Yu nagibin winter oak. Nagibin Yuri

winter oak

The path rounded a hazel bush, and the forest immediately resounded to the sides. In the middle of the clearing in white sparkling clothes, huge and majestic, stood an oak tree. It seemed that the trees parted respectfully to let the older brother turn around in full force. Its lower branches spread like a tent over the clearing. The snow had packed into the deep wrinkles of the bark, and the thick, three-girth trunk seemed to be stitched with silver threads. The foliage, having dried up in autumn, almost did not fly around, and the oak tree was covered with leaves in snow covers to the very top.

Anna Vassilyevna timidly stepped towards the oak, and the magnanimous, mighty guardian of the forest waved a branch towards her.

“Anna Vasilyevna, look,” said Savushkin, and with an effort he rolled off a block of snow with earth stuck to the bottom, with the remains of rotten grasses. There, in the hole, lay a ball wrapped in stale leaves. Sharp tips of needles stuck through the leaves, and Anna Vasilyevna guessed that it was a hedgehog.

The boy continued to lead the teacher around his little world. The foot of the oak sheltered many more guests: beetles, lizards. goats. Emaciated, they overcame the winter in a deep sleep. A strong, life-filled tree has accumulated so much living warmth around itself that the poor animal could not have found a better apartment for itself.

Going far away, Anna Vasilyevna looked back for the last time at the oak tree, pink and white in the sunset rays, and saw at its foot a small dark figure: Savushkin had not left, he was guarding his teacher from afar. And Anna Vasilievna suddenly realized that the most amazing thing in this forest was not a winter oak, but a little man in worn felt boots, mended clothes, the son of a soldier who died for his homeland, a wonderful citizen of the future.

(According to Yu. Nagibin) 232 words

© Nagibina A. G., 1953–1971, 1988

© Tambovkin D. A., Nikolaeva N. A., illustrations, 1984

© Mazurin G. A., drawings on the cover, on the half-title, 2007, 2009

© Series design, compilation. JSC "Publishing House" Children's Literature ", 2009

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and corporate networks, for private and public use, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Story about yourself

I was born on April 3, 1920 in Moscow, near Chistye Prudy, in the family of an employee. When I was eight years old, my parents separated, and my mother married the writer Ya. S. Rykachev.

I am indebted to my mother not only for my directly inherited traits of character, but for the fundamental qualities of my human and creative personality, invested in me in early childhood and strengthened by all subsequent education. These qualities: to be able to feel the preciousness of every minute of life, love for people, animals and plants.

In literary education I owe everything to my stepfather. He taught me to read only good books and think about what I read.

We lived in the indigenous part of Moscow, surrounded by oak, maple, elm gardens and ancient churches. I was proud of my big house, which faced three lanes at once: Armenian, Sverchkov and Telegraph.

Both my mother and stepfather hoped that a real man of the century would come out of me: an engineer or a scientist in the exact sciences, and they intensively stuffed me with books on chemistry, physics, and popular biographies of great scientists. For their own comfort, I brought test tubes, a flask, some chemicals, but all my scientific activity amounted to the fact that from time to time I boiled shoe polish of a terrible quality. I did not know my way and suffered from it.

But I felt more and more confident on the football field. The then coach of Lokomotiv, Frenchman Jules Limbek, predicted a great future for me. He promised to introduce me to the double masters by the age of eighteen. But my mother didn't want to accept it. Apparently, under her pressure, my stepfather increasingly urged me to write something. Yes, that's how artificially, not by my own inevitable urge, but under pressure from outside, my literary life began.

I wrote a story about a ski trip that we took as a class on one of the weekends. My stepfather read it and sadly said: "Play football." Of course, the story was bad, and yet I believe with good reason that already in the first attempt my main literary path was determined: not to invent, but to go straight from life - either current or past.

I understood my stepfather perfectly and did not try to challenge the scathing assessment behind his scowl. But the writing captured me. I discovered with deep surprise how, from the very need to transfer to paper the simple impressions of the day and the features of well-known people, all the experiences and observations connected with a simple walk strangely deepened and expanded. I saw in a new way my schoolmates and the unexpectedly complex, subtle and intricate pattern of their relationship. It turns out that writing is the comprehension of life.

And I continued to write, stubbornly, with gloomy vehemence, and my football star immediately went down. My stepfather drove me to despair with his exactingness. Sometimes I began to hate words, but tearing me off the paper was a tricky business.

Nevertheless, when I finished school, a powerful home press again came into action, and instead of a literary faculty, I ended up at the 1st Moscow Medical Institute. I resisted for a long time, but could not resist the seductive example of Chekhov, Veresaev, Bulgakov - doctors by education.

By inertia, I continued to study diligently, and studying at a medical university is the most difficult. There was no question of writing now. I hardly made it to the first session, and suddenly, in the middle of the academic year, admission to the screenwriting department of the film institute opened. I rushed there.

I never graduated from VGIK. A few months after the start of the war, when the last carload of institute property and students left for Alma-Ata, I moved in the opposite direction. A fairly decent knowledge of the German language decided my military fate. The Political Directorate of the Red Army sent me to the seventh department of the Political Directorate of the Volkhov Front. The seventh department is counter-propaganda.

But before talking about the war, I'll tell you about my two literary debuts. The first, oral, coincided with my transition from medical to VGIK.

I gave a reading of a story at a New Year's Eve Night at the Writers' Club.

And a year later, my story “Double Mistake” appeared in the Ogonyok magazine; it is characteristic that it was dedicated to the fate of the beginning writer. Through the dirty, fermented streets of March, I ran from one newsstand to another and asked if there was Nagibin's last story?

The first publication shines brighter in memory than the first love.

... On the Volkhov front, I had to not only fulfill my direct duties as a counter-propagandist, but also drop leaflets on German garrisons, and get out of the encirclement under the infamous Myasny Bor, and take (without taking) the "dominant height." Throughout the battle, with solid artillery preparation, tank attack and counterattack, firing from personal weapons, I tried in vain to make out this height, because of which so many people died. It seems to me that after this fight I became an adult.

There were enough impressions, life experience accumulated not bit by bit. Every free minute I scribbled short stories, and I myself did not notice how they were accumulated in a book.

The thin collection "A Man from the Front" was published in 1943 by the publishing house "Soviet Writer". But even before that, I was admitted in absentia to the Writers' Union. It happened with idyllic simplicity. At a meeting devoted to admission to the Writers' Union, Leonid Solovyov read aloud my military story, and A. A. Fadeev said: "He's a writer, let's accept him into our Union ..."

In November 1942, already on the Voronezh front, I was very unlucky: twice in a row I was covered with earth. For the first time during a horn transmission from no man's land, the second time on the way to the hospital, in the bazaar of the small town of Anna, when I was buying Varenets. From somewhere the plane turned out, threw off a single bomb, and I did not try the Varenets.

I left the hands of the doctors with a white ticket - the way to the front was booked even as a war correspondent. My mother told me not to apply for disability. "Try to live like a healthy person." And I tried...

Luckily for me, Trud got the right to keep three civilian military correspondents. I worked at Trud until the end of the war. I had a chance to visit Stalingrad in the very last days of the battle, when the Traktorozavodskaya settlement was “cleaned up”, near Leningrad and in the city itself, then during the liberation of Minsk, Vilnius, Kaunas and in other sectors of the war. I also went to the rear, saw the beginning of restoration work in Stalingrad and how the first tractor was assembled there, how the mines of Donbass were drained and coal was cut with a back, how the Volga port loaders worked and how the Ivanovo weavers worked hard, clenching their teeth ...

Everything I saw and experienced then repeatedly returned to me many years later in a different way, and I again wrote about the Volga and Donbass of the wartime, about the Volkhov and Voronezh fronts, and, probably, I will never fully pay off this material.

After the war, I was mainly engaged in journalism, traveled a lot around the country, preferring the countryside.

By the mid-1950s, I was done with journalism and devoted myself entirely to purely literary work. Stories come out that are well noticed by readers - “Winter Oak”, “Komarov”, “Chetunov's son of Chetunov”, “Night Guest”, “Get down, come”. There were statements in critical articles that I had finally come close to artistic maturity.

In the next quarter of a century, I published many collections of short stories: "Stories", "Winter Oak", "Rocky Rapid", "Man and the Road", "The Last Storm", "Before the Holiday", "Early Spring", "My Friends, People”, “Clean Ponds”, “Far and Near”, “Alien Heart”, “Alleys of My Childhood”, “You Will Live”, “Island of Love”, “Berendeev Forest” - the list is far from complete. I also turned to a larger genre. In addition to the story “Difficult happiness”, which is based on the story “Pipe”, I wrote the stories: “Pavlik”, “Far from the war”, “Pages of Trubnikov's life”, “At the cordon”, “Smoke break”, “Get up and go” and others.

One of my closest friends took me one day duck hunting. Since then, Meshchera, the Meshchera theme and the Meshchera resident, an invalid of the Patriotic War, huntsman Anatoly Ivanovich Makarov, has firmly entered my life. I wrote a book of short stories about him and the screenplay for the feature film Chase, but above all, I just really love this peculiar, proud man and appreciate his friendship.

Now the Meshchera theme, or rather, the theme of "nature and man" has remained with me only in journalism - I do not get tired of hurting my throat, crying out for condescension to the exhausting world of nature.

I told about my Chistoprudny childhood, about a big house with two courtyards and wine cellars, about an unforgettable communal apartment and its population in the cycles “Clean Prudy”, “Alleys of My Childhood”, “Summer”, “School”. The last three cycles made up the "Book of Childhood".

My stories and novels are my real autobiography.

In 1980-1981, the preliminary results of my work as a novelist were summed up: the Khudozhestvennaya Literatura publishing house published a four-volume collection consisting only of short stories and a few short stories. Following that, I collected under one cover my critical articles, reflections on literature, on my favorite genre, on comrades in arms, on what built my personality, and people, time, books, painting and music built it. The name of the collection is "Not someone else's craft." Well, then I continued to write about the present and the past, about my country and foreign lands - the collections "The Science of Distant Wanderings", "The River of Heraclitus", "A Trip to the Islands".

At first, I was slavishly devoted to His Majesty the Fact, then fantasy awakened, and I stopped clinging to the visible evidence of phenomena, now it remained to discard the shackling frames of time. Archpriest Avvakum, Marlo, Trediakovsky, Bach, Goethe, Pushkin, Tyutchev, Delvig, Apollon Grigoriev, Leskov, Fet, Annensky, Bunin, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, Hemingway - these are the new heroes. What explains such a rather motley selection of names? The desire to render to God God's. In life, many do not get what they deserve, especially the creators: poets, writers, composers, painters. They are killed not only in duels, like Marlo, Pushkin, Lermontov, but also in a slower and more painful way - misunderstanding, cold, blindness and deafness. Artists are indebted to society - this is well known, but society is also indebted to those who trustfully bear their hearts to it. Anton Rubinstein said: "The Creator needs praise, praise and praise." But how little praise fell to the lot of most of the creators I have named during their lifetime!

Of course, I am not always driven by the desire to compensate the departed creator for what he did not receive during his lifetime. Sometimes completely different motives make me turn to the great shadows. Pushkin, let's say, certainly does not need anyone's intercession. Just one day I strongly doubted the notorious frivolity of Pushkin the Lyceum student, the lack of accountability of his young poetry. I felt with all my gut that Pushkin realized his chosenness early and took on a burden that was beyond the strength of others. And when I wrote about Tyutchev, I wanted to solve the mystery of the creation of one of his most personal and sorrowful poems ...

For many years now, I have devoted a lot of time to cinema. I started with self-screenings, it was a period of study, which was never completed at the film institute, mastering a new genre, then I began to work on independent scripts, these include: the dilogy "Chairman", "Director", "Red Tent", "Indian Kingdom ”, “Yaroslav Dombrovsky”, “Tchaikovsky” (co-authored), “The Brilliant and Sorrowful Life of Imre Kalman” and others. I did not come to this work by chance. All my stories and stories are local, but I wanted to cover life more widely, so that the winds of history and the masses of the people would rustle on my pages, so that the layers of time would turn over and great extended destinies would be made.

Of course, I didn't just work for "large-scale" films. I am happy to participate in films such as The Night Guest, The Slowest Train, The Girl and the Echo, Dersu Uzala (Oscar Award), Late Meeting…

Now I have discovered another interesting area of ​​work: educational television. I made a number of programs for him, which I myself conducted - about Lermontov, Leskov, S. T. Aksakov, Innokenty Annensky, A. Golubkina, I.-S. Bache.

So what is the main thing in my literary work: stories, dramaturgy, journalism, criticism? Of course, stories. I intend to continue to focus on small prose.

Yu. M. Nagibin

stories

winter oak

The snow that had fallen during the night covered the narrow path leading from Uvarovka to the school, and only a faint, intermittent shadow on the dazzling snow cover could guess its direction. The teacher carefully put her foot in a small fur-trimmed boot, ready to pull it back if the snow deceived.

The school was only half a kilometer away, and the teacher only threw a short fur coat over her shoulders, and hastily tied her head with a light woolen scarf. And the frost was strong, besides, the wind still came up and, tearing off a young snowball from the crust, showered her from head to toe. But the twenty-four-year-old teacher liked it all. I liked that the frost was biting my nose and cheeks, that the wind, blowing under my fur coat, whipped my body with a chill. Turning away from the wind, she saw behind her a frequent trace of her pointed shoes, similar to the trace of some animal, and she liked it too.

A fresh, light-filled January day awakened joyful thoughts about life, about myself. Only two years since she came here from her student days, she has already gained fame as a skillful, experienced teacher of the Russian language. And in Uvarovka, and in Kuzminki, and in Cherny Yar, and in the peat town, and at the stud farm - everywhere she is known, appreciated and called respectfully: Anna Vasilievna.

The sun rose over the crenellated wall of the distant pine forest, casting deep blue on the long shadows on the snow. The shadows brought together the most distant objects: the top of the old church bell tower stretched to the porch of the Uvarovsky village council, the pines of the right-bank forest lay in a row along the slope of the left bank, the windsock of the school meteorological station spun in the middle of the field, at the very feet of Anna Vasilievna.

A man walked across the field. "What if he doesn't want to give way?" Anna Vasilievna thought with cheerful fright. You won’t warm up on the path, but step aside - you will instantly drown in the snow. But she knew to herself that there was not a person in the district who would not give way to the Uvarov teacher.

They straightened out. It was Frolov, a rider from a stud farm.

- Good morning, Anna Vasilievna! - Frolov lifted the Kubanka over his strong, short-cropped head.

- Yes, you will! Now put it on - such a frost! ..

Frolov, probably, himself wanted to fill up the Kubanka as soon as possible, but now he purposely hesitated, wanting to show that he did not care about the frost. It was pink, smooth, as if fresh from a bath; the sheepskin coat fitted his slender, light figure well; in his hand he held a thin, snake-like whip, with which he lashed himself on a white felt boot tucked up below the knee.

- How is my Lyosha, does he not indulge? Frolov respectfully asked.

- Of course, he's having fun. All normal kids mess around. As long as it does not cross the border, - Anna Vasilievna answered in the mind of her pedagogical experience.

Frolov chuckled.

- Lyoshka is meek, all in his father!

He stepped aside and, sinking to his knees in the snow, became the size of a fifth grader. Anna Vasilievna nodded to him from top to bottom and went on her way.

A two-story school building with wide windows painted with frost stood near the highway, behind a low fence. The snow all the way to the highway was browned by the glow of its red walls. The school was placed on the road, away from Uvarovka, because children from all over the district studied there: from the surrounding villages, from the horse breeding village, from the oilmen's sanatorium and a distant peat town. And now, along the highway from two sides, hoods and handkerchiefs, caps and caps, earflaps and hats flocked in streams to the school gates.

Hello, Anna Vasilievna! - sounded every second, then loud and clear, then dull and barely audible from under scarves and shawls wound up to the very eyes.

Anna Vasilievna's first lesson was in the fifth "A". The piercing bell, announcing the beginning of classes, had not yet died down, when Anna Vasilievna entered the classroom. The children got up, greeted each other and sat down in their seats. Silence did not come immediately. Desk covers slammed, benches creaked, someone sighed noisily, apparently saying goodbye to the serene mood of the morning.

- Today we will continue the analysis of parts of speech ...

The class is silent. Cars were heard rushing along the highway with a soft rustle.

Anna Vasilievna remembered how worried she was before the lesson last year and, like a schoolgirl on an exam, she repeated to herself: “The part of speech is called a noun ... the part of speech is called a noun ...” And she also remembered how she was tormented by a ridiculous fear: what if they all - still don't understand?

Anna Vasilievna smiled at the recollection, adjusted her hairpin in a heavy bun, and in an even, calm voice, feeling her calmness, like warmth in her whole body, began:

A noun is a part of speech that denotes an object. The subject in grammar is everything that can be asked: who is this or what is this? For example: "Who is this?" - "Student". Or: "What is it?" - "Book".

In the half-open door stood a small figure in well-worn felt boots, on which frosty sparks were extinguished as they melted. His round, frost-burned face burned as if it had been rubbed with beets, and his eyebrows were gray with frost.

– Are you late again, Savushkin? - Like most young teachers, Anna Vasilyevna liked to be strict, but now her question sounded almost plaintive.

Taking the words of the teacher for permission to enter the classroom, Savushkin quickly slipped into his seat. Anna Vasilievna saw how the boy put an oilcloth bag into the desk, asked a neighbor about something, without turning his head, - probably: “What is she explaining? ..”

Anna Vasilievna was upset by Savushkin's tardiness, like an unfortunate clumsy thing that overshadowed a well-begun day. The fact that Savushkin was late was complained to by her geography teacher, a small, dry old woman who looked like a night butterfly. In general, she often complained - either about the noise in the classroom, or about the absent-mindedness of the students. "First lessons are so hard!" the old woman sighed. “Yes, for those who do not know how to keep students, do not know how to make their lesson interesting,” Anna Vasilyevna thought then self-confidently and suggested that she change hours. Now she felt guilty before the old woman, shrewd enough to see Anna Vasilievna's kind offer as a challenge and reproach...

- Do you understand everything? Anna Vasilievna turned to the class.

- I see! .. I see! .. - the children answered in unison.

- Fine. Then give examples.

It became very quiet for a few seconds, then someone said uncertainly:

- Cat…

“That's right,” Anna Vasilievna said, immediately remembering that last year the “cat” was also the first.

And then it broke:

- Window! .. Table! .. House! .. Road! ..

- That's right, - said Anna Vasilievna, repeating the examples called by the guys.

The class cheered happily. Anna Vasilievna was surprised at the joy with which the children named objects familiar to them, as if recognizing them in a new, unusual significance. The range of examples kept expanding, but for the first minutes the guys kept to the closest, tangible objects to the touch: a wheel, a tractor, a well, a birdhouse ...

And from the back desk, where fat Vasyata was sitting, thinly and insistently rushed:

- Carnation ... carnation ... carnation ...

But then someone timidly said:

- City…

- The city is good! - approved Anna Vasilievna.

And then it flew:

- Street ... Metro ... Tram ... Motion picture ...

"That's enough," said Anna Vasilievna. - I see you understand.

- Winter oak!

The guys laughed.

- Quiet! Anna Vasilievna slammed her palm on the table.

- Winter oak! Savushkin repeated, not noticing either the laughter of his comrades or the shout of the teacher.

He didn't speak like the other students. The words broke out of his soul like a confession, like a happy secret that his overflowing heart could not hold. Not understanding his strange agitation, Anna Vassilyevna said, with difficulty concealing her irritation:

Why winter? Just oak.

- Just an oak - what! Winter oak - this is a noun!

- Sit down, Savushkin. That's what it means to be late! “Oak” is a noun, and we have not yet gone through what “winter” is. During a big break, be kind enough to go into the teachers' room.

- Here's a "winter oak" for you! Someone at the back chuckled.

Savushkin sat down, smiling at some of his own thoughts and not in the least touched by the menacing words of the teacher.

"A difficult boy," thought Anna Vasilievna.

The lesson continues...

“Sit down,” said Anna Vasilievna, when Savushkin entered the teacher's room.

The boy happily sank into an easy chair and swayed several times on the springs.

– Kindly, explain why you are systematically late?

“I just don’t know, Anna Vasilievna. He spread his arms like an adult. - I'm out in an hour.

How difficult it is to find the truth in the most trifling matter! Many guys lived much further than Savushkin, and yet none of them spent more than an hour on the road.

– Do you live in Kuzminki?

- No, at the sanatorium.

“Aren’t you ashamed to say that you leave in an hour?” From the sanatorium to the highway about fifteen minutes, and on the highway no more than half an hour.

“I don’t drive on the highway. I take a short cut, a straight line through the woods,” Savushkin said, as if he himself was not a little surprised by this circumstance.

“Straight, not straight,” Anna Vasilievna habitually corrected.

She felt vague and sad, as she always did when confronted with childish lies. She was silent, hoping that Savushkin would say: "Excuse me, Anna Vasilievna, I played snowballs with the guys," or something as simple and unsophisticated. But he just looked at her with big gray eyes, and his look seemed to say: “So we found out everything, what else do you need from me?”

- It's sad, Savushkin, very sad! You'll have to talk to your parents.

“And I, Anna Vasilievna, have only my mother,” Savushkin smiled.

Anna Vasilievna blushed a little. She remembered Savushkin's mother, "the shower nanny," as her son called her. She worked at a sanatorium balneary. A thin, tired woman with white hands, limp from hot water, as if made of cloth. Alone, without her husband, who died in World War II, she fed and raised, in addition to Kolya, three more children.

It's true, Savushkina already has enough trouble. And yet she must see her. Let that at first it will be even unpleasant, but then she will understand that she is not alone in her maternal care.

"I'll have to go to your mother."

- Come, Anna Vasilievna. Here mom will be happy!

“Unfortunately, I have nothing to please her. Does mom work in the morning?

- No, she is on the second shift, from three ...

- Very well! I finish at two. You walk me out after class.

... The path along which Savushkin led Anna Vasilievna began immediately at the back of the school. As soon as they stepped into the forest and heavily loaded with snow spruce paws closed behind their backs, they were immediately transferred to another, enchanted world of peace and silence. Magpies and crows, flying from tree to tree, swayed branches, knocked down cones, sometimes, hitting their wings, broke off fragile, dry twigs. But nothing gave rise to sound here.

All around it is white-white, the trees, down to the smallest, barely noticeable twig, are covered with snow. Only in the heights the tops of tall weeping birches, blown by the wind, turn black, and thin twigs seem to be drawn in ink on the blue surface of the sky.

The path ran along the stream, now on a par with it, obediently following all the meanders of the channel, then, rising above the stream, winding along a sheer steep.

Sometimes the trees parted, revealing sunny, cheerful clearings crossed out by a hare's footprint, similar to a watch chain. There were also large traces in the form of a trefoil, which belonged to some large animal. The tracks went into the very thicket, into the wind-blown forest.

- The elk has passed! - as if about a good friend, said Savushkin, seeing that Anna Vasilievna became interested in the traces. “Just don’t be afraid,” he added in response to the look thrown by the teacher into the depths of the forest, “moose - he is meek.”

– Did you see him? Anna Vasilievna asked excitedly.

- Himself? .. Alive? .. - Savushkin sighed. - No, it didn't. I saw his nuts.

“Spools,” Savushkin explained shyly.

Slipping under the arch of a bent willow, the path again ran down to the stream. In some places the stream was covered with a thick snow blanket, in some places it was chained in a pure ice shell, and sometimes living water peeped through the ice and snow with a dark, unkind eye.

Why isn't he completely frozen? Anna Vasilievna asked.

- Warm keys beat in it. Do you see a trickle?

Leaning over the hole, Anna Vassilyevna made out a thin thread stretching from the bottom; not reaching the surface of the water, it burst into small bubbles. This thin stalk with bubbles looked like a lily of the valley.

“There are so many of these keys here,” Savushkin said with enthusiasm. - The stream is alive under the snow ...

He swept away the snow, and tar-black and yet transparent water appeared.

Anna Vasilievna noticed that, falling into the water, the snow did not melt, on the contrary, it immediately thickened and sagged in the water with gelatinous greenish algae. She liked it so much that she began to knock snow into the water with the toe of her boat, rejoicing when a particularly intricate figure was fashioned from a large lump. She got a taste of it and did not immediately notice that Savushkin had gone ahead and was waiting for her, sitting high in the fork of a bough hanging over the stream. Anna Vasilievna overtook Savushkin. Here the action of the warm springs had already ended, the stream was covered with film-thin ice. Swift, light shadows darted across its marbled surface.

– Look how thin the ice is, you can even see the current!

- What are you, Anna Vasilievna! It was I who swung the bough, so the shadow runs ...

Anna Vasilievna bit her tongue. Perhaps, here, in the forest, it is better for her to keep quiet.

Savushkin again walked in front of the teacher, crouching slightly and carefully looking around him.

And the forest kept leading and leading them with its complex, confusing passages. It seemed that there would be no end to these trees, snowdrifts, this silence and the dusk pierced by the sun.

Suddenly, a smoky blue gap glimmered in the distance. Rednyak replaced the thicket, it became spacious and fresh. And now, no longer a gap, but a wide, sun-drenched gap appeared in front. There was something sparkling, sparkling, swarming with icy stars.

The path rounded a hawthorn bush, and the forest immediately resounded to the sides: in the middle of a clearing in white sparkling clothes, huge and majestic, like a cathedral, stood an oak tree. It seemed that the trees parted respectfully to let the older brother turn around in full force. Its lower branches spread like a tent over the clearing. The snow had packed into the deep wrinkles of the bark, and the thick, three-girth trunk seemed to be stitched with silver threads. The foliage, having dried up in autumn, almost did not fly around, the oak tree was covered with leaves in snow covers to the very top.

- So here it is, a winter oak!

It shone all over with myriads of tiny mirrors, and for a moment it seemed to Anna Vassilyevna that her image, repeated a thousand times, was looking at her from every branch. And it was somehow especially easy to breathe near the oak, as if in its deep winter sleep it exuded the spring aroma of flowering.

Anna Vasilyevna timidly stepped towards the oak, and the mighty, magnanimous guardian of the forest quietly shook the branch towards her. Not at all knowing what was going on in the teacher's soul, Savushkin fussed at the foot of the oak, easily treating his old acquaintance.

- Anna Vasilievna, look! ..

With an effort, he rolled off a block of snow, stuck to the bottom of the earth with the remains of rotting grasses. There, in the hole, lay a ball wrapped in stale, cobweb-thin leaves. Sharp tips of needles stuck through the leaves, and Anna Vasilyevna guessed that it was a hedgehog.

- Wow, how wrapped up! - Savushkin carefully covered the hedgehog with his unpretentious blanket.

Then he dug up the snow at another root. A tiny grotto with a fringe of icicles on the vault opened. In it sat a brown frog, as if made of cardboard; her skin, rigidly stretched along the skeleton, seemed polished. Savushkin touched the frog, but it did not move.

“She pretends,” Savushkin laughed, “as if she were dead!” And let the sun play, jump oh-oh how!

He continued to lead her around his little world. The foot of the oak sheltered many more guests: beetles, lizards, boogers. Some were buried under the roots, others hid in cracks in the bark; emaciated, as if empty inside, they overcame the winter in a deep sleep. A strong tree, overflowing with life, has accumulated so much living warmth around itself that the poor animal could not have found a better apartment for itself. Anna Vasilievna peered with joyful interest at this unknown to her, the secret life of the forest, when she heard Savushkin's alarmed exclamation:

- Oh, we won't find mom!

Anna Vasilyevna shuddered and hurriedly raised her bracelet watch to her eyes - it was a quarter past three. She felt as if she had fallen into a trap. And, mentally asking the oak for forgiveness for her little human cunning, she said:

- Well, Savushkin, this only means that the shortest path is not yet the most correct one. You have to walk on the highway.

Savushkin didn't answer, he just lowered his head.

"My God! - Anna Vasilievna thought with pain after that. “Could you more clearly acknowledge your powerlessness?” She remembered today's lesson and all her other lessons: how poorly, dryly and coldly she spoke about the word, about language, about that without which a person is dumb before the world, powerless in feeling, about language, which should be just as fresh, beautiful and rich, how generous and beautiful life is.

And she considered herself a skilled teacher! Perhaps not even one step has been taken by her on the path for which a whole human life is not enough. And where does it lie, this path? It is not easy and not easy to find it, like the key to Koshcheev's casket. But in that joy she did not understand, with which the guys called out “tractor”, “well”, “birdhouse”, the first landmark vaguely looked out for her.

- Well, Savushkin, thank you for the walk! Of course, you can also walk this path.

Thank you, Anna Vasilievna!

Theme of the lesson "Yu. Nagibin" Winter Oak "

The goals of the teacher's activity:continue work on the content of the work, identifying the main idea of ​​the story; develop sensitivity to the author's means of artistic expression; to form the ability to understand the imagery, expressiveness of the word, analyze the work; draw up a story plan and highlight micro-themes; to consolidate the ability of expressive reading, reading by roles.

Planned results of the study of the topic:

Item Skills:include the creative imagination of students: by word, detail, be able to speak in accordance with the task, to select and use the expressive means of the language in accordance with the communicative task.

Metasubject UUD:

Personal: expresses value judgments and his point of view about the read text; participates in a dialogue when discussing what has been read; formulates simple conclusions based on the text.

Regulatory: evaluates his achievements, realizes the difficulties that arise, looks for their causes and ways to overcome them.

Cognitive: performs educational and cognitive actions; carries out operations of analysis, synthesis, comparison, classification to solve educational problems, establishes cause-and-effect relationships, makes generalizations, conclusions.

Communicative: builds small monologue statements, carries out joint activities in pairs and working groups, taking into account specific educational and cognitive tasks.

Work frontal, individual, in pairs, in groups.

Yu. M. Nagibin

prepared

3rd grade student "A"

Berezhnaya Sofia

Presentation plan:

• Some facts from the life and work of the writer.
• The content of the story. Description of nature.
• Love for nature and tolerance

rare qualities that need to be nurtured in people.

• Member of the Great Patriotic War, spoke German, was a correspondent, wrote about the war.
• Author of the stories "Man from the Front", "Big Heart", "Winter Oak" and others.
• Films based on Y. Nagibin's scripts: "Chairman", "Clean Ponds", "Echo Girl", etc.
• He wrote books about children.

• put on, pull the hat low on the forehead
• a little condescending
• soft as if made of matter
• storm-tossed forest
• unfrozen place on the icy surface of a river, lake

• slap
• condescendingly

• cloth hands

• windbreak
• polynya

The teacher, Anna Vasilievna, was indignant at the constant lateness and inattention of Savushkin's student.

She decides to visit his mother. They walk together along a short path through the forest. The extraordinary beauty of the winter forest completely changes the mood of the teacher, she suddenly saw the world around her and her student in a different way.

Having walked the same path as her student, she realized that every person is a mystery, like the secret of the forest, which must be guessed.

The image of Savushkin's student

from the movie "Winter Oak"

• "Just an oak - what! Winter oak - that's a noun!"
• It is said about the winter oak "a mighty generous guardian of the forest" - it is huge, powerful, stands like a guardian.
• the snow had packed into the deep wrinkles of the bark; the trunk seemed to be stitched with silver threads; the foliage from the oak did not fly around in autumn, and each leaf is covered with snow, like a “case”.

If Anna Vasilievna had listened!

How interesting Savushkin would probably tell about the winter oak!

Everyone would run to look at him!

Even an excursion to the forest could be organized, and then write an essay. But that's what an experienced teacher would do.

But Anna Vasilievna simply decided to complain about Savushkin to his mother.

Encounter with a new world turned life upside down

Anna Vasilievna,

her view of herself

on the students

she discovered another world,

I learned to see the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Thank you

Abstract

A young rural teacher, Anna Vasilievna, outraged by the student's constant lateness, decided to talk to his parents. Together with the boy, she went the shortest way, through the forest, and lingered near the winter oak ...

For middle school age.

Yuri Markovich Nagibin

Yuri Markovich Nagibin

winter oak

The snow that had fallen during the night covered the narrow path leading from Uvarovka to the school, and only a faint, intermittent shadow on the dazzling snow cover could guess its direction. The teacher carefully put her foot in a small fur-trimmed boot, ready to pull it back if the snow deceived.

The school was only half a kilometer away, and the teacher only threw a short fur coat over her shoulders, and hastily tied her head with a light woolen scarf. And the frost was strong, besides, the wind still came up and, tearing off a young snowball from the crust, showered her from head to toe. But the twenty-four-year-old teacher liked it all. I liked that the frost was biting my nose and cheeks, that the wind, blowing under my fur coat, whipped my body with a chill. Turning away from the wind, she saw behind her a frequent trace of her pointed shoes, similar to the trace of some animal, and she liked it too.

A fresh, light-filled January day awakened joyful thoughts about life, about myself. Only two years since she came here from her student days, she has already gained fame as a skillful, experienced teacher of the Russian language. And in Uvarovka, and in Kuzminki, and in Cherny Yar, and in the peat town, and at the stud farm - everywhere she is known, appreciated and called respectfully: Anna Vasilievna.

The sun rose over the crenellated wall of the distant pine forest, casting deep blue on the long shadows on the snow. The shadows brought together the most distant objects: the top of the old church bell tower stretched to the porch of the Uvarovsky village council, the pines of the right-bank forest lay in a row along the slope of the left bank, the windsock of the school meteorological station spun in the middle of the field, at the very feet of Anna Vasilievna.

A man walked across the field. "What if he doesn't want to give way?" thought Anna Vasilievna with cheerful fright. You won’t stretch your legs on the path, but step aside - you will instantly drown in the snow. But she knew to herself that there was not a person in the district who would not give way to the Uvarov teacher.

They straightened out. It was Frolov, a rider from a stud farm.

Good morning, Anna Vasilievna! - Frolov lifted the Kubanka over his strong, short-cropped head.

May you be! Now put it on - such a frost! ..

Frolov, probably, himself wanted to fill up the Kubanka as soon as possible, but now he purposely hesitated, wanting to show that he did not care about the frost. It was pink, smooth, as if fresh from a bath; the sheepskin coat fitted his slender, light figure well; in his hand he held a thin, snake-like whip, with which he lashed himself on a white felt boot tucked up below the knee.

How is my Lyosha, does he not indulge? Frolov asked respectfully.

Of course he's having fun. All normal kids mess around. If only it did not cross the border, - Anna Vasilyevna answered in the mind of her pedagogical experience.

Frolov chuckled.

Lyoshka I have meek, all in the father!

He stepped aside and, sinking to his knees in the snow, became the size of a fifth grader. Anna Vasilievna nodded to him from top to bottom and went on her way.

A two-story school building with wide windows painted with frost stood near the highway, behind a low fence. The snow all the way to the highway was browned by the glow of its red walls. The school was placed on the road, away from Uvarovka, because children from all over the district studied there: from the surrounding villages, from the horse breeding village, from the oilmen's sanatorium and a distant peat town. And now, along the highway from two sides, hoods and handkerchiefs, caps and caps, earflaps and hats flocked in streams to the school gates.

Hello Anna Vasilievna! - sounded every second, then loudly and clearly, then deafly and barely audible from under scarves and shawls wound up to the very eyes.

Anna Vasilievna's first lesson was in the fifth "A". The piercing bell, announcing the beginning of classes, had not yet died down, when Anna Vasilievna entered the classroom. The children got up, greeted each other and sat down in their seats. Silence did not come immediately. Desk covers slammed, benches creaked, someone sighed noisily, apparently saying goodbye to the serene mood of the morning.

Today we will continue with the analysis of parts of speech ...

The class is silent. Cars were heard rushing along the highway with a soft rustle.

Anna Vasilievna remembered how worried she was before the lesson last year and, like a schoolgirl on an exam, she repeated to herself: “The part of speech is called a noun ... the part of speech is called a noun ...” And she also remembered how she was tormented by a ridiculous fear: what if they all - still don't understand?

Anna Vasilievna smiled at the recollection, adjusted her hairpin in a heavy bun, and in an even, calm voice, feeling her calmness, like warmth in her whole body, began:

A noun is a part of speech that denotes an object. The subject in grammar is everything that can be asked: who is this or what is this? For example: "Who is this?" - "Student". Or: "What is it?" - "Book".

In the half-open door stood a small figure in well-worn felt boots, on which frosty sparks were extinguished as they melted. His round, frost-burned face burned as if it had been rubbed with beets, and his eyebrows were gray with frost.

Are you late again, Savushkin? - Like most young teachers, Anna Vasilievna liked to be strict, but now her question sounded almost plaintive.

Taking the words of the teacher for permission to enter the classroom, Savushkin quickly slipped into his seat. Anna Vasilievna saw how the boy put an oilcloth bag into the desk, asked a neighbor about something, without turning his head, - probably: “What is she explaining? ..”

Anna Vasilievna was upset by Savushkin's tardiness, like an unfortunate clumsy thing that overshadowed a well-begun day. The fact that Savushkin was late was complained to by her geography teacher, a small, dry old woman who looked like a night butterfly. In general, she often complained - either about the noise in the classroom, or about the absent-mindedness of the students. "First lessons are so hard!" sighed the old woman. “Yes, for those who do not know how to keep students, do not know how to make their lesson interesting,” Anna Vasilyevna thought then self-confidently and suggested that she change hours. Now she felt guilty before the old woman, shrewd enough to see Anna Vasilievna's kind offer as a challenge and reproach...

Do you understand everything? - Anna Vasilievna turned to the class.

I see! .. I see! .. - the children answered in unison.

Fine. Then give examples.

It became very quiet for a few seconds, then someone said uncertainly:

That's right, - said Anna Vasilievna, immediately remembering that last year the first was also a "cat".

And then it broke:

Window!.. Table!.. House!.. Road!..

That's right, - said Anna Vasilievna, repeating the examples called by the guys.

The class cheered happily. Anna Vasilievna was surprised at the joy with which the children named objects familiar to them, as if recognizing them in a new, unusual significance. The range of examples kept expanding, but for the first minutes the guys kept to the closest, tangible objects to the touch: a wheel, a tractor, a well, a birdhouse ...

And from the back desk, where fat Vasyata was sitting, thinly and insistently rushed:

carnation... carnation... carnation...

But then someone timidly said:

City is good! - approved Anna Vasilievna.

And then it flew:

Street… Subway… Tram… Motion picture…

Enough, - said Anna Vasilievna. - I see you understand.

Winter oak!

The guys laughed.

Quiet! Anna Vasilievna slammed her palm on the table.

Winter oak! Savushkin repeated, not noticing either the laughter of his comrades or the shout of the teacher.

He didn't speak like the other students. The words broke out of his soul like a confession, like a happy secret that his overflowing heart could not hold. Not understanding his strange agitation, Anna Vassilyevna said, with difficulty concealing her irritation:

Why winter? Just oak.

Just oak - what! Winter oak - this is a noun!

Sit down, Savushkin. That's what it means to be late! “Oak” is a noun, and we have not yet gone through what “winter” is. During a big break, be kind enough to go into the teachers' room.

Here's a "winter oak" for you! Someone at the back chuckled.

Savushkin sat down, smiling at some of his own thoughts and not in the least touched by the menacing words of the teacher.

"A difficult boy," thought Anna Vasilievna.

The lesson continues...

Sit down, - said Anna Vasilievna, when Savushkin entered the teacher's room.

The boy happily sank into an easy chair and swayed several times on the springs.

Kindly explain why you are systematically late?

I just don't know, Anna Vasilievna. He spread his arms like an adult. - I'm out in an hour.

How difficult it is to find the truth in the most trifling matter! Many guys lived much further than Savushkin, and yet none of them spent more than an hour on the road.

Do you live in Kuzminki?

No, at the sanatorium.

And aren't you ashamed to say that you leave in an hour? From the sanatorium to the highway about fifteen minutes, and on the highway no more than half an hour.

I don't drive on the highway. I take a short cut, straight through the forest, - said Savushkin, as if he himself was not a little surprised by this circumstance.

Straight, not straight...