Boris Zhitkov had the first Afghan Hound. Encyclopedia for little ones

Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov (), Russian Soviet writer, author of numerous books for children

Vitaly Bianchi A sea navigator who has seen half of the countries of the globe, a shipbuilding engineer, an inventor, a real “jack of all trades”, a disinterested friend of all workers, a man of comprehensive knowledge, vast life experience and, moreover, endowed with an amazing gift for storytelling and great talent as an artist, what is surprising that such a person finally takes up a pen and, taking it, immediately creates books that are unparalleled in world literature.

Youth After graduating from the gymnasium, B. Zhitkov entered the natural department of the Novorossiysk University, from where he was expelled twice for participating in student riots. In 1905 he took part in revolutionary events in Odessa. He graduated from the university and sailed as a sailor and navigator on sailboats in the Black, Mediterranean and Red Seas, participated in an expedition along the Yenisei, having managed to graduate from a nautical school and receive the title of long-distance navigation navigator; lectured on chemistry and physics at evening courses for workers in St. Petersburg. In St. Petersburg, he studied at the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute at the shipbuilding department.

Professions He returned to Odessa in 1917, worked as an engineer in the port, headed a technical school, taught at the workers' faculty. He changed many professions: ichthyologist, navigator of a sailboat, metal worker, naval officer and engineer, captain of a research vessel, teacher of physics and drawing, head of a technical school. After graduating from the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute in 1916 with a diploma in shipbuilding, he was called up for military service and sent to England and France as an inspector for the acceptance of motors for Russian submarines and aircraft.

Literary activity Having moved to Petrograd, he took up literary activity; Since 1924 he was published in the collection of stories "Evil Sea", also collaborated in the magazine "Sparrow", later "New Robinson", in the collections "Soviet Guys", worked for some time in the magazine "Hedgehog". He was a member of the Writers' Union. Sea stories Fairy tales Science and fiction books Works for children

Works for children Zhitkov played a big role in the formation of Soviet children's literature: he introduced strict realism into it, a respectful conversation with a teenager about heroism and self-exactingness; he knew how to show the beauty and creative power of labor. He also wrote Stories about Animals (1935) and several short stories for the youngest readers. Collaborated in many children's newspapers and magazines: Lenin sparks, New Robinson, Hedgehog, Chizh, Young Naturalist, etc. He also wrote for the smallest readers: Pudya, Metel, etc.

Total B.S. Zhitkov wrote 192 works in fourteen and a half years of literary work, counting by titles, that is, summing up both large things and small stories for preschoolers. Including: 74 essays, 59 novels and short stories, 38 short stories for preschoolers, 7 major works, 14 articles. Of the total number written by B.S. Zhitkov's works 8 remained unpublished, and 29 were published after the death of the writer.

The last years of his life He died on October 19, 1938 in Moscow. He was buried at the Vagankovsky cemetery. In 1934, Boris Stepanovich moved from Leningrad to Moscow. He was still full of new ideas, collaborated in almost all of the then children's magazines: in "Hedgehog", "Chizh", "Pioneer", "Young Naturalist", "Bonfire", "Cricket" ... He managed to write an encyclopedic book for small "Why" ("What I saw"), which came out after the death of the writer. 17

Sources: Glotser, V. About Boris Zhitkov / V. Glotser // Selected / Boris Zhitkov, comp., entry. Art. and note. V. Glotsera; ill. A. Breya [i dr.]. - M .: Education, - S Svetlovskaya, N.N. Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov / N.N. Svetlovskaya // Meetings with writers / N.N. Svetlovskaya.- M. : Enlightenment, S (Link to

In Siberia, in a dense forest, in the taiga, a Tungus hunter lived with his whole family in a leather tent. Once he went out of the house to break firewood, he sees: on the ground there are traces of an elk. The hunter was delighted, ran home, took his gun and knife and said to his wife:

Don't wait back soon - I'll go for the elk.

So he followed the footsteps, suddenly he sees more footprints - bearish ones. And where the elk footprints lead, the bear footprints lead there.

"Hey," the hunter thought, "I'm not following the elk alone, the elk bear is chasing me ahead of me. I can't catch up with them. The bear will catch the elk before me."

Still, the hunter followed in the footsteps. He walked for a long time, he already ate the entire supply, which he took with him from home, but everything goes on and on. The tracks began to rise uphill, but the forest does not thin out, it is still just as dense.

The hunter is hungry, exhausted, but he goes on and looks under his feet, so as not to lose traces. And along the way pines lie, piled up by a storm, stones overgrown with grass. The hunter is tired, stumbles, barely pulls his legs. And everything looks: where is the grass crushed, where is the earth crushed by a deer hoof?

“I have already climbed high,” the hunter thinks, “where is the end of this mountain.”

Suddenly he hears: someone champs. The hunter hid and crawled quietly. And I forgot that I was tired, where did my strength come from. The hunter was crawling, and now he sees: very rarely there are trees, and here the end of the mountain - it converges at an angle - and on the right is a cliff, and on the left is a cliff. And in the very corner lies a huge bear, eating the elk, grumbling, chomping and not smelling the hunter.

"Aha," thought the hunter, "you drove the elk here, into the very corner, and then he got stuck. Stop!"

The hunter got up, knelt down and began to aim at the bear.

Then the bear saw him, got scared, wanted to run, ran to the edge, and there was a cliff. The bear roared. Then the hunter fired at him with a gun and killed him.

The hunter tore off the skin from the bear, and cut the meat and hung it on a tree so that the wolves would not get it. The hunter ate bear meat and hurry home.

I put down the tent and went with the whole family, where I left the bear meat.

Here, - the hunter said to his wife, - eat, and I will rest.

Hunters and dogs

The hunter got up early in the morning, took a gun, cartridges, a bag, called his two dogs and went to shoot hares.

It was very cold, but there was no wind at all. The hunter was skiing and warmed up from walking. He was warm.

The dogs ran ahead and chased the hares at the hunter. The hunter deftly shot and filled five pieces. Then he noticed that he had gone too far.

"It's time to go home," thought the hunter. - Traces are visible from my skis, and before it gets dark, I will follow the tracks home. I’ll cross the ravine, and it’s not far there.”

He went downstairs and saw that the ravine was black with jackdaws. They sat right on the snow. The hunter realized that something was wrong.

And it is true: he had just left the ravine, when the wind blew, it began to snow, and a snowstorm began. There was nothing to be seen ahead, the tracks were covered with snow. The hunter whistled to the dogs.

If the dogs don't lead me to the road, he thought, I'm lost. Where to go, I don’t know, I’ll get lost, it will cover me with snow, and I will freeze.”

He let the dogs go forward, and the dogs would run back five steps - and the hunter could not see where to go after them. Then he took off his belt, untied all the straps and ropes that were on it, tied the dogs by the collar and let them go forward. The dogs dragged him, and on skis, as if on a sleigh, he came to his village.

He gave each dog a whole hare, then took off his shoes and lay down on the stove. And he kept thinking:

"If not for the dogs, I would be lost today."

Fire

Petya lived with his mother and sisters on the top floor, and the teacher lived on the bottom floor. That time my mother went to swim with the girls. And Petya was left alone to guard the apartment.

When everyone left, Petya began to try his homemade cannon. She was from an iron tube. Petya filled the middle with gunpowder, and there was a hole in the back to light the gunpowder. But no matter how hard Petya tried, he could not set it on fire in any way. Petya was very angry. He went into the kitchen. He put wood chips into the Stove, poured kerosene over them, put a cannon on top and lit it. "Now it will probably shoot!"

The fire flared up, buzzed in the stove - and suddenly, how a shot would bang! Yes, such that all the fire was thrown out of the stove.

Petya got scared and ran out of the house. Nobody was at home, nobody heard anything. Petya ran away. He thought that maybe everything would go out on its own. And nothing faded. And it flared up even more.

The teacher was walking home and saw smoke coming from the upper windows. He ran to the post, where a button was made behind the glass. This is a call to the fire department. The teacher broke the glass and pressed the button.

The fire brigade rang. They quickly rushed to their fire trucks and rushed at full speed. They drove up to the pole, and there the teacher showed them where the fire was burning. The firefighters had a pump in their cars. The pump began to pump water, and firefighters began to fill the fire with water from rubber pipes. Firefighters put ladders to the windows and climbed into the house to find out if there were people left in the house. There was no one in the house. The firemen began to take things out.

Petya's mother came running when the whole apartment was already on fire. The policeman did not let anyone close, so as not to interfere with the firemen.

The most necessary things did not have time to burn down, and the firemen brought them to Petya's mother.

And Petya's mother kept crying and saying that, probably, Petya burned down, because he was nowhere to be seen.

And Petya was ashamed, and he was afraid to approach his mother. The boys saw him and forcibly brought him.

The firefighters put out the fire so well that nothing on the lower floor burned down. The firefighters got into their cars and drove away. And the teacher let Petya's mother live with him until the house was repaired.

On an ice floe

In winter, the sea is frozen. The fishermen of the collective farm gathered on the ice to fish. We took the nets and rode on a sledge on the ice. Andrey the fisherman also went, and with him his son Volodya. We went far, far away. And wherever you look, everything is ice and ice: the sea is so frozen. Andrei and his comrades drove the farthest. They made holes in the ice and began to launch nets through them. The day was sunny and everyone had fun. Volodya helped untangle the fish from the nets and was very happy that a lot was being caught. Already large heaps of frozen fish lay on the ice. Volodin's father said:

Enough, time to go home.

But everyone began to ask to stay overnight and catch again in the morning. In the evening they ate, wrapped themselves more tightly in sheepskin coats, and went to bed in the sleigh. Volodya snuggled up to his father to keep him warm, and fell asleep soundly.

Suddenly at night the father jumped up and shouted:

Comrades, get up! Look, what a wind! There would be no trouble!

Everyone jumped up and ran.

Why are we rocking? shouted Volodya.

And the father shouted:

Trouble! We were torn off and carried on an ice floe into the sea.

All the fishermen ran on the ice floe and shouted:

Tore off, tore off!

And someone shouted:

Gone!

Volodya cried. During the day, the wind became even stronger, the waves splashed on the ice floe, and all around was only the sea. Papa Volodin tied a mast out of two poles, tied a red shirt at the end and set it up like a flag. Everyone looked to see if there was a steamer anywhere. From fear, no one wanted to eat or drink. And Volodya lay in the sleigh and looked into the sky: if the sun would peep. And suddenly, in a clearing between the clouds, Volodya saw a plane and shouted:

Airplane! Airplane!

Everyone started shouting and waving their hats. A bag fell off the plane. It contained food and a note: "Hold on! Help is coming!" An hour later, a steamboat arrived and reloaded people, sledges, horses and fish. It was the head of the port who found out that eight fishermen were carried away on the ice floe. He sent a ship and a plane to help them. The pilot found the fishermen and on the radio told the captain of the ship where to go.

Myshkin

Here I will tell you how I took revenge, the only time in my life, and took revenge bloodily, without opening my teeth, and kept a stale spirit in my chest until I pulled the trigger.

His name was Myshkin, my deceased cat. He was all gray, without a single spot, mouse-colored, hence his name. He was not a year old. My boy brought it to me in a bag. Myshkin did not jump wildly out of the bag, he stuck out his round head and looked around attentively. He carefully, unhurriedly, got out of the bag, stepped onto the floor, dusted himself off and began to clean up the wool with his tongue. He walked around the room, wriggling and agitated, and it was felt that the soft, caressing fluff would instantly, like lightning, turn into a steel spring. He kept looking into my face and attentively, without fear, followed my movements. I very soon learned him to give a paw, to go whistling. I finally taught him to jump on his shoulders with a conventional whistle - I learned this when we walked together along the autumn coast, among high yellow weeds, wet ruts and slimy landslides. Deaf clay cliff, for miles without housing. Myshkin searched, disappeared in this robber weed, and this weed, damp and dead, was still waving his bare hands in the wind, when everything was already gone, and still did not wait for happiness. I whistled as we agreed, and now Myshkin jumps in high waves through the weeds and claws his back with a swing, and now he is on his shoulder, and I feel warm soft wool near my ear. And I rubbed my cold ear and tried to hide it deeper in warm wool.

I went around with a rifle, hoping that I might be able to shoot the leporich - the French rabbit - that lived wildly in holes here. It's a hopeless business to hit a rabbit with a bullet! After all, he will not sit and wait for a shot, like a plywood target in a shooting range. But I knew what hunger and fear do wonders. And there were already frosts, and the fish in our shores ceased to be caught. And freezing rain splashed from low clouds. The empty sea, like a muddy red wave, was uselessly landing on the shore day and night, without interruption. And I wanted to eat every day in the morning. And a nauseous shiver made its way every time I went out and the wind slammed the door behind me. I returned three hours later without a single shot and put the rifle in a corner. The boy boiled the shells that he collected during this time: they were plucked from the stones and thrown ashore by the surf.

But here's what happened then: Myshkin suddenly stretched himself all forward on my shoulder, he was balancing on his gathered paws, and suddenly he fired - he fired himself, so that I staggered from an unexpected push. I stopped. Buryan staggered ahead, and I followed Myshkin's movements from him. Now he has become. The weeds swayed steadily with the wind. And suddenly a squeak, a thin squeak, not like a child, not like a bird. I ran ahead. Myshkin crushed the rabbit with his paw, he bit into the scruff of his teeth and froze, tensing up. It seemed that if you touched it, blood would spurt out of it. He looked up at me for a moment with piercing eyes. The rabbit was still fighting. But then he twitched for the last time and froze, stretched out. Myshkin jumped up on his paws, he pretended that I was not around, he trotted anxiously with a rabbit in his teeth. But I managed to take a step and stepped on the rabbit's paws. Myshkin grumbled, so evil! Nothing! I sat down and pried his jaws open with my hands. I said "tubo" at the same time. No, Myshkin didn't scratch me. He stood at his feet and stared at his prey with fierce eyes. I quickly cut off the paw with a knife and threw it to Myshkin. He jumped high into the weeds. I put the rabbit in my pocket and sat down on a rock. I wanted to go home as soon as possible - to brag that we were with the booty. What are your shells worth! The rabbit, however, was small! But boil yes two potatoes, hey! I was about to whistle Myshkin, but he himself came out of the weeds. He licked his lips, his eyes were wild.

He didn't look at me. The tail waggled to the sides in an uneven whip. I got up and went. Myshkin galloped after me, I heard it.

Finally I decided to whistle. Myshkin hit my back like a stone with a running start and was instantly on my shoulder. He purred and measured my overcoat with his claws. He rubbed his head against my ear, he butted my temple with his furry forehead.

Seven times I told the boy about hunting. When they went to bed, he asked for more. Myshkin slept, as always, sitting on me over the blanket.

Since then, things have gone better: we once returned even with a couple of rabbits. Myshkin was accustomed to the division and almost without protest gave the booty.

And then one day, early in the morning, I looked out the rain-stained window, at the muddy clouds, at the wet, empty vegetable garden and slowly smoked a cigarette from the last tobacco. Suddenly a scream, a sharp cry of mortal despair. I immediately recognized that it was Myshkin. I looked around: where, where? And now the owl, spreading its wings, plans under the cliff, something gray in its claws, beating.

No, not a rabbit, this is Myshkin. I didn't remember when I grabbed the rifle along the way, but no, it took it steeply down the cliff, there was nothing to shoot at. I ran to the cliff: here the wind carried the gray fluff. It can be seen that Myshkin did not immediately give in. How did I miss? After all, it was almost before our eyes, here, in front of the window, twenty steps away? I know that she must have done with him like with a hare: with her outstretched paws she seized his ass and shoulders, jerked sharply to break his spine, and pecked him alive in her nest.

The next day, just a little more dawn, I left the house. I walked at random, without stepping almost. Be careful, sneak around. Teeth were clenched, and what an evil head on his shoulders! I carefully searched the entire shore. It was already almost light, but I could not return home. We didn't talk to the boy all day yesterday. He boiled shells, but I didn't eat. He was still asleep when I left. And I did not stroke my chain dog in response to his greetings; he squealed with bitterness.

I walked towards the house with the same tense gait. I didn't know how I would enter the house. The doghouse is already visible from behind the hillock, here is the stump from the last acacia cut down for firewood. Wait, what is that on the stump? She! She was sitting on a stump, dull white, sitting opposite my chicken coop, which is under the window.

I slowed down. Now she turned her head towards me. There were sixty steps left. I quietly dropped to my knees. She kept looking. I slowly, like a glass of water, began to raise the rifle. Now she will be on the fly. She sits as still as a target, and I can see her eyes perfectly. They are like daisies, with a black heart-pupil. Take under it, a little lower than the legs. I froze and gently pressed the trigger.

And suddenly the owl seemed to remember that she had forgotten something at home, flapped her wings and flew low above the ground behind the house. I barely held my finger so as not to pull the trigger. I slammed the butt on the ground, and the gun creaked in my angry hands. I was ready to sit here until the next morning. I know that the wind would not have chilled my anger, and then I could not even think about food.

I wandered until evening, slipping and falling on these clay mounds. I even whistled once, like Myshkin, but I immediately became so angry with myself that I ran away from the place where it happened to me.

I came home when it was dark. There was no light in the room. I don't know if the boy was asleep. Maybe I woke him up. Then he asked me in the dark: what kind of owl eggs? I said I'll draw tomorrow.

And in the morning ... Wow! In the morning I figured out exactly which side to approach. Just so that the brightening sunrise was in her eyes, and I was against the backdrop of the cliff. I found this place. It was quite dark, and I sat without moving. I only slightly moved the bolt to check if there were cartridges in the barrel. I'm petrified.

Only in my head there was rage, like love, like a motionless black flame, because only a boy in love could I sit all night on a bench in front of her house in order to see in the morning how she would go to school. Love warmed me then, as rage warmed me now.

It began to get light. I already distinguished the stump. There was no one on it. Or imagining? No, nobody. I heard my dog ​​come out of the booth, dust himself off, rattling his chain. The rooster crowed in the chicken coop. Dawn was fading. But now I see the stump clearly. It's empty. I decided to close my eyes and count to three thousand and then take a look. I could not count to five hundred and opened my eyes: they looked directly at the stump, and she was sitting on the stump. She had evidently just sat down, she was still shifting. But the rifle itself rose. I stopped breathing. I remember this moment, the sight, the fly and her above it. At that moment, she turned her head towards me with her daisies, and the gun fired by itself. I breathed like a dog and looked. I didn't know if she fell off or fell. I jumped to my feet and ran.

Behind the stump, spreading her wings, she lay. Her eyes were open, and she was still moving her upturned paws, as if in defense. For a few seconds I did not take my eyes off and suddenly with all my strength stomped the butt on this head, on this beak.

I turned around, I took a deep breath for the first time in all this time.

A boy stood at the door with his mouth open. He heard a shot.

Her? He was hoarse with excitement.

Look, - and I nodded back.

This day we collected shells together.

Metro

How do they travel underground?

My mother and I looked at the firefighters and the trams that run without rails, but right on the asphalt.

Mom said that such trams are called trolleybuses. They have rubber wheels like cars.

I speak:

Why no rails?

And mom says:

This is without rails! Here and underground trams run.

And I said:

There is no underground, there is earth.

And mom says:

Did you go to the cellar? And the cellar is also underground. And in Moscow they dug a big, big cellar. Long-long. And on one side is the entrance, and on the other side is the entrance. And in this cellar they laid rails and launched a tram. He runs from one entrance to another. People will enter one entrance, they will sit on the tram. He will run underground and run to another entrance. And there is a ladder. People will get off the tram and go up the stairs and out into the street. Here, let's go now.

And I say:

Don't want.

Mom says:

Why? What nonsense!

And I say:

It's dark and earthy.

But my mother did not listen and asked my aunt:

Can you tell me where the subway is?

Aunt pointed her finger at our house, where my room with my mother is.

And mom says:

Yes, yes, I see. Thank you!

How do I ride the subway

Mom and I went and went through the door. There is a large room, and there are booths. And in the booths there are windows. And people come up and buy tickets. Mom also bought a ticket, and we went down the stairs. And all the people also went down the stairs.

I thought - now the earth will begin and there will be a cellar. Then I won’t go and start crying, and my mother will go back anyway. And there was no land, but there was a corridor. Only very wide and very white.

The electricity is on, the lamps are large, and many, many, and the walls are shining. And the floor is stone, yellowish and also very smooth. And there is no land.

And then everyone went to the stairs. And when my mother and I approached, my mother became afraid. There, the floor runs forward, right onto the stairs. One uncle stepped onto this floor; just became, and went.

And one aunt came up to her mother and said:

Don't be afraid! Walk right away! Once!

And she grabbed her mother's hand. Mom took a step and pulled me. And we went.

And the floor where my mother and I stood sank, and it turned out that we were standing on a step, and the aunt who pulled us was on another step. And the stairs go down. And there are also steps ahead, and uncles, and aunts, and more boys are standing on them. And everyone goes down the steps. And one uncle did not want to go just like that, and he also ran up the stairs.

And when we arrived, the steps again became like a floor. And we went forward on this floor.

Then my mother grabbed me in her arms and jumped to the real floor. He doesn't walk, he stands. We arrived at the underground station. And still there is no land there, but a very large station. Very light. People are walking. And we went to the platform. There is also electricity. And a lot of people.

But there was no tram: it had not yet arrived.

On the platform to the very edge, the policeman does not let you walk, because you can fall. There, below, the rails, and you can hurt yourself. Suddenly it went off. I saw that it was buzzing, and there was a round gate, and it was dark in the gate. I thought - there, probably, a cellar. And from there the tram jumped out - it was he who made noise - and ran up to the very platform, very long. He became.

Mom and I approached, and suddenly the doors parted on their own, and it became possible to enter. There are sofas, electricity is on, and everything shines like silver. Then the doors closed on their own. And we went.

I looked out the window, and still there was no earth, but a white wall, and all the light bulbs were on. And then we stopped, the doors opened again, and my mother and I went out. And then there is the station again. And then they went up the stairs and out into the street.

Brave duck

Every morning, the hostess brought the ducklings a full plate of chopped eggs. She put the plate near the bush, and she left.

As soon as the ducklings ran up to the plate, suddenly a large dragonfly flew out of the garden and began to circle above them.

She chirped so terribly that frightened ducklings ran away and hid in the grass. They were afraid that the dragonfly would bite them all.

And the evil dragonfly sat on the plate, tasted the food and then flew away. After that, the ducklings did not approach the plate for a whole day. They were afraid that the dragonfly would fly again. In the evening, the hostess cleaned the plate and said: "Our ducklings must be sick, they don't eat anything." She did not know that the ducklings went to bed hungry every night.

Once, their neighbor, a little duckling Alyosha, came to visit the ducklings. When the ducklings told him about the dragonfly, he began to laugh.

Well, the brave ones! - he said. - I alone will drive this dragonfly away. Here you will see tomorrow.

You boast, - said the ducklings, - tomorrow you will be the first to be scared and run.

The next morning the hostess, as always, put a plate of chopped eggs on the ground and left.

Well, look, - said the brave Alyosha, - now I will fight with your dragonfly.

As soon as he said this, a dragonfly suddenly buzzed. Right on top, she flew onto the plate.

The ducklings wanted to run away, but Alyosha was not afraid. Before the dragonfly had time to sit on the plate, Alyosha grabbed it by the wing with his beak. She pulled away with force and flew away with a broken wing.

Since then, she never flew into the garden, and the ducklings ate their fill every day. They not only ate themselves, but also treated the brave Alyosha for saving them from the dragonfly.

Evening

The cow Masha goes to look for her son, the calf Alyoshka. Don't see him anywhere. Where did he disappear to? It's time to go home.

And the calf Alyoshka ran, got tired, lay down in the grass. The grass is tall - you can't see Alyoshka.

The cow Masha was frightened that her son Alyoshka was gone, and how she hums with all her strength:

Masha was milked at home, a whole bucket of fresh milk was milked. They poured Alyoshka into a bowl:

Here, drink, Alyoshka.

Alyoshka was delighted - he had wanted milk for a long time - he drank everything to the bottom and licked the bowl with his tongue.

Alyoshka got drunk, he wanted to run around the yard. As soon as he ran, suddenly a puppy jumped out of the booth - and bark at Alyoshka. Alyoshka was frightened: it must be a terrible beast, if it barks so loudly. And he started to run.

Alyoshka ran away, and the puppy did not bark anymore. Quiet became a circle. Alyoshka looked - there was no one, everyone went to sleep. And I wanted to sleep. I lay down and fell asleep in the yard.

The cow Masha also fell asleep on the soft grass.

The puppy also fell asleep at his booth - he was tired, he barked all day.

The boy Petya also fell asleep in his bed - he was tired, he ran all day.

The bird has long since fallen asleep.

She fell asleep on a branch and hid her head under the wing so that it would be warmer to sleep. Also tired. She flew all day, catching midges.

Everyone is asleep, everyone is sleeping.

Only the night wind does not sleep.

It rustles in the grass and rustles in the bushes.

Wolf

One collective farmer woke up early in the morning, looked out the window at the yard, and there was a wolf in his yard. The wolf stood near the barn and scraped the door with his paw. And there were sheep in the barn.

The collective farmer grabbed a shovel - and into the yard. He wanted to hit the wolf on the head from behind. But the wolf instantly turned and caught the shovel by the handle with his teeth.

The collective farmer began to snatch the shovel from the wolf. It wasn't there! The wolf clung so tightly with his teeth that he couldn't tear it out.

The collective farmer began to call for help, but at home they sleep, they do not hear.

“Well,” the collective farmer thinks, “the wolf will not hold a shovel for a century; but when he releases it, I will break his head with a shovel.”

And the wolf began to sort out the handle with his teeth and closer and closer to the collective farmer ...

“Let the shovel go?” the collective farmer thinks. “The wolf will also throw a shovel at me. I won’t even have time to run away.”

And the wolf is getting closer and closer. The collective farmer sees: things are bad - that way the wolf will soon grab the hand.

The collective farmer gathered with all his strength and how he would throw the wolf along with the shovel over the fence, but rather into the hut.

The wolf ran away. And the collective farmer at home woke everyone up.

After all, - he says, - a wolf nearly got stuck under your window. Eco sleep!

How, - asks the wife, - did you manage?

And I, - says the collective farmer, - threw him over the fence.

The wife looked, and behind the fence there was a shovel; all gnawed by wolf teeth.

Jackdaw

My brother and sister had a hand jackdaw. She ate from the hands, was given to stroke, flew away into the wild and flew back.

That time the sister began to wash. She took the ring off her hand, put it on the washbasin, and lathered her face with soap. And when she rinsed the soap, she looked: where is the ring? And there is no ring.

She called out to her brother:

Give me the ring, don't tease! Why did you take it?

I didn't take anything, - answered the brother.

His sister quarreled with him and wept.

Grandma heard.

What do you have here? - speaks. - Give me glasses, now I will find this ring.

Rushed to look for points - no points.

I just put them on the table, - the grandmother is crying. - Where do they go? How can I thread a needle now?

And screamed at the boy.

This is your business! Why are you teasing grandma?

The boy got offended and ran out of the house. He looks - and a jackdaw flies over the roof, and something glitters under her beak. I looked closer - yes, these are glasses! The boy hid behind a tree and began to look. And the jackdaw sat on the roof, looked around to see if anyone could see, and began to push glasses on the roof with her beak into the crack.

Grandma came out onto the porch, says to the boy:

Tell me, where are my glasses?

On the roof! - said the boy.

Grandma was surprised. And the boy climbed onto the roof and pulled out his grandmother's glasses from the crack. Then he pulled out the ring. And then he took out glasses, and then a lot of different money pieces.

The grandmother was delighted with the glasses, and the sister gave the ring and said to her brother:

Forgive me, I thought of you, and this is a jackdaw thief.

And reconciled with my brother.

Grandma said:

That's all they are, jackdaws and magpies. What glitters, everything is dragged.

How an elephant saved its owner from a tiger

Hindus have tame elephants. One Hindu went with an elephant to the forest for firewood.

The forest was deaf and wild. The elephant paved the way for the owner and helped to fell the trees, and the owner loaded them onto the elephant.

Suddenly, the elephant stopped obeying the owner, began to look around, shake his ears, and then raised his trunk and roared.

The owner also looked around, but did not notice anything.

He became angry with the elephant and beat him on the ears with a branch.

And the elephant bent the trunk with a hook to lift the owner onto his back. The owner thought: "I will sit on his neck - so it will be even more convenient for me to rule him."

He sat on the elephant and began to whip the elephant on the ears with a branch. And the elephant backed away, stomped and twirled its trunk. Then he froze and became worried.

The owner raised a branch to hit the elephant with all his strength, but suddenly a huge tiger jumped out of the bushes. He wanted to attack the elephant from behind and jump on its back.

But he hit the firewood with his paws, the firewood fell down. The tiger wanted to jump another time, but the elephant had already turned around, grabbed the tiger across the abdomen with its trunk, and squeezed it like a thick rope. The tiger opened its mouth, stuck out its tongue and shook its paws.

And the elephant already lifted him up, then slammed to the ground and began to stomp his feet.

And the elephant's legs are like pillars. And the elephant trampled the tiger into a cake. When the owner came to his senses from fear, he said:

What a fool I am for beating an elephant! And he saved my life.

The owner took out the bread that he had prepared for himself from the bag and gave it all to the elephant.

Mug under the tree

The boy took a net - a wicker net - and went to the lake to fish.

He caught the blue fish first. Blue, shiny, with red feathers, with round eyes. The eyes are like buttons. And the tail of the fish is just like silk: blue, thin, golden hairs.

The boy took a mug, a small mug made of thin glass. He scooped water from the lake into a mug, put a fish in a mug - let him swim for now.

The fish gets angry, beats, breaks out, and the boy is more likely to put it in a mug - bang!

The boy quietly took the fish by the tail, threw it into a mug - not to be seen at all. I ran on myself.

"Here," he thinks, "wait, I'll catch a fish, a big crucian."

Whoever catches the fish, the first one to catch it, will do well. Just don’t grab it right away, don’t swallow it: there are prickly fish - ruff, for example. Bring, show. I myself will tell you what kind of fish to eat, what kind to spit out.

The ducklings flew and swam in all directions. And one swam the farthest. He climbed ashore, dusted himself off and went waddling. What if there are fish on the shore? He sees - there is a mug under the Christmas tree. There is water in a mug. "Let me take a look."

Fish in the water rush about, splash, poke, there is nowhere to get out - glass is everywhere. A duckling came up, sees - oh yes, fish! Picked up the biggest one. And more to my mother.

"I'm probably the first. I was the first to catch a fish, and I did well."

The fish is red, the feathers are white, two antennae hanging from the mouth, dark stripes on the sides, a speck on the scallop, like a black eye.

The duckling waved its wings, flew along the shore - straight to its mother.

The boy sees - a duck is flying, flying low, above his head, holding a fish in his beak, a red fish with a finger length. The boy shouted at the top of his lungs:

This is my fish! Thief duck, give it back now!

He waved his arms, threw stones, screamed so terribly that he scared away all the fish.

The duckling was frightened and how it screams:

Quack quack!

He shouted "quack-quack" and missed the fish.

The fish swam into the lake, into deep water, waved its feathers, swam home.

"How can I return to my mother with an empty beak?" - the duckling thought, turned back, flew under the Christmas tree.

He sees - there is a mug under the Christmas tree. A small mug, water in the mug, and fish in the water.

A duck ran up, rather grabbed a fish. Blue fish with a golden tail. Blue, shiny, with red feathers, with round eyes. The eyes are like buttons. And the tail of the fish is just like silk: blue, thin, golden hairs.

The duckling flew up higher and - rather to his mother.

“Well, now I won’t shout, I won’t open my beak. Since I was already open.”

Here you can see mom. That's quite close. And my mother shouted:

Damn, what are you wearing?

Quack, this is a fish, blue, gold, - a glass mug stands under the Christmas tree.

Here again, the beak gaped, and the fish splashed into the water! Blue fish with a golden tail. She shook her tail, whined and went, went, went deeper.

The duckling turned back, flew under the tree, looked into the mug, and in the mug there was a small, small fish, no bigger than a mosquito, you could barely see the fish. The duckling pecked into the water and flew back home with all his strength.

Where are your fish? - asked the duck. - I can not see anything.

And the duckling is silent, its beak does not open. He thinks: "I'm cunning! Wow, how cunning I am! Cunning than everyone! I'll be silent, otherwise I'll open my beak - I'll miss the fish. I dropped it twice."

And the fish in its beak beats with a thin mosquito, and climbs into the throat. The duckling was frightened: "Oh, it seems that I will swallow it now! Oh, it seems that I have swallowed it!"

The brothers have arrived. Each one has a fish. Everyone swam up to mom and popped their beaks. And the duck calls to the duckling:

Well, now you show me what you brought! The duckling opened its beak, but the fish did not.

white house

We lived on the sea, and my dad had a good boat with sails. I knew how to walk on it perfectly - both on oars and under sails. And still, my dad never let me into the sea alone. And I was twelve years old.

One day, my sister Nina and I found out that my father was leaving home for two days, and we started to go on a boat to the other side; and on the other side of the bay stood a very pretty house: little white, with a red roof. A grove grew around the house. We have never been there and thought it was very good. Probably, a kind old man and an old woman live. And Nina says that they certainly have a dog and also kind. And the old people, probably, eat yogurt and they will be delighted and they will give us yogurt.

And so we began to save up bread and water bottles. In the sea, after all, the water is salty, but what if you want to drink on the way?

So my father left in the evening, and we immediately poured water into bottles slowly from my mother. And then he asks: why? - and then everything was gone.

As soon as it dawned, Nina and I quietly climbed out of the window, took our bread and bottles with us into the boat. I set sail and we put out to sea. I sat like a captain, and Nina listened to me like a sailor.

The wind was light, and the waves were small, and Nina and I felt like we were on a big ship, we had supplies of water and food, and we were going to another country. I ruled straight for the red-roofed house. Then I told my sister to cook breakfast. She broke small pieces of bread and uncorked a bottle of water. She was still sitting at the bottom of the boat, and then, as she got up to give me something, and as she looked back at our shore, she screamed so much that I even shuddered:

Oh, our house is barely visible! - and wanted to cry.

I said:

Roar, but the old people's house is close.

She looked ahead and screamed even worse:

And the old people's house is far away: we did not drive up at all. And they left our house!

She began to roar, and out of spite I began to eat bread as if nothing had happened. She roared, and I said:

If you want to go back, jump overboard and swim home, and I'm going to the old people.

Then she drank from the bottle and fell asleep. And I'm still sitting at the helm, and the wind does not change and blows evenly. The boat runs smoothly and the water gurgles astern. The sun was already high.

And now I see that we are very close to the other side and the house is clearly visible. Now let Ninka wake up and take a look - she will be delighted! I looked where the dog was. But there were no dogs or old men to be seen.

Suddenly the boat stumbled, stopped and leaned on its side. I quickly lowered the sail so as not to capsize at all. Nina jumped up. Waking up, she did not know where she was, and stared, wide-eyed. I said:

Stuck in the sand. Ran aground. Now I'm going to sleep. And over there is the house.

But she was not happy with the house, but even more frightened. I undressed, jumped into the water and began to push.

I am exhausted, but the boat does not move. I leaned her on one side, then on the other side. I lowered the sails, but nothing helped.

Nina started screaming for the old man to help us. But it was far away, and no one came out. I ordered Ninka to jump out, but this did not make the boat any easier: the boat dug firmly into the sand. I tried to wade to the shore. But in all directions it was deep, no matter where you turn. And there was nowhere to go. And so far away that you can't swim.

And no one came out of the house. I ate bread, drank water and did not speak to Nina. And she was crying and saying:

I brought it in, now no one will find us here. Grounded in the middle of the sea. Captain! Mom will go crazy. You will see. Mom told me so: "If anything happens to you, I'll go crazy."

And I was silent. The wind has stopped completely. I took it and fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was completely dark. Ninka whimpered, huddled in her very nose, under the bench. I got to my feet, and the boat rocked easily and freely under my feet. I deliberately shook her harder. The boat is free. Here I am happy! Hooray! We got afloat. It was the wind that changed, caught up with the water, lifted the boat, and she went aground.

I looked around. In the distance, lights shone - many, many. It's on our shore: tiny, like sparks. I rushed to raise the sails. Nina jumped up and thought at first that I had lost my mind. But I didn't say anything.

And when he had already sent the boat to the lights, he said to her:

What, roar? Here we go home. And there is nothing to roar.

We walked all night. In the morning the wind stopped. But we were already under the shore. We rowed to the house. Mom was both angry and happy at once. But we begged her not to tell her father.

And then we found out that no one has been living in that house for a whole year.

Smoke

Nobody believes it. And the firemen say:

Smoke is worse than fire. A person runs away from fire, but is not afraid of smoke and climbs into it. And there it suffocates. And yet - nothing is visible in the smoke. It is not clear where to run, where are the doors, where are the windows. Smoke eats eyes, bites in the throat, stings in the nose.

And firefighters put masks on their faces, and air enters the mask through a tube. In such a mask, you can be in smoke for a long time, but you still can’t see anything.

And once firefighters extinguished the house. Residents ran out into the street. The chief fireman called out:

Well, count, is it all?

One tenant was missing.

And the man shouted:

Our Petka stayed in the room!

The senior firefighter sent a man in a mask to find Petka. The man entered the room.

There was no fire in the room yet, but it was full of smoke. The masked man searched the whole room, all the walls and shouted with all his might through the mask:

Petka, Petka! Come out, you'll burn! Give voice!

But no one answered. The man heard that the roof was falling, got scared and left.

Then the head fireman got angry:

Where is Petka?

I searched all the walls, - said the man.

Come on mask! - shouted the elder.

The man began to take off his mask. The elder sees: the ceiling is already on fire. No time to wait.

And the elder did not wait; dipped his mitten into the bucket, stuck it in his mouth, and threw himself into the smoke.

He immediately threw himself on the floor and began to fumble. I stumbled on the sofa and thought: "Probably, he huddled there, there is less smoke."

He reached under the sofa and felt for his legs. The chief fireman grabbed them and pulled them out of the room.

He pulled the man out onto the porch. This was Petka. And the fireman stood and staggered. So the smoke caught him.

Just then the ceiling collapsed and the whole room caught fire.

Petka was taken aside and brought to his senses. He said that he hid under the sofa with fear, plugged his ears and closed his eyes. And then he doesn't remember what happened.

And the senior fireman put his mitten in his mouth in order to breathe easier through a wet rag in the smoke.

After the fire, the elder said to the fireman:

What were you rummaging around the walls for? He will not be waiting for you at the wall. If he is silent, it means that he has suffocated and is lying on the floor. I would have searched the floor and the beds, I would have found it right away.

How the boy drowned

I walked along the shore and watched the carpenters build the pier. Huge logs floated in the water tightly one to one. They were taken out of the water and hammered into the bottom, so that a whole log fence stuck out of the water. Suddenly it seemed to me that where the piles were floating, something flashed. I didn't know what, but I ran there. I kept my eyes on this place and ran with all my might.

And from the side I saw out of the corner of my eye: just there the telegraph operator was running. She runs as fast as she can and holds on to her stomach. He had a bag with telegrams on his belt, and he was afraid that they would fall out.

The telegraph operator also looked in the same place where I looked. The earth there descended in scree to the water, and piles floated on the water - densely, like a raft. The telegraph operator did not say a word to me, but only pointed with his finger, put his feet on the scree and extended his hand. I didn't say a word either, but took the telegraph operator firmly by the hand, and myself lay down on the piles and put my hand between them - in the very place where we both looked without taking our eyes off.

I began to fumble with my hand in the water. And suddenly little fingers caught me and tightly clung to my hand. I grabbed too. And then the telegraph operator pulled me ashore. The piles parted, and after my hand a small hand came out, followed by a head, and we pulled the boy out. He was red, seven years old. He blinked his eyes and said nothing. The carpenters arrived. One took the boy, picked him up and shook him above the ground. The boy poured out water from his mouth. They put him on his feet and asked: how did he drown? The boy said that he wanted to walk on the piles, but they parted under his feet, and he fell with his head between them. And then they converged on him like a ceiling. And now he cried:

Where is my hat? Where is the rod! I won't go home without a hat.

Everyone began to laugh: say thank you for staying alive, and you cry about the hat.

I found his fishing rod and began to look for his hat in the water. Grabbed and pulled out. But it was an old bast shoe. Then he hooked it again, and it was a wet cap. The boy began to feel sorry for her that she was wet. I went. And when he looked back, the boy was still holding his cap and crying.

The telegraph operator waved his hand, looked for telegrams, and hurried away.

(1882-1938) Russian writer

For fourteen and a half years of literary work, Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov wrote 192 works, including 38 short stories for preschoolers. In addition to them, the writer created 74 essays, 59 novels and short stories, 7 major works and 14 articles. Of the total number of works written by Boris Zhitkov, 8 remained unpublished, and 29 were published after the death of the writer.

Boris Zhitkov was one of those "experienced people" whom M. Gorky so insistently called into children's literature. But not all of them were able to tell the children about what they experienced and saw in their lifetime. Zhitkov knew how to do it. He not only had rich worldly experience, but also possessed versatile knowledge and a rare gift as a narrator-improviser.

Until his old age, he retained an insatiable curiosity and a variety of interests that children have. His hobbies kept changing, but in every case that he undertook, Boris Zhitkov achieved real mastery. He could not only write, he had truly golden hands. The writer was excellent with a planer, saw, ax, knew a lot about electrical and radio engineering. He was always making something: either he built a boat, or he designed a glider. By profession, Zhitkov was a chemical engineer, in addition, he graduated from the shipbuilding department of the Polytechnic Institute, and in addition, he had the title of long-distance navigation navigator.

Boris Zhitkov came to literature as a middle-aged man - he was already over forty, but by that time he was already an established writer with his own style and handwriting, with a lot of material accumulated over many years. Young and adult readers very soon recognized and fell in love with this lively and fascinating interlocutor, a keen observer and craftsman.

Much that Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov spoke about in his works was inspired by the impressions of childhood and youth, family traditions.

He was born in the summer when their family lived in a dacha, a few kilometers from Novgorod, on the high bank of the Volkhov River. Boris was the last, fourth child in the family and the only boy.

Then, in his works, Boris Zhitkov wrote a lot about the sea, and this was no coincidence. His father, Stepan Vasilyevich, came from a maritime family: three of his brothers sailed on warships, all three became admirals, and two of them were Sevastopol heroes. The fourth brother was a naval engineer and built lighthouses on the Black Sea. The fifth drowned during a training round-the-world voyage, so the mother persuaded her husband not to send her youngest son to the sailors.

Thus, Stepan began to study at a military gymnasium in St. Petersburg, although he was fond of mathematics and dreamed of a university. But the family did not have enough funds, and he entered the Higher Military Engineering School, from where he was expelled from the last year for a "harmful direction". Then - already for participating in the revolutionary speeches of students - he was expelled from the fourth year of the Technological Institute.

Then Stepan Vasilievich passed the exam for a teacher, soon got married and began working in Novgorod in the Zemstvo teacher's seminary. He enthusiastically took up a new business: he wrote textbooks for teachers and students, developed a methodology for teaching arithmetic. On his initiative, the Novgorod Physics and Mathematics Society was organized. He was a sociable person and knew how to unite people around him. And at the same time, he was a very demanding person, if it was a matter of fulfilling his duty, he did not tolerate any negligence. He demanded the same from the children. It was in such a family and in such an environment that the future writer was brought up.

He adopted a lot from his mother. She was an orphan and grew up with a rich aunt who tried to teach her everything that a rich young lady was supposed to know. She studied at a German school in St. Petersburg, studied music at the conservatory, and was a student of Anton Rubinstein. Secretly from her aunt, the girl attended the famous Vladimir courses for women who aspired to get a higher education.

Little Boris grew up as a smart boy. From early childhood, he loved to listen to Tolstoy's stories for children, The Little Humpbacked Horse, Pushkin's fairy tales, which his father read to him. They often walked in the Novgorod Kremlin, around the monument to the Millennium of Russia. The boy had a good memory. Even before entering the gymnasium, he knew by heart "Mtsyri" and "Demon" by Lermontov, and then all of Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin", "Woe from Wit" by Griboyedov, as well as many poems by Nekrasov and Alexei Tolstoy. He never read children's books, but immediately began to get acquainted with the classics of Russian literature.

My father was transferred several times from place to place. Finally, in 1899, the family moved to Odessa, where their father's brothers and sister lived. Here Boris easily passed the exams to the gymnasium. When he was in first grade, the children decided to publish a home magazine. Boris' story from school life "The Trojan War" turned out to be the best, longest and most interesting.

Then he was seized by a passion for travel. At the age of thirteen, he made a flight Odessa-Batumi and back on a cargo steamer. After graduating from the sixth grade of the gymnasium, Boris made another big trip, this time around the Caucasus.

After graduating from high school, he entered the Novorossiysk University at the natural faculty. After graduating from university, he could have stayed there at the department of chemistry or botany and engaged in scientific work, but he decided differently. After some time, Boris Zhitkov entered the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute at the shipbuilding department. Obviously, family traditions, which were largely associated with the sea, played a role in this.

Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov had an internship in Denmark, where he worked at a mechanical plant. He sailed on sailboats in the Mediterranean and off the Anatolian coast, and in 1912 he was on a long voyage on an ocean steamer. Zhitkov went through all types of naval service - from the cabin boy to the captain's assistant. He worked in Nikolaev at the Russian shipbuilding plant, then as an inspector in Arkhangelsk.

During the war of 1914-1918, Boris Zhitkov served in the midshipmen's companies. After a brief training, he went to England with the rank of midshipman - to receive engines for Russian aircraft and submarines. On business, he had to visit France.

After the revolution, Boris Zhitkov worked as the head of a technical school in Tiraspol. In 1922 he moved to Odessa and began to teach physics and chemistry at the workers' faculty, and in the fall of 1923 he left for Petrograd. Here he met his school friend Korney Chukovsky, who invited him to write what he told the children so well. Chukovsky sent Zhitkov to the magazine "Sparrow" to Samuil Marshak. At the end of January 1924, the first story by Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov, "Shkval", appeared in print.

Since then, he has been working at the State Publishing House as an editor of popular science books, in the children's magazine "Sparrow" he has the headings "How People Work" and "Wandering Photographer", then he came up with another heading - "Craftsman". He writes the book "Steam Engine" for the publishing house "Rainbow" and composes a play for the Leningrad Theater for Young Spectators. At the same time, the writer worked in the pioneer newspaper "Lenin's sparks", and at the end of the summer of 1925 he traveled at his own expense to Copenhagen and sent correspondence from there for this newspaper "At the Pioneers of Denmark".

In 1926, his collection Sea Stories was published. He works hard and enthusiastically, as if in a hurry to tell people about everything he saw and knew. Boris Zhitkov was the first to introduce the theme of labor into children's literature, highlighting its moral aspects and moral problems. His undoubted merit was that he found a successful synthesis of science and art in the scientific literature he created.

But especially Zhitkov loved to write for children and worked with pleasure in the magazines New Robinson, Pioneer, Chizh, Hedgehog, Young Naturalist, as well as in the children's calendar, invented picture books and toy books, wrote plays for the Theater for Young Spectators, composed texts for filmstrips, wanted to find new forms of radio performances for children and dreamed of sound in the cinema. Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov always and in everything remained true to himself, trying to create works interesting for children.

The writer worked a lot both in the editorial office and at home, where he wrote his works. He constantly traveled between Moscow and Leningrad. His health did not cause concern, and he himself never spoke about it. In early August 1938, Boris Zhitkov arrived in Moscow. Here he suddenly felt a great weakness. The temperature began to rise, there were severe pains between the shoulder blades, and an x-ray showed lung cancer.

Back in October, he was keenly interested in the affairs of his comrades, who came to him for advice, he himself was going to work further and thought about new books. But the disease nevertheless overcame the talented writer, and Boris Zhitkov no longer got out of bed, and on October 19, 1938 he died. At that time he was only 56 years old.

Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov is a Russian writer and traveler. He was born on September 11, 1882 in Veliky Novgorod, Russian Empire.

During his life he created 192 works. Among them are essays, novellas, short stories and articles. The prose writer preferred to write for children, although many of his works were also dedicated to adults. He managed to try almost all genres. Boris proved himself not only in literature, his hobbies were difficult to count.

Childhood and friendship with Chukovsky

Boris grew up in an intelligent family. His mother, Tatyana Pavlovna, was a pianist. She took lessons from Anton Grigorievich Rubinstein. The father of the future traveler taught mathematics at the seminary, he also compiled textbooks. Three of the Zhitkov brothers were sailors and received the rank of admiral. Two of them were recognized as heroes of the defense of Sevastopol. The fourth brother built lighthouses on the territory of the Black Sea, and the fifth drowned in his youth.

The boy's childhood passed in Odessa. He was fond of completely different activities: he quoted scenes from literary works, played the violin and learned to row. For sports achievements, the future writer received several prizes. During his passion for rowing, he managed to build a small boat with a cabin, of course, with the help of friends.

In the gymnasium, the young man met Kolya Korneichukov, who later became the writer Korney Chukovsky. For a long time they could not get to know each other, because Nikolai was extremely shy. But then the guys met by chance after school, Zhitkov was attracted by the independence and audacity of Korneichukov. They talked for a long time, Boris taught a friend about seamanship, French and rowing.

One day the boys decided to go on foot from Odessa to Kyiv. Borya forced Kolya to sign a contract in which he promised to obey his "commander" unquestioningly. But Chukovsky disobeyed, making an unplanned halt. To this, Zhitkov said that he was no longer going to talk to him. After some time, the friends met again in Kyiv. At first, Boris behaved quite friendly, but then he said that he was pretending because he did not want to humiliate Nikolai in front of strangers.

Study and travel

Borya received education at home, then he became a student at the gymnasium. After graduation, the young man entered the natural department of Novorossiysk University. At first, he chose a mathematical specialty because of his father, but did not enjoy studying there.

Already in 1901 the student became a member of the yacht club. He even managed to drive a specific oar-sailing transport, which was popularly called the "devil". During his studies at the university, the young man managed to swim to Varna, Marseille, Jaffa and Constanta, he successfully passed the exam for a long-distance navigation navigator.

In 1905, Zhitkov took part in revolutionary events. Together with the combat detachment, the student made nitroglycerin for bombs, providing the defense of the Jewish quarter. A year later, he graduated from the university.

From 1911 to 1916, the future prose writer received a second education. This time he studied at the shipbuilding department of the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute.

After graduating from the institute, Boris began looking for work. Initially, he was sent to practice in Copenhagen, at the Atlas plant. After that, the future writer made a round-the-world trip on a training cargo ship. He went all the way from the cabin boy to the captain of the ship, and Zhitkov was also a navigator. Since childhood, Zhitkov was an excellent storyteller, so he thought about the artistic profession for a long time.

In 1909, the traveler led an expedition that studied the fauna of the Yenisei.

In 1914, he was an employee of a shipbuilding plant located in Nikolaev. A year later, the young man moved to Arkhangelsk to check the serviceability of the ships.

In 1916, Zhitkov received British aircraft engines made especially for Russian aircraft.

First works

The young man began to print his stories in 1924. The year before, Boris had come to Petrograd. He had no money, and his health left much to be desired. Because of this, the man went to his school friend Korney Chukovsky. There he entertained the writer's children with his stories about the sea and travels, as a result, Nikolai suggested that his friend transfer these stories to paper.

In a few days, Zhitkov wrote the short story Flurry. The short story was taken to the publishing house "Vremya", and already in 1924 Zhitkov's first book, entitled "The Evil Sea", was published.

Chukovsky was amazed by the skill of his friend, he did not even have to edit the story. He admired the unmistakable sense of style and manner of writing of his comrade, whom he had previously considered an amateur. This is not surprising, because by 1923 Boris had several notebooks with poems and letters, he was constantly improving.

Boris Stepanovich preferred to write about what he knew well, so the works were filled with amazing stories about travel and distant countries. The prose writer put morality into each of his stories, sought to teach children and adults what he already knew. For example, a tame wolf did live in the Zhitkovs' house, which later became the hero of the story of the same name.

The writer skillfully trained animals, was a carpenter, sailor and hunter. He worked on the creation of feature scientific films, wrote plays, taught students. Boris played the violin virtuoso and knew everything about ships. The prose writer often made people think about the scientific riddles he invented. He was able to achieve success in almost any business he undertook.

After the publication of the first book, Boris constantly collaborated with children's magazines and newspapers. Among them are publications such as "Chizh", "Young Naturalist", "Lenin's sparks", "New Robinson" and many others.

Zhitkov constantly wanted to create something new, thanks to him there were picture magazines for children who could not read. The writer dreamed of publishing a textbook, but throughout his life he never managed to do this. But Zhitkov created an encyclopedia for children 4 years old.

Boris Stepanovich had outstanding abilities for languages, he grasped pronunciation on the fly. During his life, the prose writer learned modern Greek, Arabic, Polish, Turkish and many other languages. Once in London, the seller mistook him for his countryman from Derby, when Zhitkov went to him for cigarettes.

Boris was married, but almost nothing is known about his wife. They lived together for a short time and then divorced. After parting, Zhitkov began to live with his friend Schwartz. His room was kept immaculately clean. In his free time, the prose writer brewed tinctures and liqueurs according to his own recipes.

The famous prose writer died on October 19, 1938 in Moscow. He worked until the last day of his life, although the cause of death was lung cancer, which significantly complicated the existence of the writer. The novel about the revolution "Viktor Vavich", which Zhitkov considered his main work, was published only after his death.
 

Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov was born on September 11, 1882, not far from Novgorod, in a village on the banks of the Volkhov, where his parents rented a dacha. The Zhitkov family lived at that time in Novgorod. Boris's father was a mathematics teacher. A very good teacher. According to the textbooks written by him, they studied arithmetic and geometry for several generations. “Father was distinguished by sociability, he was loved, and he knew how to unite people around him,” the writer’s sister recalled. “He did not tolerate any negligence in anything.” But because of the firm stigma of "unreliable" he was forced to change one job after another.

The family had to travel around Russia until they settled in Odessa, where their father managed to get a job as a cashier in a shipping company. Boris's mother was an excellent pianist, she idolized music. In her youth, she even took lessons from the great Anton Rubinstein. Music filled their house, rushed from the open windows to the street. “To the sound of music,” Sister Zhitkova recalled, “we used to fall asleep.”

Boris was sent to the second Odessa gymnasium. In the same class as Zhitkov was a tall, thin, very fidgety high school student, the future writer Korney Chukovsky. Once Boris persuaded Kolya Korneichukov to go to Kyiv on foot! And this is 400 km. We left at dawn. Each has a shoulder bag. But they didn't go long. Boris was a domineering, adamant commander, and Kolya turned out to be a recalcitrant subordinate.
Boris was an unusual high school student. His hobbies knew no bounds. He seemed to be interested in everything: he played the violin for hours, then he studied photography. I must say that he was a meticulous student. And the results are often excellent. For example, having become interested in sports, he not only received prizes in races, but, together with his comrades, built a small sailing boat with a cabin.

Zhitkov Boris studied mathematics and chemistry at Novorossiysk University. In the summer of 1905, when the first Russian revolution began, and the red flag was hoisted on the battleship Potemkin, the student Zhitkov at night on a sailboat, dimming the lights, transported weapons to the rebellious sailors and port workers. For participation in the "riots" he was expelled from the university. He tried to transfer to St. Petersburg University and, of course, was resolutely refused.
Boris Stepanovich was attracted by free winds and sea expanses.

He passed the exam for a navigator externally. In the summer he was hired on sailboats, sailed along the Black Sea and to distant shores: to Turkey, Bulgaria. He sailed both the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea. And where only he did not visit!
In 1909, Boris Zhitkov went on an ichthyological expedition along the Yenisei. His father wrote: “Boris is pleased that he finally gets to work. It seems to me that it is good that he does not end up in the office and not even in the laboratory, but on an expedition, in a mobile, living business.

The scientific journey ended successfully. The expedition safely returned to Krasnoyarsk, and here Zhitkov made an important decision. Shipbuilding has long attracted him. He decided to become a shipbuilding engineer, to enter the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute.
In September 1909, Zhitkov was in St. Petersburg. He is a student again. A year has passed. Zhitkov goes to practice in Denmark. There he works at a machine-building plant as a simple worker. In autumn again for books. He goes to lectures, in the laboratory, draws, calculates. He is happy to learn. “So, you know, it’s interesting that I would be glad to work out more, but there’s no time, that’s the trouble,” he complains to his nephew.

And in the summer - back to the sea. In 1912, Zhitkov went on a training cargo ship to circumnavigate the world. He began this voyage as a cabin boy, then became a stoker, and by the end of the journey he was already the captain's assistant. I have been to India, Ceylon, China, Japan. Zhitkov did not know that he would become a writer, but he forever remembered the smart Indian elephants, and the aroma of the heat, and the black, thin back of the Sinhalese rickshaw.
Russia on the eve of the revolution. The country is in turmoil, the labor exchanges are crowded with the unemployed. Even for such an experienced and knowledgeable person as Zhitkov, it was not easy to find a job as an engineer. He had to starve, wander, hide.

There was one among Boris Stepanovich's hobbies that stubbornly "led" to that gate in the fence that "opened" Zhitkov the writer. It can be said that since childhood his hand has been drawn to the pen, “pen to paper”. He published handwritten magazines. He kept diaries all his life. His letters, at times, are whole stories. Once, for his nephew, Boris Stepanovich came up with a long story in letters with a sequel. He also wrote poetry: he had a whole notebook of them.
And so, with the passion with which he drove a yacht on the Black Sea as a boy, he, a middle-aged man, threw himself into literary work. A new life began for Zhitkov, and he threw himself with ardor on the work of which he had long vaguely dreamed and which was his true vocation. Zhitkov's literary talent was revealed in him somehow immediately and flared up quickly and brightly.

When Zhitkov took up the pen, his whole old life acquired a new meaning, it became material for creativity. That, it turns out, was why he studied shipbuilding, and sailed on ships and submarines on the seas and oceans, and flew in an airplane, and was in India, Japan, Africa; that's why he spent his whole life in close contact with the working people - sailors, carpenters, Pomor hunters, shipyard workers; that's why he eagerly listened to the people's speech, that's why he was constantly interested in the nature of art.

One after another, stories began to appear about the extraordinary adventures of courageous sailors and pilots and about brave Russian revolutionaries. The heroes of the works of Boris Zhitkov were people of bright, sharp characters: he met such people more than once in his eventful life. It was as if he had been waiting for forty years for the moment when he would be able to tell about everything he saw, experienced, and finally, he waited.

Zhitkov liked to tell in his books about birds and animals, the life and habits of which he knew very well. In India, he saw elephants in the forest, at work, watched how they carry logs, how they nurse children; I saw how a small mongoose animal fights with a terrible snake; how smart, playful and annoying monkeys like Yashka are. And the stories “About the Elephant”, “Stray Cat” could be written by a person who not only loved animals, but also understood them. How can one not remember that Boris Zhitkov had both a trained wolf and a cat that could “become a monkey”.

Peru Boris Zhitkov owns talented novels, plays, articles written for adults. For 15 years of literary work (or rather, fourteen and a half), he wrote 192 works, including: 74 essays, 59 novels and short stories, 7 major works, 14 articles. But, perhaps, "he said his own, Zhitkovo, new word precisely in children's literature."

Over the years of work in children's literature, Zhitkov managed to try all genres, all types of books for children, and invented and suggested many new ones: he is one of the creators of the scientific and artistic genre; he started a weekly picture magazine for children who can't read yet; he invented different kinds of toy books; he took part in the creation of a special calendar for children. He constantly started new sections in children's magazines - in "Pioneer", "Chizh", "Young Naturalist". He wrote 38 short stories for preschoolers. These are the fairy tales “Mug under the Christmas Tree”, “Girl Katya”, these are the stories “Pudya”, “Flood”, “Red Commander”. The writer in the essay told the children about “How Soviet pilots conquered the North Pole”; On the centenary of the death of A. S. Pushkin, he prepared an article in Chizh and was very concerned about telling the children intelligibly and clearly about the great poet. “About Pushkin ... this is the most difficult thing,” he said in a letter. “Here you need to find the heart, and the breath, and the rise, and the heat.”
He told his young listeners and readers about the feat of the Chelyuskinites, and about the life of children abroad, and about the new Soviet ships, and about the Bolshevik S. M. Kirov, and about the events in Spain, and about the friendship of Soviet people. His short stories, such as “Fire”, “How the ship was raised from the bottom”, “The Post Office is a whole encyclopedia of professions about the work of firefighters, divers, postmen, these are stories about a Soviet man - a worker, a collectivist.

As in childhood, Zhitkov "wanted to teach, instruct, explain, interpret." And sometimes the heroes of his works became ... an ax and a steamer. How the author wanted "to make my hands and brains itch" from reading these books. For this, he incessantly and zealously invented inventions.
Zhitkov's diverse knowledge also came in handy here. No wonder they were famously famous. He could explain to the housewife how best to salt the cabbage, and to the writer K. Fedin how barrels are made. Yes, to explain that he "heard the knock and rumble of work ... and was ready ... to cut a little along with a wonderful cooper - Zhitkov."

The pinnacle of Zhitkov's scientific and artistic skill and the clearest image of his creative ingenuity is an essay on how books are made - "About this book." The writer made a brilliantly simple decision - to tell about it using the example of the very book he is writing. And so it begins directly: “So I wrote“ About this book ”, but there is no book yet. The book will still be. I hope that while I am writing how to make this book, look, I’ll write a whole book ... "

In this book, Zhitkov makes the most of the principle of visibility. A facsimile of the manuscript is printed on the first page, then typesetting, layout, proofreading, editing by the editor are shown. Readers can see what absurdities are obtained if even one operation is omitted.
The author skillfully shows the inseparable unity between the hands of a master, a printer who makes a book, and a machine that facilitates work. The book seems to be created before the eyes of the reader, who is convinced that, no matter how far technology has gone, the birth of a book always remains a miracle.

A desperate interest in life did not give the writer Zhitkov peace. Either he undertook to make a film about microbes, then he painted excitedly (“I can’t keep up with drawing, damn it!”), Then he returned to the violin. “I am in captivity, I am in love and at my feet in admiration” - this is about a new instrument, with a gentle “female” voice.
Each of his stories, each book is an experience, a search. Vitaly Bianchi called Boris Zhitkov "Eternal Columbus", that is, an eternal seeker. And what is Columbus without discoveries! In 1936, Zhitkov took up an unprecedented book - "an encyclopedia for four-year-old citizens." He called her "Whimper". It was an innovative work, because until then there was nothing similar either in Russia or in the West. The first listener and critic of individual chapters was a real, real pochemuka - a neighbor of Boris Zhitkov's older sister - Alyosha, with whom Boris Stepanovich met and talked quite often.

A keen memory of childhood helped Zhitkov to understand the peculiarities of young children, the peculiarity of their perception of life phenomena, to reincarnate in his hero - "the bearer of the feelings of a four-year-old person." Zhitkov wrote: “I remember the steamer ladder by the way I hurt my shin on it, I remember the turkey by the way he pecked me painfully when I shoved grains at him, and the horse by the way it didn’t bite me when I told her handed out sugar. And I just expected and feared this. And she drank sugar with velvety lips, softly and carefully, or she could bite off my arm at the elbow.

Zhitkov in the book “What I saw” managed to create such a hero with whom all the children completely identified themselves and identify themselves; he gave his Alyosha Pochemuchka the opportunity to make a wonderful journey, to meet such people who, in response to his questions, tell and show a lot of interesting things. This is the “uncle military man”, who knew all the trees and mushrooms in the forest, knew how to find his way in the sun; this is the sailor Grisha, who showed Alyosha everything on the ship; and the captain, who was the most important on the ship. All the characters - Matvey Ivanov with his stories about the collective farm garden, and the old grandfather in a hut on the collective farm tower, and Marusya, who takes Alyosha to the collective farm garden and treats him with plums, and many others are busy with their own business. But each of them leaves a noticeable mark in the boy's heart.

The hero of Zhitkov is a real, lively, spontaneous boy, with his own character, actions, whims. Alyosha's journey helps to unite all the events in which the hero participates, to make the book a story. Supporting interest in the story are either dramatic or comic situations in which the hero finds himself, and the boy's very direct, emotional reaction.

Here there are no restrictions for the child, but there is an upbringing of him for knowledge. Therefore, B. Zhitkov believed: “... Let the “reader” absorb new information day by day, according to adventures, and let them fit in these stages in his imagination, as if they had happened in his life.” Hence it is clear why the book “What I saw” was called and is called the “textbook of life”, and its author is a talented teacher.
In the winter of 1937, Boris Stepanovich fell ill. One writer advised Zhitkov to be treated by starvation. And he began to starve. It is not difficult to imagine what a huge will this, in the words of Boris Stepanovich, "fakir" method of treatment required.

“I have been starving for 21 days now,” Zhitkov wrote to a familiar artist. “Imagine that the hunger strike had no effect on my ability to work.”
In fact, he did not stop literary work. Writers and editors came to him. Until late at night, he dictated to his wife, Vera Mikhailovna Arnold, the book "What I saw" about the journey and adventures of Alyosha Pochemochka.
On August 1, Zhitkov wrote with satisfaction in his diary: “This night, by five o’clock in the morning, I finished “Why. Total - a year of work. A book for "small readers" called "What I saw" was published in 1939. She became the last for Boris Zhitkov.

Alas, hunger treatment did not help Zhitkov. He felt bad, but his mind was still tense. While still working on the book “What I saw”, Zhitkov conceived another book for kids - a collection of stories about how, with the help of technology, Soviet people fight against elemental forces: flood, fire, snowstorm. This book Zhitkov called "Help is coming."

And he wrote another book for preschoolers at that time - "What happened" - a collection of short stories about different cases, funny and serious. “You don’t understand,” Zhitkov wrote to the writer N. L. Dilaktorskaya, “what an exceptional difficulty this task is to write this reader.”
Not all the books that B. Zhitkov conceived were written by him. He was going to write a fascinating book about the history of the ship. But he didn't.

Zhitkov did not have time to create a fundamentally new textbook for schoolchildren, although he also dreamed about it. “I think that we should finally start writing real textbooks for someone,” he informed the writer I. I. Khalturin. - Textbooks for children. It's also a children's book, after all. And, pray tell me, why is such a demand from a fiction writer: if “nothing begins” on the first half-page, then everyone has the right to shut the book and curse. And from the "leadership" - no demand, as long as it accommodates the course.

Zhitkov himself admitted that some of his books are "formal textbooks." He did not give the names, but it is not difficult to guess them: at that time he worked mainly on books about technology and those close to them: Cinema in a Box, Steam Locomotive, Carpenter, About This Book, Light without Fire ”, “Telegram” ... Without simplifying things from the technical side, he wrote these books in a lively, exciting, inspired way, in full power of the rich and unconstrained Zhitkovsky language.

And although different school subjects have their own specifics (Zhitkov would not write about history or literature in the same way as about mathematics and physics), the very principle of creating new textbooks is already clear here. There is something to take as a sample.
And is it any wonder that it was from the lips of Boris Zhitkov that the famous words once escaped, retaining their freshness today: “It is impossible for it to be difficult to learn: it is necessary that learning be joyful, tremulous and victorious.”

October 19, 1938 Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov died. He lived only fifty-six years, and his writing life was very short - about fifteen years. But he managed to write so much and so talentedly, as rarely anyone succeeded.