Spring sunshine. streams of water

Prishvin M. M. Calendar of nature // Collection. cit.: In 8 volumes - M.: Fiction, 1983. - T. 3. - S. 162-378.

SPRING

SPRING OF LIGHT AND WATER

FIRST DROPS

For us, phenologists, who observe the change of natural phenomena from day to day, spring begins with an increase in light, when people say that it is as if a bear rolls over in a den from side to side; then the sun turns to the summer, and although the winter is frosty, the gypsy sheepskin coat still sells.

January central Russia: pre-spring lively cries of gray crows, fights of house sparrows, dogs in heat, black crows have the first mating games. February: first drip from the roofs on the red side, great tit song, house sparrow nest building, woodpecker's first drumming.

January, February, early March - this is all the spring of light. The celestial ice drift is best seen in the big city above, between the masses of stone houses. At this time, I work hellishly in the city, collect, like a miser, ruble after ruble, and when, having quarreled enough with everyone because of money, I am finally able to go to where it is impossible for me to get it, then I am free and happy. Yes, happy is the one who can catch the beginning of the spring of light in the city and then meet the spring of water, grass, forests and, perhaps, the spring of man near the earth.

When after snowy winter a spring of light will flare up, all people around the earth will be worried, everyone will be faced with the question of how spring will go this year - and every year the spring comes not the same as last year, and never one spring is exactly the same as the other.

This year, the spring of light was overstayed, the radiance of the snow was almost unbearable to the eye, everywhere they said:

It'll all be over soon!

Going on a long journey in a sleigh, people were afraid that they would not have to leave the sleigh somewhere and lead the horse by the reins.

Yes, a new spring is never like the old one, and that is why it becomes so good to live - with excitement, with the expectation of something new this year.

Our peasants, meeting with each other, only talk about spring:

It's about to break!

It'll all be over soon!

THE APPEARANCE OF THE FIRST CUMULS

We had a huge snowdrift in front of our house, and it lay in the sun, shining like an unrumpled swan's chest. With difficulty, I opened the door, littered with night snow, and, punching a trench with a shovel, began to scatter the white fluff of this night and under it the stale heavy layers.

I do not regret the snowdrift; there, in the flood of light, a cloud floats in the sky, a large, warm one, which does not happen in winter, and it, too, is like an unrumpled swan's breast. Here and there, along with spring, on earth and in heaven, my unoffended vision appears again, and now I meet it without crazy anxiety and see it off without despair: it, like spring, comes and goes and, while I am alive, will certainly return. Why should I grieve? I am no longer a child, but the father and master of all my visions.

This is not a joke - the fiftieth year; remember how it is said about this in an ancient book: six years work the earth, and the seventh let the earth rest, and when this happens seven times seven, then this will be your fiftieth year, then take the trumpet and blow, and this will be your anniversary.

Well, guys, - I shout, - get up quickly, go help me, my anniversary will be soon!

Their names are Levka and Petka, both die in the woods while hunting. I really brought up this passion of mine in them: for the sake of a well-aimed shot, my children will not ruin a life, they only kill what we eat and what can be saved for the museum. Thus, by killing, they become more truthful than those who speak against murder, but themselves take the meat in the shop; in this way, children, in my opinion, become closer to nature, and somehow even better learn to feel sorry for man. After the New Year and until the first spring, at the time closed for hunting, they sometimes dance in the town and return late to my village, and this is also called shooting. Lyova's mustache pricked early, he slowly trimmed it with my razor, and now his mustache is on the right track. The younger one's lips are still completely bare.

Starting from Magpies, when rooks, larks and every small bird arrive, they give up thoughts of dancing and in their free hours begin to prepare for cravings, for capercaillie and black grouse currents. And when the hunt is on, returning in the evening from thrust, they sometimes recall with surprise the dancing time and say that it was because there was nothing to do. Again they begin to make mistakes in words and say not girls, as I tell them, but girls, and now for some reason I don’t correct them anymore.

Well, guys, - I tell them, - you feel what a day it is today, the spring of light is in full swing, the cellar will soon flood, work quickly, lively, friends!

We have done a good job, and from this free work the health of the soul overflows.

I stand, leaning on a shovel immersed in the snow, and I cannot clearly tell myself whom I love so much.

Above the purple forest, two crows are playing, somersaulting.

Yes, that's who I love - this bird! On a terrible winter day, when the sun seems to be crucified on bright pillars from a severe frost, everything is covered with snow, a man, an animal, an ordinary bird hid in mid-flight, falls dead and only I - a living soul - go, unsure whether I will get home - this one a black raven flies high above the white cover, creaking with a frostbitten fly feather.

And now the raven is at the height of love: the lower one knocks down the upper one and rises higher, the downed one does the same, and so, alternating, they fly higher and higher and suddenly rush down with a cry and immediately up.

Crows somersault - how good! A melody sounds in my soul, and instead of words, everything responds to me blue sky, and through this bright flood, here again a warm cloud floats, like a large white bird, raising high a swan's chest, not rumpled by anyone.

Since autumn, cobwebs have been lying in the meadows, folk calendar- for the harvest, all Christmas there was frost on the trees - again for the harvest, and that the snow piled decently - everything is also good, but that the rooster didn’t get drunk on Evdokia - this is a difficult spring: a snowstorm on Evdokia - the peasant sweeps everything out of the bin . Straw, hay, oats - everything went up in price.

But in our forested region, where timber is brought to the station in winter, a delay in the spring is coming for good: an extra two weeks of sleighing - give everything here. I also love it when the snow lingers and the spring of light flares up over the snows to the point that real summer masses cumulus clouds move across the sky and leave transient blue spots on the snow. When the spring of light is over, then the joy of expectation reaches such a level that it is difficult to endure it.

Do I not know how much trouble there is on earth, how inhumanly cruel it is sometimes to talk about the joy of life, but now it seems to me: if I could express my joy with great care and somehow deceive the weak, then this would be exactly what what is needed.

In the evening it became very cold, but the huge summer cloud held out until dark. The moon leaned over, and among the stars one especially twinkled, continuously changing blue, green and red shirts.

Why should I hide this moment: my soul is overflowing with happiness, and ahead I am not afraid of anything.

Do you think I say this like Russian writers, so that later, by contrast, to show some horrors of life more strongly? Hand on heart, I say: nothing of the sort. I would like to write a story with good ending so that everything ends with a wedding.

The sledges of a huge convoy creak in the cold. It is impossible to get around him in deep snow, and, willy-nilly, I must follow him, moderate my step.

The forest is being driven by strong men who have a good horse and can withstand this great work. Weak and poor people have to sit on the stove during the winter. In winter, walking through the village, you can immediately recognize the courtyards where the gates are brought in and there is not even a cat's trace on the snowdrifts.

The convoy moves in deep silence, and only occasionally are working words, the urging of horses heard. Each of these people, walking dozens of miles at night next to the sledges, concentrated in himself, to the extent of his feelings and reason, the life of a huge people who had experienced an experience unprecedented in history.

Miron Ivanovich, - I say, - please tell me how you fought, what you saw in captivity. After a moment's thought, he begins:

In what state it was, in what city - I do not know. In Germany? No, not in Germany. In Austria? No, not in Austria. Our camp was in the church, the authorities and life were German ...

Miron Ivanovich begins his story from a new life in exactly the same way as old people used to tell fairy tales: in a certain kingdom, in a certain state.

When was that, what year?

What year, I can't remember now. It was, of course, under Tsar Nicholas.

This means, as under King Peas. This is how a fairy tale is created: the place and time are eliminated, and from this the most ordinary life becomes magical.

Once upon a time there were three hundred and sixty Russian prisoners of war in the camp, they went to work, ate seal soup. very greasy. Not bad. There was a soup made from some kind of red meat, as if from a sea dog, because the German cook, giving such soup, barked like a dog. It happened that they gave canned oysters, but Miron Ivanovich did not eat oysters and exchanged them for cigarettes. One day a new prisoner of war is brought to the camp; the person is intellectual, with money. This person does not go to work. He whispered to ours, gives money and asks to buy him a hacksaw at all costs. There was one such civilized person, they ordered him a hacksaw, brought it. Then this prisoner of war quietly began to cut a hole under the bunks and promised: "I will take you all out." So he sawed out a piece of the floorboard neatly; raise - a hole, close - not noticeable at all. For the first time, ten people agreed, and Miron Ivanovich was also called, but he did not go and said to them: “I'll see how you get there. Send a letter." These daredevils went down into the hole at night, and their trace soon caught cold. After a while, a letter is received: they arrived safely. Miron Ivanovich envied him, but all the same, when the second party gathered, he did not dare. Then they began to disappear two by three. The Germans are amazed, strengthened the guard at work and cannot find out in any way: the people are disappearing before our eyes, but it is not known how. Whether sooner or later, of course, they would still have guessed, but then the Germans themselves had a revolution, the red flag began to play. Now the officer himself is hinting that they should leave: the sentry, they say, will threaten, if they weren’t afraid, they won’t shoot. And they left. And Miron Ivanych is still sitting with the reasoning: since they have a revolution, it will not be long for him to wait for the end of everything. The officer now directly says: "Go away!" No, Miron Ivanovich asks for a note from the officer. He laughs: “So,” he says, “go to yourself, no one will touch you, but I can’t give you a note.” A day passes, another, a third, because of Miron Ivanovich alone, a guard is kept. Tired of the officer. “Well,” he says, “you have a note on you.” But even here Miron Ivanovich did not quite believe it. Showed to another officer. He approved. Showed to the sentry. Missed. And Miron Ivanovich set off for Russia.

Why did you, - I asked, - get a note when everyone left?

Because, I think, what is our strength, if the German officer agrees with the escape.

Then Miron Ivanovich began to praise the intelligentsia very much and assure me that if we had not had intelligentsia, then he would have disappeared when he returned home from captivity. He thought he was going to heaven to his homeland, but when he returned, the family was begging, and he himself could not understand anything. I went to the city to consult with the rich merchant Vasilisa Petrovna. “It’s not for me to help you now,” said Vasilisa Petrovna, “but you help me.” And she gave him all her things, big and small, and even silver, so that he would hide it somewhere and save it. “I will not remain in debt,” Vasilisa Petrovna assured.

During this long story about Vasilisa Petrovna, I lost the thought that excited me, and, finally remembering it with difficulty, I said:

We seem to be talking about the Russian intelligentsia, Miron Ivanovich... How did your story about the merchant Vasilisa Petrovna come out?

Exactly, - answered Miron Ivanych. - If it were not for Vasilisa Petrovna, we would have to go through the world. And then I immediately got to my feet. Now I have a new house, even if there is only one horse, yes, look, I’m lucky for two, even if there is only one cow, but with milk all year round, and the yard is full of sheep.

Having finished the story, Miron Ivanovich wanted to urinate and lagged behind the convoy. I asked his big son:

Petrusha, why don't you join the Komsomol?

I don't want to hurt the old man. Without him, I would have been in the Komsomol long ago.

What do you want there?

Like what? Komsomol members are taken to the factory in the first place. If it were not for the old man, I would now receive sixty rubles a month and would not take a dvenashnik to the station at night and at midnight.

So understood the son of the Komsomol.

The father, having caught up with the convoy, spoke.

Thank you, thank you and many times thank you to the intelligentsia!

This is how my father understood the intelligentsia.

Then we walked in silence, and I thought about a story with a happy ending.

THE EARTH SHOWED

For three days there was no frost, and the fog worked invisibly over the snow. Petya said:

Come out, dad, look, listen how nicely the oatmeal sings.

I went out and listened - it's true, it's very good and the breeze is so gentle. The road became quite red and humpbacked.

It seemed as if someone had been running after the spring for a long time, catching up and finally touched her, and she stopped and thought... The roosters crowed from all sides. Blue forests began to appear from the fog.

Petya peered into the thinning fog and, noticing something dark in the field, shouted:

Look, the earth has appeared!

He ran into the house, and I could hear him shouting there:

Lyova, go and look quickly, the earth has appeared!

The mother could not stand it either, she went out, shielding her eyes from the light with her palm:

Where did the land appear?

Petya stood in front and pointed to the snowy distance, like Columbus in the sea, and repeated:

Earth, earth!

By noon the sky was bald, and the forests began to grow bluer and bluer, until they turned completely purple. Leva brought important news:

Water is flowing down below!

Petya noticed: black grouse sit on trees and choose a place for a current.

Maybe just feeding? I asked.

No, - he answers, - they sat low on the barnyard, there they have nothing to feed on.

I go to the village for provisions along an open road. Nearby, along the old road, they ride on. cart market. My high road has become very thawed, the water has flowed into a ditch, and on the old one there is snow that is packed and covered with manure, like steel, and will lie for a long time, and for a long time the peasants will go to the market on the old road; the old road alone now connects all the country roads in one way.

The fog still has not completely cleared, the village is not visible. But I can hear the roosters crowing there. The closer I get, the stronger the cry of the roosters, not even a cry, but a cock's roar, the whole village crows like a cock. So soon the rooks will yell at the nests, driving out the crows, then, towards Yegor, the cows, and after all the girls will start.

THE FIRST SONG OF WATER

In the evening we went out to see if the hazel grouses would respond to the squeaker. In the spring we do not beat them, but we have fun; it’s very amusing when they run along the crust, stopping, listening, and sometimes they run so close - you almost grab something with your hand.

It was more difficult for us to return: the evening frost caught us, we still couldn’t hold our legs, it fell through, and it was difficult to pull out the leg. The orange dawn was austere and glazing, puddles in the swamps burned from it like windows. We really needed to know what it was: grouse muttering or so it seems. All three of us perched on a large melted mound, listened.

Then I puffed smoke from the pipe, and it turned out - a little bit pulled from the north. We began to listen to the north and suddenly immediately understood everything - it was below, very close to us, the water was pouring, pressing against the bridge, and singing, just like a black grouse.

GLUKHARINY CURRENT

During the night it became very starry, it became cool in the room - I went out to see what was happening in the yard. Just at this time, my neighbor, an old peasant, went out before the wind.

Freezing, I said.

He did not immediately answer, looked around everything around him - the snow, the starry sky, shied away with his foot and said about the frost:

The grandson came for the grandfather!

I tried to walk in the snow - it did not fail.

A good grandson, - I said to the old man and went to wake the children.

I told them that this might be the last crust and we must definitely go to Vorogosh - check the current of capercaillie, and even if we don’t hear a song, we will see the beat of wings in the snow.

You, dad, are special, - Leva said joyfully and began to disturb Petka.

Everything was shod and even powdered. The road was easy and joyful in all directions. For tens of versts of forests and swamps we have walked, avoided with hounds, and our name has been given to all islands, lowlands, tufts: we have “Yasnaya Polyana” with three tall fir trees, under which hares always pass, there is a dry place between two large swamps - “Respite”, there is the “Golden Meadow”, and eight versts from us, among the sometimes almost impassable swamps, rises a pine forest place, far visible, the local people simply call it Vikhorek, and we dubbed it “Alaunskaya Upland”. With fresh strength on the powdered crust, we quickly missed the entire eight miles to Vikhorka, and then on a high place we caught the first movement of the south wind with our cheeks. Then I remembered how everyone was talking about spring - “everything will end in an hour”, and I became alarmed: “What if it’s a sunny day with a south wind, how will we get out of these capercaillie places?”

While waiting for the first light, we leaned against the trees and listened. And this is certainly true: walk in the forest all your life, find out everything, study everything, and yet no, no, and it will turn out to be something that you can’t understand in any way. We heard a crash below in the swamps, and so strong that the ice flew apart like glass, and these pieces of ice, falling, also made a sound. The monster that broke the ice in the swamps was moving very quickly towards us, and all three of us, with bated breath, with cocked triggers, were waiting for him in the dark. But it, not reaching a little of our island, turned and went further and further into the swamps. In that dry spot we call Respite, the crackle on a short time stopped, and then it began to break again, and it was heard endlessly and, it’s true, more by guesswork. Then, when a red dawn lit up in that direction, Petya heard the first desired sound from there, and then Lyova. It's true, it was very far away, I didn't hear it, and the crickets were singing in my ears, and by a guess, the elk was still breaking everything and breaking glass in the swamp. They heard the first, and now their job is to jump down and then, at the risk of frightening, through the glass swamp.

A beautiful dawn and a gentle southern breeze are enough for me - I stand on a mountain and look down there, at the swamps covered with rare dark pines.

How long do I stand like this? Red centuries pass at dawn, and suddenly there, they have a shot: it's better than I would have to - it just so happens for some reason: I'm more happy with their luck than mine. But I also had to jump a little; on the third jump, I heard a special, indescribable sound of large wings, quickly turned around, on the red I caught a large black one between the crowns and shot there, as if into a wall, and another capercaillie, to which I was galloping, fell off. And let me no longer need. He fell on a huge ant mound under the pines, and in it, in this mound that had not yet come to life, I sat facing the dawn.

They had another shot there, but I missed it almost without attention, because at the rising sun near the ant tussock a whole world of riddles opened up, which all of me, straining all my mind, began to unravel. There was one small channel in a puddle under the ice, and water flowed through the channel. Where did the canal come from? I figured it out: it was when the snow had just begun to melt, the mouse ran over and crushed it, then it froze, and when it began to melt again, the mouse crushed it did not turn into water as quickly as snow, and when it froze again from above, then there was water under the ice adapted the mouse move for her run.

Maybe I fell asleep, but in nature I sleep without interrupting my feelings or thoughts, only time passes without counting. I was awakened by a branch bent by the snow and frozen by the top to the very puddle where the water adapted the mouse move for its run - this branch suddenly jumped and became a tree in front of me. I shuddered, jumped up, and what was revealed to me from this place, which we call the “Alaun Upland”: the water is blue, the water is all around!

The fact that we're cut off here on an island never crossed my mind—we'll get there somehow, that's not the point. The happiness of seeing once again the spring of light and water was immeasurable; I immediately remembered from an ancient book: work the earth for six years, and let the earth rest on the seventh, and when seven times seven this happens, then take the trumpet and blow, and this will be your anniversary.

I took the barrel from the gun and blew it with all my might. My anxious children have come. I ordered them to take away the trunks too and said:

Trumpet, children, today is my anniversary!

SPRING WATER

This year, when my land is resting, I will not invent anything: I will write without changing names in my own way, marking every day of spring; let the earth itself be the hero of my story.

The need to write down all the phenomena of nature arose in me when I began to refrain from distant spring travels, and when I became, the world went. AT this year I got myself a phenological program and keep notes, as science requires, but in my drafts I immediately note the events of my personal life, meetings, plans, so that my whole life this spring is arranged phenologically.

On the day when I wrote down for myself: splitting the long-tailed tits into pairs, Petya was told at school that the second step would be transformed into a seven-year school, he would receive a certificate of completion, and if he wanted to continue studying, then he had to move to another city. And we had already thought about how to go somewhere closer to the water, and were written off with Pereslavl-Zalessky, where the beautiful Lake Pleshcheyevo is located. It happened that just on this day of long-tailed tits and Petya's seven-year-old, an answer was received from the head of the Pereslavl Museum that the school in Pereslavl is not bad and the children at the museum can do local history well, that there are a lot of birds, further away in the forests there are still elks, lynxes, bears, that three versts from the city, on the high bank of Lake Pleshcheyevo, there is a historical estate where the boat of Peter the Great is kept, and there is an empty palace, it is planned to set up a biological station in it, and if I start this business with my phenological observations, I can take any apartment in this palace.

After that, the letter indicated in detail the way on horseback directly or around, through Moscow, by rail to Berendeyevo station.

What amazing names there are, and how they affect me: the palace appeared to me as the fabulous palace of the Berendeev kingdom, and it went and went in my soul to berendit.

“Well, Berendey,” I said to myself, “you have nothing more to think about.”

A passionate sense of nature does not at all prevent me from loving large beautiful cities and their difficult life: when I want to be free in the city, I take the tram - and twenty minutes later I'm back in the field. I must be a free man. For years I have lived in the huts of fishermen, hunters, peasants, I love working people, I feel cold and awkward with rich burghers, but this does not prevent me from loving cities and palaces. Damn it, this hut of mine, where in the summer heavy rain dry only in the stove, and in winter you can’t get out of your sheepskin coat.

Strike while the iron is hot, knock quickly, hammer, on the boxes, tighten tighter, rope.

Leva, - I command, - with your knee, press your knee so that the road does not untie. Petya, clean and grease our guns better, I heard: there are lynxes and bears.

Leaving the children to take their exams, we hit the road, and above us the wild geese flew to the north, probably also to Pleshcheevo Lake.

ARRIVAL OF THE CRANES

We are in the fence of the Goritsky Monastery, a large city capable of accommodating thousands of people, located in a cross on the banks of the Trubezh River and Lake Pleshcheyevo. And, perhaps, there was such a time when people climbed here from enemies. Now the walls are empty, the tongues have been removed from some of the bells, near the bishop's pond, which corresponds elbow to elbow to the size of Noah's Ark, only two goats of the head of the folk museum, a historian of the local region, roam, and Galya, the daughter of the assistant head, faunist, runs with them.

From the small bell tower you can see the whole life behind the wall: many monasteries and churches ancient city and between them a stream of village people to the bazaar. So everything is mixed here, in this city-museum: the ancient monastery where our museum is located is called Most Pure on Goritsa, and the very land on which the Most Pure stands is called Vshivaya Gorka, and on Vshivaya - Svistush Street, now renamed Volodarsky Street, then Sokolka, where the falconry assistants of Ivan the Terrible once lived, now just a man lives - a goal like a falcon. Below is a forest of churches, so that you can only drive between them; one of the churches - the Forty Martyrs - stands at the very confluence of the Trubezh into the lake and is named in memory of the forty martyrs drowned in some lake; the other one, just opposite, also on the shores of Trubezh and Lake Pleshcheyevo, is called the Introduction, because, according to the explanations of the fishermen, it serves as an introduction to fishing for the famous Pereslavl herring, and then again the height, and on it again the shrine - Fedor on the Mountain.

It is so strange that in the swamps, dotted with small rivers, we have already celebrated the spring of water, and Lake Pleshcheyevo still lies like a winter field, and only by the jagged forest edge barely visible to the eye can you guess that all this huge white field is a lake.

To the left of Goritsky on this lake one can see one height with a white palace in memory of Peter the Great and the cradle of the Russian fleet, on the other side - the height of Alexander Hill with the oldest monastery buried in the ground, and this mountain is named Alexandrova in honor of Alexander Nevsky, Prince of Pereslavl, and in the people call the mountain Yarilov's bald patch.

I immediately learned all this from a local historian, who devoted his whole life to the study of his native Pereslavl principality and preserved in all its purity the Vladimir accent on “o”.

In Goritsky I am the seventh tenant, - he spoke in Vladimir, - the first was the jester: here is the Shutov grove, the Shutov ravine, and even one of our towers is called Shutov.

The jester, then the Finnish priests, and someone else, at the very end the bishop ... I remember the jester well and kept thinking about him when the historian talked about some village of Voskresenskoye, popularly called Devil's.

“Is it not because, - I thought, - Shutovo became Devilish, that in the struggle with the cheerful Yarila, or jester, the holy fathers set the impossible task of the Resurrection, one impossibility caused another, and the everyday good-natured Yarilo rebuilt into a mystical evil devil.

All monasteries, all churches of artistic significance, and the boat of Peter the Great, and Yarilov's bald patch - everything belongs to the museum.

This is how the museum, - I said, - from Yarila to Peter the Great ...

And after Peter, - answered the historian, - if you want, now I will show Catherine, Elizabeth ...

At this time, visitors to the museum arrived, and we all went to see the Assumption Church.

This historian is an excellent host and a kind of Pereslavl land collector, and most importantly, a Great Russian: he can present a picture both freely and, when necessary, wriggle along a narrow path ...

Noticing that not everyone is interested in the story about the Catherine's iconostasis and the Elizabethan baroque, and that many are vaguely wandering around the blue vaults, he begins to talk about Bishop Gennady Krotinsky, who died of cholera and was buried under this temple.

The place of the grave on the floor of the temple is surrounded by a lattice, and behind it is some kind of covered mound. It used to happen that a monk took sand out from under the board with his hand, distributed it to the believers, and they thought that this earth from under the vaults through the stone, but and the tree of the floor sticks up. And now everyone can open the handkerchief with their hand and make sure that the sand is simply poured into a candy tin box, from which they did not even bother to erase the inscription: "Einem - Mixture."

One of the visitors, who did not pay attention to Catherine's and Elizabethan art, did not smile at Einem - Mixture either. Mikhail Ivanovich pointed out to this gloomy young man the fresco of The Rich Man and Lazarus.

It is in the fire that the bourgeois boils, - he said, - and the proletarian, look, the mountain is lifted up into the bosom of Abraham! The visitor perked up and said:

See how long this has been in existence.

Young man, - answered the historian, - it really was like that for a very long time.

When we left the church and looked at the lake from the wall, everyone noticed that today, on a very warm day, a narrow blue strip of shores had separated and the cranes were swimming high, cooing.

ARRIVAL OF THE KESTEL

The sun warms nicely in the museum courtyard; hive butterflies fly. Faunist Sergey Sergeevich celebrated the day with a major event: beetles, museum pests, crawled onto the inner walls. He collected a lot of dry leaves in a bag, sifted, and for a long time we looked through a magnifying glass as these sor-beetles came to life.

Sergei Sergeyich, I asked, out of these sixty thousand beetles you have collected, do you probably have some favorite one from which it all begins? - He did not understand me, repeated: - Do you have a favorite beetle?

I thought a lot.

Any personal beetle? I muttered.

There is, - he said with liveliness, - only it is not a separate beetle, but a species.

Well... view. That is precisely why I asked, in order to get out of my sight and remember that personal beetle, which, perhaps, in the last minute of despair, flashed with all the beauty of the world and saved the life of Sergei Sergeyich. But since we love the whole view...

At least the view, - I said, - what kind?

Heavy, overgrown with hair, himself looking like a large beech, a learned, honest, capable Sergei Sergeyevich, beaming all over, said:

Ground beetle!

After that, we went to the office and looked at the ground beetles - some thousand under glass, some on cotton wool, and each of them had its own card, its own form.

I heard about ground beetles, and I kept wanting to ask about the first ground beetle he met, and to find out those subtle personal circumstances that tied Sergei Sergeyitch into the business of pinning his favorite ground beetles on pins.

All my life I myself have been tempted to find myself some eternal scientific ground beetle and deal with it for the rest of my life only one, and many times I even undertook, but somehow instantly drank all the sweetness out of it, and the work did not come out in vain, without sweetness. So, I could not specialize, except as a specialty the skill of recording the phenomena of life.

In some hour I fished out for myself everything remarkable in the collections of Sergei Sergeyich, and now again my eyes are wandering in search of something new and I notice that the kestrel is trembling in the air and the blue ribbon of the shores of the lake is increasing. They said that if the ice melts like this, then in a week a pike fight will begin on Lake Pereslavl. I took drastic measures to get closer to nature, convened a museum council and made my report on the study of the region.

I have my own local history experience and something like a method is stirring in my head. The essence of this local history method is to use the ordinary compatriotic feeling of the region, which includes the feeling of nature and even, undoubtedly, artistic synthesis, to understand the face of the region, at least on an equal footing with ordinary scientific methods of study. It seems to me that a great common folk tracker is worth one or two good scientists.

Several times, in conversations with first-class scientists, I expressed these thoughts of mine, and it turned out that these brilliant people worked in exactly the same way as we ordinary pathfinders of life, and when I said the same thing to ordinary good scientists, they looked down on me and listened very badly. That is why I think: probably, I have not yet lived to convince with my thoughts, and therefore I am silent about this, but simply report on the work of the Sokolniki Biological Station for Young Naturalists and propose to establish a similar station in Pereslavl.

But there, - I say, - in Sokolniki, near Moscow, there are relatively few materials, and therefore there the general tone of study can be called micro-tone: micro-climate, micro-reserve and the most best work made about mosquitoes In our case, all natural data cause us to take a macro tone: a huge lake, endless forests. In our region it would be good to arrange a biological station with a geographical department and in close cooperation with Sokolniki: let them have a micro, and we have a macro.

Sergey Sergeyevich became agitated, he understood that I wanted to avoid that necessary work, painstaking, boring work, which, in fact, brings up children.

I did not want to say this at all, but I am ready to argue that it is not micro-work that brings up in itself, but that main hobby, for which boredom is endured and why any work is easy.

Opinions were divided: the historian and I remained in the macro position, and a representative of the ukom joined us; the head of the ONO took the side of Sergei Sergeyich. The meteorologist, a thin, sickly man, hesitated.

Take into account that the laws of oscillation in a glass of tea and in Lake Pleshcheyeva are the same, but still, a storm in a glass and in Lake Pleshcheyeva are not the same thing ..

At that moment, Sergei Sergeyevich, probably wanting to object, inadvertently jerked his hand and knocked his glass of hot tea over the meteorologist's lap. He jumped up and rushed out. Soon he returned, and all anxiously turned to him:

Nothing, - the meteorologist calmly replied, - you who are macro, who are micro, but it’s only wet for me.

The Council decided: 1) to clarify the issue of sending a biological station, to invite representatives from Sokolniki during the holidays, 2) to provide the head of phenological observations on Botik in the palace with an apartment on the south side with four rooms.

FLIGHT OF SWANS

It was a bright day in the morning, the matinee soon melted, and by noon it was tiring to walk in a wadded coat. The seagulls had flown in before me and were now screaming loudly in the overgrown monastery ponds.

I walked along the lakeshore to arrange my apartment on Botik. The lake has two shores: one is ancient, high, cut by ravines and streams, the other is low, swampy near the water, and there is sand in the water. The ravine here is called in the old way the enemy: the first from Goritsky is Jester-enemy, a very small river near the village of Veskovo with Memeka-mountain, behind Veskov-enemy - Voznesensky and Mount Knyazek, and here nearby Gremyachaya Mountain with Gremyachiy Klyuch. It is on this Gremyachaya Mountain that the boat of Peter the Great is kept, like relics, and therefore the whole estate is called Botik.

Before I had time to climb Gremyachaya Gora and look around, Nadezhda Pavlovna, the wife of the watchman Botik, told me about Peter, that he was a great lover of water and once, seeing Lake Pleshcheyevo from a distance, turned his horse and galloped straight through the ripe fields to the water. And in the village of Veskovo, a woman was harvesting rye, and when she saw that some horseman was trampling, she began to honor him with all sorts of bad words. Peter supposedly liked it very much, he generously rewarded the Vyeskovskiy peasants and even constantly called some of them to his advice to think, since then they went to the village of Dumnov, and the watchman Ivan Akimych was also Dumnov, which means that one of his relatives would certainly I thought with Peter.

I examined the house where the only small boat with a rotten bottom that survived from the entire large amusing flotilla of Peter the Great was kept, I remembered from history how Peter, having arrived here thirty years later, was indignant at the careless storage of the remnants of the fleet and then wrote his severe decree to the governors of Pereslavl. At first, of course, this warmed up the governor, and then it began to rot again, until the only small boat left of all the ships passed from hand to hand of the private owners of the estate. Tsar Nicholas I finally leaned on the Vladimir nobles, they bought a boat, built a small palace, a triumphal arch and a marble monument with an inscription from Peter's decree:

“It is up to you, governors of Pereslavl, to take care of the remains of ships, yachts and galleys, and if you lower it, it will be exacted on you and on your descendants, as if they neglected this decree.”

Incited by Peter's words, I went up to the cliff of the Gremyachaya Mountain to look at the lake as if it were the cradle of the Russian fleet. During the day, the ring of shorelines became even more distinct and was red from the setting big red sun. From the special harmonic modes that reached my ears, I recognized swans flying somewhere high.

There were some goats in the house, boards from which we made tables and beds for ourselves, we removed everything, enjoying the sound of a roaring tree in the forest: this sound is usually heard only in deaf ravines, and we heard it from the palace with large planted windows. It’s only a pity there was no hole for a samovar pipe anywhere, and I had to put it on the porch, but when I put it, suddenly, a few hundred steps from the porch, I heard a black grouse playing, and when I went to the basement for splinters, then through the window, frightened me, a hefty hare jumped out.

We drank tea, listening with delight to the growling tree.

GROSS ARRIVALS

Wet snow falls. I walk along a hummocky swampy meadow by the edge of the lake to the Rybatskaya Sloboda. Seagulls, probably, already arranging their nests, cut off my path with a sharp cry so close that you screw up your eyes. Not far from the fishermen, in a wide creek between the shore and the ice, an unusually strong flapping of wings was heard, and, not previously noticed on wet snow, a swan rose very close to me. Stretching out his long neck, just like a duck, only big and white, he flew to the lake and disappeared into the ice. Along the shores, teal and mallards rolled in pairs every now and then. On the way back, where the swan was, hiding behind the bumps, I captured the geese: the leader swam ahead and led four. Startled, they flew off not far and sat down near the ice itself. Lapwings swarm in the mud by the water. The gross arrival of game began.

Under the ravine, on a spit opposite Gremyachiy Klyuch, a spruce hut grew up that night, and at home they told me that the miller had set it up, our miller from the Gremyachy Mill, that he had come in to ask me not to interfere with his hunting and promised to come back again.

Very polite, they told me, a very young man and, they say, from the nobility.

Soon the young man himself appeared, tall, with beautiful eyes, looking more like a student than a miller.

Do you understand guns? - he asked me after the first words and, returning to the kitchen, brought a gun.

Shompolka, - I said, - this is not a gun.

Never mind, I'll buy a centerpiece soon; a peasant owes me forty pounds; as soon as I get it, I will buy a gun and a boat. And my education is five grades of the gymnasium.

You're alone?

Wife and child. I earn two pounds a pood, only ten poods a month. Tell me, please, where are there places where there is a lot of game?

On Lake Pleshcheyevo, a gross arrival of game has begun, what more do you need: swans, geese, ducks of all breeds.

I would like to get to places where no human has ever set foot.” And, without waiting for my answer, he asked: “Do you love humanity?”

I'm interested.

And I hate. Our peasants are especially disgusting: cunning, evil, cruel.

There are different types of men...

All are the same. What does belletrist mean?

I said.

In that case, let me tell you how I got married.

I want to sleep, you probably want too?

He came out polite, sad, my first acquaintance on the boat. Following him, the city stove-maker, a gloomy man with the face of an ascetic, came in to dress up, and made me think that he was a very religious man.

How many, - I said, - in your city of churches!

And everything is far from God.

Are you saying that there is no god?

Maybe there is somewhere, but he does not care about us, as we care about mosquitoes.

Do you value, probably, only science?

True religion: socialism.

So we began to dress up with the stove-maker about the stove. Remembering the conversation with the miller, I asked the stove-maker.

Who is this young man?

The baker replied:

Our former zemstvo chief in the third generation is a nephew.

ARRIVAL OF THE WIRE

Shaft brings down any hunting game - whistle, make noise with wings. Of the new ones, I noted the wigeon in large numbers and heard that this rarer duck is already nesting right there, not far away, in the nearby overgrown lake.

I had a fisherman who worked for a local fishing cooperative. When I asked him what he did before the revolution, he replied that he served in the police and was even a bailiff. When I, very surprised by this frank answer, said to him: “But how did you survive?” - then he, in turn, very surprised, said: “Yes, we didn’t have anything in the Pereslavl Territory.”

I cited a lot of everything that I have already noticed: that a consumer society has nested in one church in the bazaar, that one tradesman, a big owner, because of economic clashes, killed his wife, who exchanged household chores for service in the executive committee, and much more ... Rybak agreed, but stood his ground. In the end, I understood him to mean that the revolution is being experienced here just as everywhere else, but because there are few landlords in this region, there were also few destructive actions of the masses.

On the way to the city, I went to the chairman of the village council to give him my passport for registration. The chairman himself was not at home, and his wife, a young woman, very lively, asked me to borrow some money and promised to pay it back later in potatoes, she referred to the annual holiday. When I gave her the money, she said: "Thank you, sir." And I remembered the words of the fisherman that there was no revolution here.

After dinner, the chairman comes to me with a note from her husband:

“I, the chairman of the village council, I ask you, please, come to visit me, I will be very grateful to you if you come, and we will continue to know you.”

I answered evasively and began to think whether I should go or not. Fortunately, a miller from the Gremyachy Mill dropped in on me, and I asked him about the chairman. In practical life, the young man turned out to be not at all so naive.

It happens, - he said, - three types of chairmen: the first type is a mountain behind the village, ready because of society for any, even very dirty deed - a rarer type. The second recognizes Soviet power and makes a career without harming society; the third achieves the personal at the expense of society. Our chairman recognizes Soviet power and makes a career without harming society.

Having dismissed the miller, I decided not to go, because the average types did not interest me.

By evening, however, the chairman himself appears, along with his godfather, a shoemaker, he is very tipsy, the shoemaker is drunk. They spun nonsense, and for a long time I could not get rid of it, and probably the whole evening would have disappeared like that, but it happened that the shoemaker stepped on my purebred dog on his foot and he howled plaintively. The shoemaker rushed to the dog and began to kiss it on the nose. Noticing that the smell of moonshine was unpleasant for Yarik, I warned the shoemaker, but it was already too late. Yarik bit him on the nose. The shoemaker suddenly came to his senses from pain, childishly offended by the dog and leaned towards the exit. Seeing off the guests, I threw a touchstone, saying to the chairman:

What a lovely land you have, as if there had never been a revolution at all!

And a man who makes his career on the accomplished revolution, wishing to please me, as his wife, calling me a gentleman, said:

And not a ma-lei.

So two worlds appeared - estates and villages, and this was the influence of the walls of the palace, arranged by the nobility for the arrival of kings.

FLOWERING OF THE HAZEL

In the forest it is white and black, motley, the water rustles in the ravines, and over it, baked by the sun, hazel threw out golden earrings. Yarik made his first stand by ear; I thought, according to a current black grouse, but it turned out that it was almost under his feet that the water murmured like a grouse. The black grouse went on. We raised a tokovik, there were four black grouse with him. Our tree growls strongly, during the day and even at night you can hear it through closed windows. I fell in love with it, it is dear to me: after all, I just don’t like to talk about it, but in the spring something growls in my soul too ...

The edge of the ice of the lake opposite Botik is covered with ice, but the pike can still get out to the shore along the groove from under the ice. Our watchman Dumnov stands with a prison, like Neptune, further away - the famous pike fighters the Komissarov brothers, followed by the deacon - and so on all over the edge, from our Every side to the Overcity, along That side to the Zazerye - around all the Neptunes.

They told me that pike came out from dawn to sunrise, at nine in the morning, at noon, at five in the evening and until sunset. I told them that while cleaning the Tsaritsyno ponds, a pike with a golden ring of Boris Godunov was caught, weighing three pounds, and asked them if there could be such a pike in Lake Pleshcheyevo.

There is, - they said, - only the lake is very deep, and that pike does not come out of the depths. And with a golden ring there is an ide in the lake, Peter the Great let it go.

Has anyone killed a pike these days? I asked.

The pike has not yet come out, - they answered me, - but they beat the moloshnikov.

Males are called thrushers, small compared to the female, pike.

The miller came to call for hunting with a circular duck. I didn’t believe somehow that his duck would scream, he refused. He was covered in mud. I told him that it was not good for a former nobleman to walk around so dirty.

Such a thing, he replied.

Why is that worker over there, - I pointed to his foreman, - clean?

The young man was confused and, having nothing to do, admitted that today he went to the executive committee, and when he goes there, he never washes and even gets dirty on purpose: he has to make a working career.

It was raining in the evening.

Because the frames are single and the forest near the house itself, a dream has been established, as in a forest hut, answering like a mirror, outside world. My dream is controlled by a roaring tree, and so it turns out that I myself fell into a ravine, like this tree. And suddenly the sharp cry of a duck, and, without any transition from sleep to reality, I guess that this is the cry of a circular duck at the miller. Then came her frantic "ah, ah!" - this means she saw a drake. I jumped out of bed, and while running to the exit door, the drake probably swam up to the duck, and as soon as I grabbed the handle, a shot rang out. In the semi-darkness it was still impossible for me to make out a circular duck from Gremyachaya Mountain, only a hut was visible.

While the samovar was warming up, the miller killed two more drakes.

After tea, when, according to my calculation, the duck hunting should have ended, I went down to the mill and, as soon as I saw a dwelling, from that hour I began to call the miller Robinson: in the hut it was dirty, broken, scattered, the sky was visible through the ceiling; Robinson himself was sitting near a hot piece of iron, plucking a duck, hunters were sitting with him right there and peeling potatoes. The chief of the hunters, Ezhka, told a lot about black grouse: that there are blue grouse, and there are yellow ones, and that there are larger and smaller woodcocks, and mallards clearly have a noticeable difference, you can even say that not a single mallard is similar to one another, completely just like people, and the same hares ...

Who are these people? Some small employees, technicians, are considered in the town for semi-wild people, but they are natural pathfinders, local historians, phenologists, and a genuine - not sentimental-petty-bourgeois and not bookish, not from Rousseau and Tolstoy - a sense of nature was preserved almost only by them. These are the people from which one should look for employees to study the region. I told them everything, and we entered into an alliance for phenological observations, and agreed near Botik not to shoot anything from nesting birds, and if possible even hares.

When they started talking about hares, I said that on Botik a hare jumped out of the basement.

Hare? - asked Ezhka. And, having learned that he was a hare, he said: - Hares constantly lay down on Botik, several pieces in winter certainly lie in Pereslavl itself. Do you know K's house? Do not know? And M.? You don't know either, what do you know?

I said that I know ancient Pereslavl, a cathedral of the 12th century, the remains of a mill, a fortress, a place of a skudelnitsa, where now the Danilovsky Monastery, a column of Tokhtamysh ...

You know the pillar of Tokhtamysh, well, just opposite there is a wooden house with a large garden, and there a hare lived in the garden, nibbling on stumps. At the first powder, we let the dogs through it.

Ezhka spoke in detail about the entire run of the indefatigable hare across historical places: from the city to Botik and across Lake Pereslavl to the famous Alexander Hill, where excavations discovered a Slavic pagan temple, then back to the city on Sovetskaya Street and through the fortress, somewhere I ran into an iron rod with my right eye, the boys “took it into a binder”, and, fleeing from them, he flew into open doors militia. Meanwhile, the hunters, having lost the hare, called the dogs, tied them up, returned home, and suddenly, seeing a fresh trail on Sovetskaya Street, went around it and let the dogs go. They did not have to run for long, the trail led to the police, the whole flock roared into the institution, and the hunters tumbled in after the flock. At this time, the policemen not only caught the hare, but threw lots among themselves because of him, who would get it.

Hunters - beat off, policemen do not give, it almost came to the kulaks; in the end, the hunters gave in, but threatened the policemen: “Wait a minute, you will come across us in the forest, we will pull your legs out of your belly.”

At home, I decided to write down a story, interesting because never before in my life had I had to chase animals in a city, and the run of a hare through historical places seemed to me especially curious. Unfortunately, just at the place where the hare ran into the rod, my memory betrayed me, and therefore, for information, I again went down to the mill. There was already one Robinson.

Do you remember, - I asked, - where the hare ran into an iron rod with his right eye?

Robinson replied:

When crossing the site of the Church of the Holy Spirit, here the place is fenced with an iron grate.

FAST LOVE

The mother of my decoy duck was simply Russian, domestic, but a wild drake trampled her several times, and ducklings came out - the spitting image of mallards. Of these, I chose the most vociferous and began to lure wild drakes to my hut with it. There are no number of handsome men in wedding attire, captivated by the deadly voice of this screamer ... The hunter's heart is merciless, but it happened one day - a wild drake took my duck, and I did not dare to shoot.

It was in the evening dawn. I went out to the forest on the floodplain, took out my screamer from the basket, tied a long rope with a weight at the end to its leg, threw the weight, let the duck swim, and sat down opposite in a hut and began to look at the floodplain through a crack.

A pair of mallards flew: in front of them was a gray duck, followed by a drake in its wedding dress. Suddenly, another couple turned out to meet them from somewhere. And now both pairs just wanted to meet, suddenly the hawk rushed at the duck from the second pair, and everything was mixed up. The hawk missed. The duck rushed down and disappeared into the bushes on the floodplain. The stunned hawk slowly went under blue cloud. And the drake from the broken pair, having come to his senses after the attack of the hawk, made a small circle: nowhere in the air was his duck. In the distance, the first couple continued on their way. The lone drake, probably thought that a strange drake was chasing his lost duck, went there and began to catch up.

The lost duck soon recovered from the attack of the hawk, swam out of the bushes onto the stretch and began to scream. A new lone drake has arrived. Between the wild duck and my decoy, a struggle ensued with voices. My duck was torn to pieces from screaming, but the wild one still overpowered it. The drake chose the wild one and trampled it.

Having made a huge circle, the first pair returned, and behind it rushed the drake, which had lost its duck in the attack of the hawk. Did he still imagine that it was not a stranger, but his duck flying, and a stranger chasing it?

His real duck, satisfied, cleaned the feathers on the stretch and was silent. But my decoy undertook to reach the drake alone without a rival. And he heard her ... Is it so true that in their love it doesn't matter what kind of duck - it would be a duck! But what if time rushes for them much faster than for us, and one minute of separation from a beloved is equal to ten years of our hopeless love? What if, in a hopeless pursuit of an imaginary duck, he heard the bright voice of a natural duck below, recognized in it the voice of a lost one, then the whole floodplain then became to him like a beloved.

He rushed to my duck so quickly that I did not have time to shoot him: he trampled it. After that, he began to make around her his usual drake thanksgiving circle on the water. I could calmly aim here, but I remembered my ardent youth, when the whole world appeared to me like a beloved, and I did not shoot this drake.

THE BEGINNING OF THE MOVEMENT OF THE JUICE AT THE BIRCH

I cut off the thinnest twig from a birch and made a pipe cleaner. A drop of birch sap gathered on the cut place and sparkled in the sun. The forest was motley: sometimes snow, sometimes a blue puddle, and it was warm in the middle of the day. After looking around, I decided that today the woodcock pull might begin, and before evening I went to Solomidino to the hunter Mikhail Ivanovich Mineev to ask him to show me where they should stand on the draft. No one will call this Mikhail grandfather by sight, although he still remembers Tsar Alexander II well and his grandson, a cooperator, recently had a boy. I found Mikhaila not without confusion, because the old man has four sons, but he doesn’t have his own house - he lives, this village king Lear, now with one son, then with another: he has now completely quarreled with two and moved on to the third.

They told me a lot about this while I was looking for a house, and then, in anticipation of the evening in the hut, I heard a lot from the old man himself, and when the story continued on the way to draft, I did not listen, thinking how I could get rid of the old man as soon as possible. The words still reached my ears, and out of politeness, I randomly gave remarks.

And the court awarded them ko-ro-woo.

Really, - I say, - a cow?

Before the true I say: a cow.

The old man stands in front of me, holds my sleeve, does not let me move forward, fills all the silence, the whole world, and waits for my opinion. What should I do? My tongue speaks for itself:

How to be?

He dropped my sleeve, moved forward and said:

Then I threw this son, like your sleeve, and went to live with another.

At this time, over our heads, we heard the usual duck “hang-hang” - because of the old man’s chatter, I did not have time to shoot.

There you have, - I said, - they put a samovar, go and drink tea.

And then, - he says, - you have to go, but I don’t drink tea. Tea! There is a log, you need to help lift the log.

Well, here you go.

And you say - tea - log-oh-oh ...

He laughed and, moving away a little, could not stand it, stopped, turned around and repeated:

Log-oh-oh!

At this time, I thought about what harness his sons must be in now, how many worries about existence, but the old man still finds time to go hunting and how he rejoices in the revival of nature and the new man! I said:

But you're a cunning old man.

He was very happy, stepped towards me again, winked merrily:

And so to speak, because the tax in kind is not taken from me, but from them, and there is insurance, there ...

At this time, I think about the cow, about this truly sacred peasant materiality, I imagine that some mischievous person would take and kill the cow, and if the owner killed the mischievous person for this, then the court would probably justify the peasant. After all, a cow is the selfhood of a worker of the earth, it is he himself materialized, and, moreover, socially: a cow fertilizes the earth with its manure and feeds a person with milk. I am looking for the parity of this reality in my spiritual activity, suddenly a cow appears to me as a measure of cultural values ​​created by writers, poets, scientists, artists! I distinctly divide them into two groups: with cows and empty, without cows.

And the old man is standing in front of me, holding me.

At that moment, I did not miss the prey, without aiming, I hit the second of some two rapidly rushing birds, and it turned out that this was a large mallard drake rushing after the duck along the air tracks. He rustled along the birch and fell on the snowy tablecloth that had survived still under it.

Well, go, go, - I say to the old man, - go drink tea.

And I’ll drink tea, - he answers, - and I’ll go hunting, and I don’t think: I’ll go and go, and they only hear that tax in kind and insurance.

Contrary to all my expectation and old experience, the silence that came to me after the old man's departure was not that deep, filled with the power of new life: this silence was dead. Forlornly, only one song thrush sang for the whole forest, and a drop of birch sap from a cut branch shone, poking about something. I did not master such silence, the harmony fell apart, and the forest became so terrible when all sorts of things come to mind for superstitious people - it’s scary to me at these moments because I lose myself, I want to yell or shoot at trees, anywhere ... Suddenly there was a hubbub, disputes, screams of people walking along the clearing, and when they became close, I recognized the voice of Robinson, Ezhka and realized that these were all the same morning hunters now returning from draft.

What are you arguing about? I asked as they drew level with me.

And we argue, - answered Ezhka, - that this Robinson is a liar, what he told you in the morning.

I did not lie, - says Robinson, - the hare could well run into the lattice of the Church of the Holy Spirit.

But you yourself weren’t there: after all, there, in the grate, there are rods as thick as a finger, and he just put his eye out on barbed wire ...

The opinions of the hunters were divided about the woodcocks: some said that it was early, others that the woodcocks were here, but the dawn was cold and they did not pull; still others - that everyone is frozen in the south and will not pull at all.

Haven't the snipes been leked yet? I asked.

The snipes have arrived.

Have you heard of curlews?

They whistle.

It is strange that there are no woodcocks!

Most likely they died.

OLD PIKE

Late one evening I was returning from the city on foot to my village. Always in such cases, the reverse timber carters put me up. So it happened now. I was overtaken by a young driver who had drunk a little after hard work and offered to give me a ride. As is customary in such cases, I refused, but the driver insisted. I settled into the sled. The carrier named himself: Ivan Bazunov from Veslev.

I have heard this name.

Famous pike hunter? I asked.

A specialist of a kind, - answered Bazunov. - May I ask your name? I named myself.

Here, Mikhail Mikhailovich, - he said, - do you have any infection of happiness in your soul?

Permanent, dear Bazunov. Haven't you heard that I'm a hunter?

So it's you! - he grabbed, recognizing me. - How can you not hear ... I am very glad to see you! Hunter, yes! And here I am for pikes, in this I passed my university. Is that how I speak?

Correctly.

Very nice. I will now explain everything about these matters to you - you will understand. Of course, I am a pike hunter and in this I have my contagion of happiness. The pike is my target, but take a man as an example. Another would be glad in broad daylight to get along with his beloved, but after all, this is by no means unacceptable, people see, it is in no way impossible. Did you, Mikhail Mikhailovich, have to suffer from this?

Who hasn't!

So, we agree about the person. And now I'll tell you - in the same way, a living creature - a pike: and I would be glad, caviar presses, but you can’t. Just like a person has a night, so pikes also have their own legal time for love affairs.

I know, - I said. - Pike spawning happens at first water.

Quite right. When the first streams go and pour into the lake, the pike goes against the stream, and then I leave my farm and stand on the stream ...

Bazunov told for a long time how he fights for his happiness with his wife, how he treats her and she lets him go for pike. So we drove up to my turn, but Bazunov did not let me go and asked me to listen to his story to the end.

The sun warms, - continued he is a human tends to marital status, so is the pike: caviar overcomes it. Pike climbs on a shallow place, on thin waters, rests on the bottom, squeezes the caviar, and the milkmen whiten it. It happens that up to seven milkmen boil over a large pike, it is always below, and then - whoever does not know how - will certainly hit the milkmen, it is the largest one, leaves. But I know how to strike, and I strike with a spear below the milkmen, because I am a specialist of my kind.

After listening to this story, I, in turn, told one incident incomprehensible to me: in July, at dusk, I once saw on the lake that a dark hand of a man appeared from the water and disappeared, then appeared again. It looked very much like the waves were lapping up a dead body. I went there on the shallows, and it was not a human hand, but a very large pike. I killed it with a gun, the meat was tough: an old pike.

That's what you're talking about, he asked. i am pike just like a man, he knows his time and goes out to spawn in early spring, and yet it was at the end of summer. What does it mean?

I will answer, - said Bazunov, - On hot summer days, the pike, too, sometimes, is drawn to the shore, because she, like a person, has a memory. I'm telling you right, because I'm a specialist of my kind. An old woman sometimes starts to fool more than a young one, because she still has a memory of her young love.

PIKE FIGHT

The weather has settled - during the day it is warm, almost hot, and at night the moon and such hard frost that zabere freeze almost a finger thick. And these banks are now like a wide blue river. The ice is held only by headlands. But from Usolye to Pereslavl, people still travel by the lake in sledges on market days.

The pike fight has begun, and only the morning is lost among the fighters, because at night the water freezes, and even if a pike comes out somewhere, you can’t approach it with a spear at the rustle. The fighters, however, take up positions in the morning and stand one at a time with their prisons, motionless. In the evening, lights are everywhere along the coast: they guard, with a beam they walk through the water above the knee between the shore and the ice, one carries a goat and shines, the other two - with prisons. From hour to hour they expect the release of the biggest pikes.

I tried to approach the fighters and talk, everyone really doesn’t like it, and even when they notice the approach, they move away. I try to stand with a gun myself, but it’s unbearably boring, I don’t understand where they get such patience from. After long observations, however, I realized that when someone notices a pike and starts sneaking up on it with a spear raised, everyone is watching him intensely: probably, patience is taken not only from the hope of making money on fish, but also takes excitement.

In the evening, when it is dark and people begin to converge, prepare for the beaming, a circular mail across the lake from fisherman to fisherman brings the news of the day.

News today: at the mouth of the Trubezha River, a pike weighing two pounds was killed. The fisherman was sitting on a pile, saw a huge fish and hit her like an osprey: he didn’t kill him, but only tied his spear in her body, like an osprey’s legs. The pike darted, the fisherman fell into the icy water, but did not let go of the spear, disappeared under the water, surfaced near the ice, got out and pulled out the tired pike.

In the city itself, it was as if someone from the bridge had thrown a spear at a large pike, hit it and rushed into the water in a rush, but the pike left with the spear.

In the semi-darkness, Dumnov, one of those who thought with Peter, aside from everyone in a shallow place, drags a huge pile, destroys it from the water to the edge of the ice and moves onto the ice. He noticed that from time to time a monstrous head appears from under the ice ...

She saw how Dumnov began to take shape, and so he remained with the prison raised; it turned out that he was afraid to hit him - the pike could drag him under the ice.

On the shore they cursed and laughed, but Dumnov demands moonshine, drinks a bottle at once, waits ...

And suddenly the doubts about the Dumnov pike ended - everyone saw how a huge head appeared from under the ice and returned back. Dumnov demands a second bottle.

After the second bottle, that monstrous head is shown. Dumnov hit - right: he sewed a pike to the bottom. But now what to do next, if only a very small tip remains from a long spear above the water? You can’t get such a pike on the prison, but you can’t reach it with your hands - what to do? Dumnov did not do badly that he drank two bottles of moonshine, now the sea is knee-deep to him: he descends into the icy water, puts his feet on the pike, hides completely under the water, digs his fingers into the pike's eyes, shows himself again from under the water, drags his prey. Everyone sees: a huge pike and with it a milkman worth ten pounds.

Dumnov throws the pike into the pit, and then suddenly it comes to life, and this is what it is like: it flicked its tail, and the milkman flew about ten pounds away from it about fifty paces.

Dumnov's sash is threaded under the gills, hung up so that his pike head is flush with the back of his head, and his tail drags along the ground. He goes to the village, the women gather, the whole village runs, and everywhere there is a rumor: Dumnov killed a pike and barely reported it.

And a rumor went around the whole lake, from Every side to Nadgorod, from Nadgorod along One side to Zazerye, through Urev to Usolye, - everywhere a rumor: Dumnov from Veskov killed a pike weighing one and a half pounds in weight, and with it the milkman was about ten pounds.

THE FROGS COME TO LIFE

At night we sat in a hut with a circular duck. It was frosty at dawn, the water froze, I was completely cold, the day was not my own, by the evening it began to wag. And I spent another day in bed, as if absent myself and leaving myself to the struggle of the stomach and death. At the dawn of the third day, I saw the patterned shore of Lake Pleshcheyevo and white gulls by the frequent capes of ice on the blue water. It was in life exactly as seen in a dream. And those white gulls on the blue water were so beautiful, and there was so much beauty ahead: I would also see the whole lake freed from ice, and the earth would be covered with green grass, the birch trees would be dressed, we would hear the first green noise.

For some reason, the tree stopped growling. Why doesn't the tree roar? Instead, someone sings beautifully.

Does it look like a finch?

I was told that yesterday it turned to heat and a slight rumble of distant thunder was heard.

I, weak from the struggle for life, but happy with the victory, got out of bed and saw through the window that the whole lawn in front of the house was covered with various small birds: there were many finches, all kinds of song thrushes, gray and black, fieldfare, white-browed, all ran across the lawn in great numbers, flitting about, swimming in a large puddle. There was a gross arrival of songbirds.

Our dogs, tied to the trees, suddenly barked for some reason and looked stupidly at the ground.

What did the thunder do, - said Dumnov and pointed us to the place where the dogs were looking.

Shining with a wet back, the frog jumped straight at the dogs and, if only they had enough, missed each other and headed for a large puddle.

The frogs came to life, and it was as if thunder had done it: the life of frogs is connected with thunder, - thunder struck - and the frogs came to life and already paired jumped, sparkling in the sun with wet backs, and all there - into this big puddle. I went up to them, they all leaned out of the water to look at me: terribly curious!

There are a lot of insects flying on the sand, and how many birds are on the lawn! But today, getting out of bed, I don't want to remember their names. Today I feel the whole life of nature, and I do not need separate names. With all this flying, floating, running creature, I felt a kindred connection, and for each in my soul there is an image-reminder that now pops up in my blood after millions of years: all this was in me, just look and find out.

It’s just that, growing out of a sense of life, my thoughts are formed today: for a short time I parted from life due to illness, I lost something and now I’m restoring it. So millions of years ago we lost wings, as beautiful as those of seagulls, and because it was a very long time ago, we now admire them so much.

We have lost the ability to swim like a fish, and swing on a handle attached to a mighty tree trunk, and rush from end to end with seed bats, and we like all this, because it is all ours, only it was a very, very long time ago.

We are in kinship with the whole world, we are now restoring the connection with the power of kindred attention and thereby discover our own personal in people of a different way of life, even in animals, even in plants.

Today I am resting from illness, I cannot work. Why not allow a little more luxury to this domestic philosophy? There is a rough truth in this that man creates the world in his own image and likeness, but, of course, the world exists without man. Most of all, the artist should know this, and the indispensable condition of his work should be forgotten in such a way that one believes in the existence of living and dead things without themselves. It seems to me that science is only completing the image of loss already personally restored by the artist. So, if an artist, merging in his being with a bird, inspires a dream - and we mentally fly with him, then soon a scientist appears with his calculations - and we fly on mechanical wings. Art and science, together taken, - forces restoration of the lost relationship.

By noon, when, like yesterday, it had rumbled a little, a warm rain poured down. In one hour, the ice on the lake turned from white to transparent, took into itself, like the water of the shores, the blue of the sky, so that everything became like a whole lake.

Fog rose on the paths in the forest after sunset, and every ten steps a pair of hazel grouses took off. Black grouse muttered with all their might, the whole forest muttered and hissed. The woodcocks also pulled.

In the dark, away from the city, there were triple lights: blue stars above, larger yellow residential city lights on the horizon, and huge, almost red rays of fishermen on the lake. When some of these lights approached our shore, both smoke and people with spears appeared, reminiscent of the figures with dragons on the vases of Olivia and Panticapaeum.

Yes, I forgot to write down the most important thing: after much effort, today we finally found a roaring tree: it was the birch that was rubbing against the aspen from the lightest wind, now abundant juice was pouring from the rubbed place near the birch, and therefore the tree did not growl.

Security environment translation environmental protection 1) prevention, limitation and reduction negative impact the consequences of natural and environmental disasters, accidents, catastrophes, economic and industrial activities on humans and the environment through a set of legal, environmental, environmental, social, organizational and engineering measures; 2) activities of state authorities of the Russian Federation, state authorities of the constituent entities of the Russian Federation, bodies of local, public and other non-profit associations, legal entities and persons aimed at preserving and restoring natural environment, rational use and reproduction natural resources, prevention of the negative impact of economic and other activities on the environment and the elimination of its consequences; 3) in international law- a system of principles and norms governing the activities of its subjects in the radiation, environmentally sound use of natural resources and the preservation of favorable living conditions on earth in the interests of present and future generations. subject to regulation are international relationships about o.o.s. and its rational use: limiting harmful effects on the environment, establishing an environmentally expedient (rational) regime for the use of natural resources; international protection of natural monuments and reserves; regulation of scientific and technical. cooperation between the state-in o.o.s. at the same time, the concept of the environment includes: objects of the natural (living) environment - flora and fauna; objects of the inanimate environment - marine and freshwater basins (hydrosphere), air basin (atmosphere), soil (lithosphere), outer space; objects of the artificial environment created by man. questions o.o.s. are the object of constant attention of the UN and its specialized agencies, they are reflected in international treaties according to o.d.s. and constantly on international conferences. in a number of states, incl. rf, adopted target programs o.s., concepts environmental safety, sustainable development and others or is it environmental protection translation environmental protection environmental protection is a set of scientific, legal and technical measures aimed at the rational use, reproduction and conservation of natural resources and outer space in the interests of people, to ensure biological balance in nature and to improve the quality of the environment through its planned transformation. environmental protection includes: rational use and protection of the atmosphere, subsoil, hydrosphere, use or destruction of waste, protection from noise, ionizing radiation, electric fields, etc.

February is a harsh winter month: frosts, snowstorms, especially frosty fog in the mornings. But at the end of the month there is clear sunny weather in the middle of the day. The air is frosty, and the sun is already warming, you feel the heat on your face.

In such weather, birds will be the first to feel the approach of spring. Pigeons under the roofs begin to coo loudly, and flocks of sparrows sprinkle the bushes and arrange such a concert, chirping loudly. And the tits are whistling. These are the harbingers of spring.

And with the first days of March, a thaw begins, ice icicles hang from the roofs. It feels cold in the shade, but warm in the sun. Very often on the holiday of March 8 there is such a thaw that you can not wear felt boots. By the holiday of spring, sprigs of southern flowers - mimosa - are sold on the market. And in the park and surrounding groves, on the branches of willow and willow, silver-white bunnies, fluffy flower buds appear. You put such branches in a jar of water - and the room becomes joyful, and after 10 days green leaves will appear.

As soon as the first guests of spring appear - rooks - it means that spring has already come. The bright black, shiny plumage of the rooks is very noticeable. Flocks of crows, jackdaws and rooks occupy waste bins.

In winter, the snow cover is at first loose and the legs sink in it, and then it becomes compacted, and it is sometimes possible to walk on it without skis. And in the spring, when the sun begins to warm, a shiny ice crust forms on the surface of the snow - crust. When the sun begins to warm more strongly under the crust of the crust, the snow melts, the water goes down, and voids form under the crust. The stronger the sun shines, the more streams form.

The spring air is special, it is fragrant and you can say it smells like spring, and the birds vied with each other chirping, whistling in all voices, talking loudly and celebrating their bird weddings. In the park, in the forest, the first flowers bloom on the thawed patches; blue eyes of snowdrops, white primrose. Rooks arrive when the snow on the fields has not yet melted everywhere, and starlings after a week or two.

In March, winter is angry and does not want to leave, there are snowstorms, snow falls, and for a whole week the birds that have arrived are starving.

If streams murmur in March, then April is a flood, the lowlands are flooded with water, ditches and streams turn into seething streams. You can't go through the forest without rubber boots. And the air is fragrant, it seems even thick, appetizing, you want to inhale it deeply. People, like all nature, bloom, thaw after a frosty winter. Finally, you can get rid of the warm heavy winter clothes. Young people walk around with their heads bare.

But April is only the awakening of nature. The real holiday of spring is May, when greenery appears. On warm days, literally in 3-5 days the trees are covered with foliage, the first greenery is so fragrant. The surface of the earth also turns from black and gray to green. Irises, tulips, willow, alder, and then maple and birch blossom.

How I love the month of May! Warm fragrant air filled with bird noise. As children, we could play bast shoes for hours. And in my youth, in the evenings, stand at the gate with a girl and, if I may, kiss. Spring is unforgettable and every year you wait for its arrival, and together with nature you yourself bloom, you wake up to an active life.

How beautiful the songs of the nightingale are, from evening to morning I want to listen to how they compete in their art. Around our city, nightingales can be heard not only in the park, but also on the outskirts.

Life seems good, but how good and beautiful women and girls become in spring! Women are the flowers of our life, and they also need to be given flowers, they love it when they are given flowers, and they deserve them.

Give women flowers!

What's on the horizon? There, beyond the horizon?!

I learned to read at the age of five. And the concept of astronomy and geography had by the age of eight. This knowledge was given to me by my parents. As a child, when I was in the field, I wanted to know what was beyond the horizon. I ran across the field, and the horizon moved away. I knew that the earth was spherical, but I still wanted to see what was far away, beyond the horizon. In childhood and youth, I personally got to know my city, district and Leningrad, partially learned what was beyond the horizon.

The war threw me either to the east or to the west. Lakes Ladoga, Onezhkskoe, Beloe, Mariinsky water carrier, Rybinsk, Gorky, Kazan, Chelyabinsk, and then again Leningrad, Pskov, Vyborg, Estonia, Razhensky Bay. So the circle of knowledge has expanded, what is there, beyond the horizon. And after the war, on the work of October Railway, Narva, Gdov, Petrozavodsk, Moscow. On vacation I went to rest in the south Black Sea coast from Odessa to Batumi, Sevastopol, Chisinau, Vinnitsa, Rostov, Saratov, Tula, Pskov, Novgorod. When I visited these cities, I was interested in architecture, I definitely visited museums. I bought city plans and guidebooks.

I like to visit Moscow, I have been there ten times. Visited the Kremlin. Mausoleum, VDNH, Novodevichy cemetery and museums. It’s good to be a tourist in Moscow, but I wouldn’t want to live in it, there are too many people.

I had to get to know my great homeland from north to south, from east to west, and more than once and every time the horizon of my knowledge expanded. I only regret that I have not been to Siberia and Far East. I also regret that I did not even study my district, neighboring districts and regions. Everywhere there is a lot of interesting things. You can travel all your life and walk around your country, get to know your homeland, its beauties of nature, cities, museums - what is there, beyond the horizon?

Now it is fashionable to travel to the Canaries, Turkey, Thailand - all over the world, but our homeland, our Russia, is no less interesting, you just need to be able to look beyond the horizon at home, in your big homeland.