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Quite Vanyusha walked you. peasant children

Quite Vanyusha walked you. peasant children

04.07.2020

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
Cheerful sun rays are looking.
The dove coos; flew over the roof
Young rooks cry;
Some other bird is flying -
I recognized the crow by the shadow;
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!

Second
And the barin, they said! ..

Third
Shut up, damn you!

Second
A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

First
And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth
And there on the hat, look, it's a watch!

Fifth
Hey, important stuff!

Sixth
And a golden chain...

Seventh
Is tea expensive?

Eighth
How the sun burns!

Ninth
And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs off the tongue.

Fifth
Gun! look at it: the barrel is double,
Carved clasps…

Third
(with fear)
Looks!

Fourth
Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha!

Third
Will beat…

My spies are afraid
And they rushed away: they heard a man,
So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff.
I calmed down, squinted - they came again,
The eyes flicker through the cracks.
What happened to me - marveled at everything
And my sentence was pronounced:
- Such a goose, what a hunt!
I would lie on the stove!
And you can see not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp,
So next to Gavrila ... - "Hears, be silent!"
_______________

O dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning he could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!”
But then we ruined them pretty much
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory.
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan'
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
To please the Lord God in everything:
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That the hair from the nose grew rapidly ... "
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened that whole days flew by here, -
What a new passerby, then a new story ...

Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen,
Who nurses his sister, two-year-old Glashka,
Who drags a bucket of kvass on the harvest,
And he, having tied a shirt under his throat,
Something mysteriously draws in the sand;
That one got into a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath,
All white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket -
Caught, jumped up and rides on it.
And is she, born under the sun's heat
And in an apron brought home from the field,
To be afraid of your humble horse? ..

Mushroom time did not have time to depart,
Look - everyone has black lips,
They stuffed the oskom: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts!
A childish cry echoing
From morning to night it rumbles through the forests.
Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the grouse take off, croaking to the chicks,
Whether a hare jumps up - sodom, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing
It was brought into the bush ... well, the poor thing is bad!
The living are dragged to the village with triumph ...

Enough, Vanya! you walked a lot
It's time for work, dear!
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain;
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king ...

However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
So, we have to wrap up by the way
The other side of the medal.
Let's put the peasant child loose
Growing without learning
But he will grow, if God pleases,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But mercilessly eat his midges,
But he was early familiar with the works ...

Once upon a time in the cold winter time,
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And, marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
- Great, boy! - “Go past yourself!”
- Painfully you are formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
- Does your father have a big family?
“The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
- So there it is! And what is your name? - "Vlas".
- And what year are you? - “The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" - shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
As if it was all cardboard
It's like I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow, lying to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
To whom there is no death - do not push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!

Play on, children! Grow at will!
That's why you have been given a red childhood,
To forever love this meager field,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your age-old legacy,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the bowels of the native land! ..
_______________

Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys have become bolder, -
"Hey, the thieves are coming!" I cried to Fingal: -
Steal, steal! Well, hide quickly!
Fingalushka made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
With special diligence he hid the game,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
Extensive field of canine science
He was perfectly familiar;
He started throwing things like this
That the audience could not leave the place.
They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here!
They command themselves! - “Fingalka, die!”
- Don't stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyaha, -
"Look - dying - look!"
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it got dark
In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage,
When the storm is destined to break.
And for sure: the blow thundered over the barn,
A rain river poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave an arrow!
The wide door opened, creaked,
Hit the wall, locked again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Above our theater just.
In the heavy rain, the children ran
Barefoot to their village ...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for great snipes.

Analysis of the poem "Peasant Children" by Nekrasov

Nekrasov's childhood was spent surrounded by peasant peers. He grew up on his father's estate and was able to feel for himself all the charm of free life, which is very different from urban life. The child did not immediately realize his master's position and treated other children as equals. Subsequently, he liked to watch the peasant children. The poet expressed his impressions in the poem "Peasant Children" (1861).

The author describes his hunting in the village. As he rests in the barn, he notices children stealthily watching him. The poet listens to their conversation. Before him opens a huge mysterious world that exists only in the minds of children. They already understand their difference from the master, but so far they do not see humility and humiliation in him. The master appears to them as a mysterious creature living some kind of special life. He is surrounded by mysterious objects that you will never find in the village.

Nekrasov is touched by these naive childish looks. He begins to think about the peasant children. Representatives of high society considered them to be inferior beings who could only replenish the army of obedient and downtrodden servants. The poet recalls vivid incidents from his life that he spent surrounded by peasant children. They are no different, and even make a more favorable impression, in comparison with the pampered barchuks. All children are equal from birth. They are endowed with a rich inner world. Even the monotonous village life becomes a source of vivid impressions for them.

Peasant children grow up in the bosom of nature. All of their games are played outdoors. Any activity, for example, picking mushrooms, becomes a whole event full of various adventures.

Nekrasov knows that a peasant child starts working from a very early age. For some, this becomes another fun idea. More serious children immediately understand that in such "undertakings" their whole future life will pass. - a textbook passage that vividly illustrates the hard life of a village child. A noble six-year-old kid is even forbidden to go outside, and in the village he independently manages a horse.

Nekrasov admired the peasant children. He sees in them the true expression of the national healthy spirit. The poet appeals to them with an appeal to fully enjoy a carefree childhood, while there is still such an opportunity.

At the end of the poem "Peasant Children" the author returns to reality. After making the children laugh with the antics of his dog, he goes hunting. With this neutral episode, the poet wants to emphasize that he cannot change anything in the position of serf children. Fleeting childhood happiness will melt without a trace, a harsh working life will come.

Some other bird is flying -
I recognized the crow by the shadow;
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!

F irst voice

Second

And the barin, they said! ..

Third

Shut up, damn you!

Second

A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

First

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And there on the hat, look, it's a watch!

Hey, important stuff!

6th

And a golden chain...

S e d m o y

Is tea expensive?

V o c m o d

How the sun burns!

N e w i t

And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs off the tongue.

Gun! look at it: the barrel is double,
Carved clasps…

Third
(with fear)

Fourth

Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha!

Third

Will beat…

O dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning he could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!”
But then we ruined them pretty much
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory.
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan'
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
To please the Lord God in everything:
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That the hair from the nose grew rapidly ... "
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened, here whole days flew by, -
What a new passerby, then a new story ...

Again I am in the village. I go hunting, I write my verses - life is easy. Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp, I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep. I woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn, the rays of the cheerful sun look. The dove coos; Flying over the roof, Young rooks are crying, Some other bird is also flying - I recognized the crow just by the shadow; Chu! a whisper of some kind... but a string Along the slit of attentive eyes! All gray, brown, blue eyes - Mixed like flowers in a field. They have so much peace, freedom and affection, They have so much holy kindness! I love the expression of a child's eye, I always recognize it. I froze: tenderness touched my soul ... Chu! whisper again! > beard! > A gentleman, they said!... > Be quiet, you devils! > A bar does not have a beard - a mustache. > And the legs are long, like poles. > And there on the hat, look-tko-clock! > Ah, the important thing! > And a gold chain... > Tea is expensive? > How the sun burns! > And there is a dog-big, big! Water runs off the tongue. > Shotgun! look at it: the barrel is double, the locks are carved... > Looks with fright! > Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha! > Will kill... - My spies were frightened And they rushed away: they heard a man, So sparrows fly in a flock from the chaff. I calmed down, narrowed my eyes - they appeared again, Eyes flash through the cracks. What happened to me - they marveled at everything And they pronounced my sentence: “What a hunt for such a goose! I would lie on the stove! And it’s clear that he’s not a gentleman: as he was driving from a swamp, So next to Gavrila ... ”-“ Hear, be silent! - Oh dear rascals! Who often saw them, He, I believe, loves peasant children; But even if you hated them, Reader, as “a low kind of people,” I still must confess openly That I often envy them: In their lives, so much poetry is merged, As God forbid your spoiled children. Happy people! Neither science nor bliss They know in childhood. I made mushroom raids with them: I dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps, I tried to notice a mushroom place, And in the morning I could not find it for anything. “Look, Savosya, what a ring!” We both bent down, and at once grab the Snake! I jumped: it hurt! Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!” But then we ruined them enough And put them side by side on the railing of the bridge. We must have been waiting for the feats of glory, But we had a big road: People of working rank scurried Along it without number. A ditch digger from Vologda, a tinker, a tailor, a wool beater, And then a city dweller goes to a monastery to pray on a holiday. Under our thick, ancient elms Weary people were drawn to rest. The guys will surround: stories about Kyiv, about a Turk, about wonderful animals will begin. Another will take a walk, so he just keeps on - He will start with Volochok, he will reach Kazan! He will mimic Chuhna, Mordovians, Cheremis, And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw in a parable: “Farewell, guys! Try more to please the Lord God in everything: We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone, Yes, he once decided to grumble at God, - Since then, Vavilo has grown thin, ruined, There is no honey from bees, harvest from the earth, And only in one he was happy That hair was growing out of his nose ... "The worker will arrange, lay out the shells - Planers, files, chisels, knives:" Look, little devils! And the children are happy, How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything. A passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes, Guys for the cause - sawing and planing! They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day! They break the drill - and run away in fright. It happened that whole days flew by here - Like a new passer-by, then a new story ... Wow, it's hot! .. Until noon they picked mushrooms. Here they came out of the forest - just towards the Blue ribbon, winding, long, The meadow river: they jumped off in a crowd, And fair-haired heads over the desert river Like porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing! The river resounded with both laughter and a howl: Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game... And the sun scorches them with the midday heat. Home, kids! it's time to dine. Have returned. Everyone has a basket full of baskets, And how many stories! Caught with a scythe, Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little bit And saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one! The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers, Roots gave him his milk - He does not drink! retreated ... Who catches leeches On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen, Who nurses the two-year-old sister Glashka, Who drags the kvass for the harvest, And he, having tied his shirt under his throat, Mysteriously draws something in the sand; That one hid in a puddle, and this one with a new one: She wove herself a glorious wreath, - Everything is white, yellow, pale purple Yes, occasionally a red flower. Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting. Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket: She caught it, jumped up and rides on it. And is she, born under the heat of the sun And brought home in an apron from the field, To be afraid of her humble horse? And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts! A childish cry, repeated by an echo, Rattles through the woods from morning till night. Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter, Will the black grouse take off, croaking to the chicks, Will the hare jump up - sodom, turmoil! Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing. The living are dragged to the village with triumph ... “Enough, Vanyusha! You walked a lot, It's time for work, dear! But even labor will turn first To Vanyusha with its elegant side: He sees how his father fertilizes the field, How he throws grain into the loose earth. As the field then begins to turn green, As the ear grows, pours the grain. The finished harvest will be cut with sickles, tied into sheaves, taken to the barn, dried, beaten, beaten with flails, at the mill they will grind and bake bread. A child will taste fresh bread And in the field he runs more willingly for his father. Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!” Vanyusha enters the village as a tsar... However, it would be a pity for us to sow envy in a noble child. So, by the way, we are obliged to wrap the other side of the medal. Suppose a peasant child grows freely, without learning anything, But he will grow up, if God pleases, And nothing prevents him from bending. Suppose he knows the forest paths, Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water, But mercilessly eat his midges, But he is familiar with the works early ... Once, in the cold winter season, I came out of the forest; there was severe frost. I look, a horse is slowly rising up the mountain, carrying a cart of brushwood. And marching importantly, in orderly calmness, A little man leads the horse by the bridle In large boots, in a sheepskin coat, In large mittens ... and he himself is from a fingernail! "Hey boy!" - “Go past yourself!” - "You are painfully formidable, as I see it! Where are the firewood from?" - "From the forest, of course; Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away. "(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.) "Does father have a big family?" - "The family is big, but two people. There are only men: my father and I ..." - "So that's it! What's your name?" - “Vlasom.” - “What year are you?” - “The sixth passed ... Well, dead!” - the little one shouted in a bass, He jerked by the bridle and walked faster. The sun shone so brightly on this picture, The child was so hilariously small, As if it was all made of cardboard, As if I were in a children's theater! But the boy was a living, real boy, And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse, And snow lying up to the windows of the village, And a cold fire in the winter sun - Everything, everything was real Russian, With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter, That the Russian soul is so Excruciatingly sweet, What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds, Those honest thoughts that have no will, Which have no death - do not push, In which there is so much malice and pain, In which there is so much love! Play on, children! Grow at will! That's why you were given a red childhood, To love this meager field forever, To make it seem sweet to you forever. Keep your centuries-old heritage, Love your labor bread - And let the charm of childhood poetry Guide you into the depths of your native land! .. - Now it's time for us to return to the beginning. Noticing that the guys became bolder, “Hey, thieves are coming!” I shouted to Fingal. “They will steal, they will steal! Well, hide quickly! Fingalushka made a serious face, He buried my belongings under the hay, He hid the game with special diligence, He lay down at my feet and growled angrily. The vast area of canine science was perfectly familiar to Him; He began to throw out such things, That the audience could not leave the place, They marvel, they laugh! There is no fear here! Command themselves! "Fingalka, die!" - "Don't get stuck, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyaha!" - "Look - dying - look!" I myself enjoyed, lying in the hay, Their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage, When the storm is destined to break out. And for sure: a blow thundered over the barn, A rain river poured into the barn, The actor burst into a deafening bark, And the audience gave an arrow! The wide door opened, creaked, Hit the wall, locked again. I looked out: a dark cloud hung just above our theater. Under heavy rain the children ran Barefoot to their village... Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm And went out to look for great snipes. 1861

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
meadow river; jumped off,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
- Home, kids! it's time to dine.-
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...
Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen,
Who nurses his sister, two-year-old Glashka,
Who drags a bucket of kvass on the harvest,
And he, having tied a shirt under his throat,
Something mysteriously draws in the sand;
That one got into a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath,
All white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket -
Caught, jumped up and rides on it.
And is she, born under the sun's heat
And in an apron brought home from the field,
To be afraid of your humble horse? ..
Mushroom time did not have time to depart,
Look - everyone has black lips,
They stuffed the oskom: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts!
A childish cry echoing
From morning to night it rumbles through the forests.
Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the grouse take off, croaking to the chicks,
Whether a hare jumps up - sodom, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing
It was brought into the bush ... well, the poor thing is bad!
The living are dragged to the village with triumph ...
- Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot
It's time for work, dear!
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain;
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king ...
However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
So, we have to wrap up by the way
The other side of the medal.
Let's put the peasant child loose
Growing without learning
But he will grow, if God pleases,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But mercilessly eat his midges,
But he was early familiar with the works ...
Once upon a time in the cold winter time,
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And, marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
- Great, boy! - “Go past yourself!”
- Painfully you are formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
- Does your father have a big family?
“The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
- So there it is! And what is your name? - "Vlas".
- And what year are you? - “The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" - shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
As if it was all cardboard
It's like I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow, lying to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
To whom there is no death - do not push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!
Play on, children! Grow at will!
That's why you have been given a red childhood,
To forever love this meager field,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your age-old legacy,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the bowels of the native land! ..
Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys have become bolder, -
"Hey, the thieves are coming!" I cried to Fingal: -
Steal, steal! Well, hide quickly!
Fingalushka made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
With special diligence he hid the game,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
Extensive field of canine science
He was perfectly familiar;
He started throwing things like this
That the audience could not leave the place.
They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here!
They command themselves! - “Fingalka, die!”
- Don't stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyaha, -
"Look - dying - look!"
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it got dark
In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage,
When the storm is destined to break.
And for sure: the blow thundered over the barn,
A rain river poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave an arrow!
The wide door opened, creaked,
Hit the wall, locked again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Above our theater just.
In the heavy rain, the children ran
Barefoot to their village ...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for great snipes.

Nikolai Nekrasov

excerpt from the poem "Peasant Children"

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
Cheerful sun rays are looking.
The dove coos; flying over the roof
Young rooks cry
Some other bird is flying -
By the shadow I recognized the crow just:
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!
First voice
"Beard!
Second
And the barin, they said! ..
Third
Shut up, damn you!
Second
A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.
First
And the legs are long, like poles.
Fourth
And there on the hat, looking - a watch!
Fifth
Ah, the important thing!
Sixth
And a golden chain...
Seventh
Is tea expensive?
Eighth
How the sun burns!
Ninth
And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs off the tongue.
Fifth
Gun! look at it: the barrel is double,
Carved clasps…
Third (with fear)
Looks!
Fourth
Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha!
Third
Will beat…”
* * *
My spies are afraid
And they rushed away: they heard a man,
So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff.
I calmed down, squinted - they came again,
The eyes flicker through the cracks.
What happened to me - they marveled at everything
And my verdict was pronounced: -
What a goose like that!
I would lie on the stove!
And you can see not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp.
So next to Gavrila ... "He will hear,
shut up!
* * *
Oh dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning he could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: "Caught for nothing!"
For that we then ruined them quite
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge,
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory.
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan!
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
Please the Lord God in everything
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That the hair from the nose grew rapidly ... "
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened that whole days flew by here,
What a new passerby, then a new story ...
Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
They came out of the forest - just to meet
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river: they jumped in a crowd,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with both laughter and a howl:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
It's time to go home, kids.
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...
Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen,
Who nurses his two-year-old sister Glashka,
Who drags a bucket of kvass on the harvest,
And he, having tied a shirt under his throat,
Something mysteriously draws in the sand;
That one got into a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath,
All white, yellow,
lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket:
Caught, jumped up and rides on it.
And is she, born under the sun's heat
And in an apron brought home from the field,
To be afraid of your humble horse? ..
Mushroom time did not have time to depart,
Look - everyone has black lips,
They stuffed the oskom: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts!
A childish cry echoing
From morning to night it rumbles through the forests.
Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the grouse take off, croaking to the chicks,
Whether a hare jumps up - sodom, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing
It was brought into the bush ... well, the poor thing is bad!
The living are dragged to the village with triumph ...
- Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot
Time to get to work, dear!
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, pours the grain:
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king ...
However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
And so, we must turn around by the way
The other side of the medal.
Let's put the peasant child loose
Growing without learning
But he will grow, if God wills,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But mercilessly eat his midges,
But he was early familiar with the works ...
Once upon a time in the cold winter time
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
- Hello, boy! - “Go past yourself!”
- Painfully you are formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
What, does your father have a big family? -
“The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
So there it is! What's your name? -
"Vlas".
- And what year are you? - "The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked the reins and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
As if it was all cardboard
As if in a children's theater
they got me!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow lies up to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
To whom there is no death - do not push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!
Play on, children! Grow at will!
That's why you have been given a red childhood,
To forever love this meager field,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your age-old legacy,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the bowels of the native land! ..
* * *
Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys have become bolder,
- Hey! thieves are coming! I cried to Fingal:
- Steal, steal! Well, hide quickly! -
Fingalushka made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
With special diligence he hid the game,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
Extensive field of canine science
He was perfectly familiar;
He started throwing things like this
That the audience could not leave the place,
They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here!
Command themselves! - "Fingalka, die!"
- Don't stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyaha! -
"Look - dying - look!"
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it got dark
In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage,
When the storm is destined to break.
And for sure: the blow thundered over the barn,
A rain river poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave an arrow!
The wide door opened and creaked.
Hit the wall, locked again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Above our theater just.
In the heavy rain, the children ran
Barefoot to their village ...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for great snipes.