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Lesson summary
Subject: ____ literary reading __________ Class: ___ 2 __
Lesson topic : "Autumn". Riddles about autumn. Sentence. I. Sokolov-Mikitov " gold autumn».
Goals: To acquaint students with the topic of the subsection of the textbook "Autumn", with riddles about autumn, a sentence, with the story of I. Sokolov-Mikitov "Golden Autumn"; improve the ability to read the text correctly, consciously and expressively, in whole words; develop skills: work with the content of literary texts; read the text of the work, understand the meaning of words and expressions; determine the author's intention, the main idea of the text; compare works of different genres about autumn; formulate simple conclusions based on what has been read; solve riddles; develop Creative skills; develop interest in the work of I. Sokolov-Mikitov
Planned results:
Subject: to learn how to correctly, consciously and expressively read texts of different genres, work with the content of the work, understand the role of rhythm in the sentence, highlight the end consonances of poetic lines and determine the rhyme, find the description of autumn in the text.
Metasubject: * accept, understand and solve the learning tasks of the lesson, test yourself and independently evaluate your achievements; * understand the content of the read riddles, sentences and stories - descriptions; understand distinctive features these genres; see the connection between rhythm and meaning; understand the role of intonation in conveying the meaning of the work; name the characteristic signs of autumn, based on the texts read; compare works of different genres about autumn; build a logical chain of reasoning; draw conclusions based on what you have read. * explain the meaning of the concepts of "mystery", "sentence" and "story-description"; participate in the learning dialogue; talk about autumn.
Personal: interest in the work of I. Sokolov-Mikitov. Interest in riddles, sentences and stories about autumn. Admiring the beauty of autumn nature.
Equipment: multimedia projector, screen, laptop, board, textbook G.S. Merkin, B.G. Merkin, S.A. Bolotova " Literary reading Grade 2"
Stages of work
Stage content
Goal to be achieved students: preparation for productive work in the classroom.
The goal that the teacher wants to achieve at this stage:
include students in activities at a personally meaningful level.
Tasks: create conditions for ensuring positive motivation of students.
II Work on riddles and sentences.
be able to read texts of different genres correctly, consciously and expressively;
Tasks:
encourage students to reason and draw conclusions on their own; guide the actions of students; stimulate interest in activities.
test students' knowledge of riddles.
Methods: verbal (conversation)
emotional (stimulating assessment).
PHYSMINUTKA
The goals that the teacher sets for the students:
relieve tension, change the static posture.
Goal the teacher wants to achieve: create conditions for relieving stress, changing a static posture, organizing a physical minute as part of practical work.
Methods:
practical (exercises).
III Working with the text "Golden Autumn" (excerpt) I. Sokolov-Mikitov
The goals that the teacher sets for the students: be able to build logical chains of reasoning; draw conclusions based on what you read.
Tasks:
Find descriptions of autumn in the text of the story
Goal the teacher wants to achieve: to create situations of mutual assistance among students, to create conditions for the discovery of new knowledge.
Methods:
verbal (conversation);
methods of stimulation and motivation (taking into account cognitive interest);
social (search for contacts and cooperation).
IV Results
The goals that the teacher sets for the students:
to realize their own UD, to conduct a self-assessment of the results of their activities and the class.
Goal the teacher wants to achieve: reflection of the results of students' activities; create conditions for the formation of skills for self-assessment of educational activities.
Tasks:
combine methods of pedagogical assessment, mutual assessment and self-assessment of students
Methods:
verbal (conversation);
volitional (formation of reflexivity);
assessment methods (pedagogical assessment, graphic self-assessment, mutual assessment).
The goals that the teacher sets for the students:
independent choice and problem solving a high degree freedom and responsibility.
Goal the teacher wants to achieve: to activate the creative possibilities of students
Methods:
methods of stimulation and motivation (interest in the results of work).
Greetings:
I will now say the word, and you imagine what in question and what can be said about this amazing time of the year. So, I say... "Autumn".
Think for one or two minutes and name two or three keywords that characterize autumn. (students name the words that are written on the boardbeautiful, colorful, golden, cold, rainy... )
Microout. You quite rightly noticed the main quality of autumn - its diversity, multicolor.
Now we will consider reproductions of four paintings by famous Russian artists: Fyodor Vasiliev "Swamp", Ivan Shishkin "Golden Autumn", Isaac Levitan "Golden Autumn", "Autumn. Manor"
In each picture, the artist depicted his autumn. How do you think up what each of the artists emphasized in their picture?
Now we will read the riddles (p. 69)
Which of the three riddles is closest to the paintings "Golden Autumn" by I. Shishkin and I. Levitan? (First)
What riddles are close to the paintings by I. Levitan "Autumn" and F. Vasiliev "Swamp"? (second, third)
What do these riddles have in common (they describe natural phenomena in autumn)
What natural phenomena are they talking about?
Continue the offer. Autumn in the given riddles looks like ...
What genre are puzzles? (to folklore)
What else can we attribute to folklore (fairy tales, ditties, incantations, etc.)
Today we will read the sentence.
Sentence - a small piece of oral folk art that was said while doing something. sentences often referred to animals.
Reading the sentence p. 70.
Who is referred to in the judgment? What does the expression "North - sug, north - sug" mean?
This line refers to such a phenomenon as sludge. Suga is small floating ice or snowballs.
Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov - Mikitov was born in the Kaluga province. In 1895 the family moved to the Smolensk region. In 1910, Sokolov-Mikitov moved to St. Petersburg, where in the same year he wrote his first work - the fairy tale "The Salt of the Earth". Throughout his life, the writer traveled a lot, tried many professions.
Today we will read his work "Golden Autumn"
Reading the story, pp. 70-71
What signs of autumn are present in the story?
Why is autumn called golden?
What does "the bees are heavy" mean?
Who are the drones?
What is a letok?
Find in the text of the story the places that talk about the state of nature in autumn, and where about human activities.
What picture about autumn would you put to the story of I. Sokolov - Mikitov?
What season was our lesson about?
Autumn - a time of joy or sad? Are there episodes in the text of the story "Golden Autumn" that evoke these feelings?
What is a sentence?
How is a sentence different from a riddle?
on your table autumn leaves, evaluate your work in the lesson: if you actively participated in the discussion of these works - take a yellow sheet, if you did not always know the answer to the question, did not fully understand the works - take a green one, let's show our grades, raise your hands.
Thank you all for the lesson, you are great!
1) Write a story about autumn.
2) Find a poem about autumn and learn it.
Russian forest is good in winter and summer, autumn and spring. On a quiet day, you go out, it happened, into the forest on skis - you breathe and you won’t breathe. Deep, clean snowdrifts lie under the trees. Above forest paths lacy white arches bent under the weight of hoarfrost trunks of young birch trees. Dark green branches of tall and small firs are covered with heavy caps of white snow. No, no, this will break white hat from the top of a tall spruce, it will crumble into silvery light dust - and a green spruce branch freed from the weight of snow sways for a long time. The high tops of the firs are studded with a necklace purple cones. With a cheerful whistle they fly from spruce to spruce, flocks of busty crossbills swing on cones.
You walk through the winter quiet forest and do not stop looking. 
Tall, motionless pines sleep. The bluish shadows of their slender trunks lie on the white, untouched snowdrifts. It is quiet in the sleeping forest, but a sensitive ear picks up living subtle sounds. Here, somewhere, a motley woodpecker rattled and screamed, flying from tree to tree. A gray, reddish hazel grouse noisily fell off a branch and disappeared into the depths of the forest. A naughty squirrel pulls at the top of a ripe cone of spruce, dropping dark light husks, resinous gnawed rods onto the snow. Noiselessly flew by the edge of the forest, bluish jays screamed.
The forest fills with invisible life. Light traces of squirrels, small traces of forest mice and birds stretch from tree to tree. Only a very attentive person can observe life winter forest. You need to be able to walk quietly, listen and stop. Then all the beauty of the sleeping winter forest will open before you.
The forest is good in early and late spring, when the turbulent life hidden from eyes and ears begins to awaken in it. melts winter snow. Overhead, thin birch branches covered with puffed-up resinous buds are visible. More and more heard in the forest bird voices. The first migratory birds begin to sing, capercaillie lek in remote places. Fallen needles are strewn under the spruce nostril snow. The first thawed patches appeared on the forest glades. On the exposed tussocks, strong green lingonberry leaves are visible. In some places, when warm, they begin to bloom, snowdrops-coppices grow like a carpet. It smells of resinous buds, tree bark. Thrushes sing. On the top tall tree, all in the rays of the rising sun, cooing a wild pigeon.
A joyful day will come - the edge of the birch forest will be covered with a green haze. Cuckoos cuckoo. In the mornings, before dawn, the red-browed beauties of the black grouse flock to the current.
In the evening, long-nosed woodcocks are pulled over the tops of the forest, horkay and circus. Wild ducks quack over the river. On the edge of the forest swamp, high in the sky, a snipe ram is running.
Much can be heard in the awakening spring forest. Fritillaries squeak thinly, invisible owls goog at night. In the impenetrable swamp, the cranes that have arrived in the spring lead round dances. Bees buzz over the yellow golden puffs of the blossoming willow. And in the bushes on the banks of the river, the first nightingale sang loudly.
Which of you has not been in a hot summer in a cool dark forest? The most vociferous birds-singers have fallen silent, the sonorous nightingales no longer sing along the edges of the forest.
You walk through the forest, taking a good look - you need to be able to find mushroom places, to know where which mushroom grows. Here, under the trees of the mixed forest, the cap of the boletus reddens. You bend down, cut off the thick root of the mushroom with a knife, carefully put the find in the basket. 
Somewhere there are strong mushrooms. It's nice to pick up a coldish mushroom. Here, beautiful red fly agarics scattered in a wide round dance in a clearing. In the pine forest come across mushrooms. In a young birch forest, under the leaves of a tall fern, boletus mushrooms are densely sitting.
Fragrant tasty strawberries ripen in open forest glades. In the middle of summer, forest raspberries ripen. And along the edges of the marshes, blueberries ripen, lingonberries turn red on the green branches.
The Russian forest is especially beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Against a golden background of yellowed foliage, bright spots of painted maples and aspens stand out. Slowly circling in the air, yellowed light leaves fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of sticky cobwebs are stretched from tree to tree.
Quiet in autumn forest. Fallen dry leaves rustle underfoot. In some places, the hat of the late boletus turns red. A hazel grouse will whistle thinly, cranes flying in a school will call high in the sky.
Something sad, farewell is heard and seen in the autumn forest. You used to walk through such an autumn forest, colored with colors, - the soul is filled with a musical, poetic feeling. Indian summer called in the village this short autumn time.
The air is transparent and pure in autumn, the water in forest streams is transparent: each one is visible at the bottom of a pebble. The late autumn flowers are still blooming. Songbirds are preparing to fly away. No, no, a thrush will crackle in the forest, a hard-working woodpecker will knock on a dry tree. Still green, dropping ripe acorns, an old spreading oak stands on the edge of the forest. But the tops of the birches are already bare. Against the dark background of a continuous spruce forest, one can clearly see bright colors aspens. Light yellowed willow leaves have already flown around, floating on the water. Well in the autumn flowery forest. For a long time I do not want to leave it, say goodbye to the golden autumn days.
Sokolov-Mikitov I.S. Russian forest: for ml. school age / I.S. Sokolov-Mikitov; Artistic
Great about verses:
Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.
Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own idiosyncratic beauty with stolen glitter.
Humboldt W.
Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not in verses alone: it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.
Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"
To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.
Short stories about autumn
Autumn
I. Sokolov-Mikitov
The chirping swallows flew south a long time ago, and even earlier, as if on cue, swift swifts disappeared.
In the autumn days, the children heard how, saying goodbye to their dear homeland, flying cranes were cooing in the sky. With some special feeling, they looked after them for a long time, as if the cranes were taking the summer away with them.
Quietly talking, geese flew to the warm south ...
Getting ready for cold winter people. Rye and wheat have long been cut down. Prepared feed for livestock. They pick the last apples in the orchards. They dug up potatoes, beets, carrots and harvest them for the winter.
The animals are getting ready for winter. The nimble squirrel accumulated nuts in a hollow, dried selected mushrooms. Little mice-voles dragged grains into their burrows, prepared fragrant soft hay.
In late autumn, a hardworking hedgehog builds its winter lair. He dragged a whole heap of dry leaves under the old stump. All winter will sleep peacefully under a warm blanket.
Less and less, the autumn sun warms more and more sparingly.
Soon, the first frosts will begin soon.
Mother Earth will freeze until spring. Everyone took everything from her that she could give.
Autumn
It's been a fun summer. Here comes autumn. It's time to harvest. Vanya and Fedya are digging potatoes. Vasya picks beets and carrots, and Fenya picks beans. There are many plums in the garden. Vera and Felix pick fruit and send it to the school cafeteria. There everyone is treated with ripe and tasty fruits.
In the woods
Grisha and Kolya went into the forest. They picked mushrooms and berries. They put mushrooms in a basket, and berries in a basket. Suddenly thunder boomed. The sun has disappeared. Clouds appeared all around. The wind bent the trees to the ground. There was a big rain. The boys went to the forester's house. Soon the forest became quiet. Rain stopped. The sun came out. Grisha and Kolya went home with mushrooms and berries.
Mushrooms
The guys went to the forest for mushrooms. Roma found a beautiful boletus under a birch. Valya saw a small butter dish under a pine tree. Serezha saw a huge boletus in the grass. In the grove they collected full baskets of various mushrooms. The children returned home happy and happy.
Forest in autumn
I. Sokolov-Mikitov
The Russian forest is beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Against the golden background of yellowed foliage, bright spots of red-yellow maples and aspens stand out. Slowly spinning in the air, light, weightless yellow leaves fall and fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of light cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. The late fall flowers are still blooming.
Clear and clean air. Clear water in forest ditches and streams. Every pebble at the bottom is visible.
Quiet in the autumn forest. Fallen leaves rustle underfoot. Sometimes a hazel grouse will whistle thinly. And that makes the silence even louder.
Easy to breathe in the autumn forest. And I don't want to leave it for a long time. It's good in the autumn flowery forest... But something sad, farewell is heard and seen in it.
nature in autumn
The mysterious princess Autumn will take the tired nature into her hands, dress her in golden outfits and soak her with long rains. Autumn will calm the breathless earth, blow away the last leaves with the wind and lay in the cradle of a long winter sleep.
Autumn day in a birch grove
I was sitting in a birch grove in autumn, about half of September. From the very morning a fine rain fell, replaced at times by warm sunshine; the weather was erratic. The sky was now all clouded over with loose white clouds, then it suddenly cleared in places for a moment, and then behind the parted clouds a azure appeared, clear and gentle ...
I sat and looked around and listened. The leaves rustled a little over my head; one could tell from their noise what season it was then. It was not the cheerful, laughing thrill of spring, not the soft whispering, not the long talk of summer, not the timid and cold babble of late autumn, but barely audible, drowsy chatter. A light wind blew a little over the tops. The inside of the grove, damp from the rain, was constantly changing, depending on whether the sun shone or was covered with clouds; at one time it lit up all over, as if all of a sudden everything was smiling in it ... then suddenly everything around it again turned slightly blue: the bright colors instantly went out ... and stealthily, slyly, the tiniest rain began to sow and whisper through the forest.
The foliage on the birch trees was still almost all green, although it had noticeably turned pale; only here and there stood one young woman, all red or all gold...
Not a single bird was heard: everyone took shelter and fell silent; only occasionally did the mocking voice of the tit tinkle like a steel bell.
An autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun is no longer warm, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it it is fun and easy to stand naked, the frost is still whitening at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, quietly raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...
By the beginning of September, the weather suddenly changed dramatically and quite unexpectedly. Quiet and cloudless days immediately set in, so clear, sunny and warm that there were none even in July. On the dry, compressed fields, on their prickly yellow bristles, autumn cobwebs shone with a mica sheen. The calmed trees silently and obediently dropped their yellow leaves.
Late fall
Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich
Coming late fall. The fruit is heavy; he breaks down and falls to the ground. He dies, but the seed lives in him, and in this seed the whole future plant lives in "possibility", with its future luxurious foliage and with its new fruit. The seed will fall to the ground; and the cold sun already rises low above the earth, runs cold wind, cold clouds are rushing ... Not only passion, but life itself freezes quietly, imperceptibly ... The earth more and more emerges from under the greenery with its blackness, cold tones dominate in the sky ... And then the day comes when this resigned and millions of snowflakes fall on the hushed, as if widowed earth, and it all becomes even, monochromatic and white ... White is the color of cold snow, the color of the highest clouds that float in the unattainable cold of the heavenly heights - the color of majestic and barren mountain peaks .. .
Antonov apples
Bunin Ivan Alekseevich
I remember the early fine autumn. August was with warm rains at the very time, in the middle of the month. I remember early, fresh, quiet morning... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinned garden, I remember maple alleys, the delicate aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it's like it doesn't exist at all. Everywhere smells strongly of apples.
By night it becomes very cold and dewy. Breathing in the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home to dinner past the garden rampart. The voices in the village or the creaking of the gates resound through the icy dawn with unusual clarity. It's getting dark. And here's another smell: in the garden - a fire and strongly pulls the fragrant smoke of cherry branches. In the dark, in the depths of the garden - a fabulous picture: just in a corner of hell, a crimson flame is burning near the hut, surrounded by darkness ...
"A vigorous Antonovka - for a merry year." Village affairs are good if Antonovka is born: it means that bread is born too ... I remember a harvest year.
At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing, you used to open a window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly in some places ... You run to wash yourself on the pond. The small foliage has almost completely flown from the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy and as if heavy. She instantly drives away the night's laziness.
You will enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others.
Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and ruffled the trees for whole days, the rains watered them from morning to night.
Cold and bright shone in the north over the heavy leaden clouds liquid blue sky, and because of these clouds, the ridges of snowy mountains-clouds slowly floated up, the window closed into the blue sky, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to sow again ... at first quietly, carefully, then it got thicker and finally turned into a downpour with storm and darkness. It's been a long, unsettling night...
From such a beating, the garden came out completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow hushed, resigned. But on the other hand, how beautiful it was when the clear weather came again, the transparent and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first frost. The black garden will shine through in the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already sharply turning black with arable land and bright green with bushy winter crops ...
You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. The whole house is silent. Ahead - a whole day of rest in the already silent winter estate. You will slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find in the wet foliage an accidentally forgotten cold and wet apple, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others.
Dictionary of native nature
It is impossible to list the signs of all seasons. Therefore, I skip summer and move on to autumn, to its first days, when “September” is already beginning.
The earth is fading, but the “Indian summer” is still ahead with its last bright, but already cold, like a shine of mica, the radiance of the sun. From the deep blue of skies washed with cool air. With a flying web (“yarn of the Mother of God,” as ardent old women still call it in some places) and a fallen, wilted leaf that falls asleep on empty waters. Birch groves stand like crowds of beautiful girls in short shawls embroidered with gold leaf. " sad time- eyes charm.
Then - bad weather, heavy rains, the icy north wind "siverko", plowing lead waters, coldness, coldness, pitch-black nights, icy dew, dark dawns.
So everything goes on until the first frost seizes, binds the earth, the first powder falls and the first path is established. And there is already winter with blizzards, blizzards, snowstorms, snowfall, gray frosts, landmarks in the fields, the creak of undercuts on the sledge, gray, snowy skies ...
Often in autumn I would closely watch the falling leaves to catch that imperceptible split second when the leaf separates from the branch and begins to fall to the ground, but I did not succeed for a long time. I have read in old books about the sound of falling leaves, but I have never heard that sound. If the leaves rustled, it was only on the ground, under the feet of a person. The rustle of leaves in the air seemed to me as unbelievable as stories about hearing the grass grow in spring.
I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the rattle of the city streets, could rest and catch the very clear and precise sounds of the autumn earth.
Late one evening I went out into the garden to the well. I put a dim kerosene lantern on the log house " bat and got some water. Leaves were floating in the bucket. They were everywhere. There was nowhere to get rid of them. Black bread from the bakery was brought with wet leaves stuck to it. The wind threw handfuls of leaves on the table, on the bunk, on the floor. on books, and it was difficult to groom along the paths of fat: you had to walk on the leaves, as if on deep snow. We found leaves in the pockets of our raincoats, in caps, in our hair - everywhere. We slept on them and soaked in their scent.
There are autumn nights, deafened and mute, when calmness stands over the black wooded edge and only the watchman's mallet comes from the village outskirts.
It was such a night. The lantern illuminated the well, the old maple under the fence, and the wind-torn nasturtium bush in the yellowed flower bed.
I looked at the maple tree and saw how a red leaf carefully and slowly separated from the branch, shuddered, stopped for a moment in the air and began to fall obliquely at my feet, slightly rustling and swaying. For the first time I heard the rustle of a falling leaf - an indistinct sound, like a child's whisper.
My house
Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich
It is especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when a leisurely sheer rain rustles in an undertone in the salou.
Cool air barely shakes the tongue of the candle. Corner shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. A night butterfly, resembling a lump of gray raw silk, sits on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page. It smells of rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.
At dawn I wake up. Fog rustles in the garden. Leaves fall in the mist. I pull a bucket of water from the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd's horn - he still sings far away, at the very outskirts.
It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. I'm sailing in the fog. The East is rosy. The smell of the smoke of rural stoves is no longer heard. There remains only the silence of the water, thickets of centuries-old willows.
Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - confusion in this wide world fragrant leaves, grasses, autumn wilt, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this loss as happiness.
What are the rains
Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich
(Excerpt from the story "Golden Rose")
The sun sets in clouds, smoke falls to the ground, swallows fly low, roosters crow in the yards without time, clouds stretch across the sky in long misty strands - all these are signs of rain. And shortly before the rain, although the clouds have not yet pulled, a gentle breath of moisture is heard. It must be brought from where the rains have already fallen.
But the first drops are starting to drip. The popular word "dripping" well conveys the occurrence of rain, when even rare drops leave dark specks on dusty paths and roofs.
Then the rain disperses. It is then that the wonderful cool smell of the earth, first moistened by the dogge, arises. He doesn't last long. It is replaced by the smell of wet grass, especially nettle.
It is characteristic that, no matter what kind of rain it will be, as soon as it starts, it is always called very affectionately - rain. “The rain has gathered”, “the rain has let go”, “the rain washes the grass” ...
How, for example, is the difference between spore rain and mushroom rain?
The word "arguable" means - fast, fast. Spore rain pours steeply, strongly. He always approaches with an oncoming noise.
Particularly good is the spore rain on the river. Each drop of it knocks out a round depression in the water, a small water bowl, jumps, falls again and for a few moments before disappearing, is still visible at the bottom of this water bowl. The drop glistens and looks like a pearl.
At the same time, there is a glass ringing all over the river. By the height of this ringing, you can guess whether the rain is gaining strength or subsiding.
A small mushroom rain sleepily pours from low clouds. The puddles from this rain are always warm. He does not ring, but whispers something of his own, soporific, and is slightly noticeably fiddling in the bushes, as if touching one leaf or another with a soft paw.
Forest humus and moss absorb this rain slowly, thoroughly. Therefore, after it, mushrooms begin to climb violently - sticky butterflies, yellow chanterelles, mushrooms, ruddy mushrooms, honey agarics and countless grebes.
During mushroom rains, the air smells of smoke and the cunning and cautious fish - roach - takes well.
People say about the blind rain falling in the sun: "The princess is crying." The sparkling sun drops of this rain look like large tears. And who should cry with such shining tears of grief or joy, if not the fabulous beauty of the princess!
You can follow the play of light during the rain for a long time, the variety of sounds - from the measured knock on the boarded roof and the liquid ringing in the drainpipe to the continuous, intense rumble when the rain pours, as they say, like a wall.
All this is only a tiny part of what can be said about the rain ...
I have a good Russian forest in summer, autumn and spring.
On a quiet winter day, you used to go out into the forest on skis, breathe and not breathe. Deep, clean snowdrifts lie under the trees. Above the forest paths, lacy white arches bent under the weight of frost, the trunks of young birches. Dark green branches of tall and small firs are covered with heavy caps of white snow. The high tops of the firs are studded with a necklace of purple cones. With a cheerful whistle they fly from spruce to spruce, flocks of red-breasted crossbills sway on cones.
The winter forest is full of invisible life. Light traces of squirrels, small traces of forest mice and birds stretch from tree to tree. Only a very attentive person can observe the life of the winter forest. You need to be able to walk quietly, listen and stop. Only then will all the wonderful beauty of the sleeping winter forest open before you.
The forest is good in early and late spring, when the turbulent life hidden from eyes and ears begins to awaken in it. Melting winter snow. Overhead, thin birch branches showered with swollen resinous buds are visible. More and more bird voices are heard in the forest. The first migratory birds begin to sing, heavy capercaillie lek in remote places. Fallen needles showered nostril snow under the fir trees. The first thawed patches appeared on the forest glades. On the exposed tussocks, strong green lingonberry leaves are visible. In some places, when warm, they begin to bloom, snowdrops-coppices grow like a carpet. It smells of resinous buds, tree bark. Thrushes sing. At the top of a tall tree, all in the rays of the rising sun, a wild pigeon is cooing.
A joyful day will come - the edge of the birch forest will be covered with a green haze. Cuckoos cuckoo. In the mornings before dawn, red-browed handsome black grouse flock to the current. In the evening, long-nosed woodcocks are pulled over the tops of the forest, hork and zvirka. Wild ducks quack over the river. On the edge of the forest swamp, high in the sky, a snipe ram is running.
Much can be heard in the awakening spring forest. Fritillaries squeak thinly, invisible owls goog at night. In the impenetrable swamp, the cranes that have arrived in the spring lead round dances. Bees buzz over the yellow golden puffs of the flowering willow. And in the bushes on the banks of the river, the first nightingale sang loudly.
Which of you has not been in a hot summer in a cool dark forest? The most vociferous birds have fallen silent, the sonorous nightingales no longer sing along the edges of the forest.
You walk through the forest, taking a good look - you need to be able to find mushroom places, to know where which mushroom grows. Here under the trees mixed forest the cap of the boletus blushes. You bend down, cut off a thick mushroom root with a knife, carefully put the find in a basket. In some places, strong mushrooms come across, it's nice to pick up a coldish mushroom. Here, beautiful red fly agarics scattered in a wide round dance in a clearing. In the pine forest come across mushrooms. Boletus mushrooms densely sit in a young birch forest.
Fragrant tasty strawberries ripen in open forest glades. In the middle of summer, forest raspberries ripen. And along the edges of the swamps blueberries ripen, blush on green branches cowberry berries.
The Russian forest is especially beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Against the golden background of yellowed foliage, bright spots of painted maples and aspens stand out. Slowly circling in the air, yellowed light leaves fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of sticky cobwebs are stretched from tree to tree. Quiet in the autumn forest. Fallen dry leaves rustle underfoot. In some places, the hat of the late boletus turns red. A hazel grouse will whistle thinly, cranes flying in a school will call high in the sky.
Something sad, farewell is heard and seen in the autumn forest. In the village, this short autumn time was called Indian summer. Transparent in autumn and clean air, clear water in forest streams. Each is visible at the bottom of a pebble. The late fall flowers are still blooming. Songbirds are preparing to fly away. No, no, a thrush will crackle in the forest, a hard worker woodpecker will knock on a dry tree. Still green, dropping ripe acorns, an old branchy oak stands on the edge of the forest. But the tops of the birches are already bare. Against the dark background of a continuous spruce forest, bright colors of maples and aspens are clearly visible. Light yellowed willow leaves have already flown around, floating on the water. It’s good in the autumn flowery forest, for a long time I don’t want to leave it, say goodbye to the golden autumn days.
