All the gray brown blue eyes mingled. Peasant children poem by Nikolai Nekrasov

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

First voice

"Beard!

Second

And the barin, they said! ..

Third

Shut up, damn you!

Second

A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

First

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And there on the hat, looking - a watch!

Fifth

Ah, the important thing!

Sixth

And a golden chain...

Seventh

Is tea expensive?

Eighth

How the sun burns!

Ninth

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

Fifth

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

Third (with fear)

Looks!

Fourth

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

Third

Will beat…”

* * *

My spies are afraid
And they rushed away: they heard a man,
So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff.
I calmed down, squinted - they came again,
The eyes flicker through the cracks.
What happened to me - they marveled at everything
And my verdict was pronounced: -
What a goose like that!
I would lie on the stove!
And you can see not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp.
So next to Gavrila ... "He will hear,
shut up!

* * *

Oh dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning he could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: "Caught for nothing!"
For that we then ruined them quite
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge,
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory.
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan!
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
Please the Lord God in everything
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That the hair from the nose grew rapidly ... "
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened that whole days flew by here,
What a new passerby, then a new story ...
Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
They came out of the forest - just to meet
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river: they jumped in a crowd,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with both laughter and a howl:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
It's time to go home, kids.
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...
Who catches leeches

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

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

- Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot
Time to get to work, dear!
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, pours the grain:
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king ...
However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
And so, we must turn around by the way
The other side of the medal.
Let's put the peasant child loose
Growing without learning
But he will grow, if God wills,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But mercilessly eat his midges,
But he was early familiar with the works ...

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

* * *

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

Again I am in the village. I go hunting, I write my verses - life is easy. Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp, I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep. I woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn, the rays of the cheerful sun look. The dove coos; flew over the roof, Young rooks cry; Some other bird is also flying - I recognized the crow just by the shadow; Chu! a whisper of some kind... but a string Along the slit of attentive eyes! All gray, brown, blue eyes - Mixed like flowers in a field. They have so much peace, freedom and affection, They have so much holy kindness! I love the expression of a child's eye, I always recognize it. I froze: tenderness touched my soul ... Chu! whisper again! FIRST G O L O S Beard! SECOND A sir, they said! .. Third Slow down, you devils! The second bar does not have a beard - a mustache. FIRST And the legs are long, like poles. FOURTH FOURTH There is a watch on the cap, look! P i t y y Ay, an important thing! The sixth And the golden chain... The seventh Tea, is it expensive? In o s m o y How the sun burns! 9th A yonder dog - big, big! Water runs off the tongue. P I t y th Gun! look at it: the barrel is double, the locks are carved... (with fear) Looks! 4th th th Be quiet, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha! The third Will beat... _______________ My spies were frightened And they rushed away: they heard a man, So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff. I calmed down, narrowed my eyes - they appeared again, Eyes flash through the cracks. What happened to me - they marveled at everything And my sentence was pronounced: - Such a goose, what a hunt! I would lie on the stove! And you can see not the gentleman: how he was driving from the swamp, So next to Gavrila ... - "Hear, be silent!" _______________ O dear rascals! Who often saw them, He, I believe, loves peasant children; But even if you hated them, Reader, as “a low kind of people,” I still must admit openly That I often envy them: In their lives, so much poetry is merged, As God forbid your spoiled children. Happy people! Neither science nor bliss They know in childhood. I made mushroom raids with them: I dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps, I tried to notice a mushroom place, And in the morning I could not find it for anything. “Look, Savosya, what a ring!” We both bent down, and at once grab the Snake! I jumped: it hurt! Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!” But then we ruined them enough And put them side by side on the railing of the bridge. We must have been waiting for the feats of glory. We had a big road: People of working rank scurried along it without number. A ditch digger from Vologda, a tinker, a tailor, a wool beater, And then a city dweller goes to a monastery to pray on a holiday. Under our thick ancient elms Weary people were drawn to rest. The guys will surround: stories about Kyiv, about a Turk, about wonderful animals will begin. Another will take a walk, so just hold on - It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan ‘He will mimic Chukhna, Mordovians, Cheremis, And amuse with a fairy tale, and screw a parable: “Goodbye, guys! Try more to indulge the Lord God in everything: We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone, Yes, he once decided to grumble at God, - Since then, Vavilo has become emaciated, ruined, There is no honey from bees, harvest from the earth, And only in one he was happy That the hair from the nose grew very fast ... "The worker will arrange, lay out the shells - Planers, files, chisels, knives:" Look, little devils! And the children are happy, How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything. A passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes, Guys for the cause - sawing and planing! They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day! They break the drill - and run away in fright. It happened that whole days flew by here, - Like a new passer-by, then a new story ... Wow, it's hot! .. Until noon they picked mushrooms. Here they came out of the forest - towards just a Blue ribbon, winding, long, Meadow River; they jumped off in a crowd, And fair-haired heads over a deserted river What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing! The river resounded with both laughter and a howl: Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game... And the sun scorches them with the midday heat. - Home, kids! it's time to have dinner. - We returned. Everyone has a basket full of baskets, And how many stories! Caught with a scythe, Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little bit And saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one! The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers, Roots gave him his milk - He does not drink! retreated ... Who catches leeches On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen, Who nurses the sister, two-year-old Glashka, Who drags the kvass to the reaping bucket, And he, having tied his shirt under his throat, Mysteriously draws something in the sand; That one hid in a puddle, and this one with a new one: She wove herself a glorious wreath, Everything is white, yellow, pale purple Yes, occasionally a red flower. Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting. Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket - She caught it, jumped up and rides on it. And is she, born under the heat of the sun And brought home in an apron from the field, To be afraid of her humble horse? And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts! A childish cry, repeated by an echo, Rattles through the woods from morning till night. Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter, Will the black grouse take off, croaking to the chicks, Will the hare jump up - sodom, turmoil! Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing. The living are dragged to the village in triumph... - Enough, Vanyusha! You walked a lot, It's time to work, dear! - But even work will turn first To Vanyusha with its elegant side: He sees how his father fertilizes the field, How he throws grain into the loose earth, How the field then begins to turn green, How the ear grows, pours the grain ; The finished harvest will be cut with sickles, tied into sheaves, taken to the barn, dried, beaten, beaten with flails, at the mill they will grind and bake bread. A child will taste fresh bread And in the field he more willingly runs after his father. Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!” Vanyusha enters the village as a tsar... However, it would be a pity for us to sow envy in a noble child. So, by the way, we are obliged to wrap the other side of the medal. Suppose a peasant child grows freely, without learning anything, But he will grow up, if God pleases, And nothing prevents him from bending. Suppose he knows the forest paths, Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water, But mercilessly eat his midges, But he is familiar with the works early ... Once, in the cold winter season, I came out of the forest; there was severe frost. I look, a horse is slowly rising up the mountain, carrying a cart of brushwood. And, marching importantly, in orderly calmness, The horse is led by the bridle by a peasant In large boots, in a sheepskin coat, In large mittens. .. and himself with a fingernail! - Great, boy! - “Go past yourself!” - Painfully you are formidable, as I can see! Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course; Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away. (A woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.) - What, does your father have a big family? “The family is big, but there are two people. All the men are: my father and I ...” - So there it is! And what is your name? - "Vlas". - And how old are you? - “The sixth has passed ... Well, dead!” - the little one shouted in a bass, He jerked by the bridle and walked faster. The sun shone so brightly on this picture, The child was so hilariously small, It was as if everything was made of cardboard, As if I were in a children's theater! But the boy was a living, real boy, And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse, And snow lying up to the windows of the village, And a cold fire in the winter sun - Everything, everything was real Russian, With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter, That the Russian soul is so Excruciatingly sweet, What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds, Those honest thoughts that have no will, Which have no death - do not push, In which there is so much malice and pain, In which there is so much love! Play on, children! Grow at will! That's why you were given a red childhood, To love this meager field forever, To make it seem sweet to you forever. Keep your centuries-old heritage, Love your labor bread - And let the charm of childhood poetry Guide you into the depths of your native land! .. _______________ Now it's time for us to return to the beginning. Noticing that the guys became bolder, - “Hey, thieves are coming!” I shouted to Fingal: “They will steal, they will steal! Well, hide quickly! Fingalushka made a serious face, He buried my belongings under the hay, He hid the game with special diligence, He lay down at my feet and growled angrily. The vast area of ​​canine science was perfectly familiar to Him; He began to throw out such things that the audience could not leave the place. They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here! They command themselves! - “Fingalka, die!” - Don't stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyakha, - "Look - it's dying - look!" I myself enjoyed, lying in the hay, Their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage, When the storm is destined to break out. And sure enough: a blow thundered over the barn, A rain river poured into the barn, The actor burst into a deafening bark, And the audience gave an arrow! The wide door opened, creaked, Hit the wall, locked again. I looked out: a dark cloud hung just above our theater. Under heavy rain the children ran Barefoot to their village... Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm And went out to look for great snipes.

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
Cheerful sun rays are looking.
The dove coos; flew over the roof
Young rooks cry;

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

F irst voice

Second

And the barin, they said! ..

Third

Shut up, damn you!

Second

A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

First

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

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

Hey, important stuff!

6th

And a golden chain...

S e d m o y

Is tea expensive?

V o c m o d

How the sun burns!

N e w i t

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

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

Third
(with fear)

Fourth

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

Third

Will beat…

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

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

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
meadow river; jumped off,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
- Home, kids! it's time to dine.-
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the diary of Sergei Alexandrovich Lobovikov: "October 4, 1900. I remembered how I was little, how I visited my grandmother. She is so nice, but strict. I remember how she made me pray, it happened, you go to bed, then first, in front of the icon with a lit lamp, you stand with her on your knees, you pray for a long, long time. Dear grandmother, how many worries she gave, how much caress... they run around the windows, thieves would not break down the doors and kill my grandmother and me, and you will fall asleep with this ... "

The way of life of the family of a rural clergyman (Sergey Lobovikov's father was a deacon) did not differ much from the peasant one. Many rural priests plowed the land, kept cattle, and bred bees. And on Sundays and holidays, they put on a cassock and went to serve in the church. Sergei, as the eldest child in the family, was his mother's main housewife, nursed the younger ones, and in his spare time played with his friends - the village children. Later, having settled in the city, Lobovikov made peasant life the main theme of his work. In the summer, his family rented rooms in villages and villages in the vicinity of Vyatka - Fileyka, Skopino, Krasny. Here, resting from work in the studio, Lobovikov devoted himself entirely to creativity, photographing peasant children.

Nikolai Nekrasov
peasant children

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river, jumped off in a crowd,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
- Home, kids! it's time to dine.-
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... wow, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...

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

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

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

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

Conversation

Anka is crying

hostess mother

grandfather's joy

New fairy tale

Surikov Ivan
Childhood

In the corner, bent over
Grandfather weaves bast shoes;
Mother at the spinning wheel
Silently flax spins.
The hut illuminates
The light of the light;
Winter evening lasts
Lasts endlessly...
And I'll start with my grandmother
Tales I ask;
And my grandmother will start
Tales to say:
Like Ivan Tsarevich
I caught a fire bird;
as his bride
The gray wolf got it.
I listen to a fairy tale
The heart is dying;
And in the pipe angrily
The evil wind sings.
I'll stick with the old lady.
Silent speech murmurs
And my eyes are tight
Sweet dream fades.
And in my dreams I dream
Weird edges.
And Ivan Tsarevich -
It's like me.
Here in front of me
A wonderful garden blooms;
In that garden there is a big
The tree is growing.
golden cage
Hanging on a branch;
There is a bird in this cage
The heat is on fire.
Jumping in that cage
Sings merrily;
Bright, wonderful light
The garden is all over.
So I crept up on her
And for the cage - grab!
And wanted out of the garden
Run with a bird.
But it was not there!
There was a noise, a ringing;
The guards ran
In the garden from all sides.
My hands were twisted
And lead me...
And trembling with fear
I wake up.
Already in the hut, in the window,
The sun looks;
Before the icon of a grandmother
Pray, it's worth it.
You flowed merrily
Baby years!
You were not darkened
Grief and trouble.

housekeeper

Behind the camp

swaddling

Last relatives

Alexey Pleshcheev

Grandma, you too
Was it small?
And she loved to run
And plucked flowers?
And played with dolls
You, grandma, right?
What hair color was
Do you have then?
So I will be the same
Grandma and me -
Is to stay
Can't be small?
Very my grandmother -
Mother mother - I love.
She has a lot of wrinkles
And on the forehead a gray strand,
So I want to touch
And then kiss.
Maybe I am like that
I will be old, gray-haired,
I will have grandchildren
And then, putting on glasses,
I will knit gloves for one
And the other - shoes.

wonderful view

(Here and in the next five photographs - most likely the vicinity of the village of Fileisky, Vyatka district.)

From the diary of Sergei Alexandrovich Lobovikov: "October 4, 1900. I remembered how I was little, how I visited my grandmother. She is so nice, but strict. I remember how she made me pray, it happened, you go to bed, then before, in front of the icon with a lighted lamp, you stand on your knees with her, pray for a long, long time.Dear grandmother, how many cares she provided, how much caress... You used to lie on the blankets (it was my favorite bed), they put out the fire, and outside the window the wind whistles, a blizzard; you are afraid - the wolves are probably running around here under the windows, the thieves would not have broken the doors and killed my grandmother and me, and you will fall asleep with this ... "
The way of life of the family of a rural clergyman (Sergey Lobovikov's father was a deacon) did not differ much from the peasant one. Many rural priests plowed the land, kept cattle, and bred bees. And on Sundays and holidays, they put on a cassock and went to serve in the church. Sergei, as the eldest child in the family, was his mother's main housewife, nursed the younger ones, and in his spare time played with his friends - the village children. Later, having settled in the city, Lobovikov made peasant life the main theme of his work. In the summer, his family rented rooms in villages and villages in the vicinity of Vyatka - Fileyka, Skopino, Krasny. Here, resting from work in the studio, Lobovikov devoted himself entirely to creativity, photographing peasant children.

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river, jumped off in a crowd,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
- Home, kids! it's time to dine.-
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... wow, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...

.

.

.

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

.

.

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

.

.

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