M. Prishvin

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin Old mushroom

We had a revolution in 1905. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought at the barricades on Presnya. strangers when meeting with him, they called him brother.

“Tell me, brother,” they will ask him, “where.”

They will name the street, and the “brother” will answer where this street is.

Came first World War nineteen hundred and fourteen, and I hear him say:

- Father, tell me.

They began to call not brother, but father.

The Great One Came October Revolution. My friend had white silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at the white and silver hair and said:

- What are you, father, began to trade in flour?

“No,” he answered, “silver.” But it's not that.

His real business was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also very a kind person and to all who turned to him for advice, he helped in everything. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years with Soviet power.

I hear one day someone stops him on the street:

- Grandpa, Grandpa, tell me.

And my friend, the former boy, with whom we sat on the same bench in the old gymnasium, became a grandfather.

So time passes, time just flies, you won’t have time to look back.

Okay, I'm talking about a friend. White and white our grandfather, and so finally comes the day of the great holiday of our victory over the Germans. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, goes under an umbrella and is not afraid of rain. So we pass to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen, around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. Dampness around from the rain, and you look at them, how they stand, and it becomes as if the weather is very good.

We began to show our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some boy, a mischievous one, probably thought of sneaking into the parade somehow. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:

“Why are you coming, old mushroom?”

I felt offended, I confess, I was very angry here and grabbed this boy by the scruff of the neck. He escaped, jumped like a hare, looked back on the jump and fled.

The parade on Red Square ousted both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory for a while. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came back to me again. And so I said to the invisible mischief-maker:

Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows the spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.

And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly pick mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birches and aspens begin to pour down golden and red patches on young Christmas trees.

The day was warm and even parky, when the mushrooms come up from the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything clean, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from the same place, he collects again: you take, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.

This was such a mushroom, parky day now. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I collected all sorts of rubbish in my basket: russula, redheads, boletus - and there were only two white mushrooms. If there were mushrooms, real mushrooms, I would, an old man, lean over the black fungus! But what to do, bow to the need and russula.

It was very parko, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I wanted to drink to death.

There are streams in our forests, paws diverge from the streams, urea from the paws, or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that, perhaps, I even tried wet earth. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: legs would not lead to the stream, hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.

And I hear somewhere behind a frequent spruce forest a gray bird squeaks:

- Drink, drink!

It happens that before the rain a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:

- Drink, drink!

“Fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.”

He looked at the sky, and where to wait for rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the earth, like in a bathhouse.

What to do here, how to be?

And the bird also squeaks in its own way:

- Drink, drink!

Here I chuckled to myself that that's what an old man I am, I've lived so much, seen so much everything in the world, learned so much, and here it's just a bird, and we have one desire.

“Come on,” I said to myself, “I’ll take a look at my comrade.”

I advanced cautiously, noiselessly through the dense spruce forest, lifted one twig: well, hello there!

Through this forest window, a clearing in the forest opened up to me, in the middle of it there are two birches, under the birches a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry, a red russula, such a huge one that I have never seen in my life. She was so old that the edges of her, as happens only with russula, wrapped up.

And from this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water.

It made my heart happy.

Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - in water. And head up so that a drop in the throat passes.

- Drink, drink! - another bird from the birch squeaks to her.

There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. Here the bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go on a spree. And I see everything from the window and rejoice and do not hurry: how much does the bird need, let him get drunk, we have enough!

One got drunk, flew to the birch. Another went down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one that got drunk is on top of her.

- Drink, drink!

I came out of the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch to another.

But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so that I alone asked.

- Will he drink?

Another replied:

- Don't drink!

I understood that they were talking about me and one thought about a plate of forest water - "drink", the other argued - "won't drink."

- I'll drink, I'll drink! I told them out loud.

They squealed their “drink-drink” even more often.

But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.

Of course, it could be done very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for himself. With such a mushroom knife, he would carefully cut the russula, lift it up to him, drink water, and he would immediately press the hat he did not need from the old mushroom on the tree.

What a daring!

And I think that's just stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will drink. And there, seeds will ripen in the mushroom - spores, the wind will pick them up, scatter them through the forest for the future.

Apparently, there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank down on my old knees and lay on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula.

And the birds! The birds are playing.

Drink or not drink?

“No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I have reached and have a drink.”

It happened so well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met just with the cold lips of the fungus. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me in a golden boat made of birch leaf, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needs to get drunk.

- How many of you are here who want to! I told him. - Well, you.

And in one breath he drank the whole forest bowl to the bottom.

Mikhail Prishvin

old mushroom

We had a revolution in 1905. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought at the barricades on Presnya. Strangers, meeting with him, called him brother.

Tell me, brother, - they will ask him, - where ... I will name the street, and “brother” will answer where this street is. The first world war came in 1914, and I hear him say;

Father, tell...

They began to call not brother, but father.

The last big revolution has come. My friend had white, silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at the white and silver hair and said:

What are you, father, began to trade in flour?

No, he answered, silver. But it's not that. His real business was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also a very kind person and helped everyone who turned to him for advice in everything. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years under Soviet rule. I hear one day someone stops him on the street.

Grandpa, Grandpa, tell me...

And my friend, the former boy, with whom we sat on the same bench in the old gymnasium, became a grandfather.

So all the time passes, time just flies, you don’t have time to look back ...

Okay, I'm talking about a friend. White and white our grandfather, and so finally comes the day of the great holiday of our victory over the Germans. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, goes under an umbrella and is not afraid of rain. So we pass to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. Dampness around from the rain, and you look at them, how they stand, and it becomes as if the weather is very good.

We began to show our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some boy, a mischievous one, probably thought of sneaking into the parade somehow. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:

And why are you going, old mushroom?

I felt offended, I confess, I was very angry here and grabbed this boy by the scruff of the neck. He escaped, jumped like a hare, looked back on the jump and fled.

The parade on Red Square ousted both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory for a while. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came back to me again. And so I said to the invisible mischief-maker:

Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows the spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.

And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly pick mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birches and aspens begin to pour down golden and red patches on young Christmas trees.

The day was warm and even parky, when the mushrooms come up from the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything clean, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from that very place, he collects again, you take it, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.

This was such a mushroom, parky day now. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I collected all sorts of rubbish in my basket: russula, redheads, boletus - and there were only two white mushrooms. If mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend down for a black mushroom! But what to do, bow to the need and russula.

It was very parko, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I wanted to drink to death. But do not go home on such a day with only black mushrooms! There was enough time ahead to look for whites.

There are streams in our forests, paws diverge from the streams, urea from the paws, or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that, perhaps, I even tried wet earth. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: legs would not lead to the stream, hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.

And I hear, somewhere behind a frequent spruce forest, a gray bird squeaks:

“Drink, drink!”

It happens that before the rain a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:

“Drink, drink!”

Fool, - I said, - so the cloud will listen to you!

I looked at the sky, and where to wait for rain: a clear sky above us and steam from the ground, like in a bathhouse.

What to do here, how to be?

And the bird also squeaks in its own way:

“Drink, drink!”

Here I chuckled to myself that that's what an old man I am, I've lived so much, seen so much everything in the world, learned so much, and here it's just a bird, and we have one desire.

Come on, I said to myself, I'll take a look at my comrade.

I advanced cautiously, noiselessly through the dense spruce forest, lifted one twig: well, hello there!

Through this forest window, a clearing in the forest opened up to me, in the middle of it there are two birches, under the birches - a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry, a red russula, such a huge one that I have never seen in my life. She was so old that the edges of her, as happens only with russula, wrapped up.

And from this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water. It made my heart happy.

Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - in water. And head up so that a drop in the throat passes.

“Drink, drink!” - another bird from the birch squeaks to her.

There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. Here the bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go on a spree. And I see everything from the window and rejoice and do not hurry: how much does the bird need, let him get drunk, we have enough!

One got drunk, flew to the birch. Another went down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one that got drunk, on top of her:

“Drink, drink!”

I came out of the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch to another.

But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so that one asked:

“Drink?”

Another replied:

“Will not drink!”

I understood that they were talking about me and about a plate of forest water: one thought - “drink”, the other argued - “won't drink”.

I'll drink, I'll drink! I told them out loud.

They squeaked their own even more often: “Drink, drink.”

But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.

Of course, it could be done very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for himself. With such a mushroom knife, he would carefully cut the russula, lift it to himself, drink water, and slam the hat he did not need from the old mushroom right there on the tree.

What a daring!

And I think it's just stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will drink. And there, seeds will ripen in the mushroom - spores, the wind will pick them up, scatter them through the forest for the future ...

Apparently, there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank down on my old knees and lay on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula.

And the birds! Birds play their own;

“Will he drink or not drink?”

No, comrades, - I said to them, - now do not argue anymore: now I have reached and have a drink.

So it was okay, when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met just with the cold lips of the fungus. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me in a golden boat made of birch leaf, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needs to get drunk.

How many of you are here who want to! I told him. - Well, you...

And in one breath he drank the whole forest bowl to the bottom.

Perhaps, out of pity for my friend, I remembered the old mushroom and told you. But the story about the old mushroom is only the beginning of my big story about the forest. What happens next will be about what happened to me when I drank living water.

These will be miracles not like in a fairy tale about living water and dead water, but real ones, as they happen everywhere and at every moment of our life, but only often we, having eyes, do not see them, having ears, we do not hear.

Abstract

In the collection " green noise» the famous Russian Soviet writer M.M. Prishvin (1873-1954) included his most significant works, telling about meetings with interesting people, about the beauty of Russian nature and the animal world of our country.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin

We had a revolution in 1905. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought at the barricades on Presnya. Strangers, meeting with him, called him brother.

“Tell me, brother,” they will ask him, “where.”

They will name the street, and the “brother” will answer where this street is.

The first world war came in 1914, and I hear him say:

- Father, tell me.

They began to call not brother, but father.

The Great October Revolution has come. My friend had white silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at the white and silver hair and said:

- What are you, father, began to trade in flour?

“No,” he answered, “silver.” But it's not that.

His real business was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also a very kind person and helped everyone who turned to him for advice. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years under Soviet rule.

I hear one day someone stops him on the street:

- Grandpa, Grandpa, tell me.

And my friend, the former boy, with whom we sat on the same bench in the old gymnasium, became a grandfather.

So time passes, time just flies, you won’t have time to look back.

Okay, I'm talking about a friend. White and white our grandfather, and so finally comes the day of the great holiday of our victory over the Germans. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, goes under an umbrella and is not afraid of rain. So we pass to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen, around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. Dampness around from the rain, and you look at them, how they stand, and it becomes as if the weather is very good.

We began to show our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some boy, a mischievous one, probably thought of sneaking into the parade somehow. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:

“Why are you coming, old mushroom?”

I felt offended, I confess, I was very angry here and grabbed this boy by the scruff of the neck. He escaped, jumped like a hare, looked back on the jump and fled.

The parade on Red Square ousted both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory for a while. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came back to me again. And so I said to the invisible mischief-maker:

Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows the spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.

And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly pick mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birches and aspens begin to pour down golden and red patches on young Christmas trees.

The day was warm and even parky, when the mushrooms come up from the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything clean, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from the same place, he collects again: you take, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.

This was such a mushroom, parky day now. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I collected all sorts of rubbish in my basket: russula, redheads, boletus - and there were only two white mushrooms. If mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend down for a black mushroom! But what to do, bow to the need and russula.

It was very parko, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I wanted to drink to death.

There are streams in our forests, paws diverge from the streams, urea from the paws, or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that, perhaps, I even tried wet earth. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: legs would not lead to the stream, hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.

And I hear somewhere behind a frequent spruce forest a gray bird squeaks:

- Drink, drink!

It happens that before the rain a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:

- Drink, drink!

“Fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.”

He looked at the sky, and where to wait for rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the earth, like in a bathhouse.

What to do here, how to be?

And the bird also squeaks in its own way:

- Drink, drink!

Here I chuckled to myself that that's what an old man I am, I've lived so much, seen so much everything in the world, learned so much, and here it's just a bird, and we have one desire.

“Come on,” I said to myself, “I’ll take a look at my comrade.”

I advanced cautiously, noiselessly through the dense spruce forest, lifted one twig: well, hello there!

Through this forest window, a clearing in the forest opened up to me, in the middle of it there are two birches, under the birches a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry, a red russula, such a huge one that I have never seen in my life. She was so old that the edges of her, as happens only with russula, wrapped up.

And from this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water.

It made my heart happy.

Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - in water. And head up so that a drop in the throat passes.

- Drink, drink! - another bird from the birch squeaks to her.

There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. Here the bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go on a spree. And I see everything from the window and rejoice and do not hurry: how much does the bird need, let him get drunk, we have enough!

One got drunk, flew to the birch. Another went down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one that got drunk is on top of her.

- Drink, drink!

I came out of the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch to another.

But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so that I alone asked.

- Will he drink?

Another replied:

- Don't drink!

I understood that they were talking about me and one thought about a plate of forest water - "drink", the other argued - "won't drink."

- I'll drink, I'll drink! I told them out loud.

They squealed their “drink-drink” even more often.

But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.

Of course, it could be done very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for himself. With such a mushroom knife, he would carefully cut the russula, lift it up to him, drink water, and he would immediately press the hat he did not need from the old mushroom on the tree.

What a daring!

And I think that's just stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will drink. And there, seeds will ripen in the mushroom - spores, the wind will pick them up, scatter them through the forest for the future.

Apparently, there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank down on my old knees and lay on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula.

And the birds! The birds are playing.

Drink or not drink?

“No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I have reached and have a drink.”

It happened so well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met just with the cold lips of the fungus. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me in a golden boat made of birch leaf, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needs to get drunk.

- How many of you are here who want to! I told him. - Well, you.

And in one breath he drank the whole forest bowl to the bottom.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin (1873-1954) - Russian Soviet writer, author of works about nature, hunting stories, works for children.
Almost all Prishvin's works published during his lifetime are devoted to descriptions of his own impressions of encounters with nature, these descriptions are distinguished by the extraordinary beauty of the language. Konstantin Paustovsky called him "a singer of Russian nature", Gorky said that Prishvin had "a perfect ability to give a flexible combination simple words almost physical tangibility to everything."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki

"old mushroom"

Chit.N.Litvinov
recording 1978

It was towards autumn, when birches and aspens begin to pour down golden and red patches on young Christmas trees. The day was warm and even parky, when the mushrooms come up from the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything clean, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from the same place, he collects again: you take, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing. This was such a mushroom, parky day now. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I collected all sorts of rubbish in my basket: russula, redheads, boletus - and there were only two white mushrooms. If mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend down for a black mushroom! But what to do, bow to the need and russula. It was very parko, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I wanted to drink to death. There are streams in our forests, paws diverge from the streams, urea from the paws, or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that, perhaps, I even tried wet earth. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: legs would not lead to the stream, hands would not be enough to reach the cloud. And I hear somewhere behind a frequent spruce forest a gray bird squeaks: - Drink, drink! It happens, before the rain, a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink: - Drink, drink! “Fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.” He looked at the sky, and where to wait for rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the earth, like in a bathhouse. What to do here, how to be? And the bird also squeaks in its own way: - Drink, drink! Here I chuckled to myself that that's what an old man I am, I've lived so much, seen so much everything in the world, learned so much, and here it's just a bird, and we have one desire. “Come on,” I said to myself, “I’ll take a look at my comrade.” I advanced cautiously, noiselessly through the dense spruce forest, lifted one twig: well, hello there! Through this forest window, a clearing in the forest opened up to me, in the middle of it there are two birches, under the birches a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry, a red russula, such a huge one that I have never seen in my life. She was so old that the edges of her, as happens only with russula, wrapped up. And from this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water. It made my heart happy. Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - in water. And head up so that a drop in the throat passes. - Drink, drink! - another bird from the birch squeaks to her. There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. Here the bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go on a spree. And then I see everything from the window and rejoice and do not hurry: how much does the bird need, let him get drunk, we have enough! One got drunk, flew to the birch. Another went down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one that got drunk is on top of her. - Drink, drink! I came out of the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch to another. But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so that I alone asked. - Will he drink? The other answered: - Do not drink! I understood that they were talking about me and one thought about a plate of forest water - "drink", the other argued - "won't drink." - I'll drink, I'll drink! I told them out loud. They squealed their “drink will drink” even more often. But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water. Of course, it could be done very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for himself. With such a mushroom knife, he would carefully cut the russula, lift it up to him, drink water, and he would immediately press the hat he did not need from the old mushroom on the tree. What a daring! And, in my opinion, it's just stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will drink. And there, seeds will ripen in the mushroom - spores, the wind will pick them up, scatter them through the forest for the future. Apparently, there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank down on my old knees and lay on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula. And the birds! The birds are playing. Drink or not drink? “No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I have reached and have a drink.” It happened so well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met just with the cold lips of the fungus. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me in a golden boat made of birch leaf, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needs to get drunk. - How many of you are here who want to! I told him. - Well, you. And in one breath he drank the whole forest bowl to the bottom.
http://www.prishvin.org.ru/ll-al-elbook-1464/

About our smaller brothers

Answers to page 9

Mikhail Prishvin
old mushroom

It was a warm autumn day. I walked through the forest and picked mushrooms.
He walked and walked and was very thirsty. But the stream was far away. Suddenly I hear a bird squeaking behind the spruce forest:
- Drink, drink!
“Fool,” I said. - So the cloud will listen to you.
I looked at the sky, and it is clear. No, it won't rain. What to do here? How to be? And the bird keeps asking: drink, drink!
Here I chuckled to myself that that's what an old man I am, I've lived so much, seen so much everything in the world, learned so much, and here it's just a bird, and we have one desire.
“Come on,” I said to myself, “I’ll take a look at my comrade.”
I carefully picked up a sprig of spruce and through this forest window I saw a clearing. And in the clearing there is a birch, under a birch a stump, and next to the stump there is a red russula. And as big as I have ever seen in my life. And so old that the edges even turned up. Just like a big deep plate. Well, I think I'll get drunk.
Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale into the water. And head up so that the water passes down the throat.
“Drink, drink,” another bird from the birch squeaks to her.
And I see everything from the window, and I rejoice, and I'm not in a hurry: let him drink - that's enough for me.
One got drunk, flew to the birch. The other also sat on the edge of the russula and began to drink.
I came out of the spruce forest. I went out so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me. They just flew from one birch to another and squealed louder. That's how I understood them. One asked:
- Will he drink?
Another replied:
- Don't drink!
- I'll drink, I'll drink! I told them out loud.
But it was not so easy for me, an old man, to drink from this forest plate. I felt sorry for cutting the mushroom - such a good plate for birds. Nothing to do. I got on my knees. Then he lay down on his stomach. And as soon as I pulled my lips to the water, I suddenly see: a spider descends along the cobweb into the plate.
“How many of you here want to drink,” I told him. - Well, no, now I'll drink, it's my turn.
And he drank the whole forest plate to the bottom.

1. Read the description of russula. What does the author compare it to? Find the answer in the text. Write it down.

Red russula, just like a big deep plate.

2. Remember the works of M. M. Prishvin. Fill in the table.