The stories of the classics classical prose about love, romance and lyrics, humor and sadness in the stories of recognized masters of the genre.
Antonio was young and proud. He did not want to obey his older brother, Marco, although he was supposed to eventually become the ruler of the entire kingdom. Then the angry old king expelled Antonio from the state as a rebel. Antonio could have taken refuge with his influential friends and waited out the time of his father's disfavor, or retired overseas to his mother's relatives, but pride did not allow him to do this. Having changed into a modest dress and without taking any jewelry or money with him, Antonio quietly left the palace and intervened in the crowd. The capital was a commercial, seaside city; its streets were always full of people, but Antonio did not wander aimlessly for long: he remembered that now he must earn his own living. In order not to be recognized, he decided to choose the most black work, went to the pier and asked the porters to accept him as a comrade. They agreed, and Antonio immediately set to work. Until the evening he carried boxes and bales, and only after sunset he went with his comrades to rest.
I'm amazingly lucky! If my rings had not been sold out, I would purposely throw one of them into the water for a test, and if we still caught fish, and if this fish were given to us to eat, then I would certainly find an abandoned ring in it. In a word, the happiness of Polycrates. As best example extraordinary luck, I will tell you my story with the search. I must tell you, we have been ready for a search for a long time. Not because we felt or recognized ourselves as criminals, but simply because all our acquaintances had already been searched, and why are we worse than others.
Waited a long time - even tired. The fact is that they usually came to search at night, about three o'clock, and we set up a watch - one night the husband did not sleep, another aunt, the third - I. And it’s unpleasant if everyone is in bed, there is no one to meet dear guests and engage in conversation while everyone is dressed.
I
Molton Chase is a charming old estate where the Clayton family has been living for hundreds of years. Its current owner, Harry Clayton, is wealthy, and since he has only been enjoying the pleasures of married life for only five years and has yet to receive his college and school bills by Christmas, he wants the house to be constantly full of guests. He receives each of them with cordial and sincere cordiality.
December, Christmas Eve. Family and guests gathered at the dinner table.
— Bella! Would you like to take part in a horse ride after dinner? Harry turned to his wife, who was sitting across from him.
Bella Clayton, a small woman with dimples and a simple-minded expression on her face to match her husband, immediately replied:
— No, Harry! Not today, dear. You know that the Daymers could arrive any minute before seven o'clock, and I wouldn't like to leave the house without seeing them.
“May I know, Mrs. Clayton, who exactly are these Daymers, whose arrival deprives us of your dear company today?” inquired Captain Moss, a friend of her husband, who, like many handsome men I considered myself entitled to be immodest.
But resentment was the least characteristic of Bella Clayton's nature.
“The Deimers are my relatives, Captain Moss,” she replied, “at any rate, Blanche Deimer is my cousin.”
The dacha was tiny - two rooms and a kitchen. The mother grumbled in the rooms, the cook in the kitchen, and since Katenka served as the object of grumbling for both, there was no way for this Katya to stay at home, and she sat all day in the garden on a rocking bench. Katenka's mother, a poor but ignoble widow, sewed ladies' clothes all winter and even entrance doors nailed the tablet "Madame Parascove, fashions and dresses." In the summer, she rested and raised her daughter-gymnasium through reproaches of ingratitude. Darya the cook had been arrogant for a long time, about ten years ago, and in all of nature there has not yet been found a creature that could put her in her place.
Katenka sits on her rocking chair and dreams "about him." In a year she will be sixteen years old, then it will be possible to get married without the permission of the metropolitan. But who to marry, that's the question?
It should be noted that this story is not so overly funny.
Other times there are such unfunny themes taken from life. There was some kind of fight, scuffle or property whistled.
Or, for example, as in this story. The story of how one intelligent lady drowned. So to say, laughter from this fact can be collected a little.
Although, I must say that in this story there will be some funny provisions. You will see for yourself.
Of course I wouldn't bother modern reader such a not too bravura story, but very, you know, responsible modern Temko. About materialism and love.
In a word, this is a story about how one day, through an accident, it finally became clear that any mysticism, any idealist, various unearthly loves, and so on and so forth, is pure nonsense and nonsense.
And that only a real material approach is valid in life and nothing, unfortunately, more.
Maybe this will seem too sad to some backward intellectuals and academics, maybe they will whine back through this, but, having whined, let them look at their past life and then they will see how much they have screwed up on themselves too much.
So, allow the old, rude materialist, who finally put an end to many lofty things after this story, to tell this very story. And let me apologize again if there is not as much laughter as we would like.
I
Sultan Mohammed II the Conqueror, the conqueror of two empires, fourteen kingdoms and two hundred cities, swore that he would feed his horse with oats on the altar of St. Peter in Rome. The great vizier of the Sultan, Ahmet Pasha, having crossed the strait with a strong army, surrounded the city of Otranto from land and sea and took it by attack on June 26, in the year from the incarnation of the Word 1480. Messer Francesco Largo, many of the inhabitants who were able to bear arms were killed, the archbishop, priests and monks were subjected to all kinds of humiliations in the temples, and noble ladies and girls were deprived of honor by violence.
The daughter of Francesco Largo, the beautiful Giulia, wished to take the Grand Vizier himself into his harem. But the proud Neapolitan woman did not agree to become the concubine of the non-Christ. She met the Turk, on his first visit, with such insults that he flared up against her with terrible anger. Of course, Ahmet Pasha could have overcome the resistance of a weak girl by force, but he preferred to take revenge on her more cruelly and ordered her to be thrown into the city's underground prison. The Neapolitan rulers threw into this prison only notorious murderers and the blackest villains, for whom they wanted to find a punishment worse than death.
Julia, bound hand and foot with thick ropes, was brought to the prison in a closed stretcher, since even the Turks could not help but show her some honor, befitting her birth and position. They dragged her down a narrow and dirty staircase into the depths of the prison and chained her to the wall with an iron chain. Julia was left with a luxurious Lyon silk dress, but all the jewelry that was on her was torn off: gold rings and bracelets, a pearl diadem and diamond earrings. Someone took off her morocco oriental shoes, too, so that Julia was barefoot.
The world was created in five days.
“And God saw that it was good,” the Bible says.
He saw what was good and created man.
What for? — is asked.
Nevertheless created.
This is where it went. God sees “what is good,” but man immediately saw what was wrong. And that is not good, and this is wrong, and why are the covenants and why are the prohibitions.
And there - all known sad story with an apple. The man ate the apple, and blamed the snake. He supposedly incited. A technique that has lived for many centuries and has survived to our time: if a person has mischief, friends are always to blame for everything.
But it is not the fate of man that interests us now, but the question - why was he created? Is it not because the universe, like any other piece of art needed criticism?
Of course, not everything in this universe is perfect. A lot of nonsense. Why, for example, some meadow blade of grass has twelve varieties and all is useless. And a cow will come, and take away with a wide tongue, and devour all twelve.
And why does a person need a process of the caecum, which must be removed as soon as possible?
- Oh well! - they will say. “You are talking lightly. This appendix indicates that a person once ...
I don’t remember what he testifies to, but, probably, about some completely unflattering thing: about belonging to a certain genus of monkeys or some South Asian water cuttlefish. Better not testify. Vermiform! Such nonsense! But it was created.
From her chaise longue, Mrs. Hamlin stared blankly at the passengers climbing up the gangplank. The ship arrived in Singapore at night, and loading began from the very dawn: the winches toiled all day, but having become familiar, their incessant creak no longer hurt their ears. She had breakfast at the Europa and, to pass the time, got into a rickshaw carriage and drove along the elegant streets of the city, teeming with diverse people. Singapore is a place of great pandemonium of nations. The Malays, the true sons of this land, are few here, but apparently-invisibly obsequious, agile and diligent Chinese; dark-skinned Tamils inaudibly touch with their bare feet, as if they feel themselves strangers and random people here, but well-groomed rich Bengalis feel great in their neighborhoods and are full of complacency; obsequious and cunning Japanese are absorbed in some of their hasty and, apparently, dark affairs, and only the British, whitening helmets and canvas pantaloons, flying in their cars and sitting freely on rickshaws, are careless and at ease in appearance. With smiling indifference, the rulers of this swarming crowd bear the burden of their power. Tired of the city and the heat, Mrs. Hamlin waited for the ship to continue its long journey across the Indian Ocean.
Seeing the doctor and Mrs. Linsell coming up on deck, she waved to them - her hand was large, and she herself was big, tall. From Yokohama, where her current voyage had begun, she watched with malevolent curiosity as the pair's intimacy quickly grew. Linsell was a naval officer assigned to the British embassy in Tokyo, and the indifference with which he watched the doctor fawn over his wife made Mrs. Hamlin perplexed. Two newcomers were coming up the ladder, and, to amuse herself, she began to wonder whether they were married or single. Close by, with wicker chairs pushed back, was a company of men—planters, she thought, looking at their khaki suits and wide-brimmed fedoras; the steward was knocked off his feet while taking their orders. They talked and laughed too loudly, for they had poured enough alcohol into themselves to fall into some kind of foolish animation; it was clearly a send-off, but whose, Mrs. Hamlin could not understand. There were only a few minutes left before departure. Passengers kept coming and coming, and at last Mr. Jephson, the consul, majestically marched down the gangplank; he was on vacation. He boarded a ship in Shanghai and immediately began courting Mrs. Hamlin, but she had no inclination to flirt. Remembering what was now driving her to Europe, she frowned. She wanted to spend Christmas at sea, away from anyone who had anything to do with her. The thought instantly made her heart clench, but she immediately became angry with herself that the memory, which she had resolutely banished, was again stirring up her resisting mind.
Free, boy, free! Free, boy, free!
Novgorod song
- Here comes the summer.
- It's spring. May. Spring.
You won't understand anything here. Spring? Summer? Heat, stuffiness, then - rain, snow, stoves are heated. Again stuffiness, heat.
We were not like that. We have - our northern spring was an event.
The sky, air, earth, trees changed.
All secret forces, secret juices accumulated during the winter, rushed out.
Animals roared, animals roared, the air rustled with wings. High, under the very clouds, in a triangle, like a heart soaring above the ground, the cranes flew. The river was filled with ice. Streams gurgled and gurgled along the ravines. The whole earth trembled in light, in ringing, in rustlings, whispers, cries.
And the nights did not bring peace, did not close their eyes with peaceful darkness. The day grew dim, turned pink, but did not leave.
And people dangled, pale, languid, wandered, listened, like poets looking for a rhyme to an image that had already arisen.
It became difficult to live a normal life.
At the beginning of this century there was significant event: a son was born to court adviser Ivan Mironovich Zaedin. When the first impulses of parental enthusiasm passed and the mother's strength recovered somewhat, which happened very soon, Ivan Mironovich asked his wife:
- And what, my dear, what do you think, the youngster must be the spitting image of me?
— How not so! And God forbid!
“But what, isn’t that ... I’m not good, Sofya Markovna?”
- Good, but unfortunate! You all go apart; you have no worries: seven arshins of cloth for a tailcoat!
- That's what they added. What do you feel sorry for the cloth, or what? Oh, Sofya Markovna! If you weren't talking, I wouldn't be listening!
- I wanted to cut a vest out of my katsaveyka: where to! it doesn’t come out in half ... Eka the grace of God! If only you walked more, Ivan Mironovich: after all, it will soon be shameful to appear among people with you!
"What's wrong with that, Sofya Markovna?" So I go to the department every day and I don’t see any harm to myself: everyone looks at me with respect.
“They laugh at you, but you don’t even have a mind to understand!” And you want others to be like you!
“Really, my dear, you are sophisticated: what is there to be surprised if the son looks like his father?
- Will not be!
- It will, darling. Now the little one is like that ... Again, take your nose ... you can say that the main thing is in a person.
- What are you doing with your nose here! He is my birth.
- And mine too; here you will see.
Here mutual arguments and refutations began, which ended in a quarrel. Ivan Mironovich spoke with such fervor that the upper part of his huge belly swayed like a stagnant swamp, inadvertently shaken. Since it was still impossible to make out anything on the face of the newborn, then, having somewhat calmed down, the parents decided to wait for the most convenient time to resolve the dispute and concluded the following bet at this end: if the son, who was supposed to be called Dmitry, will look like his father, then the father has the right to raise his sole discretion, and the wife has no right to have the slightest interference in that matter, and vice versa, if the gain is on the side of the mother ...
“You will be embarrassed, my dear, I know in advance that you will be embarrassed; better refuse ... take a nose, - said the court adviser, - and I am so sure that at least, perhaps, on stamped paper I will write our condition and declare in the chamber, right.
- They also thought up what to spend money on; eh, Ivan Mironovich, God did not give you sound reasoning, and you are also reading the Northern Bee.
“You won’t please, Sofya Markovna. Let's see what you say, how I will educate Mitenka.
- You won't!
- But we'll see!
— See!
A few days later, Mitenka was given a formal examination in the presence of several relatives and friends at home.
“He doesn’t look like you in the slightest, darling!”
- He is from you as from the earth the sky, Ivan Mironovich!
Both exclamations flew out at the same time from the lips of the spouses and were confirmed by those present. In fact, Mitenka did not at all resemble either his father or his mother.
short stories only true experts can create about love human soul. In the work short prose displaying deep feelings is not so easy. The Russian classic Ivan Bunin did an excellent job with this. Interesting short stories about love were also created by Ivan Turgenev, Alexander Kuprin, Leonid Andreev and other writers. In this article, we will consider the authors of foreign and domestic literature, in whose work there are small lyrical works.
Ivan Bunin
Short stories about love... What should they be? In order to understand this, it is necessary to read the works of Bunin. This writer is consummate master sentimental prose. His works are an example of this genre. AT famous compilation « Dark alleys» entered thirty-eight romantic stories. In each of them, the author not only revealed the deepest experiences of his characters, but was also able to convey how powerful love has power. After all, this feeling can change the fate of a person.
Such short stories about love as "Caucasus", "Dark Alleys", "Late Hour" can tell more about a great feeling than hundreds of sentimental novels.
Leonid Andreev
Love for all ages. Talented writers devoted short stories about love not only to the pure feeling of young people. For an essay on this topic, which is sometimes asked at school, the material can be the work of Leonid Andreev “German and Martha”, the main characters of which are extremely far from the age of Romeo and Juliet. This story takes place in one of the cities Leningrad region in the beginning of the century. Then the place where it happened tragic event, described by a Russian writer, belonged to Finland. According to the laws of this country, people who have reached the age of fifty can marry only with the permission of their children.
The love story of Herman and Martha was sad. The closest people in their lives did not want to understand the feelings of two elderly people. The heroes of Andreev's story could not be together, and therefore the story ended tragically.
Vasily Shukshin
Short stories about if they are created by a real artist are especially heartfelt. After all stronger feelings, which a woman experiences for her child, there is nothing in the world. This was told with sad irony by screenwriter and director Vasily Shukshin in the story “ Mother's heart».
The protagonist of this work was in trouble through his own fault. But the mother's heart, although wise, does not recognize any logic. A woman overcomes unthinkable obstacles in order to get her son out of prison. "Mother's Heart" - one of the most penetrating works Russian prose dedicated to love.
Ludmila Kulikova
Another work about the most powerful feeling is the story "Meet". Lyudmila Kulikova dedicated it to the love of her mother, whose life ends after the betrayal of her only beloved son. This woman breathes, talks, smiles. But she no longer lives. After all, the son, who was the meaning of her life, did not make itself felt for more than twenty years. Kulikova's story is heartfelt, sad and very instructive. Mother's love- the brightest thing that a person can have. To betray her is to commit the greatest sin.
Anatoly Aleksin
A short story called home composition”, dedicated to love, both maternal and youthful. One day Aleksin's hero, the boy Dima, discovers a letter in an old thick encyclopedia. The letter was written many years ago, and its author is no longer alive. He was a tenth grade student, and the addressee was a classmate with whom he was in love. But the letter remained unanswered, because the war broke out. The author of the letter died without sending it. The girl to whom the romantic lines were intended graduated from school, college, and got married. Her life went on. The author's mother stopped smiling forever. After all, it is impossible to outlive your child.
Stefan Zweig
Long and short love stories were also created by the famous Austrian prose writer. One of these works is called "A Letter from a Stranger". When you read the confession of the heroine of this short story, who loved a man all her life who did not remember her face, not her name, it becomes very sad. But at the same time, there is a hope that a real sublime and selfless feeling still exists, and is not just fiction talented writer.
Valentin Berestov
There was a time when birds couldn't sing.
And suddenly they learned that in a distant country lives an old, a wise man who teaches music.
Then the birds sent the Stork and the Nightingale to him to check whether this was so.
The stork was in a hurry. He was eager to become the world's first musician.
He was in such a hurry that he ran to the sage and did not even knock on the door, did not greet the old man, and with all his might shouted directly into his ear:
Hey old man! Come on, teach me music!
But the sage decided to teach him politeness first.
He led Stork outside the threshold, knocked on the door and said:
You have to do it like this.
All clear! - Aist was delighted.
Is this the music? - and flew away to quickly surprise the world with his art.
The nightingale came later with its little wings.
He timidly knocked on the door, said hello, apologized for the trouble and said that he really wanted to study music.
The sage liked the friendly bird. And he taught the nightingale everything he knew himself.
Since then, the modest Nightingale has become the best singer in the world.
And the eccentric Stork can only knock with his beak. Moreover, he boasts and teaches other birds:
Hey, do you hear? You have to do it like this, like this! That's what it is real music! If you don't believe me, ask the old sage.
How to find a track
Valentin Berestov
The children went to visit their grandfather, a forester. Went and got lost.
They look, Belka is jumping over them. From tree to tree. From tree to tree.
Guys - to her:
Squirrel, Squirrel, tell me, Squirrel, Squirrel, show me How to find the path To the grandfather's lodge?
Very simple, Belka answers.
Jump from this Christmas tree to that one, from that one to a crooked birch. From the curve of the birch, a large, large oak tree is visible. The roof is visible from the top of the oak tree. This is the guardhouse. Well, what are you? Jump!
Thanks Belka! - say the guys. “But we can’t jump up trees. We'd better ask someone else.
Jumping Hare. The children sang their song to him:
Bunny Bunny, tell me, Bunny, Bunny, show How to find the path To the grandfather's lodge?
To the gatehouse? - asked the Hare. - There is nothing easier. At first it will smell like mushrooms. So? Then - hare cabbage. So? Then it will smell like a fox hole. So? Skip this smell to the right or left. So? When he is behind, sniff like this and you will smell the smoke. Jump straight to it without turning anywhere. This grandfather-forester puts a samovar.
Thank you, Bunny, the guys say. - It's a pity that our noses are not as sensitive as yours. You'll have to ask someone else.
They see a snail crawling.
Hey, Snail, tell me, Hey, Snail, show me How to find the path To the grandfather's lodge?
Tell for a long time, - Snail sighed. - Lu-u-better I'll take you there-u-u. Follow me.
Thank you Snail! - say the guys. We don't have time to crawl. We'd better ask someone else.
A bee sits on a flower.
Guys to her:
Bee, Bee, tell me, Bee, Bee, show me How to find the path To grandfather's lodge?
Well, well, - says the bee. - I'll show you... Look where I'm flying. Follow along. See my sisters. Where they are, there you are. We bring honey to grandfather's apiary. Well, goodbye! I'm in a terribly hurry. Well...
And flew away. The kids didn't even have time to thank her. They went to where the bees flew and quickly found a lodge. That was joy! And then grandfather treated them to tea with honey.
Honest caterpillar
Valentin Berestov
The caterpillar considered itself very beautiful and did not miss a single drop of dew so as not to look into it.
How good am I! - the Caterpillar rejoiced, looking with pleasure at her flat face and arching her shaggy back to see two golden stripes on it.
Too bad no one notices this.
But one day she got lucky. A girl walked through the meadow and picked flowers. The caterpillar climbed the most beautiful flower and began to wait.
That's disgusting! Even looking at you is disgusting!
Ah well! - Caterpillar got angry. - Then I give my honest caterpillar word that no one, ever, anywhere, for anything and for no reason, in any case, under no circumstances will see me again!
I gave my word - you need to keep it, even if you are a Caterpillar. And the caterpillar crawled up the tree. From trunk to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to leaf.
She took out a silk thread from her belly and began to wrap herself around it. She labored for a long time and finally made a cocoon.
Wow, how tired I am! sighed the Caterpillar. - Totally screwed up.
It was warm and dark in the cocoon, there was nothing else to do, and the Caterpillar fell asleep.
She woke up because her back was itching terribly. Then the Caterpillar began to rub against the walls of the cocoon. Rubbed, rubbed, rubbed them through and fell out.
But she fell somehow strange - not down, but up.
And then the Caterpillar in the same meadow saw the same girl.
"Horrible! thought the Caterpillar. - Even though I'm not beautiful, it's not my fault, but now everyone will know that I'm also a liar. I gave an honest caterpillar that no one would see me, and did not restrain him. A shame!" And the caterpillar fell into the grass.
And the girl saw her and said:
Such a beauty!
So trust people, - the Caterpillar grumbled.
Today they say one thing, tomorrow they say something completely different.
Just in case, she looked into the dewdrop. What's happened? In front of her is an unfamiliar face with a long, long mustache.
The caterpillar tried to bend its back and saw that large multi-colored wings appeared on its back.
Ah, that's what! she guessed. - A miracle happened to me. Most ordinary miracle: I became a Butterfly!
This happens. And she spun merrily over the meadow, because she did not give an honest butterfly word that no one would see her.
Magic word
V.A. Oseeva
A little old man with a long gray beard was sitting on a bench and drawing something in the sand with an umbrella.
. “Move over,” Pavlik told him and sat down on the edge.
The old man moved aside and, looking at the red, angry face of the boy, said:
- Has something happened to you? - Well, okay! And what about you?” Pavlik squinted at him.
"I'm going to my grandmother. She's just cooking. Drive or not?
Pavlik opened the door to the kitchen. The old woman was taking hot cakes off the baking sheet.
The grandson ran up to her, turned his red wrinkled face with both hands, looked into her eyes and whispered:
- Give me a piece of pie... please.
Grandma straightened up. The magic word shone in every wrinkle, in the eyes, in the smile.
- Hot ... hot hot, my dear! - she kept saying, choosing the best, ruddy pie.
Pavlik jumped for joy and kissed her on both cheeks.
"Wizard! Wizard!" he repeated to himself, remembering the old man.
At dinner, Pavlik sat hushed and listened to his brother's every word. When the brother said that he was going to go boating, Pavlik put his hand on his shoulder and quietly asked:
- Take me, please. Everyone around the table went silent.
The brother raised his eyebrows and chuckled.
“Take it,” said the sister suddenly. - What are you worth!
- Well, why not take it? Grandma smiled. - Of course, take it.
"Please," Pavlik repeated.
The brother laughed out loud, patted the boy on the shoulder, tousled his hair:
- Oh, you traveler! Okay, get going!
“Helped! Helped again!
Pavlik jumped out from behind the table and ran out into the street. But the old man was no longer in the square.
The bench was empty, and only incomprehensible signs drawn by an umbrella remained on the sand.
Badly
V.A. Oseeva
The dog barked furiously, falling on its front paws.
Directly in front of her, nestled against the fence, sat a small disheveled kitten. He opened his mouth wide and meowed plaintively.
Two boys stood nearby and waited to see what would happen.
A woman looked out the window and hurriedly ran out onto the porch. She drove the dog away and angrily called out to the boys:
Shame on you!
What's embarrassing? We didn't do anything! the boys were surprised.
This is bad! the woman replied angrily.
What is easier
V.A. Oseeva
Three boys went into the forest. Mushrooms, berries, birds in the forest. The boys were walking.
Didn't notice how the day went by. They go home - they are afraid:
Get us home!
So they stopped on the road and think what is better: to lie or to tell the truth?
I will say, - says the first, - as if a wolf attacked me in the forest.
The father will be frightened and will not scold.
I will say, - says the second, - that I met my grandfather.
The mother will be delighted and will not scold me.
And I'll tell the truth, - says the third one. - It's always easier to tell the truth, because it's the truth and you don't need to invent anything.
Here they all went home.
As soon as the first boy told his father about the wolf - look, the forest watchman is coming.
No, he says, there are wolves in these places. Father got angry. For the first guilt he got angry, and for a lie - twice.
The second boy told about his grandfather. And grandfather is right there - he is coming to visit. Mother learned the truth. For the first guilt I got angry, and for a lie - twice.
And the third boy, as soon as he came, he confessed everything from the threshold. My aunt grumbled at him and forgave him.
Good
V.A. Oseeva
Yurik woke up in the morning. Looked out the window. The sun is shining. The money is good. And the boy wanted to do something good himself.
Here he sits and thinks: “What if my sister was drowning, and I would save her!”
And my sister is right there:
Walk with me, Yura!
Go away, don't stop thinking! The sister got offended and left.
And Yura thinks: “Now, if the wolves attacked the nanny, and I would shoot them!”
And the nanny is right there:
Put away the dishes, Yurochka.
Clean it yourself - I have no time! The nurse shook her head.
And Yura again thinks: “Now, if Trezorka fell into the well, and I would pull him out!”
Trezorka is right there. Tail wags: “Give me a drink, Yura!”
Go away! Don't stop thinking! Trezorka closed his mouth, climbed into the bushes.
And Yura went to his mother:
What would be good for me to do? Mom patted Yura on the head:
Take a walk with your sister, help the nanny clean the dishes, give some water to Trezor.
sons
V.A. Oseeva
Two women were drawing water from a well.
A third one approached them. And the old old man sat down on a pebble to rest.
This is what one woman says to another:
My son is dexterous and strong, no one can cope with him.
And the third is silent. - Why don't you tell about your son? - her neighbors ask.
What can I say? - says the woman. - There is nothing special about him.
So the women took full buckets and went. And the old man is behind them.
Women go and stop. My hands hurt, water splashes, my back hurts. Suddenly, three boys run out towards me.
One tumbles over his head, walks with a wheel - women admire him.
He sings another song, fills himself with a nightingale - his women listened.
And the third ran up to the mother, took heavy buckets from her and dragged them.
The women ask the old man:
Well? What are our sons?
Where are they? - answers the old man. - I see only one son!
blue leaves
V.A. Oseeva
Katya had two green pencils. But Lena has none. So Lena asks Katya: 
Give me a green pencil.
And Katya says:
I'll ask my mom.
Both girls come to school the next day.
Lena asks:
Did mom let you?
And Katya sighed and said:
Mom allowed me, but I didn’t ask my brother.
Well, ask your brother again, - says Lena.
Katya comes the next day.
Well, did your brother let you? - asks Lena.
My brother allowed me, but I'm afraid you'll break your pencil.
I'm careful, - says Lena.
Look, says Katya, don't fix it, don't press hard, don't take it in your mouth. Don't draw too much.
I, - says Lena, - only need to draw leaves on the trees and green grass.
This is a lot, - says Katya, and she frowns her eyebrows. And she made a disgusted face. Lena looked at her and walked away. I didn't take a pencil. Katya was surprised, ran after her:
Well, what are you? Take it! - Don't, - replies Lena.
At the lesson, the teacher asks: - Why do you, Lenochka, have blue leaves on the trees?
No green pencil.
Why didn't you take it from your girlfriend?
Lena is silent.
And Katya blushed like a cancer and said:
I gave it to her, but she won't take it.
The teacher looked at both:
You have to give so that you can take.
On the rink
V.A. Oseeva
The day was sunny. Ice glittered. There were few people at the rink.
The little girl, with her arms outstretched in a comical way, rode from bench to bench.
Two schoolchildren tied up their skates and looked at Vitya.
Vitya performed various tricks - either riding on one leg, or spinning around like a top.
Well done! one of the boys called out to him.
Vitya darted around the circle like an arrow, famously turned around and ran into the girl.
The girl fell.
Vitya was scared.
I accidentally ... - he said, shaking off the snow from her fur coat.
Hurt?
The girl smiled.
Knee...
There was laughter from behind. "They're laughing at me!" thought Vitya and turned away from the girl in annoyance.
Eka unseen - the knee! What a crybaby! - he shouted, driving past schoolchildren.
Come to us! they called. Vitya approached them. Hand in hand, all three glided merrily across the ice.
And the girl was sitting on the bench, rubbing her bruised knee and crying.
Shares with us five wonderful stories famous writers. If you do not have time to start a voluminous work or you want to get acquainted with the work of the author, we strongly advise you to start with them.
What could be more magical than immersing yourself in the boundless world of your favorite author's storytelling for a few hours? But it happens that circumstances develop in such a way that there is no desired time for reading, but the desire, even if for a while, to be imbued with a reality invented by someone else's genius remains. Or, for example, you have just finished a voluminous book and are not yet ready to embark on another equally long journey. For such situations, and just in case you want a light, decent read, I have collected for you 10 stories no longer than 100 pages that will leave a pleasant aftertaste and a desire to learn the author's work in more detail.
One of the brightest, but at the same time sad and poignant stories I have read. The author again reveals to us an obscure veil that envelops the life of his unchanging heroes - touching dreamers forced to live in realities. existing world. The book is about a warm friendship. little boy and a middle-aged woman, a distant relative of his, who lives with him under the same roof. Be sure to read this work while the snow is still lying, then you, like me, will definitely hear the sonorous barking of the Kinglet, feel the aroma of spices and hot Christmas cakes. For me good tradition I started re-reading this book on Christmas Eve. And every time to be sad with her, to be amazed by such a subtle and fragile beauty of the style, with bated breath to count the accumulated savings together with the heroes, to make a kite, to receive gifts on the most wonderful morning of the year and to decorate a spruce spruce that fills every corner of the house with the smell of pine needles. And every time to be amazed at how much beauty can fit in just over 20 pages, if you choose the right words.
“Not only did she never go to the movies, she never went to a restaurant, did not move more than five miles from home, did not receive or send telegrams; never read anything but comics and the Bible, never used cosmetics, did not swear, did not wish harm to anyone, did not lie with intent, did not let a hungry dog pass so as not to feed it. Here are some of her work: she killed with a hoe the largest rattlesnake ever seen in our district (sixteen rings on the tail); she sniffs tobacco (secretly from domestic); tames hummingbirds (try it! and she swings them on finger); tells ghost stories (we both believe in ghosts), until so terrible that from them even in July the frost is tearing at the skin; talking with herself; takes walks in the rain; grows the most beautiful city of Japanese quince…”
Another great piece that I want to come back to. And the second one, which made me feel such a heart-wrenching pity that I had already turned last page, still can not cope with emotions. The author tells the story of one short trip of forced fellow travelers, which was interrupted by unforeseen difficulties. We will see in a coach wheeled in the snow and two nuns in spacious clothes, whispering "Pater" and "Ave", and a few couples in the back of the carriage, personifying prosperity and power, and the red-bearded good-natured democrat Cornudet, and, of course, main character- ruddy plump " lung girl behavior ", nicknamed Pyshka. And together with the heroes we have to live short story full of both goodness and cruelty. A story about human prejudices, about compassion, about meanness and self-sacrifice. If you have a collection of the writer's stories in your hands, also read Miss Harriet if you are in the mood to hear about pure and sad love, or Roger's Remedy if you want something lighter and with a touch of humor.
“The snow became harder, and the stagecoach rolled faster now. And all the way, all the way to Dieppe, during the long, dreary hours of the journey, on all the potholes, first at dusk, and then in total darkness Cornudet, with ferocious obstinacy, continued his monotonous and vengeful whistling, which made his tired and irritated neighbors involuntarily follow the song from beginning to end, recalling every word of it to the beat of the melody. But Pyshka kept crying, and at times sobs, which she was unable to restrain, were heard in the darkness between the stanzas of the Marseillaise.
Fitzgerald, one of the most well-known representatives « lost generation" in American literature, the creator of the "jazz era", reveals a completely different side of his literary talent in the above work. And even if you are already familiar with the film adaptation of the story, where the main roles were played by Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett, be sure to read the book. It is full of a very different special mood, subtle irony and is very easy to read. On a very small number of pages (which will surprise you after watching the film of the same name), an amazing ring of narration about life, death, youth and old age, and, of course, love is revealed.
“Benjamin Button,” as he was called, abandoning the very appropriate but too provocative name of Methuselah, although he was stooped like an old man, he was five foot eight inches tall. This was not concealed by clothing, as well as short haircut and dyed eyebrows did not hide dull, faded eyes. The nanny, who had been taken to the child in advance, left the house in indignation as soon as she saw him.
But Mr. Button firmly decided: Benjamin is a baby and should be. First of all, he announced that if Benjamin did not drink warm milk, he would get nothing at all, but then he was persuaded to make peace on bread and butter, and even oatmeal. One day he brought home a rattle and, giving it to Benjamin, demanded in no uncertain terms that he play it, after which the old man, looking tired, took it and shook it dutifully from time to time.
The book has about 120 pages, and although it goes a little beyond the limits I have indicated with its size, I could not help but include it in the list. It's amazingly light and light work written in beautiful style. The book tells about the life of 13-year-old Gregoire, about dreams, about what fills the everyday life of the protagonist, what is easy for him and what is not. And it is also about childhood and about the Real Grandfather. Through the eyes of a little boy, we look at completely non-childish questions and find amazing answers to them. It is definitely worth reading, the book will make you smile and think at the same time more than once.
“Until the age of three, I can definitely say that I lived happily. I don't remember it well, but that's how it seems to me. I played, watched a cartoon about a bear cub ten times in a row, drew pictures and came up with a million adventures for Grodudu - this was my favorite plush puppy. Mom told me that I sat alone in my room for hours and did not get bored, chatting incessantly, sort of like to myself. So I think: I must have lived happily.”
A bunch of beautiful works small volume written by our domestic writers and, for sure, are familiar to a good half of us from school curriculum. But it was Asya that I wanted to complete the list, because the ease of narration, the elusive smell of the mountain air of a small town and the approach chosen by the author to the work as a memoir of the protagonist together create the very atmosphere that is somehow inherent in all of the above books in their own way. Everything here is beautiful: both landscapes and short descriptions the lives of the townspeople, and the sadness with which the hero recalls the old days, and the windy, wild character of Asya. A fleeting story of unfulfilled love, which left bright memories and regrets, will give you wonderful moments on its pages.
“I liked to wander around the city then; the moon seemed to gaze at him from a clear sky; and the city felt this look and stood sensitively and peacefully, all bathed in her light, this serene and at the same time quietly soul-stirring light. The rooster on the high Gothic bell tower gleamed with pale gold; streams shimmered with the same gold over the black gloss of the river; thin candles (a German is thrifty!) flickered modestly in the narrow windows under the slate roofs; vines mysteriously stuck out their curly tendrils from behind stone fences; something ran in the shadows near an old well on a triangular square, suddenly a sleepy whistle of a night watchman was heard, a good-natured dog grumbled in an undertone, and the air was caressing your face, and the lindens smelled so sweet that your chest involuntarily breathed deeper and deeper, and the word : "Gretchen" - not an exclamation, not a question - just begged to be on the lips.
