My young friends!
We are the masters of our nature and it is for us the pantry of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only to protect these treasures - they need to be opened and shown. Fish need clean water Let's protect our waters.
In the forests, steppes, mountains, various valuable animals - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains. Fish - water, bird - air, beast - forest, steppe, mountains. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland.
Mikhail Prishvin
The whole life of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was devoted to nature and connected with it. He loved the forest and all living things so much that even in an ordinary hare cabbage he saw interesting things: under the hot sun it closed, and opened up in the rain so that more rain fell on it. Like she's a sentient being.
Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was born on February 4, 1873 in the Khrushchevo estate of the Oryol province into a merchant family.
Mikhail Dmitrievich Prishvin, the writer's father, inherited a rich inheritance, which he lost at cards. Prishvin's mother, Maria Ivanovna, was left alone with five children and a mortgaged estate. Despite everything, she managed to rectify the situation and give children a decent education.
Mikhail received his first education in a village school. Then he studied at the Yelets male gymnasium, from where he was expelled "for free thinking" and a conflict with a geography teacher. Only 10 years later, having passed the exams for the seventh grade of a real school externally, Prishvin continued his education at the Riga Polytechnic.
In 1897 he was arrested for participating in a revolutionary student circle of Marxists, and imprisoned for a year. After his release from prison in 1900, he went abroad, where he studied at the University of Leipzig. There he received a degree in agriculture. Returning to his homeland, Mikhail worked as an agronomist. But he soon left this profession and became interested in folklore and ethnography, became a correspondent in the newspapers Den, Russkiye Vedomosti, Morning of Russia.
Prishvin spent most of his life traveling and hunting wanderings. He traveled and went around almost the whole country, observing and studying nature. The writer has repeatedly visited the Far North, the Far East, the steppes of Kazakhstan, the Crimean mountains, the dense forests of the Volga region and the old oak forests on the free Oka. All the impressions of travel, recorded by him then, formed the basis of his books.
“The singer of Russian nature,” the writer K. Paustovsky briefly described Prishvin. Indeed, all the works of Mikhail Prishvin are imbued with a special attitude of the writer to the nature around him, and they are presented in a very beautiful linguistic form. How poetic is his first book - "In the land of fearless birds" (1907).
The pristine beauty of nature has become his theme for many years. He set off “For the Magic Kolobok” (1908), making “a journey to a country without a name, without territory, where we all run in childhood”, where ancient Rus' lives untouched with its eternal fairy-tale heroes.
Twice Mikhail Mikhailovich was married - from his first marriage with a peasant woman Efrosinya had three sons. In 1940 he married Valeria Liorko, who became Prishvin's faithful companion until the end of her life. After his death, Liorko worked with her husband's archives.
I would like to note thatnamed after the writer:
– peakheight of 2782 m in the spurs of the Main Caucasian Range and nearbyMountain Lake;
– capeat the eastern end of Iturup Island in the Kuril chain;
– streetsin Moscow, Donetsk, Lipetsk, Yelets and Orel.
Monuments were erected to the writer in the city of Yelets (author - N. Kravchenko) (photo5), in the village of Palna-Mikhailovka (sculptor - Yu.D. Grishko)
in Sergiev Posad (sculptor - Y. Khmelevsky)
All the writer's work is permeated with love for nature and admiration for it. When you read Prishvin's stories, it seems that the writer took you by the hand and led you along; you see, as if with your own eyes, everything that is written in them, you learn to love and understand your native nature even better.
Do you want to know what makes the meadow golden? Readstory« golden luG".
golden meadow.
My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. We used to go somewhere to our trade - he was ahead, I was in the heel.
Seryozha! - I will call him busily. He'll look back, and I'll blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, as you gape, he also fuknet. And so we plucked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.
We lived in the village, in front of the window we had a meadow, all golden from many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.
One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers were yellow on the side of your palm and, clenched into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw dandelions open their palms, and from this the meadow became golden again.
Since then, the dandelion has become one of the most interesting flowers for us, because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.
And from the story "Hedgehog" you will learn about the hedgehog's habits and how he settled down in a human dwelling.
Hedgehog.
R I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He also noticed me, curled up and mumbled: knock-knock-knock. It was very similar, as if a car was moving in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and pushed his needles into the boot.
Ah, you are so with me! - I said and pushed him into the stream with the tip of my boot.
Instantly, the hedgehog turned around in the water and swam to the shore like a small pig, only instead of bristles on its back there were needles. I took a stick, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and carried it home.
I have had many mice. I heard - the hedgehog catches them, and decided: let him live with me and catch mice.
So I put this prickly lump in the middle of the floor and sat down to write, while I myself looked at the hedgehog out of the corner of my eye. He did not lie motionless for a long time: as soon as I calmed down at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go there, here, finally chose a place for himself under the bed and there it completely calmed down.
When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! - the hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that it was the moon that had risen in the forest: in the moonlight, hedgehogs like to run through the forest clearings.
And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.
I picked up the pipe, lit a cigarette and let a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: both the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked it: he darted between them, sniffing and scratching the backs of my boots with needles.
After reading the newspaper, I dropped it on the floor, went to bed and fell asleep.
I always sleep very lightly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit a candle, and only noticed how a hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and I myself do not sleep, thinking:
“Why did the hedgehog need a newspaper?” Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; spun around her, made noise, made noise, finally managed: he somehow put a corner of the newspaper on the thorns and dragged it, huge, into corner.
I light a candle and what do you think? The hedgehog runs around the room, and he has an apple on his thorns. He ran to the nest, put it there and after another runs into the corner, and in the corner there was a bag of apples and collapsed. Here the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and runs again, on the thorns he drags another apple into the nest.
And so the hedgehog got a job with me. And now I, like drinking tea, will certainly put it on my table and then pour milk into a saucer for him - he will drink it, then I will eat the ladies' buns.
These and many other secrets of nature and animals will be revealed when reading the wonderful works of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin.
A in the library №16 "Lighthouse" on Kerchenskaya street, 6, you can look into the "Literary Chest" - a series of exhibitions and events dedicated to writers and books anniversaries of 2018
In this "Literary Chest" you will find an exhibition of books "The Singer of Russian Nature - Mikhail Prishvin". She invites readers to get acquainted with the works of M.M. Prishvin and discover the beauty of nature and the treasures of the forest, feel the warmth and love with which the author talks about simple things. These books teach respect for all living things and will be of interest not only to children, but also to adults.
Tatyana Volodkina,
The tree with its upper whorl, like a palm, took away the falling snow, and such a lump grew from this that the top of the birch began to bend. And it happened that during the thaw snow fell again and stuck to that coma, and the upper branch with a lump arched the whole tree, until, finally, the top with that huge lump sank into the snow on the ground and was thus fixed until spring itself. Animals and people occasionally skied under this arch all winter. Nearby, proud fir trees looked down at the bent birch, as people born to command look at their subordinates.
In the spring the birch tree returned to those fir trees, and if it hadn’t been bent during this especially snowy winter, then in winter and summer it would have remained among the fir trees, but once it was bent, now with the smallest snow it leaned and in the end, without fail, every arched over the path for a year.
It is terrible to enter a young forest in a snowy winter: but it is impossible to enter. Where in the summer I walked along a wide path, now bent trees lie across this path, and so low that only a hare can run under them ...
Chanterelle bread
Once I walked in the forest all day and returned home in the evening with rich booty. He took off his heavy bag from his shoulders and began to spread his belongings on the table.
What is this bird? - asked Zinochka.
Terenty, I replied.
And he told her about the black grouse: how he lives in the forest, how he mumbles in the spring, how he pecks at birch buds, picks berries in the swamps in autumn, warms himself from the wind under the snow in winter. He also told her about the hazel grouse, showed her that he was grey, with a tuft, and whistled into a pipe in a hazel grouse and let her whistle. I also poured a lot of porcini mushrooms, both red and black, on the table. I also had a bloody boneberry in my pocket, and blueberries, and red lingonberries. I also brought with me a fragrant lump of pine resin, gave the girl a sniff and said that trees are treated with this resin.
Who is treating them? - asked Zinochka.
Healing himself, I replied. - It happens that a hunter will come, he wants to rest, he will stick an ax into a tree and hang a bag on an ax, and he will lie down under a tree. Sleep, rest. He will take out an ax from a tree, put on a bag, and leave. And from the wound from the ax made of wood, this fragrant tar will run and this wound will be tightened.
Also on purpose for Zinochka, I brought various wonderful herbs by leaf, by root, by flower: cuckoo's tears, valerian, Peter's cross, hare cabbage. And just under the hare cabbage I had a piece of black bread: it always happens to me that when I don’t take bread to the forest, I’m hungry, but I take it, I forget to eat it and bring it back. And Zinochka, when she saw black bread under my hare cabbage, was stunned:
Where did the bread come from in the forest?
What is surprising here? After all, there is cabbage there!
Hare...
And the bread is chanterelle. Taste. Carefully tasted and began to eat:
Good fox bread!
And ate all my black bread clean. And so it went with us: Zinochka, such a copula, often doesn’t even take white bread, but when I bring fox bread from the forest, she always eats it all and praises:
Chanterelle's bread is much better than ours!
blue shadows
Silence resumed, frosty and bright. Yesterday's powder lies on the crust, like powder with sparkling sparkles. Nast does not fall anywhere and on the field, in the sun, it holds even better than in the shade. Each bush of the old wormwood, burdock, blade of grass, blade of grass, as in a mirror, looks into this sparkling powder and sees itself as blue and beautiful.
quiet snow
They say about silence: "Quieter than water, lower than grass..." But what could be quieter than falling snow! It snowed all day yesterday, and as if it had brought silence from heaven ... And every sound only intensified it: the rooster bellowed, the crow called, the woodpecker drummed, the jay sang with all voices, but the silence from all this grew. What silence, what grace.
clear ice
It is good to look at that transparent ice, where the frost did not make flowers and did not cover the water with them. It can be seen how a stream under this thinnest ice drives a huge herd of bubbles, and drives them out from under the ice into open water, and rushes them with great speed, as if they were very needed somewhere and it was necessary to have time to drive them all to one place.
Zhurka
Once we had it, we caught a young crane and gave it a frog. He swallowed it. Gave another - swallowed. The third, fourth, fifth, and then we didn’t have more frogs at hand.
Good girl! - said my wife and asked me; How much can he eat? Ten maybe?
Ten, I say, maybe.
What if twenty?
Twenty, I say, hardly...
We clipped the wings of this crane, and he began to follow his wife everywhere. She is milking a cow - and Zhurka is with her, she is in the garden - and Zhurka needs to go there ... His wife has got used to him ... and without him she is already bored, without him nowhere. But only if it happens - he is not there, only one thing will shout: “Fru-fru!”, And he runs to her. Such a smart one!
This is how the crane lives with us, and its clipped wings keep growing and growing.
Once the wife went down to the swamp for water, and Zhurka followed her. A small frog sat by the well and jumped from Zhurka into the swamp. Zhurka is behind him, and the water is deep, and you can’t reach the frog from the shore. Mach-mach wings Zhurka and suddenly flew. The wife gasped - and after him. Swing your arms, but you can't get up. And in tears, and to us: “Ah, ah, what a grief! Ahah!" We all ran to the well. We see - Zhurka is far away, sitting in the middle of our swamp.
Fru fru! I scream.
And all the guys behind me are also screaming:
Fru fru!
And so smart! As soon as he heard this our “frou-frou”, now he flapped his wings and flew in. Here the wife does not remember herself for joy, she tells the guys to run after the frogs as soon as possible. This year there were a lot of frogs, the guys soon scored two caps. The guys brought frogs, began to give and count. They gave five - he swallowed, they gave ten - he swallowed, twenty and thirty, - and so he swallowed forty-three frogs at a time.
squirrel memory
Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since autumn, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran a dozen meters, dived again, again left the shell on the snow and after a few meters she made the third climb.
What a miracle You can't think that she could smell a nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. So, since the fall, she remembered her nuts and the exact distance between them.
But the most surprising thing is that she could not measure centimeters, as we do, but right on the eye with accuracy determined, dived and pulled out. Well, how could one not envy the squirrel's memory and ingenuity!
forest doctor
We wandered in the spring in the forest and observed the life of hollow birds: woodpeckers, owls. Suddenly, in the direction where we had previously planned an interesting tree, we heard the sound of a saw. It was, we were told, cutting firewood from deadwood for a glass factory. We were afraid for our tree, hurried to the sound of the saw, but it was too late: our aspen was lying, and around its stump there were many empty fir cones. The woodpecker peeled all this over the long winter, collected it, wore it on this aspen, laid it between two bitches of his workshop and hollowed it out. Near the stump, on our cut aspen, two boys were only engaged in sawing the forest.
Oh you pranksters! - we said and pointed them to the cut aspen. - You were ordered dead trees, and what did you do?
The woodpecker made holes, - the guys answered. - We looked and, of course, sawed off. It will still disappear.
They all began to examine the tree together. It was quite fresh, and only in a small space, no more than a meter in length, did a worm pass through the trunk. The woodpecker, obviously, listened to the aspen like a doctor: he tapped it with his beak, understood the emptiness left by the worm, and proceeded to the operation of extracting the worm. And the second time, and the third, and the fourth... The thin aspen trunk looked like a flute with valves. Seven holes were made by the "surgeon" and only on the eighth he captured the worm, pulled out and saved the aspen.
We carved this piece as a wonderful exhibit for the museum.
You see, - we told the guys, - a woodpecker is a forest doctor, he saved the aspen, and it would live and live, and you cut it off.
The boys marveled.
white necklace
I heard in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, from one citizen about a bear and, I confess, I did not believe it. But he assured me that in the old days, even in a Siberian magazine, this incident was published under the title: "A Man with a Bear Against Wolves."
There lived one watchman on the shore of Lake Baikal, he caught fish, shot squirrels. And once, as if this watchman sees through the window - a big bear runs straight to the hut, and a pack of wolves is chasing him. That would be the end of the bear. He, this bear, don’t be bad, in the hallway, the door behind him closed itself, and he also leaned on her paw himself. The old man, realizing this matter, took the rifle from the wall and said:
- Misha, Misha, hold on!
The wolves climb on the door, and the old man aims the wolf out the window and repeats:
- Misha, Misha, hold on!
So he killed one wolf, and another, and a third, all the while saying:
- Misha, Misha, hold on!
After the third flock fled, and the bear remained in the hut to spend the winter under the protection of the old man. In the spring, when the bears come out of their dens, the old man seemed to put a white necklace on this bear and ordered all the hunters not to shoot this bear - with a white necklace - this bear is his friend.
Belyak
Direct wet snow pressed down on the branches all night in the forest, broke off, fell, rustled.
A rustle drove the white hare out of the forest, and he probably realized that by morning the black field would turn white and that he, completely white, could lie quietly. And he lay down in a field not far from the forest, and not far from him, also like a hare, lay the skull of a horse, weathered over the summer and whitewashed by the sun's rays.
By dawn the whole field was covered, and both the white hare and the white skull disappeared into the white immensity.
We were a little late, and when the hound was released, the tracks had already begun to blur.
When Osman began to sort out the fat, it was still difficult to distinguish the shape of a hare paw from a hare: he walked along a hare. But before Osman had time to straighten the track, everything completely melted on the white path, and then there was no sight or smell left on the black one.
We gave up on hunting and began to return home at the edge of the forest.
“Look through binoculars,” I said to my friend, “that it is whitening there on a black field and so bright.
“Horse skull, head,” he replied.
I took the binoculars from him and also saw the skull.
“Something is still whitening there,” said the comrade, “look to the left.”
I looked there, and there, too, like a skull, bright white, lay a hare, and through prismatic binoculars one could even see black eyes on the white. He was in a desperate situation: to lie down was to be visible to everyone, to run was to leave a printed mark on the soft wet ground for the dog. We stopped his hesitation: we raised him, and at the same moment, Osman, having seen, with a wild roar, set off on the sighted man.
Swamp
I know that few people sat in the swamps in early spring, waiting for the grouse current, and I have few words to even hint at all the splendor of the bird concert in the swamps before sunrise. Often I noticed that the first note in this concerto, far from the very first hint of light, is taken by the curlew. This is a very thin trill, completely different from the well-known whistle. Later, when the white partridges cry, the black grouse and the current grouse chirp, sometimes near the hut, it starts its muttering, then it’s not up to the curlew, but then at sunrise at the most solemn moment you will certainly pay attention to the new curlew song, very cheerful and similar to dancing: this dancing is as necessary for meeting the sun as the cry of a crane.
Once I saw from a hut how, among the black mass of rooster, a gray curlew, a female, settled down on a tussock; a male flew up to her and, supporting himself in the air with the flapping of his large wings, touched the back of the female with his feet and sang his dance song. Here, of course, the whole air trembled from the singing of all the swamp birds, and, I remember, the puddle, in complete calm, was all agitated by the multitude of insects that had awakened in it.
The sight of the curlew's very long and crooked beak always transports my imagination to a bygone time, when there was no man on earth yet. Yes, and everything in the swamps is so strange, the swamps are little studied, not at all touched by artists, in them you always feel as if a person on earth has not yet begun.
One evening I went out into the swamps to wash the dogs. Very steamy after the rain before the new rain. The dogs, with their tongues out, ran and from time to time lay down, like pigs, on their belly in the swamp puddles. Apparently, the youth had not yet hatched and had not climbed out of the supports into the open, and in our places, overflowing with marsh game, now the dogs could not get used to anything and, in idleness, were even agitated by flying crows. Suddenly a large bird appeared, began to scream in alarm and describe large circles around us. Another Curlew flew in and also began to circle with a cry, the third, obviously from another family, crossed the circle of these two, calmed down and disappeared. I needed to get a curlew egg into my collection, and, counting on the fact that the circles of birds would certainly decrease if I approached the nest, and increase if I moved away, I began, as in a blindfolded game, to wander through the swamp by sounds. So little by little, when the low sun became huge and red in the warm, abundant marsh vapors, I felt the proximity of the nest: the birds screamed intolerably and rushed so close to me that in the red sun I clearly saw their long, crooked, open for a constant alarming screaming noses. Finally, both dogs, grabbing with their upper senses, made a stance. I went in the direction of their eyes and noses and saw two large eggs lying right on a yellow dry strip of moss, near a tiny bush, without any adaptations or cover. Having ordered the dogs to lie down, I happily looked around me, the mosquitoes were biting hard, but I got used to them.
How good it was for me in impregnable swamps and how far away the earth blew from these large birds with long crooked noses, on bent wings crossing the disk of the red sun!
I was about to bend down to the ground in order to take one of these large beautiful eggs for myself, when I suddenly noticed that in the distance, through the swamp, a man was walking straight towards me. He had neither a gun, nor a dog, and even a stick in his hand, there was no way for anyone from here, and I did not know people like me, who, like me, could wander through the swamp with pleasure under a swarm of mosquitoes. I felt as unpleasant as if, combing my hair in front of a mirror and making some special face at the same time, I suddenly noticed someone else's studying eye in the mirror. I even stepped aside from the nest and did not take the eggs, so that this man would not frighten me with his questions, I felt this, dear moment of life. I told the dogs to get up and led them to the hump. There I sat down on a gray stone so covered with yellow lichens that it did not sit down coldly. The birds, as soon as I moved away, increased their circles, but I could no longer follow them with joy. Anxiety was born in my soul at the approach of a stranger. I could already see him: elderly, very thin, walking slowly, carefully watching the flight of birds. I felt better when I noticed that he changed direction and went to another hill, where he sat down on a stone, and also turned to stone. I even felt pleased that there was sitting there just like me, a man reverently listening to the evening. It seemed that we understood each other perfectly without any words, and there were no words for this. With redoubled attention I watched the birds cross the red disk of the sun; At the same time, my thoughts about the terms of the earth and about such a short history of mankind were strangely disposed; how, however, everything soon passed.
The sun has set. I looked back at my friend, but he was gone. The birds calmed down, obviously, sat on their nests. Then, ordering the dogs to slink back, I began to approach the nest with inaudible steps: would it be possible, I thought, to see interesting birds up close. From the bush, I knew exactly where the nest was, and I was very surprised how close the birds let me. Finally, I got close to the bush itself and froze in surprise: behind the bush everything was empty. I touched the moss with my palm: it was still warm from the warm eggs lying on it.
I just looked at the eggs, and the birds, afraid of the human eye, hurried to hide them away.
Verkhoplavka
A golden network of sunbeams trembles on the water. Dark blue dragonflies in reeds and horsetail herringbones. And each dragonfly has its own horsetail tree or reed: it will fly off and will certainly return to it.
Crazy crows brought out the chicks and now they are sitting and resting.
The smallest leaf, on a cobweb, went down to the river and now it is spinning, it is spinning.
So I ride quietly down the river in my boat, and my boat is a little heavier than this leaf, made of fifty-two sticks and covered with canvas. There is only one paddle for it - a long stick, and at the ends there is a spatula. Dip each spatula alternately on both sides. Such a light boat that no effort is needed: he touched the water with a spatula, and the boat floats, and floats so inaudibly that the fish are not at all afraid.
What, what you just don’t see when you quietly ride on such a boat along the river!
Here a rook, flying over the river, dropped into the water, and this lime-white drop, tapping on the water, immediately attracted the attention of small top-melting fish. In an instant, a real bazaar gathered from top melters around a rook drop. Noticing this gathering, a large predator - the shelesper fish - swam up and grabbed the water with its tail with such force that the stunned topfins turned upside down. They would have come to life in a minute, but the shelesper is not some kind of fool, he knows that it does not happen so often that a rook will drip and so many fools will gather around one drop: grab one, grab another - he ate a lot, and which ones managed to get out , henceforth they will live like scientists, and if something good drips from above, they will look both ways, something bad would not come to them from below.
talking rook
I will tell you an incident that happened to me in a hungry year. A yellow-mouthed young rook got into the habit of flying to me on the windowsill. Apparently, he was an orphan. And at that time I kept a whole bag of buckwheat. I ate buckwheat porridge all the time. Here, it happened, a rook would fly in, I would sprinkle cereals on him and ask;
Do you want some porridge, fool?
It pecks and flies away. And so every day, all month. I want to ensure that my question: "Do you want porridge, fool?", He would say: "I want."
And he only opens his yellow nose and shows his red tongue.
Well, okay, - I got angry and abandoned my studies.
By autumn I was in trouble. I climbed into the chest for grits, but there was nothing there. This is how the thieves cleaned it: half a cucumber was on a plate, and that one was taken away. I went to bed hungry. Spinning all night. In the morning I looked in the mirror, my face was all green.
"Knock, knock!" - someone at the window.
On the windowsill, a rook hammers at the glass.
"Here comes the meat!" - I had a thought.
I open the window - and grab it! And he jumped from me to a tree. I'm out the window behind him to the bitch. He is taller. I'm climbing. He is taller and on top of his head. I can't go there; swings a lot. He, the rogue, looks at me from above and says:
Ho-chesh, porridge-ki, du-rush-ka?
Hedgehog
Once I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He also noticed me, curled up and mumbled: knock-knock-knock. It was very similar, as if a car was moving in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and pushed his needles into the boot.
Ah, you are so with me! - I said and pushed him into the stream with the tip of my boot.
Instantly, the hedgehog turned around in the water and swam to the shore like a small pig, only instead of bristles on its back there were needles. I took a stick, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and carried it home.
I have had many mice. I heard - the hedgehog catches them, and decided: let him live with me and catch mice.
So I put this prickly lump in the middle of the floor and sat down to write, while I myself looked at the hedgehog out of the corner of my eye. He did not lie motionless for a long time: as soon as I calmed down at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go there, here, finally chose a place for himself under the bed and there it completely calmed down.
When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! - the hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that it was the moon that had risen in the forest: in the moonlight, hedgehogs like to run through the forest clearings.
And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.
I picked up the pipe, lit a cigarette and let a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: both the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked it: he darted between them, sniffing and scratching the backs of my boots with needles.
After reading the newspaper, I dropped it on the floor, went to bed and fell asleep.
I always sleep very lightly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit a candle, and only noticed how a hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and I myself do not sleep, thinking:
“Why did the hedgehog need a newspaper?” Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; spun around her, made noise, made noise, finally managed: he somehow put a corner of the newspaper on the thorns and dragged it, huge, into corner.
Then I understood him: the newspaper was like dry leaves in the forest, he dragged it to himself for a nest. And it turned out to be true: soon the hedgehog all turned into a newspaper and made a real nest out of it. Having finished this important business, he went out of his dwelling and stood opposite the bed, looking at the candle-moon.
I let the clouds in and I ask:
What else do you need? The hedgehog was not afraid.
Do you want to drink?
I wake up. The hedgehog does not run.
I took a plate, put it on the floor, brought a bucket of water, and then I poured water into the plate, then poured it into the bucket again, and I made such a noise as if it were a brook splashing.
Well, go, go. - I say. - You see, I arranged for you the moon and clouds, and here's water for you ...
I look like I'm moving forward. And I also moved my lake a little towards it. He will move, and I will move, and so they agreed.
Drink, - I say finally. He began to cry. And I so lightly ran my hand over the thorns, as if stroking, and I keep saying:
You are good, little one! The hedgehog got drunk, I say:
Let's sleep. Lie down and blow out the candle.
I don’t know how much I slept, I hear: again I have work in my room.
I light a candle and what do you think? The hedgehog runs around the room, and he has an apple on his thorns. He ran to the nest, put it there and after another runs into the corner, and in the corner there was a bag of apples and collapsed. Here the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and runs again, on the thorns he drags another apple into the nest.
And so the hedgehog got a job with me. And now I, like drinking tea, will certainly put it on my table and then pour milk into a saucer for him - he will drink it, then I will eat the ladies' buns.
golden meadow
My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. We used to go somewhere to our trade - he was ahead, I was in the heel.
Seryozha! - I will call him busily. He'll look back, and I'll blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, as you gape, he also fuknet. And so we plucked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.
We lived in the village, in front of the window we had a meadow, all golden from many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.
One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers were yellow on the side of your palm and, clenched into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw dandelions open their palms, and from this the meadow became golden again.
Since then, the dandelion has become one of the most interesting flowers for us, because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.
blue bast shoes
Highways run through our large forest with separate paths for cars, trucks, carts and pedestrians. So far, for this highway, only the forest has been cut down by a corridor. It is good to look along the clearing: two green walls of the forest and the sky at the end. When the forest was cut down, large trees were taken away somewhere, while small brushwood - rookery - was collected in huge piles. They also wanted to take away the rookery for heating the factory, but they could not manage it, and the heaps all over the wide clearing remained for the winter.
In the fall, the hunters complained that the hares had disappeared somewhere, and some associated this disappearance of hares with deforestation: they chopped, knocked, chattered and scared away. When the powder came up and it was possible to unravel all the tricks of the hare by the tracks, the tracker Rodionich came and said:
- The blue bast shoe is all under the heaps of Grachevnik.
Rodionich, unlike all hunters, did not call the hare "slash", but always "blue bast shoes"; there is nothing to be surprised about: after all, a hare is no more like a devil than a bast shoe, and if they say that there are no blue bast shoes in the world, then I will say that there are no slash devils either.
The rumor about the hares under the heaps instantly ran around our entire town, and on the day off the hunters, led by Rodionich, began to flock to me.
Early in the morning, at the very dawn, we went hunting without dogs: Rodionich was such a master that he could catch a hare on a hunter better than any hound. As soon as it became so visible that it was possible to distinguish between fox and hare tracks, we took a hare track, followed it, and, of course, it led us to one heap of rookery, as high as our wooden house with a mezzanine. A hare was supposed to lie under this heap, and we, having prepared our guns, became all around.
“Come on,” we said to Rodionich.
"Get out, you blue bastard!" he shouted and thrust a long stick under the pile.
The hare didn't get out. Rodionich was taken aback. And, thinking, with a very serious face, looking at every little thing in the snow, he went around the whole pile and once again went around in a large circle: there was no exit trail anywhere.
“Here he is,” said Rodionich confidently. "Get in your seats, kids, he's here." Ready?
- Let's! we shouted.
"Get out, you blue bastard!" - Rodionich shouted and stabbed three times under the rookery with such a long stick that the end of it on the other side almost knocked one young hunter off his feet.
And now - no, the hare did not jump out!
There had never been such embarrassment with our oldest tracker in his life: even his face seemed to have fallen a little. With us, the fuss has gone, everyone began to guess something in his own way, stick his nose into everything, walk back and forth in the snow and so, erasing all traces, taking away any opportunity to unravel the trick of a clever hare.
And now, I see, Rodionich suddenly beamed, sat down, contented, on a stump at some distance from the hunters, rolled up a cigarette for himself and blinked, then winked at me and beckoned me to him. Having realized the matter, unnoticed by everyone I approach Rodionich, and he points me upstairs, to the very top of a high pile of rookery covered with snow.
“Look,” he whispers, “what a blue bast shoe is playing with us.”
Not immediately on the white snow I saw two black dots - the eyes of a hare and two more small dots - the black tips of long white ears. It was the head sticking out from under the rookery and turning in different directions after the hunters: where they are, the head goes there.
As soon as I raised my gun, the life of a smart hare would end in an instant. But I felt sorry: how many of them, stupid, lie under heaps! ..
Rodionich understood me without words. He crushed a dense lump of snow for himself, waited until the hunters crowded on the other side of the heap, and, having well outlined, let the hare go with this lump.
I never thought that our ordinary hare, if he suddenly stands on a heap, and even jumps two arshins up, and appears against the sky, that our hare might seem like a giant on a huge rock!
What happened to the hunters? The hare, after all, fell directly to them from the sky. In an instant, everyone grabbed their guns - it was very easy to kill. But each hunter wanted to kill the other before the other, and each, of course, had enough without aiming at all, and the lively hare set off into the bushes.
- Here is a blue bast shoe! - Rodionich said admiringly after him.
Hunters once again managed to grab the bushes.
- Killed! - shouted one, young, hot.
But suddenly, as if in response to the "killed", a tail flashed in the distant bushes; for some reason hunters always call this tail a flower.
The blue bast shoe only waved its "flower" to hunters from distant bushes.
Mikhail Prishvin (1873 - 1954) was in love with nature. He admired her grandeur and beauty, studied the habits of forest animals and knew how to write about it in a fascinating and very kind way. Prishvin's short stories for children are written in simple language, understandable even to kindergarteners. Parents who want to awaken in their children a kind attitude towards all living things and teach them to notice the beauty of the world around them should read Prishvin's stories more often to both kids and older children. Children love this kind of reading, after which they return to it several times.
Prishvin's stories read
Prishvin's stories about nature
The writer liked to observe the life of the forest. “It was necessary to find in nature something that I had not yet seen, and perhaps no one had ever met this in their lives,” he wrote. In Prishvin's children's stories about nature, the rustle of leaves, the murmur of a stream, the breeze, forest smells are so accurately and reliably described that any little reader is involuntarily transported in his imagination to where the author has been, begins to sharply and vividly feel all the beauty of the forest world.
Prishvin's stories about animals
Since childhood, Misha Prishvin treated birds and animals with warmth and love. He was friends with them, tried to learn to understand their language, studied their life, trying not to disturb. In Prishvin's stories about animals, entertaining stories about the author's meetings with various animals are conveyed. There are funny episodes that make the children's audience laugh and be surprised at the intelligence and ingenuity of our smaller brothers. And there are sad stories about animals in trouble, which evoke a feeling of empathy and a desire to help the children.
In any case, all these stories are filled with kindness and, as a rule, have a happy ending. It is especially useful for our children growing up in dusty and noisy cities to read Prishvin's stories more often. So let's get started as soon as possible and dive with them into the magical world of nature!
Why do bird cherry buds come out with sharp peaks? It seems to me that the bird cherry slept in the winter and in a dream, remembering how they broke it, she repeated to herself: “Do not forget how people broke me last spring, do not forgive!”
Now in the spring even some kind of bird keeps repeating everything in its own way, everything reminds it: “Don't forget. Don't forgive!"
That is why, perhaps, waking up from her winter hibernation, the bird cherry got down to business and lashed out, and blasted millions of angry pikes at people. The peaks have turned green after yesterday's rain.
“Piki-piks,” the cute bird warned people.
But the white peaks, turning green, gradually became higher and more blunt. Further, we already know from the past how bird cherry buds will come out of them, and fragrant flowers will come out of buds.
Mikhail Prishvin "Wagtail"
(abbreviated)
Every day we waited for our beloved herald of spring, the wagtail, and finally she flew in and sat on the oak and sat for a long time, and I realized that this was our wagtail, that she would live somewhere here ...
Here is our starling, when it flew in, it dived right into its hollow and sang; our wagtail came running to us under the car.
Our young dog Swat began to adjust, how to deceive her and grab her.
With a front black tie, in a light gray, perfectly stretched dress, lively, mocking, she passed under the very nose of the Matchmaker, pretending not to notice him at all ... She knows perfectly well the nature of a dog and is prepared for an attack. She flies just a few steps away.
Then he, aiming at her, freezes again. And the wagtail looks straight at him, sways on its thin springy legs and just doesn't laugh aloud...
It was even more amusing to look at this bird, always cheerful, always efficient, when the snow began to slide from the sandy ravine above the river. For some reason, the wagtail was running along the sand near the water itself. He will run and write a line in the sand with his thin paws. He runs back, and the line, you see, is already under water. Then a new line is written, and so almost continuously all day: the water comes and buries what was written. It is difficult to know what kind of spider bugs our wagtail caught.
Mikhail Prishvin "Crystal Day"
There is a crystal day in the initial autumn. Here he is now.
Silence! Not a single leaf moves above, and only below, in an inaudible draft, a dry leaf trembles on the cobweb. In this crystal silence, the trees, and the old stumps, and the dry-resistant monsters withdrew into themselves, and they were not there, but when I went out into the clearing, they noticed me and came out of their stupor.
Mikhail Prishvin "Spider Captain"
Even in the evening, under the moon, fog rose between the birches. I wake up early, with the first rays, and see how they fight to penetrate the ravine through the fog.
The fog is thinner and thinner, lighter and lighter, and now I see: a spider on a birch is hurrying, hurrying and descending from height to depth. Here he fixed his web and began to wait for something.
When the sun lifted the fog, the wind blew along the ravine, tore off the cobweb, and it, curling up, rushed. On a tiny leaf attached to a web, the spider sat like the captain of his ship, and he probably knew where and why he should fly.
Mikhail Prishvin "Unseen Mushrooms"
The north wind is blowing, hands get cold in the air. And the mushrooms are still growing: mushrooms, boletus, mushrooms, occasionally white ones still come across.
Oh, and a fly agaric caught yesterday. He is dark red himself, and he pulled down white pantaloons from under the hat down along the leg, and even with folds. A pretty little wave sits next to him, all picked up, her lips rounded, licking her lips, wet and smart ...
The frost has been enough, but it is dripping from the sky from somewhere. On the water, large drops become bubbles and float along with the fleeing mists down the river.
Mikhail Prishvin "The Beginning of Autumn"
Today, at dawn, one lush birch stepped out of the forest into a clearing, as if in a crinoline, and another, timid, thin, dropped leaf after leaf onto a dark Christmas tree. Following this, while more and more dawn dawned, different trees began to appear to me in different ways. This always happens at the beginning of autumn, when, after a lush and common summer, a big change begins and the trees all begin to experience leaf fall in different ways.
I looked around me. Here is a tussock, combed by the paws of black grouse. Previously, it used to happen that in the hole of such a tussock you would certainly find a feather of a black grouse or a capercaillie, and if it is pockmarked, then you know that the female was digging, if black - a rooster. Now, in the pits of combed tussocks, there are not bird feathers, but fallen yellow leaves. And then here is an old, old russula, huge, like a plate, all red, and the edges were wrapped up from old age, and water was poured into this dish, and a yellow birch leaf floats in the dish.
Mikhail Prishvin "Parachute"
In such silence, when grasshoppers sang in their own ears without grasshoppers in the grass, a yellow leaf slowly flew down from a birch tree covered with tall fir trees. He flew off in such silence when even an aspen leaf did not move. It seemed that the movement of the leaf attracted the attention of everyone, and everyone ate, birches and pines with all the leaves, knots, needles, and even bushes, even the grass under the bushes were amazed and asked: “How could a leaf move and move in such silence?” And, in obedience to the general request to find out whether the leaf moved by itself, I went to him and found out. No, the leaf did not move by itself: it was the spider, wanting to descend, weighed it down and made it its own parachute: a small spider descended on this leaf.
Mikhail Prishvin "The First Frost"
The night passed under a large clear moon, and by morning the first frost had fallen. Everything was gray, but the puddles did not freeze. When the sun came up and warmed up, the trees and grasses were covered with such strong dew, the fir branches looked out of the dark forest with such luminous patterns that the diamonds of all our land would not be enough for this decoration.
Especially good was the queen sparkling from top to bottom - pine. Joy jumped in my chest like a young dog.
Mikhail Prishvin "Late Autumn"
Autumn lasts like a narrow path with steep turns. Then frost, then rain, and suddenly snow, like in winter, a white blizzard with a howl, and again the sun, again warm and green. In the distance, at the very end, there is a birch tree with golden leaves: as if frozen, it remains, and the wind can no longer rip off the last leaves from it - everything that could be torn off.
The latest autumn is when the mountain ash shrivels from frost and becomes, as they say, “sweet”. At this time, the latest autumn converges so closely with the earliest spring that you can only recognize the difference between autumn and spring days by yourself - in the fall you think: “I’ll survive this winter and rejoice at another spring.”
Mikhail Prishvin "Living drops"
It snowed a lot yesterday. And it melted a little, but the large drops of yesterday froze, and today it’s not cold, but it’s not melting either, and the drops hang as if alive, they shine, and the sky is gray in weight - it’s about to fly ...
I was wrong: the drops on the balcony are alive!
Mikhail Prishvin "In the city"
What is drizzling from above and the abyss in the air - you no longer pay attention to that. Water trembling in electric light, and shadows on it: a man walks on the other side, and his shadow is here: the head passes along the water trembling.
During the night, thank God, good snow fell, from the window in the morning darkness by the light of lanterns you can see how the janitors gloriously poured snow from shovels, which means it’s not wet yet.
Yesterday, in the middle of the day, the puddles began to freeze slightly, black ice began, and Muscovites began to fall.
Mikhail Prishvin "Life is immortal"
The time has come: the frost has ceased to be afraid of the warm sky, covered with heavy gray clouds. This evening I stood over a cold river and understood in my heart that everything in nature was over, that, perhaps, in accordance with the frost, snow would fall to the earth from the sky. It seemed that the last breath was leaving the earth.
By evening it was getting colder over the river and gradually everything disappeared into darkness. Only the cold river remained, and alder cones in the sky, the very ones that remain hanging on bare branches all winter. The frost at dawn lasted a long time.
The streams from the wheels of the car turned into a transparent crust of ice with oak leaves frozen into it, the bushes by the road turned white, like a blooming cherry orchard. The frost stayed that way until the sun overcame.
Then he received support and grew stronger, and everything on earth became blue, as in the sky.
How quickly time flies. How long ago did I make this gate in the fence, and now the spider has tied the upper ends of the grate with cobwebs in many rows, and the frost has altered the cobweb sieve into white lace.
Everywhere in the forest is this news: every mesh of the web has become lacy. The ants fell asleep, the anthill froze over, and it was covered with yellow leaves.
For some reason, the last leaves on the birch gather at the top of the head, like the last hair of a bald man. And the whole white birch that has flown around stands like a red panicle. These last leaves, it happens, remain as a sign that those leaves that have fallen have fallen off for good reason and will rise again in the new spring.
Mikhail Prishvin "My Motherland"
(From childhood memories)
My mother got up early, before the sun. Once I also got up before the sun ... Mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in an earthenware pot and was always covered with a ruddy froth on top, and under this froth it was unusually tasty, and tea from it became excellent.
This treat decided my life in a good way: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning rising that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.
Then I got up early in the city, and now I always write early, when the whole animal and plant world wakes up and also begins to work in its own way.
And often, often I think: what if we rose with the sun for our work! How much health, joy, life and happiness would then come to people!
After tea I went hunting...
My hunting was then and now - in the finds. It was necessary to find in nature something that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one else had ever met with this in their life ...
My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is the pantry of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only can these treasures be protected, they must be opened and shown.
Fish need clean water - we will protect our reservoirs. There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains.
Fish - water, bird - air, beast - forest, steppe, mountains. And a man needs a home. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland.
Mikhail Prishvin "Squirrel Memory"
Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since autumn, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran a dozen meters, dived again, again left the shell on the snow and after a few meters she made the third climb.
What a miracle You can't think that she could smell a nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. So, since the fall, she remembered her nuts and the exact distance between them.
But the most amazing thing is that she could not measure centimeters, as we do, but directly by eye with accuracy determined, dived and pulled out. Well, how could one not envy the squirrel's memory and ingenuity!
Mikhail Prishvin "Gadgets"
I got a speck in my eye. While I was taking it out, a speck still got into the other eye.
Then I noticed that the wind was carrying sawdust on me and they immediately lay down a path in the direction of the wind. So, in the direction from which the wind was, someone was working on a dry tree.
I went into the wind along this white path of sawdust and soon saw that these were the two smallest tits, nuts, gray with black stripes on white plump cheeks, working with their noses on dry wood and getting insects for themselves in rotten wood. The work went on so briskly that the birds, before my eyes, went deeper and deeper into the tree. I patiently looked at them through binoculars, until at last only a tail remained in sight from one nut. Then I quietly went in from the other side, crept up and covered the place where the tail sticks out with my palm. The bird in the hollow did not make a single movement and immediately seemed to die. I took the hand, touched the tail with my finger - it lies, does not move; stroked his finger along the back - lies like a dead woman. And another Gadget was sitting on a branch two or three paces away and squeaking.
One could guess that she was trying to persuade her friend to lie as still as possible. “You,” she said, “lie down and be silent, and I will squeak near him, he will chase me, I will fly, and then do not yawn.”
I did not torture the bird, stepped aside and watched what would happen next. I had to stand for quite a long time, because the loose nut saw me and warned the prisoner: “It’s better to lie down a bit, otherwise he’s standing nearby and watching.”
So I stood for a very long time, until finally the loose nut squeaked in a special voice, as I guess:
- Get out, there's nothing you can do: it's worth it.
The tail is gone. A head with a black stripe on the cheek appeared. Squeaked:
- Where is he?
“There it is,” squeaked another, “see?
“Ah, I see,” the prisoner squeaked.
And fluttered out.
They flew off only a few steps and, probably, managed to whisper to each other:
"Let's see, maybe he's gone."
Sit on the top branch. We peered.
“Worth it,” said one.
“Worth it,” said another.
And they flew away.
Mikhail Prishvin "Bear"
Many people think that you can only go to the forest, where there are a lot of bears, and so they will pounce and eat you, and the legs and horns of the goat will remain.
This is such a lie!
Bears, like any other animal, walk through the forest with great caution, and, smelling a person, they run away from him so that not only the whole animal, but you won’t even see a flash of a tail.
Once in the north they pointed out to me a place where there are a lot of bears. This place was in the upper reaches of the Koda River, which flows into the Pinega. I did not want to kill the bear at all, and there was no time to hunt for it: they hunt in winter, but I came to Koda in early spring, when the bears had already left their dens.
I really wanted to catch a bear eating, somewhere in a clearing, or fishing on the river bank, or on vacation. Having a weapon just in case, I tried to walk through the forest as carefully as animals, hiding near warm footprints; more than once it seemed to me that I even smelled of a bear ... But no matter how much I walked around, I did not manage to meet the bear itself this time.
It finally happened, my patience ran out, and the time came for me to leave.
I went to the place where I had hidden the boat and provisions.
Suddenly I see: a large spruce paw in front of me trembled and swayed.
“Some kind of animal,” I thought.
Taking my bags, I got into the boat and swam.
And just opposite the place where I got into the boat, on the other side, very steep and high, in a small hut lived one commercial hunter.
In an hour or two this hunter rode his boat down the Coda, overtook me, and found me in that hut halfway where everyone stops.
It was he who told me that from his shore he saw a bear, how he waved out of the taiga just opposite the place from where I came out to my boat.
It was then that I remembered how, in complete calm, spruce paws swayed in front of me.
I felt annoyed at myself for making a noise at the bear. But the hunter also told me that the bear not only eluded my eyes, but also laughed at me ... It turns out that he ran very close to me, hid behind an eversion, and from there, standing on his hind legs, watched me: and how I came out of the forest, and how I got into the boat and swam. And then, when I closed myself to him, I climbed a tree and watched me for a long time as I went down the Coda.
- So long, - said the hunter, - that I got tired of looking and I went to drink tea in the hut.
I was annoyed that the bear laughed at me.
But it happens even more annoyingly when various talkers frighten children with forest animals and represent them in such a way that if you appear only in the forest without a weapon, they will leave only horns and legs from you.
