm sitting.

And now, look, out of nowhere - a snake! Gray. Flat head on a thin neck, like a bud on a stalk. She crawled out from somewhere and looks into my eyes, as if she is waiting for something from me.

The snake - she climbed, she must know everything.

I tell her, as in a fairy tale:

- Snake, snake, tell me where the splyushka hid - the forest clock?

The snake teased me with its tongue and briskly into the grass!

And suddenly, as in a fairy tale, forest secrets opened up before me.

A snake rustled in the grass for a long, long time, appeared again at another stump - and wagged under its mossy roots. She dived, and a large green lizard with a blue head twisted out from under them. It's like someone pushed her out of there. She rustled on a dry leaf - and sniffed into someone's mink.

There is another hiding place in the mink. The mistress there is a dull-faced mouse-vole.

She was frightened by the blue-headed lizard, jumped out of the otnork - out of the darkness into the light, - darted, darted - and walked under the lying well!

Another squeak rose under the decks, fuss. There was also a secret. And the whole day two small animals slept in it - dormice regiments. Two animals that look like squirrels.

Dormouse regiments jumped out from under the well, stunned with fear. Tails ruff. Rolled up the trunk. They clicked - but suddenly they became scared again, they rushed even higher up the barrel with a propeller.

And higher in the trunk - a hollow.

The dormouse regiments wanted to get into it - and bumped their foreheads at the entrance. They squeaked in pain, rushed again, both at once - and so together into the hollow and failed.

And from there - wow! - little bastard bastard! The ears on top are like horns. The eyes are round and yellow. He sat down on a branch, with his back to me, and turned his head so that he was looking at me point-blank.

Of course, this is not a devil, but splyushka - night hours!

I did not have time to blink, she - one! - willow foliage. And there it was brought in, squeaked: someone was also hiding.

So from hollow to hollow, from mink to mink, from deck to deck, from bush to bush, from crack to crack, the forest fry shied away from fear, opening their hiding places to me. From tree to tree, from bush to bush, anxiety rolls through the forest like a wave from a stone. And everyone hides: hop-hop for a bush, for a knot - and silence.

If you want to see, become invisible. If you want to hear, become inaudible. If you want to know, shut up.

Nikolay Sladkov. Mysterious Beast

The cat catches mice, the seagull eats fish, the flycatcher eats flies. Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you who you are.

- Guess who am I? I eat bugs and ants!

I thought and said firmly:

- I didn't guess! I also eat wasps and bumblebees!

— Aha! You are a honey buzzard!

- Don't be a buzzard! I also eat caterpillars and larvae.

Thrushes love caterpillars and larvae.

- I'm not a thrush! I also gnaw on antlers shed by moose.

“Then you must be a wood mouse.”

And not a mouse at all. Sometimes I even eat mice myself!

- Mice? Then, of course, you are a cat.

- Now a mouse, then a cat! And you didn't guess at all.

- Show yourself! I shouted. And he began to peer into the dark spruce, from where a voice was heard.

- I'll show up. Only you recognize yourself defeated.

— Early! I replied.

— Sometimes I eat lizards. And occasionally fish.

- Maybe you're a heron?

- Not a heron. I catch chicks and drag eggs from bird nests.

“Looks like you're a marten.

— Don't talk to me about the marten. The marten is my old enemy. And I also eat kidneys, nuts, seeds of Christmas trees and pines, berries and mushrooms.

I got angry and shouted:

- Most likely, you are a pig! You're ripping through everything. You are a feral pig that foolishly climbed onto the tree!

The branches swayed, parted, and I saw ... a squirrel!

- Remember! - she said. “Cats don't just eat mice, seagulls don't just eat fish, and flycatchers don't just eat flies. And squirrels gnaw not only nuts.

Nikolay Sladkov. forest time

Forest time is not hurried ...

Blue rays made their way through the cracks in the green ceiling. From them on the dark earth lilac halos. These are sunbeams.

One bunny lies next to me, he moves his ears a little. Above him is a quiet, matte glow. Around dusk, and where the bunny is, every spruce needle is visible on the ground, every vein on a fallen leaf. Under the bunny is a gray log with black cracks. And on the log - a snake. It was as if someone squeezed out, not sparing, thick brown paint from a thick tube; the paint lay down in tight twists and froze. From above, a tiny head with clenched lips and two prickly sparks - eyes.

Everything down here is still and quiet. It seems like time has stopped.

And above, above the green forest ceiling, blue waves of wind roll; there is sky, clouds, sun. The sun slowly floats to the west, and the sunbeam creeps along the earth to the east. I see this by the way leaves and specks that have looked closer sink into the shadow, and how new blades of grass and sticks emerge from the other side of the shadow.

A ray of the sun is like the hand of a forest clock, and the earth with sticks and motes is a forest dial.

But why does the snake not sink into the shadows, how is it that it is always in the center of the shining oval?

Forest time trembled and stopped. I tensely peer into the coils of the elastic snake body: they are moving! They move slightly noticeably, towards each other; I notice this by the jagged stripe on the snake's back. The body of the snake slightly pulsates: it expands, then it subsides. The snake invisibly moves exactly as far as the sun spot moves, and therefore is constantly in its center. Her body is like living mercury.

The sun is moving in the sky, tiny spots of the sun are moving across the vast forest land. And together with them sleepy snakes move in all the forests. They move slowly, imperceptibly, as lazy forest time moves slowly and imperceptibly. Moving like in a dream...

Nikolay Sladkov. On an unknown path

I got to walk different paths: bear, boar, wolf. I walked along hare paths and even bird paths. But this is the first time I've walked this path. This path was cleared and trampled by ants.

On the animal trails I unraveled animal mysteries. What can I see on this trail?

I did not walk along the path itself, but next to it. The path is too narrow - like a ribbon. But for the ants, of course, it was not a ribbon, but a wide highway. And Muravyov ran along the highway a lot, a lot. They dragged flies, mosquitoes, horseflies. The transparent wings of insects shone. It seemed that a trickle of water was pouring down the slope between the blades of grass.

I walk along the ant trail and count the steps: sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five steps... Wow! These are my big ones, but how many ant ones ?! Only at the seventieth step did the trickle disappear under the stone. Serious trail.

I sat down on a rock to rest. I sit and watch how a living vein beats under my feet. The wind blows - ripples along the living stream. The sun will shine - the stream will sparkle.

Suddenly, as if a wave surged along the ant road. The snake wagged along it and - dive! under the rock on which I was sitting. I even jerked my leg away - it must be a harmful viper. Well, rightly so - now the ants will neutralize it.

I knew that ants boldly attack snakes. They will stick around the snake - and only scales and bones will remain from it. I even thought of picking up the skeleton of this snake and showing it to the guys.

I sit, I wait. Underfoot beats and beats a living brook. Well, now it's time! I carefully lift the stone so as not to damage the snake skeleton. Under the stone is a snake. But not dead, but alive and not at all like a skeleton! On the contrary, she became even thicker! The snake, which the ants were supposed to eat, calmly and slowly ate Ants herself. She pressed them with her muzzle and pulled them into her mouth with her tongue. This snake was not a viper. I have never seen such snakes before. The scale, like emery, is small, the same above and below. More like a worm than a snake.

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

The skeleton did not come out, so I took the snake. At home, I looked at it in detail and determined the name. I found her eyes: small, the size of a pinhead, under the scales. That's why they call her the blind snake. She lives in burrows underground. She doesn't need eyes. But crawling either with your head or with your tail forward is convenient. And she can dig the ground.

Here's to which unseen beast led me to an unknown path.

Yes, what to say! Every path leads somewhere. Just don't be lazy to go.

How the bear was turned over

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

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

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

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

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

Otter and Raven

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

Hare and Vole

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

Badger and Bear

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

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

Magpie and Dipper

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

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

winter debts

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

Polite Jackdaw

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

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

Black grouse notes

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

Whose thaw?

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

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

Hare round dance

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

Inhuman steps

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

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

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

Thrush and Owl

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

Five black grouse

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

Notepad forgot

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

End of Free Trial

Nikolay Ivanovich Sladkov(1920-1996) - writer, author of over 60 books on nature. Member of the CPSU since 1952. 2009.

Biography

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was born on January 5, 1920 in Moscow, but lived most of his life in Leningrad. Since childhood, he loved nature and was interested in it. From the second grade he began to keep a diary, where he entered his first impressions and observations.

In his youth, he was fond of hunting, but later abandoned this activity, considering sport hunting barbaric. Instead, he began to engage in photo hunting, put forward the call "Do not take a gun into the forest, take a photo gun into the forest."

During the war, he volunteered for the front, became a military topographer. AT Peaceful time retained the same profession.

Activity

The first book "Silver Tail" was written in 1953. In total, he wrote more than 60 books. Together with Vitaly Bianchi, he produced the radio program "News from the Forest". He traveled a lot, usually alone, these travels are reflected in books. He wrote a lot about the need to protect nature, protect endangered species, educate careful attitude to nature.

He repeatedly spoke out against the practice of keeping wild animals in captivity (including in zoos), arguing that the life of such animals is not complete.

Selected bibliography

The works included in the three-volume collected works of N. I. Sladkov, published in 1988 by the publishing house "Children's Literature" are highlighted:

• "Silver Tail", 1953.
• "Nameless path", 1956.
• "Planet of Wonders", 1963.
• "Miombo". Book about Africa, 1976.
• "Brave Photohunter", 1977
• "Whistle of the Wild Wings", 1977.
• "Drops of the Sun", a collection of short stories, 1978.
• « Aspen invisible», 1979 . Observations of flying squirrels made in childhood.
• "White tigers". Book about India, 1981.
• "Into the forest in riddles", 1983.
• "Colorful Land", 1984.
• "Under the cap of invisibility", 1986.

N. Sladkov also wrote many stories, including for children.

Awards and prizes

• State Prize of the RSFSR named after N. K. Krupskaya (1976) - for the book "Underwater Newspaper".

The books of Nikolai Sladkov describe a number of unusual events that happened to him during his travels.

• Planning to sail the Ili River downstream, N. Sladkov lost his kayak on the very first day of his trip. Then he swam part of the river to Balkhash by swimming on his back, placing an inflatable pillow under his head and putting his property and supplies on a rubber raft tied to his leg.
• Looking for snow leopard in the area of ​​the city of Elburs, N. Sladkov climbed a mountain, climbed onto a mountain cornice and brought down a stone block. The block destroyed a section of the cornice and Sladkov was blocked on the cornice, where the nest of golden eagles was located. For 9 days he lived on this ledge, eating part of the prey that the eagles brought to the chicks. Then he went down, using for this the branches that made up the nest.