A selection of texts for the “Living Classics” competition (prose). Texts for the reading competition "living classics" material on literature on the topic Poetic passage for recitation by heart

A SELECTION OF PASSAGES FOR READING BY MERT
Having emptied the pot, Vanya wiped it dry with a crust. He wiped the spoon with the same crust, ate the crust, stood up, bowed sedately to the giants and said, lowering his eyelashes:
- We are very grateful. I'm very pleased with you.
- Maybe you want more?
- No, I'm full.
“Otherwise we can put you another pot,” said Gorbunov, winking, not without boasting. - This means nothing to us. Eh, shepherd boy?
“It doesn’t bother me anymore,” Vanya said shyly, and his blue eyes suddenly flashed a quick, mischievous look from under his eyelashes.
- If you don’t want it, whatever you want. Your will. We have this rule: we don’t force anyone,” said Bidenko, known for his fairness.
But the vain Gorbunov, who loved for all people to admire the life of the scouts, said:
- Well, Vanya, how did you like our grub?
“Good food,” said the boy, putting a spoon in the pot, handle down, and collecting bread crumbs from the Suvorov Onslaught newspaper, spread out instead of a tablecloth.
- Right, good? - Gorbunov perked up. - You, brother, won’t find such food from anyone in the division. Famous grub. You, brother, are the main thing, stick with us, the scouts. You will never be lost with us. Will you stick with us?
“I will,” the boy said cheerfully.
- That's right, and you won't get lost. We'll wash you off in the bathhouse. We'll cut your hair. We'll arrange some uniforms so that you have the proper military appearance.
- Will you take me on reconnaissance mission, uncle?
- We’ll take you on reconnaissance missions. Let's make you a famous intelligence officer.
- I, uncle, am small. “I can climb everywhere,” Vanya said with joyful readiness. - I know every bush around here.
- It's expensive.
- Will you teach me how to fire from a machine gun?
- From what. The time will come - we will teach.
“I wish I could just shoot once, uncle,” said Vanya, looking greedily at the machine guns swinging on their belts from the incessant cannon fire.
- You'll shoot. Don't be afraid. This won't happen. We will teach you all military science. Our first duty, of course, is to enroll you in all types of allowances.
- How is it, uncle?
- It’s very simple, brother. Sergeant Egorov will report about you to the lieutenant
Sedykh. Lieutenant Sedykh will report to the battery commander, Captain Enakiev, Captain Enakiev will order you to be included in the order. From this, it means that all types of allowance will go to you: clothing, welding, money. Do you understand?
- I see, uncle.
- This is how we do it, scouts... Wait! Where are you going?
- Wash the dishes, uncle. Our mother always ordered us to wash the dishes after ourselves and then put them in the closet.
“She ordered correctly,” Gorbunov said sternly. - It’s the same in military service.
“There are no porters in military service,” the fair Bidenko edifyingly noted.
“However, wait a little longer to wash the dishes, we’ll drink tea now,” Gorbunov said smugly. - Do you respect drinking tea?
“I respect you,” said Vanya.
- Well, you're doing the right thing. For us, as scouts, this is how it’s supposed to be: as soon as we eat, we immediately drink tea. It is forbidden! - Bidenko said. “We drink extra, of course,” he added indifferently. - We don't take this into account.
Soon a large copper kettle appeared in the tent - an object of special pride for the scouts, and a source of eternal envy for the rest of the batteries.
It turned out that the scouts really didn’t take sugar into account. The silent Bidenko untied his duffel bag and placed a huge handful of refined sugar on the Suvorov Onslaught. Before Vanya had time to blink an eye, Gorbunov poured two large breasts of sugar into his mug, however, noticing the expression of delight on the boy’s face, he splashed a third breast. Know us, the scouts!
Vanya grabbed the tin mug with both hands. He even closed his eyes with pleasure. He felt as if he were in an extraordinary, fairy-tale world. Everything around was fabulous. And this tent, as if illuminated by the sun in the middle of a cloudy day, and the roar of a close battle, and the kind giants throwing handfuls of refined sugar, and the mysterious “all types of allowances” promised to him - clothing, food, money - and even the words “stewed pork” printed in large black letters on the mug. - Do you like it? - asked Gorbunov, proudly admiring the pleasure with which the boy sipped the tea with carefully stretched lips.
Vanya couldn’t even answer this question intelligently. His lips were busy fighting the tea, hot as fire. His heart was full of wild joy that he would stay with the scouts, with these wonderful people who promised to give him a haircut, give him uniform, and teach him how to fire a machine gun.
All the words were mixed up in his head. He just nodded his head gratefully, raised his eyebrows high and rolled his eyes, thereby expressing the highest degree of pleasure and gratitude.
(In Kataev “Son of the Regiment”)
If you think that I study well, you are mistaken. I study no matter. For some reason, everyone thinks that I am capable, but lazy. I don't know if I'm capable or not. But only I know for sure that I am not lazy. I spend three hours working on problems.
For example, now I’m sitting and trying with all my might to solve a problem. But she doesn’t dare. I tell my mom:
- Mom, I can’t do the problem.
“Don’t be lazy,” says mom. - Think carefully, and everything will work out. Just think carefully!
She leaves on business. And I take my head with both hands and tell her:
- Think, head. Think carefully... “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Head, why don’t you think? Well, head, well, think, please! Well what is it worth to you!
A cloud floats outside the window. It is as light as feathers. There it stopped. No, it floats on.
Head, what are you thinking about?! Aren `t you ashamed!!! “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Lyuska probably left too. She's already walking. If she had approached me first, I would, of course, forgive her. But will she really fit, such a mischief?!
“...From point A to point B...” No, she won’t do. On the contrary, when I go out into the yard, she will take Lena’s arm and whisper to her. Then she will say: “Len, come to me, I have something.” They will leave, and then sit on the windowsill and laugh and nibble on seeds.
“...Two pedestrians left point A to point B...” And what will I do?.. And then I’ll call Kolya, Petka and Pavlik to play lapta. What will she do? Yeah, she'll play the Three Fat Men record. Yes, so loud that Kolya, Petka and Pavlik will hear and run to ask her to let them listen. They've listened to it a hundred times, but it's not enough for them! And then Lyuska will close the window, and they will all listen to the record there.
“...From point A to point... to point...” And then I’ll take it and fire something right at her window. Glass - ding! - and will fly apart. Let him know.
So. I'm already tired of thinking. Think, don’t think, the task will not work. Just an awfully difficult task! I'll take a walk a little and start thinking again.
I closed the book and looked out the window. Lyuska was walking alone in the yard. She jumped into hopscotch. I went out into the yard and sat down on a bench. Lyuska didn’t even look at me.
- Earring! Vitka! - Lyuska immediately screamed. - Let's go play lapta!
The Karmanov brothers looked out the window.
“We have a throat,” both brothers said hoarsely. - They won't let us in.
- Lena! - Lyuska screamed. - Linen! Come out!
Instead of Lena, her grandmother looked out and shook her finger at Lyuska.
- Pavlik! - Lyuska screamed.
No one appeared at the window.
- Fuck it! - Lyuska pressed herself.
- Girl, why are you yelling?! - Someone's head poked out of the window. - A sick person is not allowed to rest! There is no peace for you! - And his head stuck back into the window.
Lyuska looked at me furtively and blushed like a lobster. She tugged at her pigtail. Then she took the thread off her sleeve. Then she looked at the tree and said:
- Lucy, let's play hopscotch.
“Come on,” I said.
We jumped into hopscotch and I went home to solve my problem.
As soon as I sat down at the table, my mother came:
- Well, how's the problem?
- Does not work.
- But you’ve been sitting over her for two hours already! This is just terrible! They give the children some puzzles!.. Well, show me your problem! Maybe I can do it? After all, I graduated from college. So. “Two pedestrians went from point A to point B...” Wait, wait, this problem is somehow familiar to me! Listen, you and your dad decided it last time! I remember perfectly!
- How? - I was surprised. - Really? Oh, really, this is the forty-fifth problem, and we were given the forty-sixth.
At this point my mother became terribly angry.
- It's outrageous! - Mom said. - This is unheard of! This mess! Where is your head?! What is she thinking about?!
(Irina Pivovarova “What is my head thinking about”)
Irina Pivovarova. Spring rain
I didn't want to study lessons yesterday. It was so sunny outside! Such a warm yellow sun! Such branches were swaying outside the window!.. I wanted to stretch out my hand and touch every sticky green leaf. Oh, how your hands will smell! And your fingers will stick together - you won’t be able to separate them from each other... No, I didn’t want to learn my lessons.
I went outside. The sky above me was fast. Clouds were hurrying along it somewhere, and sparrows were chirping terribly loudly in the trees, and a big fluffy cat was warming itself on a bench, and it was so good that it was spring!
I walked in the yard until the evening, and in the evening mom and dad went to the theater, and I, without having done my homework, went to bed.
The morning was dark, so dark that I didn’t want to get up at all. It's always like this. If it's sunny, I jump up immediately. I get dressed quickly. And the coffee is delicious, and mom doesn’t grumble, and dad jokes. And when the morning is like today, I can barely get dressed, my mother urges me on and gets angry. And when I have breakfast, dad makes comments to me that I’m sitting crookedly at the table.
On the way to school, I remembered that I had not done a single lesson, and this made me feel even worse. Without looking at Lyuska, I sat down at my desk and took out my textbooks.
Vera Evstigneevna entered. The lesson has begun. They'll call me now.
- Sinitsyna, to the blackboard!
I shuddered. Why should I go to the board?
“I didn’t learn it,” I said.
Vera Evstigneevna was surprised and gave me a bad mark.
Why do I have such a bad life in the world?! I'd rather take it and die. Then Vera Evstigneevna will regret that she gave me a bad mark. And mom and dad will cry and tell everyone:
“Oh, why did we go to the theater ourselves, and leave her all alone!”
Suddenly they pushed me in the back. I turned around. A note was thrust into my hands. I unfolded the long narrow paper ribbon and read:
“Lucy!
Don't despair!!!
A deuce is nothing!!!
You will correct the deuce!
I will help you! Let's be friends with you! Only this is a secret! Not a word to anyone!!!
Yalo-kvo-kyl.”
It was as if something warm was poured into me immediately. I was so happy that I even laughed. Lyuska looked at me, then at the note and proudly turned away.
Did someone really write this to me? Or maybe this note is not for me? Maybe she is Lyuska? But on the reverse side there was: LYUSE SINITSYNA.
What a wonderful note! I have never received such wonderful notes in my life! Well, of course, a deuce is nothing! What are you talking about?! I'll just fix the two!
I re-read it twenty times:
“Let’s be friends with you...”
Well, of course! Of course, let's be friends! Let's be friends with you!! Please! I am very happy! I really love it when people want to be friends with me!..
But who writes this? Some kind of YALO-KVO-KYL. Confused word. I wonder what it means? And why does this YALO-KVO-KYL want to be friends with me?.. Maybe I’m beautiful after all?
I looked at the desk. There was nothing beautiful.
He probably wanted to be friends with me because I’m good. So, am I bad, or what? Of course it's good! After all, no one wants to be friends with a bad person!
To celebrate, I nudged Lyuska with my elbow.
- Lucy, but one person wants to be friends with me!
- Who? - Lyuska asked immediately.
- I don't know who. The writing here is somehow unclear.
- Show me, I'll figure it out.
- Honestly, won't you tell anyone?
- Honestly!
Lyuska read the note and pursed her lips:
- Some fool wrote it! I couldn't say my real name.
- Or maybe he’s shy?
I looked around the whole class. Who could have written the note? Well, who?.. It would be nice, Kolya Lykov! He is the smartest in our class. Everyone wants to be his friend. But I have so many C’s! No, he probably won't.
Or maybe Yurka Seliverstov wrote this?.. No, he and I are already friends. He would, out of the blue, send me a note! During recess, I went out into the corridor. I stood by the window and began to wait. It would be nice if this YALO-KVO-KYL made friends with me right now!
Pavlik Ivanov came out of the class and immediately walked towards me.
So, that means Pavlik wrote this? Only this was not enough!
Pavlik ran up to me and said:
- Sinitsyna, give me ten kopecks.
I gave him ten kopecks so that he would get rid of it as soon as possible. Pavlik immediately ran to the buffet, and I stayed by the window. But no one else came.
Suddenly Burakov began walking past me. It seemed to me that he was looking at me strangely. He stopped nearby and began to look out the window. So, that means Burakov wrote the note?! Then I'd better leave right away. I can't stand this Burakov!
“The weather is terrible,” said Burakov.
I didn't have time to leave.
“Yes, the weather is bad,” I said.
“The weather couldn’t be worse,” said Burakov.
“Terrible weather,” I said.
Then Burakov took an apple out of his pocket and bit off half with a crunch.
“Burakov, let me take a bite,” I couldn’t resist.
“But it’s bitter,” said Burakov and walked down the corridor.
No, he didn't write the note. And thank God! You won’t find another greedy person like him in the whole world!
I looked after him contemptuously and went to class. I walked in and was stunned. On the board it was written in huge letters:
SECRET!!! YALO-KVO-KYL + SINITSYNA = LOVE!!! NOT A WORD TO ANYONE!
Lyuska was whispering with the girls in the corner. When I walked in, they all stared at me and started giggling.
I grabbed a rag and rushed to wipe the board.
Then Pavlik Ivanov jumped up to me and whispered in my ear:
- I wrote you a note.
- You're lying, not you!
Then Pavlik laughed like a fool and yelled at the whole class:
- Oh, hilarious! Why be friends with you?! All covered in freckles, like a cuttlefish! Stupid tit!
And then, before I had time to look back, Yurka Seliverstov jumped up to him and hit this idiot right in the head with a wet rag. Pavlik howled:
- Ah well! I'll tell everyone! I’ll tell everyone, everyone, everyone about her, how she receives notes! And I’ll tell everyone about you! It was you who sent her the note! - And he ran out of the class with a stupid cry: - Yalo-kvo-kyl! Yalo-quo-kyl!
The lessons are over. Nobody ever approached me. Everyone quickly collected their textbooks, and the classroom was empty. Kolya Lykov and I were left alone. Kolya still couldn’t tie his shoelace.
The door creaked. Yurka Seliverstov stuck his head into the classroom, looked at me, then at Kolya and, without saying anything, left.
But what if? What if Kolya wrote this after all? Is it really Kolya?! What happiness if Kolya! My throat immediately went dry.
“Kol, please tell me,” I barely squeezed out, “it’s not you, by chance...
I didn’t finish because I suddenly saw Kolya’s ears and neck turn red.
- Oh you! - Kolya said without looking at me. - I thought you... And you...
- Kolya! - I screamed. - Well, I...
“You’re a chatterbox, that’s what,” said Kolya. -Your tongue is like a broom. And I don't want to be friends with you anymore. What else was missing!
Kolya finally managed to pull the lace, stood up and left the classroom. And I sat down in my place.
I'm not going anywhere. It's raining so badly outside the window. And my fate is so bad, so bad that it can’t get any worse! I'll sit here until nightfall. And I will sit at night. Alone in a dark classroom, alone in the whole dark school. That's what I need.
Aunt Nyura came in with a bucket.
“Go home, honey,” said Aunt Nyura. - At home, my mother was tired of waiting.
“No one was waiting for me at home, Aunt Nyura,” I said and trudged out of class.
My bad fate! Lyuska is no longer my friend. Vera Evstigneevna gave me a bad grade. Kolya Lykov... I didn’t even want to remember about Kolya Lykov.
I slowly put on my coat in the locker room and, barely dragging my feet, went out into the street...
It was wonderful, the best spring rain in the world!!!
Funny, wet passers-by were running down the street with their collars raised!!!
And on the porch, right in the rain, stood Kolya Lykov.
“Come on,” he said.
And off we went.
(Irina Pivovarova “Spring Rain”)
The front was far from the village of Nechaev. The Nechaev collective farmers did not hear the roar of guns, did not see how planes were fighting in the sky and how the glow of fires blazed at night where the enemy passed through Russian soil. But from where the front was, refugees walked through Nechaevo. They dragged sleds with bundles, hunched over under the weight of bags and sacks. The children walked and got stuck in the snow, clinging to their mothers' dresses. Homeless people stopped, warmed themselves in the huts and moved on. One day at dusk, when the shadow of the old birch tree stretched all the way to the granary, they knocked on the Shalikhins’ hut. The reddish, nimble girl Taiska rushed to the side window, buried her nose in the thawed area, and both her pigtails cheerfully lifted up. - Two aunties! - she screamed. – One is young, wearing a scarf! And the other one is a very old lady, with a stick! And yet... look - a girl! Pear, Taiska’s eldest sister, put aside the stocking she was knitting and also went to the window. - She really is a girl. In a blue hood... “So go open it,” said the mother. – What are you waiting for? Pear pushed Taiska: “Go, what are you doing!” Should all elders? Taiska ran to open the door. People entered, and the hut smelled of snow and frost. While the mother was talking to the women, while she was asking where they were from, where they were going, where the Germans were and where the front was, Grusha and Taiska looked at the girl. - Look, in boots! - And the stocking is torn! “Look, she’s clutching her bag so tightly, she can’t even loosen her fingers.” What does she have there? - Just ask. - Ask yourself. At this time, Romanok appeared from the street. The frost cut his cheeks. Red as a tomato, he stopped in front of the strange girl and stared at her. I even forgot to wash my feet. And the girl in the blue hood sat motionless on the edge of the bench. With her right hand she clutched to her chest a yellow handbag hanging over her shoulder. She silently looked somewhere at the wall and seemed to see and hear nothing. The mother poured hot stew for the refugees and cut off a piece of bread. - Oh, and wretches! – she sighed. – It’s not easy for us, and the child is struggling... Is this your daughter? “No,” the woman answered, “a stranger.” “They lived on the same street,” added the old woman. The mother was surprised: “Alien?” Where are your relatives, girl? The girl looked at her gloomily and did not answer. “She has no one,” the woman whispered, “the whole family died: her father is at the front, and her mother and brother are here.”
Killed... The mother looked at the girl and could not come to her senses. She looked at her light coat, which the wind was probably blowing through, at her torn stockings, at her thin neck, plaintively white from under the blue hood... Killed. Everyone is killed! But the girl is alive. And she is alone in the whole world! The mother approached the girl. -What is your name, daughter? – she asked tenderly. “Valya,” the girl answered indifferently. “Valya... Valentina...” the mother repeated thoughtfully. - Valentine... Seeing that the women took up their knapsacks, she stopped them: - Stay overnight today. It’s already late outside, and the drifting snow has begun – look how it’s sweeping away! And you'll leave in the morning. The women remained. Mother made beds for tired people. She made a bed for the girl on a warm couch - let her warm up thoroughly. The girl undressed, took off her blue hood, poked her head into the pillow, and sleep immediately overcame her. So, when the grandfather came home in the evening, his usual place on the couch was occupied, and that night he had to lie down on the chest. After dinner everyone calmed down very quickly. Only the mother tossed and turned on her bed and could not sleep. At night she got up, lit a small blue lamp and quietly walked over to the bed. The weak light of the lamp illuminated the girl’s gentle, slightly flushed face, large fluffy eyelashes, dark hair with a chestnut tint, scattered across the colorful pillow. - You poor orphan! – the mother sighed. “You just opened your eyes to the light, and how much grief has fallen upon you!” Such and such a small one!.. The mother stood near the girl for a long time and kept thinking about something. I took her boots from the floor and looked at them - they were thin and wet. Tomorrow this little girl will put them on and go somewhere again... And where? Early, early, when it was just dawning in the windows, the mother got up and lit the stove. Grandfather got up too: he didn’t like to lie down for a long time. It was quiet in the hut, only sleepy breathing could be heard and Romanok snored on the stove. In this silence, by the light of a small lamp, the mother spoke quietly with the grandfather. “Let's take the girl, father,” she said. - I really feel sorry for her! The grandfather put aside the felt boots he was mending, raised his head and looked thoughtfully at his mother. - Take the girl?.. Will it be okay? - he answered. “We are from the countryside, and she is from the city.” – Does it really matter, father? There are people in the city and people in the village. After all, she is an orphan! Our Taiska will have a girlfriend. Next winter they will go to school together... The grandfather came up and looked at the girl: - Well... Look. You know better. Let's at least take it. Just be careful not to cry with her later! - Eh!.. Maybe I won’t pay. Soon the refugees also got up and began to get ready to go. But when they wanted to wake up the girl, the mother stopped them: “Wait, don’t wake her up.” Leave your Valentine with me! If you find any relatives, tell me: he lives in Nechaev, with Daria Shalikhina. And I had three guys - well, there will be four. Maybe we'll live! The women thanked the hostess and left. But the girl remained. “Here I have another daughter,” said Daria Shalikhina thoughtfully, “daughter Valentinka... Well, we’ll live.” This is how a new person appeared in the village of Nechaevo.
(Lyubov Voronkova “Girl from the City”)
Not remembering how she left the house, Assol fled to the sea, caught up in an irresistible
by the wind of the event; at the first corner she stopped almost exhausted; her legs were giving way,
breathing was interrupted and extinguished, consciousness was hanging on by a thread. Beside myself with fear of losing
will, she stamped her foot and recovered. At times the roof or the fence hid her from
Scarlet Sails; then, fearing that they had disappeared like a simple ghost, she hurried
pass the painful obstacle and, seeing the ship again, stopped with relief
take a breath.
Meanwhile, such confusion, such excitement, such complete unrest occurred in Caperna, which would not yield to the effect of the famous earthquakes. Never before
the large ship did not approach this shore; the ship had the same sails, the name
which sounded like mockery; now they glowed clearly and irrefutably with
the innocence of a fact that refutes all the laws of existence and common sense. Men,
women and children rushed to the shore in a hurry, who was wearing what; residents echoed
courtyard to courtyard, they jumped on each other, screamed and fell; soon formed near the water
a crowd, and Assol quickly ran into the crowd.
While she was away, her name flew among people with nervous and gloomy anxiety, angry fear. The men did most of the talking; muffled, snake hissing
the stunned women sobbed, but if one had already begun to crack - poison
got into my head. As soon as Assol appeared, everyone fell silent, everyone moved away from her in fear, and she was left alone in the middle of the emptiness of the sultry sand, confused, ashamed, happy, with a face no less scarlet than her miracle, helplessly stretching out her hands to the tall ship.
A boat full of tanned oarsmen separated from him; among them stood one whom she thought
It seemed now, she knew, she vaguely remembered from childhood. He looked at her with a smile,
which warmed and hurried. But thousands of last funny fears overcame Assol;
mortally afraid of everything - mistakes, misunderstandings, mysterious and harmful interference -
she ran waist-deep into the warm swaying waves, shouting: “I’m here, I’m here! It's me!"
Then Zimmer waved his bow - and the same melody rang through the nerves of the crowd, but this time in a full, triumphant chorus. From the excitement, the movement of clouds and waves, the shine
water and distance, the girl could almost no longer distinguish what was moving: she, the ship, or
the boat - everything was moving, spinning and falling.
But the oar splashed sharply near her; she raised her head. Gray bent over, her hands
grabbed his belt. Assol closed her eyes; then, quickly opening his eyes, boldly
smiled at his shining face and, out of breath, said:
- Absolutely like that.
- And you too, my child! - Gray said, taking the wet jewel out of the water. -
Here I come. Do you recognize me?
She nodded, holding onto his belt, with a new soul and tremulously closed eyes.
Happiness sat inside her like a fluffy kitten. When Assol decided to open her eyes,
the rocking of the boat, the shine of the waves, the approaching, powerfully tossing board of the "Secret" -
everything was a dream, where the light and water swayed, swirling, like the play of sunbeams on a wall streaming with rays. Not remembering how, she climbed the ladder in Gray's strong arms.
The deck, covered and hung with carpets, in the scarlet splashes of the sails, was like a heavenly garden.
And soon Assol saw that she was standing in the cabin - in a room that could no longer be better
be.
Then from above, shaking and burying the heart in her triumphant cry, she rushed again
great music. Again Assol closed her eyes, afraid that all this would disappear if she
look. Gray took her hands, and, already knowing where it was safe to go, she hid
a face wet with tears on the chest of a friend who came so magically. Carefully, but with laughter,
himself shocked and surprised that an inexpressible, inaccessible to anyone, had occurred
precious minute, Gray lifted his chin up, this dream that had long, long ago
The girl's face and eyes finally opened clearly. They had all the best of a person.
- Will you take my Longren to us? - she said.
- Yes. - And he kissed her so hard following his iron “yes” that she
laughed.
(A. Green. “Scarlet Sails”)
By the end of the school year, I asked my father to buy me a two-wheeler, a battery-powered submachine gun, a battery-powered airplane, a flying helicopter, and a table hockey game.
- I really want to have these things! - I told my father. “They constantly spin in my head like a carousel, and it makes my head so dizzy that it’s hard to stay on my feet.”
“Hold on,” said the father, “don’t fall and write all these things on a piece of paper for me so that I don’t forget.”
- But why write, they are already firmly in my head.
“Write,” said the father, “it doesn’t cost you anything.”
“In general, it’s worth nothing,” I said, “just an extra hassle.” - And I wrote in capital letters on the entire sheet:
VILISAPET
PISTAL GUN
PLANE
VIRTALET
HAKEI
Then I thought about it and decided to write “ice cream”, went to the window, looked at the sign opposite and added:
ICE CREAM
The father read it and said:
- I’ll buy you ice cream for now, and we’ll wait for the rest.
I thought he had no time now, and I asked:
- Until what time?
- Until better times.
- Until what time?
- Until the next end of the school year.
- Why?
- Yes, because the letters in your head are spinning like a carousel, this makes you dizzy, and the words are not on their feet.
It's as if words have legs!
And they’ve bought me ice cream a hundred times already.
(Victor Galyavkin “Carousel in the head”)
Rose.
The last days of August... Autumn was already coming. The sun was setting. A sudden gusty downpour, without thunder and without lightning, had just rushed over our wide plain. The garden in front of the house was burning and smoking, all flooded with the fire of dawn and the flood of rain. She was sitting at the table in the living room and with persistent thoughtfulness looked into the garden through the half-open door. I knew what was happening in her soul then; I knew that after a short, albeit painful, struggle, at that very moment she surrendered to a feeling that she could no longer cope with. Suddenly she got up, quickly went out into the garden and disappeared. An hour struck... another struck; she did not return. Then I got up and, leaving the house, went along the alley, along which - I had no doubt - she also went. Everything around me grew dark; the night has already come. But on the damp sand of the path, a bright red even through the diffuse darkness, a roundish object was visible. I bent down... It was a young, slightly blossoming rose. Two hours ago I saw this same rose on her chest. I carefully picked up the flower that had fallen into the dirt and, returning to the living room, put it on the table in front of her chair. So she finally returned - and, walking the entire room with light steps, she sat down at the table. Her face turned pale and came to life; quickly, with cheerful embarrassment, her lowered, like diminished eyes ran around. She saw a rose, grabbed it, looked at its crumpled, stained petals, looked at me - and her eyes, suddenly stopping, shone with tears. “What are you crying about?” - I asked. “Yes, about this rose.” Look what happened to her.” Here I decided to show thoughtfulness. “Your tears will wash away this dirt,” I said with a significant expression. “Tears don’t wash, tears burn,” she answered and, turning to the fireplace, threw a flower into the dying flame. “Fire will burn even better than tears,” she exclaimed, not without boldness, “and the cross’s eyes, still sparkling with tears, laughed boldly and happily. I realized that she, too, had been burned. (I.S. Turgenev “ROSE”)

I SEE YOU PEOPLE!
- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it’s me, Sosoya... I haven’t been with you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench... Look, the rose has already faded... Yes, quite a bit of time has passed... And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a little, I’ll pull out this weed and tell you everything in order...
Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Our village is unrecognizable now! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Minin Evgeniy returned, and Nodar Tadpole's father returned, and Otia's father. True, he is missing one leg, but what does that matter? Just think, a leg!.. But our Kukuri, Lukain Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz also did not return... Many did not return, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt and corn appeared... After you, ten weddings took place, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Giorgi Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to a twelfth boy, Shukria. That was some fun, Bejana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear, Bejana? I almost died on a tree! I still managed to get downstairs! The child was named Shukriya, but I call him Slivovich. Great, isn't it, Bejana? Slivovich! What's worse than Georgievich? In total, after you, we had thirteen children... Yes, one more news, Bezhana, I know it will make you happy. Khatia's father took her to Batumi. She will have surgery and she will see! After? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'll marry her! Certainly! I'll celebrate a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn’t see the light? Yes, my aunt also asks me about this... I’m getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can’t live without me... And I can’t live without Khatia... Didn’t you love some Minadora? So I love my Khatia... And my aunt loves... him... Of course she loves, otherwise she wouldn’t ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her... She’s waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I’m waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me whether she returns as sighted or blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, become prettier, that it is difficult to even recognize me, but... who the hell is not joking!.. However, no, it cannot be that Khatia doesn’t like me! She knows what I am like, she sees me, she herself has spoken about this more than once... I graduated from ten classes, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I’ll become a doctor, and if Khatia doesn’t get help in Batumi now, I’ll cure her myself. Right, Bejana?
– Has our Sosoya gone completely crazy? Who are you talking to?
- Ah, hello, Uncle Gerasim!
- Hello! What are you doing here?
- So, I came to look at Bezhana’s grave...
- Go to the office... Vissarion and Khatia have returned... - Gerasim lightly patted me on the cheek.
My breath was taken away.
- So how is it?!
“Run, run, son, meet me...” I didn’t let Gerasim finish, I took off from my place and rushed down the slope.
Faster, Sosoya, faster!.. So far, shorten the road along this beam! Jump!.. Faster, Sosoya!.. I'm running like I've never run in my life!.. My ears are ringing, my heart is ready to jump out of my chest, my knees are giving way... Don't you dare stop, Sosoya!.. Run! If you jump over this ditch, it means everything is fine with Khatia... You jumped over!.. If you run to that tree without breathing, it means everything is fine with Khatia... So... A little more... Two more steps... You made it!.. If you count to fifty without taking a breath - that means everything is fine with Khatia... One, two, three... ten, eleven, twelve... Forty-five, forty-six... Oh, how difficult...
- Khatiya-ah!..
Gasping, I ran up to them and stopped. I couldn't say another word.
- Soso! – Khatia said quietly.
I looked at her. Khatia's face was as white as chalk. She looked with her huge, beautiful eyes somewhere into the distance, past me, and smiled.
- Uncle Vissarion!
Vissarion stood with his head bowed and was silent.
- Well, Uncle Vissarion? Vissarion did not answer.
- Khatia!
“The doctors said that it is not possible to have surgery yet. They told me to definitely come next spring...” Khatia said calmly.
My God, why didn't I count to fifty?! My throat tickled. I covered my face with my hands.
- How are you, Sosoya? Do you have some new?
I hugged Khatia and kissed her on the cheek. Uncle Vissarion took out a handkerchief, wiped his dry eyes, coughed and left.
- How are you, Sosoya? - Khatia repeated.
- Okay... Don't be afraid, Khatia... They'll have surgery in the spring, won't they? – I stroked Khatia’s face.
She narrowed her eyes and became so beautiful, such that the Mother of God herself would envy her...
- In the spring, Sosoya...
– Just don’t be afraid, Khatia!
– I’m not afraid, Sosoya!
- And if they cannot help you, I will do it, Khatia, I swear to you!
- I know, Sosoya!
– Even if not... So what? Do you see me?
- I see, Sosoya!
– What else do you need?
– Nothing more, Sosoya!
Where are you going, road, and where are you leading my village? Do you remember? One day in June you took away everything that was dear to me in the world. I asked you, dear, and you returned to me everything that you could return. I thank you, dear! Now it's our turn. You will take us, me and Khatia, and lead us to where your end should be. But we don't want you to end. Hand in hand we will walk with you to infinity. You will never again have to deliver news about us to our village in triangular letters and envelopes with printed addresses. We'll be back ourselves, dear! We will face the east, see the golden sun rise, and then Khatia will say to the whole world:
- People, it’s me, Khatia! I see you people!
(Nodar Dumbadze “I see you, people!..."

Near a big city, an old, sick man was walking along a wide road.
He staggered as he walked; his emaciated legs, tangling, dragging and stumbling, walked heavily and weakly, as if
149
strangers; his clothes hung in rags; his bare head fell onto his chest... He was exhausted.
He sat down on a roadside stone, leaned forward, leaned on his elbows, covered his face with both hands - and through his crooked fingers, tears dripped onto the dry, gray dust.
He recalled...
He remembered how he, too, had once been healthy and rich - and how he had spent his health, and distributed his wealth to others, friends and enemies... And now he does not have a piece of bread - and everyone has abandoned him, friends even before enemies... Should he really stoop to beg for alms? And he felt bitter and ashamed in his heart.
And the tears kept dripping and dripping, dappling the gray dust.
Suddenly he heard someone calling his name; he raised his tired head and saw a stranger in front of him.
The face is calm and important, but not stern; the eyes are not radiant, but light; the gaze is piercing, but not evil.
“You gave away all your wealth,” an even voice was heard... “But you don’t regret doing good?”
“I don’t regret it,” the old man answered with a sigh, “only now I’m dying.”
“And if there were no beggars in the world who stretched out their hands to you,” the stranger continued, “there would be no one for you to show your virtue over; could you not practice it?”
The old man did not answer anything and became thoughtful.
“So don’t be proud now, poor man,” the stranger spoke again, “go, extend your hand, give other good people the opportunity to show in practice that they are kind.”
The old man started, raised his eyes... but the stranger had already disappeared; and in the distance a passer-by appeared on the road.
The old man approached him and extended his hand. This passerby turned away with a stern expression and did not give anything.
But another followed him - and he gave the old man a small alms.
And the old man bought himself some bread with the given pennies - and the piece he asked for seemed sweet to him - and there was no shame in his heart, but on the contrary: a quiet joy dawned on him.
(I.S. Turgenev “Alms”)

Happy
Yes, I was happy once. I long ago defined what happiness is, a very long time ago - at the age of six. And when it came to me, I didn’t recognize it right away. But I remembered what it should be like, and then I realized that I was happy.* * *I remember: I am six years old, my sister is four. We ran for a long time after lunch along the long hall, caught up with each other, squealed and fell. Now we are tired and quiet. We stand nearby, looking out the window at the muddy spring twilight street. Spring twilight is always alarming and always sad. And we are silent. We listen to the crystals of the candelabra tremble from carts passing along the street. If we were big, we would think about people’s anger, about insults, about our love that we insulted, and about the love that we ourselves insulted, and about the happiness that no. But we are children and we don’t know anything. We just remain silent. We are terrified to turn around. It seems to us that the hall has already become completely dark and that this whole large, echoing house in which we live has darkened. Why is he so quiet now? Maybe everyone left it and forgot us, little girls, pressed against the window in a dark huge room? (*61) Near my shoulder I see my sister’s frightened, round eye. She looks at me - should she cry or not? And then I remember my impression of this day, so bright, so beautiful that I immediately forget both the dark house and the dull, dreary street. - Lena! - I say loudly and cheerfully. - Lena! I saw a horse-drawn horse today! I can’t tell her everything about the immensely joyful impression that the horse-drawn horse-drawn horse made on me. The horses were white and ran very quickly; the carriage itself was red or yellow, beautiful, there were a lot of people sitting in it, all strangers, so they could get to know each other and even play some quiet game. And behind on the step stood a conductor, all in gold - or maybe not all of it, but just a little, on buttons - and blew into a golden trumpet: - Rram-rra-ra! The sun itself rang in this pipe and flew out of with golden-sounding splashes. How can you tell it all! You can only say: - Lena! I saw a horse-drawn horse! And you don’t need anything else. From my voice, from my face, she understood all the boundless beauty of this vision. And can anyone really jump into this chariot of joy and rush to the sound of the sun trumpet? - Rram-rra-ra! No, not everyone. Fraulein says that you need to pay for it. That's why they don't take us there. We are locked in a boring, musty carriage with a rattling window, smelling of morocco and patchouli, and are not even allowed to press our nose to the glass. But when we are big and rich, we will only ride on a horse-drawn horse. We will, we will, we will be happy!
(Taffy. “Happy”)
Petrushevskaya Lyudmila Kitten of the Lord God
One grandmother in the village got sick, got bored and got ready for the next world.
Her son still did not come, did not answer the letter, so the grandmother prepared to die, released the cattle into the herd, put a can of clean water by the bed, put a piece of bread under the pillow, placed a filthy bucket closer and lay down to read prayers, and the guardian angel stood by in her heads.
And a boy and his mother came to this village.
Everything was fine with them, their own grandmother functioned, kept a vegetable garden, goats and chickens, but this grandmother did not particularly welcome it when her grandson picked berries and cucumbers in the garden: all this was ripe and ripe for supplies for the winter, for jam and pickles to the same grandson, and if necessary, the grandmother herself will give it.
This expelled grandson was walking around the village and noticed a kitten, small, big-headed and pot-bellied, gray and fluffy.
The kitten strayed towards the child and began to rub against his sandals, inspiring sweet dreams in the boy: how he would be able to feed the kitten, sleep with him, and play.
And the boys’ guardian angel rejoiced, standing behind his right shoulder, because everyone knows that the Lord himself equipped the kitten into the world, just as he equips all of us, his children. And if the white light receives another creature sent by God, then this white light continues to live.
And every living creation is a test for those who have already settled in: will they accept the new one or not.
So, the boy grabbed the kitten in his arms and began to stroke it and gently press it to himself. And behind his left elbow stood a demon, who was also very interested in the kitten and the many possibilities associated with this particular kitten.
The guardian angel became worried and began to draw magical pictures: here the cat is sleeping on the boy’s pillow, here he is playing with a piece of paper, here he is going for a walk like a dog at his feet... And the demon pushed the boy under his left elbow and suggested: it would be nice to tie a tin can to the kitten’s tail! It would be nice to throw him into a pond and watch, dying of laughter, as he tries to swim out! Those bulging eyes! And many other different proposals were introduced by the demon into the hot head of the kicked out boy while he was walking home with a kitten in his arms.
And at home, the grandmother immediately scolded him, why was he carrying a flea into the kitchen, there was a cat sitting in the hut, and the boy objected that he would take it with him to the city, but then the mother entered into a conversation, and it was all over, the kitten was ordered take it away from where you got it and throw it over the fence there.
The boy walked with the kitten and threw it over all the fences, and the kitten cheerfully jumped out to meet him after a few steps and again jumped and played with him.
So the boy reached the fence of that grandmother, who was about to die with a supply of water, and again the kitten was abandoned, but then it immediately disappeared.
And again the demon pushed the boy by the elbow and pointed him to someone else’s good garden, where ripe raspberries and black currants hung, where gooseberries were golden.
The demon reminded the boy that the grandmother here was sick, the whole village knew about it, the grandmother was already bad, and the demon told the boy that no one would stop him from eating raspberries and cucumbers.
The guardian angel began to persuade the boy not to do this, but the raspberries turned so red in the rays of the setting sun!
The Guardian Angel cried that theft would not lead to good, that thieves throughout the entire earth were despised and put in cages like pigs, and that it was a shame for a person to take someone else’s property - but it was all in vain!
Then the guardian angel finally began to make the boy afraid that the grandmother would see from the window.
But the demon was already opening the garden gate with the words “he will see and not come out” and laughed at the angel.
And the grandmother, lying in bed, suddenly noticed a kitten that climbed into her window, jumped onto the bed and turned on its little motor, smearing itself on the grandmother’s frozen feet.
The grandmother was glad to see him; her own cat was poisoned, apparently, by rat poison at her neighbors' dump.
The kitten purred, rubbed its head against its grandmother’s legs, received a piece of black bread from her, ate it and immediately fell asleep.
And we have already said that the kitten was not an ordinary one, but he was the kitten of the Lord God, and the magic happened at that very moment, there was a knock on the window, and the old woman’s son with his wife and child, hung with backpacks and bags, entered the hut: Having received his mother’s letter, which arrived very late, he did not answer, no longer hoping for mail, but demanded leave, grabbed his family and set off on a journey along the route bus - station - train - bus - bus - an hour’s walk through two rivers, through the forest and the field, and finally arrived.
His wife, rolling up her sleeves, began to sort out bags of supplies, prepare dinner, he himself, taking a hammer, moved to repair the gate, their son kissed his grandmother on the nose, took the kitten in his arms and went into the garden through the raspberries, where he met a stranger, and here the thief’s guardian angel grabbed his head, and the demon retreated, chattering his tongue and smiling impudently, and the unfortunate thief behaved in the same way.
The owner boy carefully placed the kitten on an overturned bucket, and he hit the kidnapper in the neck, and he rushed faster than the wind to the gate, which the grandmother’s son had just begun to repair, blocking the entire space with his back.
The demon slinked through the fence, the angel covered himself with his sleeve and began to cry, but the kitten warmly stood up for the child, and the angel helped to invent that the boy had not climbed into the raspberries, but after his kitten, which supposedly had run away. Or maybe the demon made it up, standing behind the fence and wagging his tongue, the boy did not understand.
In short, the boy was released, but the adult did not give him a kitten and told him to come with his parents.
As for the grandmother, fate still left her to live: in the evening she got up to meet the cattle, and the next morning she made jam, worrying that they would eat everything and there would be nothing to give her son to the city, and at noon she sheared a sheep and a ram in order to have time to knit mittens for the whole family and socks.
This is where our life is needed - this is how we live.
And the boy, left without a kitten and without raspberries, walked around gloomy, but that same evening he received a bowl of strawberries with milk from his grandmother for an unknown reason, and his mother read him a bedtime story, and his guardian angel was immensely happy and settled down in the sleeper’s head , like all six-year-old children. Kitten of the Lord God One grandmother in the village got sick, got bored and got ready for the next world. Her son still did not come, did not answer the letter, so the grandmother prepared to die, released the cattle into the herd, put a can of clean water by the bed, put a piece of bread under the pillow, placed a filthy bucket closer and lay down to read prayers, and the guardian angel stood by in her heads. And a boy and his mother came to this village. Everything was fine with them, their own grandmother functioned, kept a vegetable garden, goats and chickens, but this grandmother did not particularly welcome it when her grandson picked berries and cucumbers in the garden: all this was ripe and ripe for supplies for the winter, for jam and pickles to the same grandson, and if necessary, the grandmother herself will give it. This expelled grandson was walking around the village and noticed a kitten, small, big-headed and pot-bellied, gray and fluffy. The kitten strayed towards the child and began to rub against his sandals, inspiring sweet dreams in the boy: how he would be able to feed the kitten, sleep with him, and play. And the boys’ guardian angel rejoiced, standing behind his right shoulder, because everyone knows that the Lord himself equipped the kitten into the world, just as he equips all of us, his children. And if the white light receives another creature sent by God, then this white light continues to live. And every living creation is a test for those who have already settled in: will they accept the new one or not. So, the boy grabbed the kitten in his arms and began to stroke it and gently press it to himself. And behind his left elbow stood a demon, who was also very interested in the kitten and the many possibilities associated with this particular kitten. The guardian angel became worried and began to draw magical pictures: here the cat is sleeping on the boy’s pillow, here he is playing with a piece of paper, here he is going for a walk like a dog at his feet... And the demon pushed the boy under his left elbow and suggested: it would be nice to tie a can on the kitten’s tail jar! It would be nice to throw him into a pond and watch, dying of laughter, as he tries to swim out! Those bulging eyes! And many other different proposals were introduced by the demon into the hot head of the kicked out boy while he was walking home with a kitten in his arms. And at home, the grandmother immediately scolded him, why was he carrying a flea into the kitchen, there was a cat sitting in the hut, and the boy objected that he would take it with him to the city, but then the mother entered into a conversation, and it was all over, the kitten was ordered take it away from where you got it and throw it over the fence there. The boy walked with the kitten and threw it over all the fences, and the kitten cheerfully jumped out to meet him after a few steps and again jumped and played with him. So the boy reached the fence of that grandmother, who was about to die with a supply of water, and again the kitten was abandoned, but then it immediately disappeared. And again the demon pushed the boy by the elbow and pointed him to someone else’s good garden, where ripe raspberries and black currants hung, where gooseberries were golden. The demon reminded the boy that the grandmother here was sick, the whole village knew about it, the grandmother was already bad, and the demon told the boy that no one would stop him from eating raspberries and cucumbers. The guardian angel began to persuade the boy not to do this, but the raspberries turned so red in the rays of the setting sun! The Guardian Angel cried that theft would not lead to good, that thieves throughout the entire earth were despised and put in cages like pigs, and that it was a shame for a person to take someone else’s property - but it was all in vain! Then the guardian angel finally began to make the boy afraid that the grandmother would see from the window. But the demon was already opening the garden gate with the words “he will see and not come out” and laughed at the angel.
The grandmother was plump, broad, with a soft, melodious voice. “I filled the whole apartment with myself!..” Borkin’s father grumbled. And his mother timidly objected to him: “Old man... Where can she go?” “I’ve lived in the world...” sighed the father. “She belongs in a nursing home—that’s where she belongs!”
Everyone in the house, not excluding Borka, looked at the grandmother as if she were a completely unnecessary person. The grandmother was sleeping on the chest. All night she tossed and turned heavily, and in the morning she got up before everyone else and rattled dishes in the kitchen. Then she woke up her son-in-law and daughter: “The samovar is ripe. Get up! Have a hot drink on the way..."
She approached Borka: “Get up, my father, it’s time to go to school!” "For what?" – Borka asked in a sleepy voice. “Why go to school? The dark man is deaf and dumb - that’s why!”
Borka hid his head under the blanket: “Go, grandma...”
In the hallway, father shuffled with a broom. “Where did you put your galoshes, mother? Every time you poke into all corners because of them!”
The grandmother hurried to his aid. “Yes, here they are, Petrusha, in plain sight. Yesterday they were very dirty, I washed them and put them down.”
...Borka would come home from school, throw his coat and hat into his grandmother’s arms, throw his bag of books on the table and shout: “Grandma, eat!”
The grandmother hid her knitting, hurriedly set the table and, crossing her arms on her stomach, watched Borka eat. During these hours, Borka somehow involuntarily felt his grandmother as one of his close friends. He willingly told her about his lessons and comrades. The grandmother listened to him lovingly, with great attention, saying: “Everything is fine, Boryushka: both bad and good are good. Bad things make a person stronger, good things make his soul bloom.” Having eaten, Borka pushed the plate away from him: “Delicious jelly today! Have you eaten, grandma? “I ate, I ate,” the grandmother nodded her head. “Don’t worry about me, Boryushka, thank you, I’m well-fed and healthy.”
A friend came to Borka. The comrade said: “Hello, grandma!” Borka cheerfully nudged him with his elbow: “Let's go, let's go!” You don't have to say hello to her. She’s our old lady.” The grandmother pulled down her jacket, straightened her scarf and quietly moved her lips: “To offend - to hit, to caress - you have to look for words.”
And in the next room, a friend said to Borka: “And they always say hello to our grandmother. Both our own and others. She is our main one." “How is this the main one?” – Borka became interested. “Well, the old one... raised everyone. She cannot be offended. What's wrong with yours? Look, father will be angry for this.” “It won’t warm up! – Borka frowned. “He doesn’t greet her himself...”
After this conversation, Borka often asked his grandmother out of nowhere: “Are we offending you?” And he told his parents: “Our grandmother is the best of all, but lives the worst of all - no one cares about her.” The mother was surprised, and the father was angry: “Who taught your parents to condemn you? Look at me - I’m still small!”
The grandmother, smiling softly, shook her head: “You fools should be happy. Your son is growing up for you! I have outlived my time in the world, and your old age is ahead. What you kill, you won’t get back.”
* * *
Borka was generally interested in grandma’s face. There were different wrinkles on this face: deep, small, thin, like threads, and wide, dug out over the years. “Why are you so painted? Very old? - he asked. Grandma was thinking. “You can read a person’s life by its wrinkles, my dear, as if from a book. Grief and need are at play here. She buried her children, cried, and wrinkles appeared on her face. She endured the need, she struggled, and again there were wrinkles. My husband was killed in the war - there were many tears, but many wrinkles remained. A lot of rain digs holes in the ground.”
I listened to Borka and looked in the mirror with fear: he had never cried enough in his life - would his whole face be covered with such threads? “Go away, grandma! - he grumbled. “You always say stupid things...”
* * *
Recently, the grandmother suddenly hunched over, her back became round, she walked more quietly and kept sitting down. “It grows into the ground,” my father joked. “Don’t laugh at the old man,” the mother was offended. And she said to the grandmother in the kitchen: “What is it, mom, moving around the room like a turtle? Send you for something and you won’t come back.”
My grandmother died before the May holiday. She died alone, sitting in a chair with knitting in her hands: an unfinished sock lay on her knees, a ball of thread on the floor. Apparently she was waiting for Borka. The finished device stood on the table.
The next day the grandmother was buried.
Returning from the yard, Borka found his mother sitting in front of an open chest. All sorts of junk was piled on the floor. There was a smell of stale things. The mother took out the crumpled red shoe and carefully straightened it out with her fingers. “It’s still mine,” she said and bent low over the chest. - My..."
At the very bottom of the chest, a box rattled - the same treasured one that Borka had always wanted to look into. The box was opened. The father took out a tight package: it contained warm mittens for Borka, socks for his son-in-law and a sleeveless vest for his daughter. They were followed by an embroidered shirt made of antique faded silk - also for Borka. In the very corner lay a bag of candy, tied with a red ribbon. There was something written on the bag in large block letters. The father turned it over in his hands, squinted and read loudly: “To my grandson Boryushka.”
Borka suddenly turned pale, snatched the package from him and ran out into the street. There, sitting down at someone else’s gate, he peered for a long time at the grandmother’s scribbles: “To my grandson Boryushka.” The letter "sh" had four sticks. “I didn’t learn!” – Borka thought. How many times did he explain to her that the letter “w” has three sticks... And suddenly, as if alive, the grandmother stood in front of him - quiet, guilty, having not learned her lesson. Borka looked back at his house in confusion and, holding the bag in his hand, wandered down the street along someone else’s long fence...
He came home late in the evening; his eyes were swollen from tears, fresh clay stuck to his knees. He put Grandma’s bag under his pillow and, covering his head with the blanket, thought: “Grandma won’t come in the morning!”
(V. Oseeva “Grandma”)

A selection of texts for the reading competition “Living Classics”

A. Fadeev “Young Guard” (novel)
Monologue of Oleg Koshevoy.

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I began to recognize myself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered with a tan, it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, just a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins. Yes, from that very moment moments when I became aware of myself, and until the last minute, when you, exhausted, quietly laid your head on my chest for the last time, seeing me off on the difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried around in the soap bar. foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, placing a small hand in a mitten on the yoke in front of the yoke, you yourself were so small and fluffy, like mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the ABC book, and I repeat after you: “ba-a - ba, ba-ba.” I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the belly, broken by the grain of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, such a feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in the bunch so as not to break the compressed stems. I remember your hands, unbending, red, turning blue from the icy water in the ice hole, where you rinsed clothes when we lived alone - it seemed completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of the silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what submissive tenderness your full and white hand above the elbow wrapped itself around your stepfather’s neck when he, playing with you, picked you up in his arms - the stepfather whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, for one thing alone, that you loved him. But most of all, I remembered forever how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And, whenever I opened my eyes, you were always next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, yourself all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands! You sent your sons off to war - if not you, then another, just like you - you will never wait for others, and if this cup passed you by, it did not pass another, just like you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and there are clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks of stacks in the field, and trains are running along the rails, and cherries are blooming in the garden, and a flame is raging in the blast furnace, and someone’s invisible force raises up a warrior from the ground or from the bed when he was sick or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and his. Look around you too, young man, my friend, look around like I did and tell me who you offended in life more than your mother - wasn’t it from me, wasn’t it from you, wasn’t it from him, wasn’t it from our failures, mistakes and Is it not because of our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave. Mom mom!. .Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive... "

Vasily Grossman “Life and Fate” (novel)

Last letter to a Jewish mother

“Vityenka... This letter is not easy to break off, it is my last conversation with you, and, having forwarded the letter, I am finally leaving you, you will never know about my last hours. This is our very last separation. What will I tell you, saying goodbye, before eternal separation? These days, as throughout my life, you have been my joy. At night I remembered you, your children's clothes, your first books, I remembered your first letter, the first day of school. I remembered everything, everything from the first days of your life to the last news from you, the telegram received on June 30. I closed my eyes, and it seemed to me that you shielded me from the impending horror, my friend. And when I remembered what was happening around me, I was glad that you were not near me - let the terrible fate blow you away. Vitya, I have always been lonely. On sleepless nights I cried with sadness. After all, no one knew this. My consolation was the thought that I would tell you about my life. I’ll tell you why your dad and I separated, why I lived alone for such many years. And I often thought how surprised Vitya would be to learn that his mother made mistakes, was crazy, was jealous, that she was jealous, was like all young people. But my destiny is to end my life alone, without sharing with you. Sometimes it seemed to me that I should not live away from you, I loved you too much. I thought that love gave me the right to be with you in my old age. Sometimes it seemed to me that I shouldn’t live with you, I loved you too much. Well, enfin... Be always happy with those you love, who surround you, who have become closer to your mother. I'm sorry. From the street you can hear women crying, police officers cursing, and I look at these pages, and it seems to me that I am protected from a terrible world full of suffering. How can I finish my letter? Where can I get strength, son? Are there human words that can express my love for you? I kiss you, your eyes, your forehead, your hair. Remember that on days of happiness and on days of sorrow, mother’s love is always with you; no one can kill it. Vitenka... Here is the last line of my mother’s last letter to you. Live, live, live forever... Mom.

Yuri Krasavin
“Russian Snows” (story)

It was a strange snowfall: in the sky, where the sun was, there was a blurry spot shining. Is it really a clear sky up there? Where does the snow come from then? White darkness all around. Both the road and the lying tree disappeared behind a veil of snow, barely ten steps away from them. The country road, going away from the highway, from the village of Ergushovo, was barely visible under the snow, which covered it in a thick layer, and what was on the right and left, and the roadside bushes showed outlandish figures, some of them had a frightening appearance. Now Katya walked, not lagging behind: she was afraid of getting lost. - Why are you like a dog on a leash? - he said to her over his shoulder. - Walk next to me. She answered him: “The dog always runs ahead of the owner.” “You’re being rude,” he remarked and quickened his pace, walking so quickly that she was already whining pitifully: “Well, Dementy, don’t be angry... This way I’ll fall behind and get lost.” And you are responsible for me before God and people. Listen, Dementy! “Ivan Tsarevich,” he corrected and slowed down. At times it seemed to him that a human figure, covered in snow, or even two, loomed ahead. Every now and then vague voices came, but it was impossible to understand who was speaking or what they were saying. The presence of these travelers ahead was a little reassuring: it meant he was guessing the road correctly. However, voices were heard from somewhere on the side, and even from above - the snow, perhaps, was breaking someone’s conversation into pieces and carried it to different sides? “There are fellow travelers somewhere nearby,” Katya said warily. “These are demons,” Vanya explained. - They are always at this time... they are at their peak now. - Why now? - Look, what a hush! And here you and I... Don’t feed them bread, just let them lead people so that they get lost, make fun of us and even destroy us. - Oh, come on! Why are you scared? - Demons are rushing, demons are hovering, the moon is invisible... - We don’t even have a moon. In complete silence, snowflakes fell and fell, each the size of a dandelion head. The snow was so weightless that it rose even from the air movement produced by the walking feet of the two travelers - it rose like fluff and, swirling, spread to the sides. The weightlessness of the snow gave the deceptive impression that everything had lost its weight - both the ground under your feet and yourself. What remained behind was not footprints, but a furrow, like behind a plow, but it, too, quickly closed. Strange snow, very strange. The wind, if it arose, was not even wind, but a light breeze, which from time to time created a commotion around, causing the surrounding world to shrink so much that it even became cramped. The impression is as if they were enclosed in a huge egg, in its empty shell, filled with scattered light from the outside - this light fell and rose in clumps, flakes, circled this way and that...

Lydia Charskaya
“Notes of a Little Schoolgirl” (story)

In the corner there was a round stove, which was constantly burning at this time; The stove door was now wide open, and one could see how a small red book was burning brightly in the fire, gradually curling into tubes with its blackened and charred sheets. My God! Japanese Little Red Book! I recognized her immediately. - Julie! Julie! - I whispered in horror. - What have you done, Julie! But there was no trace of Julie. - Julie! Julie! - I desperately called my cousin. - Where are you? Ah, Julie! - What's happened? What's happened? Why are you shouting like a street urchin! - suddenly appearing on the threshold, the Japanese woman said sternly. - Is it possible to shout like that! What were you doing here in class alone? Answer this very minute! Why are you here? But I stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to answer her. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes stubbornly looked at the floor. Suddenly, the loud cry of the Japanese woman made me immediately raise my head and come to my senses... She stood by the stove, probably attracted by the open door, and, stretching out her hands to its opening, moaned loudly: “My little red book, my poor book!” A gift from my late sister Sophie! Oh, what grief! What a terrible grief! And, kneeling down in front of the door, she began to sob, clutching her head with both hands. I felt infinitely sorry for the poor Japanese woman. I myself was ready to cry with her. With quiet, careful steps I approached her and, lightly touching her hand with mine, whispered: “If you only knew how sorry I am, mademoiselle, that... that... I repent so much... I wanted to finish the sentence and say how I repent that I didn’t run after Julie and didn’t stop her, but I didn’t have time to say this, because at that very moment the Japanese woman, like a wounded animal, jumped up from the floor and, grabbing me by the shoulders, began to shake me with all her might. Yeah, you repent! Now you repent, yeah! What have you done? Burn my book! My innocent book, the only memory of my dear Sophie! She probably would have hit me if at that moment the girls had not ran into the classroom and surrounded us from all sides, asking what was the matter. The Japanese woman roughly grabbed me by the hand, pulled me into the middle of the class and, menacingly shaking her finger over my head, shouted at the top of her voice: “She stole from me the little red book that my late sister gave me and from which I did German dictations for you.” She must be punished! She's a thief! My God! What is this? On top of the black apron, between the collar and the waist, a large white piece of paper dangles from my chest, secured with a pin. And on the sheet is written in clear, large handwriting: / “She’s a thief!” Stay away from her!" It was beyond the power of the little orphan who had already suffered a lot to bear! To say right away that it was not I, but Julie, who was to blame for the death of the little red book! Julie alone! Yes, yes, now, no matter what it became! And my gaze found the hunchback in the crowd of other girls. She was looking at me. And what kind of eyes she had at that moment! Complaining, pleading, pleading!.. Sad eyes. What melancholy and horror looked out of them! “No! No! You can calm down, Julie! - I said mentally. - I won't give you away. After all, you have a mother who will be sad and hurt for your action, but my mother is in heaven and sees perfectly well that I am not to blame for anything. Here on earth, no one will take my action as close to their heart as they will take yours! No, no, I won’t give you up, not for anything, not for anything!”

Veniamin Kaverin
"Two Captains" (novel)

“On my chest, in my side pocket, there was a letter from Captain Tatarinov. “Listen, Katya,” I said decisively, “I want to tell you a story. In general, like this: imagine that you live on the bank of a river and one fine day on this A mail bag appears on the shore. Of course, it does not fall from the sky, but is carried away by water. The postman has drowned! And this bag falls into the hands of one woman who loves to read. And among her neighbors there is a boy, about eight years old, who loves to listen And then one day she reads him this letter: “Dear Maria Vasilievna...” Katya shuddered and looked at me in amazement - “... I hasten to inform you that Ivan Lvovich is alive and well,” I continued quickly. “Four months ago I, according to his instructions...” And without taking a breath, I read the navigator’s letter by heart. I didn’t stop, although Katya took me by the sleeve several times with some kind of horror and surprise. “Have you seen this letter?” she asked and turned pale. “Is he writing about his father?” she asked again, as if there could be any doubt about this. - Yes. But that is not all! And I told her about how Aunt Dasha once came across another letter, which spoke about the life of a ship covered in ice and slowly moving north. “My friend, my dear, my dear Mashenka...” I began by heart and stopped. Goosebumps ran down my spine, my throat tightened, and I suddenly saw in front of me, as in a dream, the gloomy, aged face of Marya Vasilyevna, with gloomy, sullen eyes. She was like Katya when he wrote this letter to her, and Katya was a little girl who was still waiting for a “letter from daddy.” Finally got it! “In a word, here it is,” I said and took out letters in compressed paper from my side pocket. - Sit down and read, and I’ll go. I'll be back when you read it. Of course, I didn't go anywhere. I stood under the tower of Elder Martyn and looked at Katya the entire time she was reading. I felt very sorry for her, and my chest always felt warm when I thought about her, and cold when I thought how scary it was for her to read these letters. I saw how, with an unconscious movement, she straightened her hair, which was preventing her from reading, and how she stood up from the bench as if to make out a difficult word. I didn’t know before whether it was grief or joy to receive such a letter. But now, looking at her, I realized that this was a terrible grief! I realized that she never lost hope! Thirteen years ago, her father went missing in the polar ice, where there is nothing easier than to die of hunger and cold. But for her he died only now!

Yuri Bondarev “Youth of Commanders” (novel)

They walked slowly down the street. Snow flew in the light of lonely street lamps and fell from the roofs; There were fresh snowdrifts near the dark entrances. The whole block was white and white, and there was not a single passer-by around, as in the dead of a winter night. And it was already morning. It was five o'clock in the morning of the new year. But it seemed to both of them that yesterday evening had not yet ended with its lights, thick snow on collars, traffic and bustle at tram stops. It’s just that last year’s snowstorm was churning through the deserted streets of the sleeping city, knocking on fences and shutters. It began in the old year and did not end in the new one. And they walked and walked past smoking snowdrifts, past swept-out entrances. Time has lost its meaning. It stopped yesterday. And suddenly a tram appeared in the depths of the street. This carriage, empty, lonely, crawled quietly, making its way through the snowy darkness. The tram reminded me of the time. It moved. - Wait, where did we come? Oh yes, Oktyabrskaya! Look, we have reached Oktyabrskaya. Enough. I'm about to fall into the snow from fatigue. Valya stopped decisively, lowered her chin into the fur of her collar, and looked thoughtfully at the lights of the tram, dim in the snowstorm. Her breath froze the fur near her lips, the tips of her eyelashes turned frosty, and Alexey saw that they were frozen solid. He said: “It seems like it’s morning...” “And the tram is so dull and tired, like you and me,” Valya said and laughed. - After a holiday, you always feel sorry for something. For some reason you have a sad face. He answered, looking at the lights approaching from the snowstorm: “I haven’t ridden a tram for four years.” I wish I could remember how it's done. Honestly. In fact, during his two weeks at the artillery school in the rear city, Alexey became little accustomed to peaceful life; he was amazed at the silence, he was overwhelmed by it. He was touched by the distant bells of the tram, the light in the windows, the snowy silence of winter evenings, the wipers at the gates (just like before the war), the barking of dogs - everything, everything that had long been half-forgotten. When he walked along the street alone, he involuntarily thought: “There, on the corner, there is a good anti-tank position, you can see the intersection, in that house with a turret there may be a machine-gun point, the street is being shot through.” All this was familiar and still lived firmly in him. Valya gathered her coat around her legs and said: “Of course, we won’t pay for the tickets.” Let's go as rabbits. Moreover, the conductor sees New Year's dreams! Alone on this empty tram, they sat opposite each other. Valya sighed, rubbed the squeaky frost of the window with her glove, and breathed. She rubbed the “peephole”: dim spots of flashlights rarely floated through it. Then she shook the glove on her knees and, straightening up, raised her close eyes and asked seriously: “Did you remember anything just now?” - What did I remember? - Alexey said, meeting her gaze point-blank. One reconnaissance. And the New Year near Zhitomir, or rather, near the Makarov farm. We, two artillerymen, were then taken on a search... The tram rolled through the streets, the wheels squealed freezing; Valya leaned over to the worn “eye,” which was already filled with a thick, cold blue: either it was getting light, or the snow had stopped, and the moon was shining over the city.

Boris Vasiliev “And the dawns here are quiet” (story)

Rita knew that her wound was fatal and that she would have to die long and difficult. So far there was almost no pain, only the burning sensation in my stomach was getting stronger and I was thirsty. But it was impossible to drink, and Rita simply soaked a rag in the puddle and applied it to her lips. Vaskov hid her under a spruce tree, covered her with branches and left. At that time they were still shooting, but soon everything suddenly became quiet, and Rita began to cry. She cried silently, without sighs, tears just flowed down her face, she realized that Zhenya was no more. And then the tears disappeared. They retreated before the huge thing that now stood in front of her, what she needed to deal with, what she had to prepare for. A cold black abyss opened up at her feet, and Rita looked courageously and sternly into it. Soon Vaskov returned. He scattered the branches, silently sat down next to him, clasping his wounded hand and swaying.

— Zhenya died?

He nodded. Then he said:

- We don’t have any bags. No bags, no rifles. Either they took it with them or hid it somewhere.

— Zhenya died right away?

“Right away,” he said, and she felt that he was telling a lie. - They are gone. Behind

explosives, apparently... - He caught her dull, understanding look, and suddenly shouted: - They didn’t defeat us, you understand? I'm still alive, I still need to be knocked down!..

He fell silent, gritting his teeth. He swayed, cradling his wounded hand.

“It hurts here,” he pointed at his chest. “It’s itching here, Rita.” It itches so much!.. I put you down, I put all five of you there, but for what? For a dozen Krauts?

- Well, why do that... It’s still clear, it’s war.

- It’s still war, of course. And then, when will there be peace? It will be clear why you should die

did you have to? Why didn’t I let these Krauts go further, why did I make such a decision? What to answer when they ask why you guys couldn’t protect our mothers from bullets? Why did you marry them with death, but you yourself are intact? Did they take care of the Kirovskaya Road and the White Sea Canal? Yes, there must be security there too, there are a lot more people there than five girls and a foreman with a revolver...

“No need,” she said quietly. “The homeland doesn’t start with the canals.” Not from there at all. And we protected her. Her first, and then the channel.

“Yes...” Vaskov sighed heavily and paused. “You just lie down for a while, I’ll take a look around.” Otherwise they’ll stumble and that’ll be the end of us. “He took out a revolver and for some reason carefully wiped it with his sleeve. - Take it. True, there are two cartridges left, but still calmer with him. - Wait a minute. “Rita looked somewhere past his face, into the sky blocked by branches. - Do you remember how I came across the Germans at the crossing? Then I ran to my mother in the city. I have a three-year-old son there. Name is Alik, Albert. My mother is very sick and will not live long, and my father is missing.

- Don't worry, Rita. I understood everything.

- Thank you. “She smiled with colorless lips. - My last request

will you do it?

“No,” he said.

- It’s pointless, I’ll die anyway. I'm just getting tired of it.

“I’ll do some reconnaissance and come back.” We'll get to ours by nightfall.

“Kiss me,” she suddenly said.

He leaned over awkwardly and awkwardly pressed his lips to his forehead.

“Prickly...” she sighed barely audibly, closing her eyes. - Go. Cover me with branches and go. Tears slowly crawled down her gray, sunken cheeks. Fedot Evgrafych quietly stood up, carefully covered Rita with his spruce paws and quickly walked towards the river. Towards the Germans...

Yuri Yakovlev “Heart of the Earth” (story)

Children never remember their mother as young and beautiful, because the understanding of beauty comes later, when mother’s beauty has time to fade. I remember my mother gray-haired and tired, but they say she was beautiful. Large, thoughtful eyes in which the light of the heart appeared. Smooth dark eyebrows, long eyelashes. Smoky hair fell over his high forehead. I still hear her quiet voice, leisurely steps, feel the gentle touch of her hands, the rough warmth of the dress on her shoulder. It has nothing to do with age, it is eternal. Children never tell their mother about their love for her. They don’t even know the name of the feeling that binds them more and more to their mother. In their understanding, this is not a feeling at all, but something natural and obligatory, like breathing, quenching thirst. But a child’s love for his mother has its golden days. I experienced them at an early age, when I first realized that the most necessary person in the world was my mother. My memory has not retained almost any details of those distant days, but I know about this feeling of mine, because it still glimmers in me and has not dissipated throughout the world. And I take care of it, because without love for my mother there is a cold emptiness in my heart. I never called my mother mother, mother. I had another word for her - mommy. Even when I became big, I could not change this word. My mustache has grown and my bass has appeared. I was embarrassed by this word and pronounced it barely audibly in public. The last time I uttered it was on a rain-wet platform, near a red soldier’s train, in a crush, to the sounds of the alarming whistles of a steam locomotive, to the loud command “to the carriages!” I didn’t know that I was saying goodbye to my mother forever. I whispered “mommy” in her ear and, so that no one would see my manly tears, I wiped them on her hair... But when the train started moving, I couldn’t stand it, I forgot that I was a man, a soldier, I forgot that there were people around, a lot of people, and Through the roar of the wheels, through the wind hitting my eyes, I shouted: “Mommy!” And then there were letters. And the letters from home had one extraordinary property, which everyone discovered for themselves and did not admit their discovery to anyone. In the most difficult moments, when it seemed that everything was over or would end in the next moment and there was no longer a single clue for life, we found an untouchable reserve of life in letters from home. When a letter arrived from my mother, there was no paper, no envelope with a field mail number, no lines. There was only my mother’s voice, which I heard even in the roar of guns, and the smoke of the dugout touched my cheek, like the smoke of a home. On New Year's Eve, my mother spoke in detail in a letter about the Christmas tree. It turns out that Christmas tree candles were accidentally found in the closet, short, multi-colored, similar to sharpened colored pencils. They were lit, and the incomparable aroma of stearin and pine needles spread from the spruce branches throughout the room. The room was dark, and only the cheerful will-o'-the-wisps faded and flared up, and the gilded walnuts flickered dimly. Then it turned out that all this was a legend that my dying mother composed for me in an ice house, where all the glass was broken by the blast wave, and the stoves were dead and people were dying of hunger, cold and shrapnel. And she wrote, from the icy besieged city, sending me the last drops of her warmth, the last blood. And I believed the legend. He held on to it - to his emergency supply, to his reserve life. Was too young to read between the lines. I read the lines themselves, not noticing that the letters were crooked, because they were written by a hand devoid of strength, for which the pen was heavy, like an ax. Mother wrote these letters while her heart was beating...

Zheleznikov “Dogs Don’t Make Mistakes” (story)

Yura Khlopotov had the largest and most interesting collection of stamps in the class. Because of this collection, Valerka Snegirev went to visit his classmate. When Yura began to pull out huge and for some reason dusty albums from the massive desk, a drawn-out and plaintive howl was heard right above the boys’ heads...- Do not pay attention! - Yurka waved his hand, moving his albums with concentration. - The neighbor's dog!- Why is she howling?- How do I know. She howls every day. Until five o'clock.
It stops at five. My dad says: if you don’t know how to look after, don’t get dogs... Looking at his watch and waving his hand to Yura, Valerka hastily wrapped his scarf in the hallway and put on his coat. Running out into the street, I took a breath and found windows on the façade of Yurka’s house. The three windows on the ninth floor above the Khlopotovs’ apartment were uncomfortably dark. Valerka, leaning his shoulder against the cold concrete of the lamppost, decided to wait as long as necessary. And then the outermost window lit up dimly: they turned on the light, apparently in the hallway... The door opened immediately, but Valerka didn’t even have time to see who was standing on the threshold, because a small brown ball suddenly jumped out from somewhere and, squealing joyfully, rushed under Valerka legs. Valerka felt the wet touch of a dog’s warm tongue on his face: a very tiny dog, but he jumped so high! (He stretched out his arms, picked up the dog, and she buried herself in his neck, breathing quickly and devotedly.- Miracles! - a thick voice rang out, immediately filling the entire space of the staircase. The voice belonged to a frail, short man.- You to me? It’s a strange thing, you know... Yanka is not particularly kind to strangers. And how about you! Come in.- Just a moment, on business. The man immediately became serious.- On business? I'm listening. - Your dog... Yana... Howls all day long. The man became sad.- So... It interferes, that is. Did your parents send you?- I just wanted to know why she howls. She's feeling bad, right?- You're right, she feels bad. Yanka is used to going for walks during the day, and I’m at work. My wife will come and everything will be all right. But you can’t explain it to a dog!- I come home from school at two o'clock... I could walk with her after school! The owner of the apartment looked strangely at the uninvited guest, then suddenly walked up to the dusty shelf, extended his hand and took out the key.- Here you go. It's time to be surprised by Valerka.- Do you really trust any stranger with the key to your apartment?- Oh, excuse me, please,” the man extended his hand. - Let's get acquainted! Molchanov Valery Alekseevich, engineer.- Snegirev Valery, student of the 6th “B,” the boy answered with dignity.- Very nice! Is everything all right now? The dog Yana did not want to go down to the floor, and then she ran after Valerka all the way to the door.- Dogs don’t make mistakes, they don’t make mistakes... - engineer Molchanov muttered under his breath.

Nikolay Garin-Mikhailovsky “Tyoma and the Bug” (story)

Nanny, where is Zhuchka? - asks Tyoma. “Some Herod threw a bug into an old well,” the nanny answers. - All day, they say, she screamed, heartfelt... The boy listens with horror to the nanny’s words, and thoughts swarm in his head. He has a lot of plans flashing through his mind on how to save the Bug, he moves from one incredible project to another and, unnoticed by himself, falls asleep. He wakes up from some kind of shock in the midst of an interrupted dream, in which he kept pulling out the Bug, but she broke down and fell again to the bottom of the well. Deciding to immediately go save his pet, Tyoma tiptoes to the glass door and quietly, so as not to make noise, goes out onto the terrace. It's dawn outside. Running up to the hole of the well, he calls in a low voice: “Bug, Bug!” The bug, recognizing the owner's voice, squeals joyfully and pitifully. - I'll free you now! - he shouts, as if the dog understands him. A lantern and two poles with a crossbar at the bottom on which a loop lay began to slowly descend into the well. But this well-thought-out plan unexpectedly burst: as soon as the device reached the bottom, the dog tried to grab onto it, but, losing its balance, fell into the mud. The thought that he worsened the situation, that Bug could still have been saved and now he himself is to blame for the fact that she will die, makes Tyoma decide to fulfill the second part of the dream - to go down into the well himself. He ties a rope to one of the posts supporting the crossbar and climbs into the well. He realizes only one thing: not a second of time can be lost. For a moment, fear creeps into his soul that he might suffocate, but he remembers that the Bug has been sitting there for a whole day. This calms him down and he goes further down. The bug, having sat down again in its original place, has calmed down and with a cheerful squeak expresses sympathy for the crazy enterprise. This calmness and firm confidence of the bugs are transferred to the boy, and he safely reaches the bottom. Without wasting time, Tyoma ties the reins around the dog, then hastily climbs up. But going up is harder than going down! We need air, we need strength, and Tyoma already doesn’t have enough of both. Fear covers him, but he encourages himself in a voice trembling with horror: “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid!” It's a shame to be afraid! Cowards are only afraid! Those who do bad things are afraid, but I don’t do bad things, I pull out the Bug, my mom and dad will praise me for this. Tyoma smiles and again calmly waits for the surge of strength. Thus, unnoticed, his head finally protrudes above the top frame of the well. Making a last effort, he gets out himself and pulls out the Bug. But now that the job is done, his strength quickly leaves him, and he faints.

Vladimir Zheleznikov “Three branches of mimosa” (story)

In the morning, Vitya saw a huge bouquet of mimosa in a crystal vase on the table. The flowers were as yellow and fresh as the first warm day! “Dad gave this to me,” said Mom. - After all, today is the Eighth of March. Indeed, today is the Eighth of March, and he completely forgot about it. He immediately ran to his room, grabbed his briefcase, pulled out a card in which it was written: “Dear mom, I congratulate you on the Eighth of March and I promise to always obey you,” and solemnly handed it to his mother. And when he was already leaving for school, his mother suddenly suggested: “Take a few branches of mimosa and give it to Lena Popova.” Lena Popova was his desk neighbor. - For what? - he asked gloomily. - And then, today is the Eighth of March, and I’m sure that all your boys will give the girls something. He took three sprigs of mimosa and went to school. On the way, it seemed to him that everyone was looking at him. But at the school itself he was lucky: he met Lena Popova. He ran up to her and handed her a mimosa. - This is for you. - To me? Oh, how beautiful! Thank you very much, Vitya! She seemed ready to thank him for another hour, but he turned and ran away. And at the first break it turned out that none of the boys in their class gave anything to the girls. No one. Only in front of Lena Popova lay tender branches of mimosa. -Where did you get the flowers? - asked the teacher. “Vitya gave this to me,” Lena said calmly. Everyone immediately began to whisper, looking at Vitya, and Vitya lowered his head low. And at recess, when Vitya, as if nothing had happened, approached the guys, although he already felt bad, Valerka began to grimace, looking at him. - And here the groom has come! Hello, young groom! The guys laughed. And then high school students passed by, and everyone looked at him and asked whose fiancé he was. Having barely sat through the end of the lessons, as soon as the bell rang, he rushed home as fast as he could, so that there, at home, he could vent his frustration and resentment. When his mother opened the door for him, he shouted: “It’s you, it’s your fault, it’s all because of you!” Vitya ran into the room, grabbed mimosa branches and threw them on the floor. - I hate these flowers, I hate them! He began to trample the mimosa branches with his feet, and the yellow delicate flowers burst and died under the rough soles of his boots. And Lena Popova carried home three tender branches of mimosa in a wet cloth so that they would not wilt. She carried them in front of her, and it seemed to her that the sun was reflected in them, that they were so beautiful, so special...

Vladimir Zheleznikov “Scarecrow” (story)

Meanwhile, Dimka realized that everyone had forgotten about him, slid along the wall behind the guys to the door, grabbed its handle, carefully pressed it to open it without a creak and run away... Oh, how he wanted to disappear right now, before Lenka left, and then, when she leaves, when he doesn’t see her judging eyes, he’ll come up with something, he’ll definitely come up with something... At the last moment he looked around, met Lenka’s gaze and froze.He stood alone against the wall, eyes downcast. - Look at him! - said the Iron Button to Lenka. Her voice trembled with indignation. - He can’t even lift his eyes! - Yes, it’s an unenviable picture,” said Vasiliev. - It's peeled off a little.Lenka slowly approached Dimka.The Iron Button walked next to Lenka and told her: - I understand that it’s difficult for you... You believed him... but now you’ve seen his true face! Lenka came close to Dimka - as soon as she extended her hand, she would have touched his shoulder. - Punch him in the face! - Shaggy shouted.Dimka sharply turned his back to Lenka. - I spoke, I spoke! -Iron Button was delighted. Her voice sounded victorious. -The hour of reckoning will not pass anyone!.. Justice has triumphed! Long live justice! She jumped up on her desk: - Guys! Somov - the most cruel boycott! And everyone shouted: - Boycott! Boycott Somov! Iron Button raised her hand: - Who's for the boycott? And all the guys raised their hands behind her - a whole forest of hands hovered above their heads. And many were so thirsty for justice that they raised two hands at once. “That’s all,” thought Lenka, “and Dimka has met his end.” And the guys stretched their arms, pulled, and surrounded Dimka, and tore him away from the wall, and he was about to disappear for Lenka in the ring of an impenetrable forest of hands, their own horror and her triumph and victory.Everyone was for a boycott! Only Lenka did not raise her hand.- And you? - Iron Button was surprised. “But I don’t,” Lenka said simply and smiled guiltily, as before. -Have you forgiven him? - asked the shocked Vasiliev. - What a fool,” said Shmakova. - He betrayed you!Lenka stood at the board, pressing her cropped head to its black, cold surface. The wind of the past whipped her face: “Chu-che-lo-o-o, traitor!.. Burn at the stake!” - But why, why are you against?! -Iron Button wanted to understand what prevented this Bessoltseva from declaring a boycott on Dimka. -You are the one who is against it. You can never be understood... Explain! “I was at the stake,” Lenka answered. - And they chased me down the street. And I will never chase anyone... And I will never poison anyone. At least kill me!

Ilya Turchin
Extreme case

So Ivan reached Berlin, carrying freedom on his mighty shoulders. In his hands he had an inseparable friend - a machine gun. In my bosom is a piece of my mother’s bread. So I saved the scraps all the way to Berlin. On May 9, 1945, defeated Nazi Germany surrendered. The guns fell silent. The tanks stopped. The air raid alarms began to sound. It became quiet on the ground. And people heard the wind rustling, grass growing, birds singing. At that hour, Ivan found himself in one of the Berlin squares, where a house set on fire by the Nazis was still burning down.The square was empty.And suddenly a little girl came out of the basement of the burning house. She had thin legs and a face darkened from grief and hunger. Stepping unsteadily on the sun-drenched asphalt, helplessly outstretching her arms as if blind, the girl went to meet Ivan. And she seemed so small and helpless to Ivan in the huge empty, as if extinct, square that he stopped, and his heart was squeezed by pity.Ivan took out a precious edge from his bosom, squatted down and handed the girl the bread. Never before has the edge been so warm. So fresh. I have never smelled so much of rye flour, fresh milk, and kind mother’s hands.The girl smiled, and her thin fingers grabbed the edge.Ivan carefully lifted the girl from the scorched ground.And at that moment, a scary, overgrown Fritz - the Red Fox - peeked out from around the corner. What did he care that the war was over! Only one thought was spinning in his clouded fascist head: “Find and kill Ivan!”And here he is, Ivan, in the square, here is his broad back.Fritz - The red fox took out a filthy pistol with a crooked muzzle from under his jacket and fired treacherously from around the corner.The bullet hit Ivan in the heart.Ivan trembled. Staggered. But he didn’t fall - he was afraid to drop the girl. I just felt my legs filling with heavy metal. The boots, cloak, and face became bronze. Bronze - a girl in his arms. Bronze - a formidable machine gun behind his powerful shoulders.A tear rolled down from the girl’s bronze cheek, hit the ground and turned into a sparkling sword. Bronze Ivan took hold of its handle.Fritz the Red Fox screamed in horror and fear. The burnt wall trembled from the scream, collapsed and buried him under it...And at that very moment the edge that remained with the mother also became bronze. The mother realized that trouble had befallen her son. She rushed out into the street and ran where her heart led.People ask her:

What's your hurry?

To my son. My son is in trouble!

And they brought her up in cars and on trains, on ships and on planes. The mother quickly reached Berlin. She went out to the square. She saw her bronze son and her legs gave way. The mother fell to her knees and froze in her eternal sorrow.Bronze Ivan with a bronze girl in his arms still stands in the city of Berlin - visible to the whole world. And if you look closely, you will notice between the girl and Ivan’s wide chest a bronze edge of her mother’s bread.And if our homeland is attacked by enemies, Ivan will come to life, carefully put the girl on the ground, raise his formidable machine gun and - woe to the enemies!

Elena Ponomarenko
LENOCHKA

Spring was filled with warmth and the hubbub of rooks. It seemed that the war would end today. I've been at the front for four years now. Almost none of the battalion's medical instructors survived. My childhood somehow immediately turned into adulthood. In between battles, I often remembered school, the waltz... And the next morning the war. The whole class decided to go to the front. But the girls were left at the hospital to undergo a month-long course for medical instructors. When I arrived at the division, I already saw the wounded. They said that these guys didn’t even have weapons: they got them in battle. I experienced my first feeling of helplessness and fear in August '41... - Guys, is anyone alive? - I asked, making my way through the trenches, carefully peering into every meter of the ground. - Guys, who needs help? I turned over the dead bodies, they all looked at me, but no one asked for help, because they no longer heard. The artillery attack destroyed everyone... - Well, this can’t happen, at least someone should survive?! Petya, Igor, Ivan, Alyoshka! - I crawled to the machine gun and saw Ivan. - Vanechka! Ivan! - she screamed at the top of her lungs, but her body had already cooled down, only her blue eyes looked motionless at the sky. Going down into the second trench, I heard a groan. - Is there anyone alive? People, at least someone respond! - I screamed again. The groan was repeated, indistinct, muffled. She ran past the dead bodies, looking for him, who was still alive. - Darling! I'm here! I'm here! And again she began to turn over everyone who got in her way. - No! No! No! I will definitely find you! Just wait for me! Do not die! - and jumped into another trench. A rocket flew up, illuminating him. The groan was repeated somewhere very close. “I’ll never forgive myself for not finding you,” I shouted and commanded myself: “Come on.” Come on, listen up! You will find him, you can! A little more - and the end of the trench. God, how scary! Faster Faster! “Lord, if you exist, help me find him!” - and I knelt down. I, a Komsomol member, asked the Lord for help... Was it a miracle, but the groan was repeated. Yes, he is at the very end of the trench! - Hold on! - I screamed with all my strength and literally burst into the dugout, covered with a raincoat. - Dear, alive! - his hands worked quickly, realizing that he was no longer a survivor: he had a severe wound in the stomach. He held his insides with his hands.“You’ll have to deliver the package,” he whispered quietly, dying. I covered his eyes. A very young lieutenant lay in front of me. - How can this be?! What package? Where? You didn't say where? You didn't say where! - Looking around, I suddenly saw a package sticking out of my boot. “Urgent,” read the inscription, underlined in red pencil. - Field mail of the division headquarters." Sitting with him, a young lieutenant, I said goodbye, and tears rolled down one after another. Having taken his documents, I walked along the trench, staggering, feeling nauseous as I closed my eyes to the dead soldiers along the way. I delivered the package to headquarters. And the information there really turned out to be very important. Only I never wore the medal that was awarded to me, my first combat award, because it belonged to that lieutenant, Ivan Ivanovich Ostankov....After the end of the war, I gave this medal to the lieutenant’s mother and told how he died.In the meantime, the fighting was going on... The fourth year of the war. During this time, I completely turned gray: my red hair became completely white. Spring was approaching with warmth and rook hubbub...

Boris Ganago
"Letter to God"

E this happened at the end of the 19th century. Petersburg. Christmas Eve. A cold, piercing wind blows from the bay. Fine prickly snow is falling. Horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestone streets, shop doors slam - the last purchases are made before the holiday. Everyone is in a hurry to get home quickly.
T Only a little boy slowly wanders along a snowy street. ABOUT Every now and then he takes his cold, reddened hands out of the pockets of his old coat and tries to warm them with his breath. Then he stuffs them deeper into his pockets again and moves on. Here he stops at the bakery window and looks at the pretzels and bagels displayed behind the glass. D The store door swung open, letting out another customer, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out of it. The boy swallowed his saliva convulsively, stomped on the spot and wandered on.
N Dusk is falling imperceptibly. There are fewer and fewer passers-by. The boy pauses near a building with lights burning in the windows, and, rising on tiptoe, tries to look inside. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the door.
WITH The old clerk was late at work today. He's in no hurry. He has been living alone for a long time and on holidays he feels his loneliness especially acutely. The clerk sat and thought with bitterness that he had no one to celebrate Christmas with, no one to give gifts to. At this time the door opened. The old man looked up and saw the boy.
- Uncle, uncle, I need to write a letter! - the boy said quickly.
- Do you have money? - the clerk asked sternly.
M The boy, fiddling with his hat in his hands, took a step back. And then the lonely clerk remembered that today was Christmas Eve and that he really wanted to give someone a gift. He took out a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in ink and wrote: “Petersburg. 6th January. Mr...."
- What is the gentleman's last name?
“This is not sir,” muttered the boy, not yet fully believing his luck.
- Oh, is this a lady? - the clerk asked smiling.
- No no! - the boy said quickly.
- So who do you want to write a letter to? - the old man was surprised.
- To Jesus.
- How dare you make fun of an elderly man? - the clerk was indignant and wanted to show the boy the door. But then I saw tears in the child’s eyes and remembered that today was Christmas Eve. He felt ashamed of his anger, and in a warmer voice he asked:
-What do you want to write to Jesus?
- My mother always taught me to ask God for help when it’s difficult. She said that God’s name is Jesus Christ,” the boy came closer to the clerk and continued. - And yesterday she fell asleep, and I just can’t wake her up. There’s not even bread at home, I’m so hungry,” he wiped the tears that had come to his eyes with his palm.
- How did you wake her up? - asked the old man, rising from his table.
- I kissed her.
- Is she breathing?
- What are you saying, uncle, do people breathe in their sleep?
“Jesus Christ has already received your letter,” said the old man, hugging the boy by the shoulders. -He told me to take care of you, and took your mother with him.
WITH The old clerk thought: “My mother, when you left for another world, you told me to be a good person and a pious Christian. I forgot your order, but now you won’t be ashamed of me.”

B. Ekimov. “Speak, mother, speak...”

In the mornings the mobile phone now rang. The black box came to life:
the light came on in it, cheerful music sang and the daughter’s voice announced, as if she were nearby:
- Mom, hello! Are you okay? Well done! Questions or suggestions? Amazing! Then I kiss you. Be, be!
The box was rotten and silent. Old Katerina marveled at her and could not get used to it. This seems like a small thing - a matchbox. No wires. He lays there and lies there, and suddenly his daughter’s voice begins to play and light up:
- Mom, hello! Are you okay? Have you thought about going? Look... Any questions? Kiss. Be, be!
But the city where my daughter lives is one and a half hundred miles away. And not always easy, especially in bad weather.
But this year the autumn has been long and warm. Near the farm, on the surrounding mounds, the grass turned red, and the poplar and willow fields near the Don stood green, and in the courtyards pears and cherries grew green like summer, although by time it was high time for them to burn out with a red and crimson quiet fire.
The bird's flight took a long time. The goose slowly went south, calling somewhere in the foggy, stormy sky a quiet ong-ong... ong-ong...
But what can we say about the bird, if Grandma Katerina, a withered, hunchbacked old woman, but still an agile old woman, could not get ready to leave.
“I throw it with my mind, I won’t throw it…” she complained to her neighbor. - Should I go or not?.. Or maybe it will stay warm? They are talking on the radio: the weather has completely broken down. Now the fast has begun, but the magpies have not come to the yard. It's warm and warm. Back and forth... Christmas and Epiphany. And then it’s time to think about seedlings. There’s no point in going there and getting tights.
The neighbor just sighed: it was still so far away from spring, from seedlings.
But old Katerina, rather convincing herself, took out another argument from her bosom - a mobile phone.
- Mobile! — she proudly repeated the words of the city grandson. - One word - mobile. He pressed the button, and immediately - Maria. Pressed another - Kolya. Who do you want to feel sorry for? Why shouldn't we live? - she asked. - Why leave? Throw away the house, the farm...
This was not the first conversation. I talked with the children, with the neighbor, but more often with myself.
In recent years, she went to spend the winter with her daughter in the city. Age is one thing: it’s difficult to light the stove every day and carry water from the well. Through mud and ice. You will fall and hurt yourself. And who will lift it?
The farmstead, which until recently was populous, with the death of the collective farm, dispersed, moved away, died out. Only old people and drunks remained. And they don’t carry bread, not to mention the rest. It's hard for an old person to spend the winter. So she left to join her people.
But it’s not easy to part with a farm, with a nest. What to do with small animals: Tuzik, cat and chickens? Shove it around people?.. And my heart aches about the house. The drunkards will climb in and the last saucepans will be stuck.
And it’s not too much fun to settle into new corners in old age. Even though they are our own children, the walls are foreign and life is completely different. Guest and look around.
So I was thinking: should I go, should I not go?.. And then they brought a phone for help - a mobile phone. They explained for a long time about the buttons: which ones to press and which ones not to touch. Usually my daughter called from the city in the morning.
Cheerful music will begin to sing, and the light will flash in the box. At first, it seemed to old Katerina that her daughter’s face would appear there, as if on a small television. Only a voice was announced, distant and not for long:
- Mom, hello! Are you okay? Well done. Any questions? That's good. Kiss. Be, be.
Before you know it, the light has already gone out, the box has fallen silent.
In the first days, old Katerina only marveled at such a miracle. Previously, on the farm there was a telephone in the collective farm office. Everything is familiar there: wires, a big black tube, you can talk for a long time. But that phone floated away with the collective farm. Now there is “mobile”. And then thank God.
- Mother! Do you hear me?! Alive and healthy? Well done. Kiss.
Before you even have time to open your mouth, the box has already gone out.
“What kind of passion is this?” the old woman grumbled. - Not a telephone, waxwing. He crowed: be it... So be it. And here…
And here, that is, in the life of the farmstead, the old man’s life, there was a lot of things that I wanted to talk about.
- Mom, can you hear me?
- I hear, I hear... Is that you, daughter? And the voice doesn’t seem to be yours, it’s somehow hoarse. Are you sick? Look, dress warmly. Otherwise, you are urban - fashionable, tie a down scarf. And don't let them look. Health is more valuable. Because I just had a dream, such a bad one. Why? It seems like there is some cattle in our yard. Alive. Right on the doorstep. She has a horse's tail, horns on her head, and a goat's muzzle. What kind of passion is this? And why would that be?
“Mom,” came a stern voice from the phone. - Talk to the point, and not about goat faces. We explained to you: the tariff.
“Forgive me for Christ’s sake,” the old woman came to her senses. They really warned her when the phone was delivered that it was expensive and she needed to talk briefly about the most important thing.
But what is the most important thing in life? Especially among old people... And in fact, I saw such passion at night: a horse’s tail and a scary goat’s face.
So think about it, what is this for? Probably not good.
Another day passed again, followed by another. The old woman’s life went on as usual: get up, tidy up, release the chickens; feed and water your small living creatures and even have something to peck at yourself. And then he’ll go and hook things up. It’s not for nothing that they say: even though the house is small, you are not told to sit.
A spacious farmstead that once fed a large family: a vegetable garden, a potato garden, and levada. Sheds, cubbyholes, chicken coop. Summer kitchen-mazanka, cellar with exit. Pletnevaya town, fence. Earth that needs to be dug little by little while it’s warm. And cut firewood, cutting it wide with a hand saw. Coal has become expensive these days and you can’t buy it.
Little by little the day dragged on, cloudy and warm. Ong-ong... ong-ong... - was heard sometimes. This goose went south, flock after flock. They flew away to return in the spring. But on the ground, on the farm, it was cemetery-like quiet. Having left, people did not return here either in the spring or in the summer. And therefore, rare houses and farmsteads seemed to crawl apart like crustaceans, shunning each other.
Another day has passed. And in the morning it was slightly frosty. Trees, bushes and dry grass stood in a light layer of frost - white fluffy frost. Old Katerina, going out into the courtyard, looked around at this beauty, rejoicing, but she should have looked down at her feet. She walked and walked, stumbled, fell, hitting a rhizome painfully.
The day started off awkwardly and just didn't go well.
As always in the morning, the mobile phone lit up and began to sing.
- Hello, my daughter, hello. Just one title: alive. “I’m so upset now,” she complained. “It was either the leg playing along, or maybe the slime.” Where, where...” she got annoyed. - In the courtyard. I went to open the gate at night. And there, near the gate, there is a black pear. Do you love her. She's sweet. I’ll make you compote from it. Otherwise I would have liquidated it long ago. Near this pear tree...
“Mom,” a distant voice came through the phone, “be more specific about what happened, and not about a sweet pear.”
- And that’s what I’m telling you. There, the root crawled out of the ground like a snake. But I walked and didn’t look. Yes, there’s also a stupid-faced cat poking around under your feet. This root... Letos Volodya asked how many times: take it away for Christ’s sake. He's on the move. Chernomyaska...
- Mom, please be more specific. About myself, not about the black meat. Don't forget that this is a mobile phone, a tariff. What hurts? Didn't you break anything?
“It seems like it didn’t break,” the old woman understood everything. — I’m adding a cabbage leaf.
That was the end of the conversation with my daughter. I had to explain the rest to myself: “What hurts, what doesn’t hurt... Everything hurts, every bone. Such a life is behind..."
And, driving away bitter thoughts, the old woman went about her usual activities in the yard and in the house. But I tried to huddle more under the roof so as not to fall. And then she sat down near the spinning wheel. A fluffy tow, a woolen thread, the measured rotation of the wheel of an ancient self-spinner. And thoughts, like a thread, stretch and stretch. And outside the window it’s an autumn day, like twilight. And it seems chilly. It would be necessary to heat it, but the firewood is tight. Suddenly we really have to spend the winter.
At the right time, I turned on the radio, waiting for words about the weather. But after a short silence, the soft, gentle voice of a young woman came from the loudspeaker:
- Do your bones hurt?..
These heartfelt words were so fitting and appropriate that the answer came naturally:
- They hurt, my daughter...
“Are your arms and legs aching?” a kind voice asked, as if guessing and knowing fate.
- There’s no way to save me... We were young, we didn’t smell it. In milkmaids and pig farms. And no shoes. And then they got into rubber boots, in winter and summer. So they force me...
“Your back hurts...” a female voice cooed softly, as if bewitching.
- My daughter will get sick... For centuries she carried chuvals and wahli with straw on her hump. How not to get sick... Such is life...
Life really was not easy: war, orphanhood, hard collective farm work.
The gentle voice from the loudspeaker spoke and spoke, and then fell silent.
The old woman even cried, scolding herself: “Stupid sheep... Why are you crying?..” But she cried. And the tears seemed to make it easier.
And then, quite unexpectedly, at an inopportune lunch hour, the music started playing and my mobile phone woke up. The old woman was frightened:
- Daughter, daughter... What happened? Who's not sick? And I was alarmed: you’re not calling on time. Don't hold a grudge against me, daughter. I know that the phone is expensive, it's a lot of money. But I really almost died. Tama, about this stick... - She came to her senses: - Lord, I’m talking about this stick again, forgive me, my daughter...
From afar, many kilometers away, my daughter’s voice was heard:
- Talk, mom, talk...
- So I’m humming. It's kind of a mess now. And then there’s this cat... Yes, this root is creeping under my feet, from a pear tree. For us old people, everything is in the way now. I would completely eliminate this pear tree, but you love it. Steam it and dry it, as usual... Again, I’m doing the wrong thing... Forgive me, my daughter. Can you hear me?..
In a distant city, her daughter heard her and even saw, closing her eyes, her old mother: small, bent, in a white scarf. I saw it, but suddenly felt how unsteady and unreliable it all was: telephone communication, vision.
“Tell me, mom...” she asked and was afraid of only one thing: suddenly this voice and this life would end, perhaps forever. - Talk, mom, talk...

Vladimir Tendryakov.

Bread for dogs

One evening my father and I were sitting on the porch at home.

Recently, my father had a kind of dark face, red eyelids, in some way he reminded me of the station master, walking along the station square in a red hat.

Suddenly, below, under the porch, a dog seemed to grow out of the ground. She had deserted, dull, unwashed yellow eyes and abnormally disheveled fur on the sides and back in gray clumps. She gazed at us for a minute or two with her empty gaze and disappeared as instantly as she had appeared.

- Why is her fur growing like that? - I asked.

The father paused and reluctantly explained:

- Falls out... From hunger. Its owner himself is probably going bald from hunger.

And it was as if I was doused with bath steam. I seem to have found the most, most unfortunate creature in the village. There are no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, but someone will take pity, even if secretly, ashamed, to themselves, No, no, no, and there will be a fool like me, who will slip them some bread. And the dog... Even the father now felt sorry not for the dog, but for its unknown owner - “he’s going bald from hunger.” The dog will die, and not even Abram will be found to clean it up.

The next day I was sitting on the porch in the morning with my pockets filled with pieces of bread. I sat and waited patiently to see if the same one would appear...

She appeared, just like yesterday, suddenly, silently, staring at me with empty, unwashed eyes. I moved to take out the bread, and she shied away... But out of the corner of her eye she managed to see the bread taken out, froze, and stared from afar at my hands - empty, without expression.

- Go... Yes, go. Don't be afraid.

She looked and did not move, ready to disappear at any second. She did not believe either the gentle voice, or the ingratiating smiles, or the bread in her hand. No matter how much I begged, she didn’t come, but she didn’t disappear either.

After struggling for half an hour, I finally gave up the bread. Without taking her empty, uninvolved eyes off me, she approached the piece sideways, sideways. A jump - and... not a piece, not a dog.

The next morning - a new meeting, with the same deserted glances, with the same unbending distrust of the kindness in the voice, of the kindly extended bread. The piece was only grabbed when it was thrown to the ground. I couldn’t give her the second piece anymore.

The same thing happened on the third morning and on the fourth... We didn’t miss a single day without meeting, but we didn’t become closer to each other. I was never able to train her to take bread from my hands. I have never seen any expression in her yellow, empty, shallow eyes - not even a dog's fear, not to mention a dog's tenderness and friendly disposition.

Looks like I've encountered a victim of time here too. I knew that some exiles ate dogs, baited them, killed them, butchered them. Probably my friend also fell into their hands. They couldn’t kill her, but they killed her trust in people forever. And it seemed like she didn’t particularly trust me. Raised by a hungry street, could she imagine such a fool who was ready to give food just like that, without demanding anything in return... not even gratitude.

Yes, even gratitude. This is a kind of payment, and for me it was quite enough that I feed someone, support someone’s life, which means that I myself have the right to eat and live.

I did not feed the dog, which was peeling from hunger, with pieces of bread, but my conscience.

I won’t say that my conscience really liked this suspicious food. My conscience continued to be inflamed, but not so much, not life-threatening.

That month, the station manager, who, as part of his duty, had to wear a red hat along the station square, shot himself. He didn’t think of finding an unfortunate little dog for himself to feed every day, tearing the bread off himself.

Vitaly Zakrutkin. Mother of man

On this September night, the sky trembled, trembled frequently, glowed crimson, reflecting the fires blazing below, and neither the moon nor the stars were visible on it. Near and distant cannon salvos thundered over the dully humming earth. Everything around was flooded with an uncertain, dim copper-red light, an ominous rumbling could be heard from everywhere, and indistinct, frightening noises crawled from all sides...

Huddled to the ground, Maria lay in a deep furrow. Above her, barely visible in the vague twilight, a thick thicket of corn rustled and swayed with dried panicles. Biting her lips in fear, covering her ears with her hands, Maria stretched out in the hollow of the furrow. She wanted to squeeze into the hardened, grass-overgrown plowed land, cover herself with earth, so as not to see or hear what was happening now on the farm.

She lay down on her stomach and buried her face in the dry grass. But lying there for a long time was painful and uncomfortable for her - the pregnancy was making itself felt. Inhaling the bitter smell of grass, she turned on her side, lay there for a while, then lay down on her back. Above, leaving a trail of fire, buzzing and whistling, rockets flashed past, and tracer bullets pierced the sky with green and red arrows. From below, from the farm, a sickening, suffocating smell of smoke and burning lingered.

Lord,” Maria whispered, sobbing, “send me death, Lord... I have no more strength... I can’t... send me death, I ask you, God...

She rose, knelt, and listened. “Whatever happens,” she thought in despair, “it’s better to die there, with everyone.” After waiting a little, looking around like a hunted she-wolf, and seeing nothing in the scarlet, moving darkness, Maria crawled to the edge of the corn field. From here, from the top of a sloping, almost inconspicuous hill, the farmstead was clearly visible. It was a kilometer and a half away, no more, and what Maria saw penetrated her with mortal cold.

All thirty houses of the farm were on fire. Slanting tongues of flame, swayed by the wind, broke through black clouds of smoke, raising thick scatterings of fiery sparks to the disturbed sky. Along the only farm street, illuminated by the glow of the fire, German soldiers walked leisurely with long flaming torches in their hands. They stretched torches to the thatched and reed roofs of houses, barns, chicken coops, not missing anything on their way, not even the most strewn coil or dog kennel, and after them new strands of fire flared up, and reddish sparks flew and flew towards the sky.

Two strong explosions shook the air. They followed one after another on the western side of the farm, and Maria realized that the Germans had blown up the new brick cowshed that the collective farm had built just before the war.

All the surviving farmers - there were about a hundred of them, along with women and children - the Germans drove them out of their houses and gathered them in an open place, behind the farm, where there was a collective farm current in the summer. A kerosene lantern was swinging on a current, suspended on a high pole. Its weak, flickering light seemed like a barely noticeable point. Maria knew this place well. A year ago, shortly after the start of the war, she and the women from her brigade were stirring grain on the threshing floor. Many cried, remembering their husbands, brothers, and children who had gone to the front. But the war seemed distant to them, and they did not know then that its bloody wave would reach their inconspicuous, small farm, lost in the hilly steppe. And on this terrible September night, their native farm was burning down before their eyes, and they themselves, surrounded by machine gunners, stood on the current, like a flock of dumb sheep on the rear, and did not know what awaited them...

Maria's heart was pounding, her hands were shaking. She jumped up and wanted to rush there, towards the current, but fear stopped her. Backing away, she crouched to the ground again, sank her teeth into her hands to muffle the heart-rending scream bursting from her chest. So Maria lay for a long time, sobbing like a child, suffocating from the acrid smoke creeping up the hill.

The farm was burning down. The gun salvos began to subside. In the darkened sky the steady rumble of heavy bombers flying somewhere was heard. From the side of the current, Maria heard a woman's hysterical crying and short, angry cries of the Germans. Accompanied by submachine gun soldiers, a discordant crowd of farmers slowly moved along the country road. The road ran along a corn field very close, about forty meters away.

Maria held her breath and pressed her chest to the ground. “Where are they driving them?” a feverish thought beat in her feverish brain. “Are they really going to shoot? There are small children, innocent women...” Opening her eyes wide, she looked at the road. A crowd of farmers wandered past her. Three women were carrying babies in their arms. Maria recognized them. These were two of her neighbors, young soldiers whose husbands had gone to the front just before the Germans arrived, and the third was an evacuated teacher, she gave birth to a daughter here on the farm. The older children hobbled along the road, holding on to the hems of their mothers' skirts, and Maria recognized both mothers and children... Uncle Korney walked awkwardly on his homemade crutches; his leg had been taken away during that German war. Supporting each other, two decrepit old widowers walked, grandfather Kuzma and grandfather Nikita. Every summer they guarded the collective farm's melon plant and more than once treated Maria to juicy, cool watermelons. The farmers walked quietly, and as soon as one of the women began to cry loudly, sobbingly, a German in a helmet immediately approached her and knocked her down with blows from a machine gun. The crowd stopped. Grabbing the fallen woman by the collar, the German lifted her, quickly and angrily muttered something, pointing his hand forward...

Peering into the strange luminous twilight, Maria recognized almost all the farmers. They walked with baskets, with buckets, with bags on their shoulders, they walked, obeying the short shouts of the machine gunners. None of them said a word, only the crying of children was heard in the crowd. And only at the top of the hill, when for some reason the column was delayed, a heartbreaking cry was heard:

Bastards! Pala-a-chi! Fascist freaks! I don't want your Germany! I won't be your farmhand, you bastards!

Maria recognized the voice. Fifteen-year-old Sanya Zimenkova, a Komsomol member, the daughter of a farm tractor driver who had gone to the front, was screaming. Before the war, Sanya was in seventh grade and lived in a boarding school in a distant regional center, but the school had not been open for a year, Sanya came to her mother and stayed on the farm.

Sanechka, what are you doing? Shut up, daughter! - the mother began to wail. Please shut up! They will kill you, my child!

I will not remain silent! - Sanya shouted even louder. - Let them kill, damned bandits!

Maria heard a short burst of machine gun fire. The women began to voice hoarsely. The Germans croaked in barking voices. The crowd of farmers began to move away and disappeared behind the top of the hill.

A sticky, cold fear fell on Maria. “It was Sanya who was killed,” a terrible guess struck her like lightning. She waited a little and listened. Human voices were not heard anywhere, only machine guns were tapping dully somewhere in the distance. Behind the copse, in the eastern hamlet, flares flared up here and there. They hung in the air, illuminating the mutilated earth with a dead yellowish light, and after two or three minutes, flowing out in fiery drops, they went out. In the east, three kilometers from the farmstead, was the front line of the German defense. Maria was there with other farmers: the Germans were forcing residents to dig trenches and communication passages. They wound in a sinuous line along the eastern slope of the hill. For many months, fearing the darkness, the Germans illuminated their defense line with rockets at night in order to notice the chains of attacking Soviet soldiers in time. And the Soviet machine gunners - Maria saw this more than once - used tracer bullets to shoot enemy missiles, cut them apart, and they, fading away, fell to the ground. So it was now: machine guns crackled from the direction of the Soviet trenches, and the green lines of bullets rushed towards one rocket, to a second, to a third and extinguished them...

“Maybe Sanya is alive?” Maria thought. Maybe she was just wounded and, poor thing, she’s lying on the road, bleeding? Coming out of the thicket of corn, Maria looked around. There is no one around. An empty grassy lane stretched along the hill. The farm was almost burnt down, only here and there flames still flared up, and sparks flickered over the ashes. Pressing herself against the boundary at the edge of the corn field, Maria crawled to the place from where she thought she heard Sanya’s scream and shots. It was painful and difficult to crawl. At the boundary, tough tumbleweed bushes, blown by the winds, clung together, they pricked her knees and elbows, and Maria was barefoot, wearing only an old chintz dress. So, undressed, last morning, at dawn, she ran away from the farm and now cursed herself for not taking a coat, a scarf, and putting on stockings and shoes.

She crawled slowly, half-dead with fear. She often stopped, listened to the dull, guttural sounds of distant shooting, and crawled again. It seemed to her that everything around was humming: both the sky and the earth, and that somewhere in the most inaccessible depths of the earth this heavy, mortal hum also did not stop.

She found Sanya where she thought. The girl lay prostrate in the ditch, her thin arms outstretched and her bare left leg uncomfortably bent under her. Barely discerning her body in the unsteady darkness, Maria pressed herself close to her, felt the sticky wetness on her warm shoulder with her cheek, and put her ear to her small, sharp chest. The girl’s heart beat unevenly: it froze, then pounded in fitful tremors. "Alive!" - thought Maria.

Looking around, she stood up, took Sanya in her arms and ran to the saving corn. The short path seemed endless to her. She stumbled, breathed hoarsely, afraid that she would drop Sanya, fall and never rise again. No longer seeing anything, not understanding that the dry stalks of corn were rustling around her like a tinny rustle, Maria sank to her knees and lost consciousness...

She woke up from Sanya’s heart-breaking moan. The girl lay under her, choking from the blood filling her mouth. Blood covered Maria's face. She jumped up, rubbed her eyes with the hem of her dress, lay down next to Sanya, and pressed her whole body against her.

Sanya, my baby,” Maria whispered, choking on tears, “open your eyes, my poor child, my little orphan... Open your little eyes, say at least one word...

With trembling hands, Maria tore off a piece of her dress, raised Sanya’s head, and began wiping the girl’s mouth and face with a piece of washed chintz. She touched her carefully, kissed her forehead, salty with blood, her warm cheeks, the thin fingers of her submissive, lifeless hands.

Sanya’s chest was wheezing, squelching, bubbling. Stroking the girl’s childish, angular-columnar legs with her palm, Maria felt with horror how Sanya’s narrow feet were getting colder under her hand.

“Come on, baby,” she began to beg Sanya. - Take a break, my dear... Don’t die, Sanechka... Don’t leave me alone... It’s me with you, Aunt Maria. Do you hear, baby? You and I are the only two left, only two...

The corn rustled monotonously above them. The cannon fire died down. The sky darkened, only somewhere far away, behind the forest, the reddish reflections of the flame still shuddered. That early morning hour came when thousands of people killing each other - both those who, like a gray tornado, rushed to the east, and those who with their breasts held back the movement of the tornado, were exhausted, tired of mutilating the earth with mines and shells and, stupefied by the roar, smoke and soot, they stopped their terrible work to catch their breath in the trenches, rest a little and begin the difficult, bloody harvest again...

Sanya died at dawn. No matter how hard Maria tried to warm the mortally wounded girl with her body, no matter how she pressed her hot chest against her, no matter how she hugged her, nothing helped. Sanya’s hands and feet grew cold, the hoarse bubbling in her throat ceased, and she began to freeze all over.

Maria closed Sanya’s slightly open eyelids, folded her scratched, stiff hands with traces of blood and purple ink on her fingers on her chest, and silently sat down next to the dead girl. Now, in these moments, Maria’s heavy, inconsolable grief - the death of her husband and little son, two days ago hanged by the Germans on the old farm apple tree - seemed to float away, shrouded in fog, sank in the face of this new death, and Maria, pierced by a sharp, sudden thought , realized that her grief was only a drop invisible to the world in that terrible, wide river of human grief, a black river, illuminated by fires, which, flooding, destroying the banks, spread wider and wider and rushed faster and faster there, to the east, moving it away from Mary , how she lived in this world all her short twenty-nine years...

Sergey Kutsko

WOLVES

The way village life is structured is that if you don’t go out into the forest before noon and take a walk through familiar mushroom and berry places, then by evening there’s nothing to run for, everything will be hidden.

One girl thought so too. The sun has just risen to the tops of the fir trees, and I already have a full basket in my hands, I’ve wandered far, but what mushrooms! She looked around with gratitude and was just about to leave when the distant bushes suddenly trembled and an animal came out into the clearing, its eyes tenaciously following the girl’s figure.

- Oh, dog! - she said.

Cows were grazing somewhere nearby, and meeting a shepherd dog in the forest was not a big surprise to them. But the meeting with several more pairs of animal eyes put me in a daze...

“Wolves,” a thought flashed, “the road is not far, run...” Yes, the strength disappeared, the basket involuntarily fell out of his hands, his legs became weak and disobedient.

- Mother! - this sudden cry stopped the flock, which had already reached the middle of the clearing. - People, help! - flashed three times over the forest.

As the shepherds later said: “We heard screams, we thought the children were playing around...” This is five kilometers from the village, in the forest!

The wolves slowly approached, the she-wolf walked ahead. This happens with these animals - the she-wolf becomes the head of the pack. Only her eyes were not as fierce as they were searching. They seemed to ask: “Well, man? What will you do now, when there are no weapons in your hands, and your relatives are not nearby?

The girl fell to her knees, covered her eyes with her hands and began to cry. Suddenly the thought of prayer came to her, as if something stirred in her soul, as if the words of her grandmother, remembered from childhood, were resurrected: “Ask the Mother of God! ”

The girl did not remember the words of the prayer. Making the sign of the cross, she asked the Mother of God, as if she were her mother, in the last hope of intercession and salvation.

When she opened her eyes, the wolves, passing the bushes, went into the forest. A she-wolf walked slowly ahead, head down.

Ch. Aitmatov

Chordon, pressed against the platform bars, looked over the sea of ​​heads at the red carriages of the endlessly long train.

Sultan, Sultan, my son, I am here! Can you hear me?! - he shouted, raising his arms over the fence.

But where was there to shout! A railway worker standing next to the fence asked him:

Do you have a mine?

Yes,” Chordon answered.

Do you know where the marshalling yard is?

I know, in that direction.

Then that's it, dad, sit on the mine and ride there. You'll have time, about five kilometers, no more. The train will stop there for a minute, and there you will say goodbye to your son, just ride faster, don’t stand there!

Chordon rushed around the square until he found his horse, and only remembered how he jerked the knot of the chumbur, how he put his foot into the stirrup, how he burned the sides of the horse with damask and how, ducking, he rushed down the street along the railway. Along the deserted, echoing street, frightening the rare passers-by, he rushed like a ferocious nomad.

“Just to be in time, just to be in time, there’s so much to tell my son!” - he thought and, without opening his clenched teeth, uttered a prayer and incantations of the galloping horseman: “Help me, spirits of the ancestors! Help me, patron of the Kambar-ata mines, don’t let my horse stumble! Give him the wings of a falcon, give him a heart of iron, give him the legs of a deer!”

Having passed the street, Chordon jumped out onto the path under the iron road embankment and slowed down his horse again. It was not far from the marshalling yard when the noise of the train began to overtake him from behind. The heavy, hot roar of two steam locomotives paired in a train, like a mountain collapse, fell on his bent broad shoulders.

The echelon overtook the galloping Chordon. The horse is already tired. But he expected to make it in time, if only the train would stop; it wasn’t that far to the marshalling yard. And fear, anxiety that the train might suddenly not stop, made him remember God: “Great God, if you are on earth, stop this train! Please, stop, stop the train!”

The train was already at the marshalling yard when Chordon caught up with the tail cars. And the son ran along the train - towards his father. Seeing him, Chordon jumped off his horse. They silently threw themselves into each other's arms and froze, forgetting about everything in the world.

Father, forgive me, I’m leaving as a volunteer,” said the Sultan.

I know, son.

I offended my sisters, father. Let them forget the insult if they can.

They have forgiven you. Don’t be offended by them, don’t forget them, write to them, you hear. And don't forget your mother.

Okay, father.

A lonely bell rang at the station; it was time to leave. For the last time, the father looked into his son’s face and saw in him for a moment his own features, himself, still young, still at the dawn of his youth: he pressed him tightly to his chest. And at that moment, with all his being, he wanted to convey his father’s love to his son. Kissing him, Chordon kept saying the same thing:

Be a man, my son! Wherever you are, be human! Always remain human!

The carriages shook.

Chordonov, let's go! - the commander shouted to him.

And when Sultan was dragged into the carriage as they walked, Chordon lowered his hands, then turned around and, falling to the sweaty, hot mane of the captain, began to sob. He cried, hugging the horse's neck, and shuddered so much that under the weight of his grief the horse's hooves moved from place to place.

The railway workers passed by in silence. They knew why people cried in those days. And only the station boys, suddenly subdued, stood and looked at this big, old, crying man with curiosity and childish compassion.

The sun rose above the mountains two poplars high when Chordon, having passed the Small Gorge, drove out into the wide expanse of a hilly valley, going under the snowiest mountains. Chordon took my breath away. His son lived on this land...

(excerpt from the story “A Date with My Son”)

Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov is introduced to the sons of the landowner Manilov:

“There were already two boys standing in the dining room, Manilov’s sons, who were at that age when they seat children at the table, but still on high chairs. The teacher stood with them, bowing politely and with a smile. The hostess sat down to her soup cup; the guest was seated between the host and hostess, the servant tied napkins around the children's necks.

“What cute children,” Chichikov said, looking at them, “and what year is it?”

“The eldest is eighth, and the youngest only turned six yesterday,” said Manilova.

- Themistoclus! - said Manilov, turning to the elder, who was trying to free his chin, which the footman had tied in a napkin.

Chichikov raised a few eyebrows when he heard such a partly Greek name, to which, for some unknown reason, Manilov ended in “yus,” but immediately tried to bring his face back to its normal position.

- Themistoclus, tell me, what is the best city in France?

Here the teacher turned all his attention to Themistocles and seemed to want to jump into his eyes, but finally calmed down completely and nodded his head when Themistocles said: “Paris.”

- What is our best city? - Manilov asked again.

The teacher focused his attention again.

“Petersburg,” answered Themistoclus.

- And what else?

“Moscow,” answered Themistoclus.

- Clever girl, darling! - Chichikov said to this. “Tell me, however...” he continued, immediately turning to the Manilovs with a certain look of amazement, “in such years and already such information!” I must tell you that this child will have great abilities.

- Oh, you don’t know him yet! - answered Manilov, - he has an extremely lot of wit. The smaller one, Alcides, is not so fast, but this one now, if he meets something, a bug, a booger, his eyes suddenly start running; will run after her and immediately pay attention. I read it on the diplomatic side. Themistoclus,” he continued, turning to him again, “do you want to be a messenger?”

“I want to,” answered Themistoclus, chewing bread and shaking his head to right and left.

At this time, the footman standing behind wiped the messenger’s nose, and did a very good job, otherwise a fair amount of extraneous drop would have sunk into the soup.”

2 Fyodor Dostoevsky. "Demons"

The chronicler retells the content of a philosophical poem that the now aged liberal Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky wrote in his youth:

“The stage opens with a chorus of women, then a chorus of men, then some forces, and at the end of it all a chorus of souls who have not yet lived, but who would very much like to live. All these choirs sing about something very vague, mostly about someone’s curse, but with a touch of the highest humor. But the scene suddenly changes, and some kind of “Celebration of Life” begins, at which even insects sing, a turtle appears with some Latin sacramental words, and even, if I remember, one mineral sang about something - that is, the object is already completely inanimate. In general, everyone sings continuously, and if they talk, they somehow swear vaguely, but again with a touch of higher meaning. Finally, the scene changes again, and a wild place appears, and one civilized young man wanders between the rocks, plucking and sucking some herbs, and to the fairy’s question: why is he sucking these herbs? answers that he, feeling an excess of life in himself, seeks oblivion and finds it in the juice of these herbs; but that his main desire is to lose his mind as quickly as possible (a desire, perhaps, unnecessary). Then suddenly a young man of indescribable beauty rides in on a black horse, and a terrible multitude of all nations follows him. The young man represents death, and all nations thirst for it. And finally, already in the very last scene, the Tower of Babel suddenly appears, and some athletes finally complete it with a song of new hope, and when they have already completed it to the very top, the owner, let’s say Olympus, runs away in a comic form, and humanity guessed , having taken possession of his place, immediately begins a new life with a new penetration of things.”

3 Anton Chekhov. "Drama"

The kind-hearted writer Pavel Vasilyevich is forced to listen to a long dramatic essay, which is read aloud to him by the graphomaniac writer Murashkina:

“Don’t you think this monologue is a little long? - Murashkina suddenly asked, raising her eyes.

Pavel Vasilyevich did not hear the monologue. He was embarrassed and said in such a guilty tone, as if it was not the lady, but he himself who had written this monologue:

- No, no, not at all... Very nice...

Murashkina beamed with happiness and continued reading:

— „Anna. You're stuck with analysis. You stopped living with your heart too early and trusted your mind. — Valentine. What is a heart? This is an anatomical concept. As a conventional term for what is called feelings, I do not recognize it. — Anna(embarrassed). And love? Is it really a product of an association of ideas? Tell me frankly: have you ever loved? — Valentine(with bitterness). Let's not touch old, not yet healed wounds (pause). What are you thinking about? — Anna. It seems to me that you are unhappy."

During the 16th apparition, Pavel Vasilyevich yawned and accidentally made a sound with his teeth, the kind dogs make when they catch flies. He was frightened by this indecent sound and, in order to disguise it, gave his face an expression of touching attention.

“XVII phenomenon... When is the end? - he thought. - Oh my God! If this torment continues for another ten minutes, then I will shout the guard... Unbearable!

Pavel Vasilyevich sighed lightly and was about to get up, but immediately Murashkina turned the page and continued reading:

- “Act two. The scene represents a rural street. To the right is the school, to the left is the hospital. On the steps of the latter sit peasants and peasant women.”

“I’m sorry...” Pavel Vasilyevich interrupted. - How many actions are there?

“Five,” Murashkina answered and immediately, as if afraid that the listener would leave, she quickly continued: “Valentin is looking out of the school window.” You can see how, at the back of the stage, the villagers are carrying their belongings to the tavern."

4 Mikhail Zoshchenko. "In Pushkin's days"

At a literary evening dedicated to the centenary of the poet’s death, the Soviet house manager gives a solemn speech about Pushkin:

“Of course, dear comrades, I am not a literary historian. I will allow myself to approach this great date simply, as they say, as a human being.

Such a sincere approach, I believe, will bring the image of the great poet even closer to us.

So, a hundred years separate us from him! Time really does fly incredibly fast!

The German war, as is known, began twenty-three years ago. That is, when it began, it was not a hundred years before Pushkin, but only seventy-seven.

And I was born, imagine, in 1879. Therefore, he was even closer to the great poet. Not that I could see him, but as they say, we were only separated by about forty years.

My grandmother, even purer, was born in 1836. That is, Pushkin could see her and even pick her up. He could nurse her, and she could, of course, cry in her arms, not knowing who took her in his arms.

Of course, it’s unlikely that Pushkin could have nursed her, especially since she lived in Kaluga, and Pushkin, it seems, had never been there, but we can still allow for this exciting possibility, especially since he could, it seems, come to Kaluga to see his acquaintances

My father, again, was born in 1850. But Pushkin, unfortunately, was no longer around then, otherwise he might even have been able to babysit my father.

But he could probably already hold my great-grandmother in his arms. Just imagine, she was born in 1763, so the great poet could easily come to her parents and demand that they let him hold her and nurse her... Although, however, in 1837 she was, perhaps, about sixty years old , so, frankly speaking, I don’t even know how it was there for them and how they managed it... Maybe even she nursed him... But what is shrouded in the darkness of the unknown for us, is for them, probably there was no difficulty, and they knew very well who to babysit and who to rock whom. And if the old woman really was about six or ten years old by that time, then, of course, it would be ridiculous to even think that anyone would nurse her there. So, it was she who was babysitting someone herself.

And, perhaps, by rocking and singing lyrical songs to him, she, without knowing it, awakened poetic feelings in him and, perhaps, together with his notorious nanny Arina Rodionovna, inspired him to compose some individual poems.”

5 Daniil Kharms. “What are they selling in stores now?”

“Koratygin came to Tikakeev and did not find him at home.

And Tikakeev was in the store at that time and bought sugar, meat and cucumbers there. Koratygin stomped around at Tikakeev’s door and was about to write a note, when suddenly he saw Tikakeev himself coming and carrying an oilcloth wallet in his hands. Koratygin saw Tikakeev and shouted to him:

“And I’ve been waiting for you for an hour already!”

“It’s not true,” says Tikakeev, “I’m only twenty-five minutes from home.”

“Well, I don’t know that,” said Koratygin, “but I’ve been here for a whole hour already.”

- Do not lie! - said Tikakeev. - It's a shame to lie.

- Most gracious sir! - said Koratygin. - Take the trouble to choose expressions.

“I think...” Tikakeev began, but Koratygin interrupted him:

“If you think...” he said, but then Koratygin was interrupted by Tikakeyev and said:

- You yourself are good!

These words infuriated Koratygin so much that he pinched one nostril with his finger and blew his nose at Tikakeev with the other nostril. Then Tikakeev grabbed the largest cucumber from his wallet and hit Koratygin on the head with it. Koratygin grabbed his head with his hands, fell and died.

These are the big cucumbers they sell in stores now!”

6 Ilya Ilf and Evgeny Petrov. "Knowing of limits"

A set of hypothetical rules for stupid Soviet bureaucrats (one of them, a certain Basov, is the anti-hero of the feuilleton):

“It’s impossible to accompany all orders, instructions and instructions with a thousand reservations so that the Basovs don’t do something stupid. Then a modest resolution, say, banning the transportation of live piglets in tram cars would have to look like this:

However, when collecting a fine, keepers of piglets should not:

a) push in the chest;
b) call them scoundrels;
c) push a tram at full speed under the wheels of an oncoming truck;
d) they cannot be equated with malicious hooligans, bandits and embezzlers;
e) in no case should this rule be applied to citizens who are bringing with them not piglets, but small children under the age of three;
f) it cannot be extended to citizens who do not have piglets at all;
g) as well as schoolchildren singing revolutionary songs in the streets."

7 Mikhail Bulgakov. "Theatrical Romance"

Playwright Sergei Leontievich Maksudov reads his play “Black Snow” to the great director Ivan Vasilyevich, who hates when people shoot on stage. The prototype of Ivan Vasilyevich was Konstantin Stanislavsky, Maksudov - Bulgakov himself:

“With the approaching twilight came a catastrophe. I read:

- “Bakhtin (to Petrov). Well, goodbye! Very soon you will come for me...

Petrov. What are you doing?!

Bakhtin (shoots himself in the temple, falls, an accordion was heard in the distance...).”

- This is in vain! - Ivan Vasilyevich exclaimed. - Why is this? This must be crossed out without hesitation for a second. Have mercy! Why shoot?

“But he must commit suicide,” I answered, coughing.

- And very good! Let him cum and let him stab himself with a dagger!

- But, you see, this is happening during a civil war... Daggers were no longer used...

“No, they were used,” objected Ivan Vasilyevich, “I was told by this... what’s his name... I forgot... that they were used... You cross out this shot!..”

I remained silent, making a sad mistake, and read further:

- “(...Monica and separate shots. A man appeared on the bridge with a rifle in his hand. Moon...)”

- My God! - Ivan Vasilyevich exclaimed. - Shots! Shots again! What a disaster this is! You know what, Leo... you know what, delete this scene, it’s unnecessary.

“I thought,” I said, trying to speak as softly as possible, “this scene was the main one... Here, you see...”

- A complete misconception! - Ivan Vasilyevich snapped. - This scene is not only not the main one, but it is not necessary at all. Why is this? Yours, what’s his name?..

- Bakhtin.

“Well, yes... well, yes, he stabbed himself there in the distance,” Ivan Vasilyevich waved his hand somewhere very far away, “and another comes home and says to his mother, “Bekhteev stabbed himself!”

“But there’s no mother...” I said, looking stunned at the glass with the lid.

- Definitely necessary! You write it. It is not hard. At first it seems that it is difficult - there was no mother, and suddenly there is one - but this is a delusion, it is very easy. And now the old woman is crying at home, and the one who brought the news... Call him Ivanov...

- But... Bakhtin is a hero! He has monologues on the bridge... I thought...

- And Ivanov will say all his monologues!.. You have good monologues, they need to be preserved. Ivanov will say - Petya stabbed himself and before his death he said this, this and that... It will be a very powerful scene.”

8 Vladimir Voinovich. "The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Soldier Ivan Chonkin"

Colonel Luzhin is trying to extract information from Nyura Belyashova about a mythical fascist resident named Kurt:

“Well then. “Putting his hands behind his back, he walked around the office. - You still do. You don't want to be honest with me. Well. Mil by force. You will not. As the saying goes. We will help you. But you don't want us. Yes. By the way, do you happen to know Kurt?

- Chickens? - Nyura was surprised.

- Well, yes, Kurta.

- Who doesn’t know chickens? - Nyura shrugged. - How can this be possible in a village without chickens?

- It is forbidden? - Luzhin quickly asked. - Yes. Certainly. In the village without Kurt. No way. It is forbidden. Impossible. “He pulled the desk calendar towards him and took a pen. - What's your last name?

“Belyashova,” Nyura said willingly.

- Belya... No. Not this. I don't need your last name, but Kurt's. What? - Luzhin frowned. - And you don’t want to say that?

Nyura looked at Luzhin, not understanding. Her lips trembled, tears appeared in her eyes again.

“I don’t understand,” she said slowly. - What kind of surnames can chickens have?

- At the chickens? - asked Luzhin. - What? In chickens? A? “He suddenly understood everything and, jumping to the floor, stamped his feet. - Get out! Go away".

9 Sergey Dovlatov. "Reserve"

The autobiographical hero works as a guide in the Pushkin Mountains:

“A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me shyly:

- Excuse me, can I ask a question?

- I'm hearing you.

- Was this given?

- That is?

- I ask, was this given? “The Tyrolean took me to the open window.

- In what sense?

- In direct. I would like to know if this was given or not? If you don't give it, say so.

- I don't understand.

The man blushed slightly and began to hastily explain:

- I had a postcard... I am a philocartist...

- Philocartist. I collect postcards... Philos - love, cards...

- I have a color postcard - “Pskov distances”. And so I ended up here. I want to ask - was this given?

“In general, they did,” I say.

— Typically Pskov?

- Not without it.

The man walked away, beaming...”

10 Yuri Koval. "The lightest boat in the world"

A group of friends and acquaintances of the protagonist examines the sculptural composition by artist Orlov “People in Hats”:

“People in hats,” said Clara Courbet, smiling thoughtfully at Orlov. - What an interesting idea!

“Everyone is wearing hats,” Orlov became excited. - And everyone has their own inner world under their hat. Do you see this big-nosed guy? He's a big-nosed guy, but he still has his own world under his hat. Which one do you think?

The girl Clara Courbet, and after her the others, closely examined the big-nosed member of the sculptural group, wondering what kind of inner world he had.

“It is clear that there is a struggle going on in this person,” said Clara, “but the struggle is not easy.”

Everyone again stared at the big-nosed man, wondering what kind of struggle could be going on in him.

“It seems to me that this is a struggle between heaven and earth,” Clara explained.

Everyone froze, and Orlov was confused, apparently not expecting such a powerful look from the girl. The policeman, the artist, was clearly dumbfounded. It probably never occurred to him that heaven and earth could fight. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the floor, and then at the ceiling.

“All this is correct,” Orlov said, stuttering slightly. - Accurately noted. That's exactly the struggle...

“And under that crooked hat,” Clara continued, “underneath that there is a struggle between fire and water.”

The policeman with the gramophone completely staggered. With the strength of her views, the girl Clara Courbet decided to outshine not only the gramophone, but also the sculptural group. The policeman-artist was worried. Having chosen one of the simpler hats, he pointed his finger at it and said:

“And underneath this there is a struggle between good and evil.”

“He-he,” answered Clara Courbet. - Nothing like this.

The policeman shivered and, closing his mouth, looked at Clara.

Orlov elbowed Petyushka, who was crunching something in his pocket.

Peering at the sculptural group, Clara was silent.

“There's something else going on under that hat,” she began slowly. “This is... a fight of a fight with a fight!”

two joke knowledge tests

Images: Petr Sokolov. "Lunch at Manilov's." Circa 1899 Auction "Bag"

A touching excerpt from the prose of Russian classics and received the best answer

Answer from Yo-Min[guru]
I approached the coffin. My son lies in it and is not mine. Mine is always a smiling, narrow-shouldered boy, with a sharp Adam’s apple on his thin neck, and here lies a young, broad-shouldered, handsome man, his eyes half-closed, as if he is looking somewhere past me, into a distant distance unknown to me. Only in the corners of his lips did the laughter of the old son remain forever, the only one I once knew... I kissed him and stepped aside. The lieutenant colonel made a speech. My Anatoly’s comrades and friends are wiping away their tears, and my unshed tears, apparently, have dried up in my heart. Maybe that's why it hurts so much? .
I buried my last joy and hope in a foreign, German land, my son’s battery struck, seeing off his commander on a long journey, and it was as if something in me had snapped... I arrived at my unit not being myself. But then I was soon demobilized. Where to go? Is it really in Voronezh? No way! I remembered that my friend lived in Uryupinsk, demobilized in the winter due to injury - he once invited me to his place - I remembered and went to Uryupinsk.
My friend and his wife were childless and lived in their own house on the edge of the city. Although he had a disability, he worked as a driver at a car dealership, and I got a job there too. I stayed with a friend and they gave me shelter. We transported various cargoes to the regions, and in the fall we switched to exporting bread. It was at this time that I met my new son, this one who plays in the sand.
From a flight, it used to be that when you returned to the city, of course, the first thing you did was go to the teahouse: grab something, and, of course, drink a hundred grams from your drink. I must say, I’m already quite addicted to this harmful business... And then one time I see this guy near the tea shop, the next day I see him again. Such a little ragged guy: his face is covered in watermelon juice, covered with dust, dirty as dust, unkempt, and his eyes are like stars at night after the rain! And I fell in love with him so much that, miraculously, I already began to miss him, and I’m in a hurry to get off the flight to see him as soon as possible. He fed himself near the teahouse - whoever would give him what.
On the fourth day, straight from the state farm, loaded with bread, I turned up to the teahouse. My boy is sitting there on the porch, dangling his little legs and, apparently, hungry. I leaned out the window and shouted to him: “Hey, Vanyushka! Get in the car quickly, I’ll take you to the elevator, and from there we’ll come back here and have lunch.” He shuddered at my shout, jumped off the porch, climbed onto the step and quietly said: “How do you know, uncle, that my name is Vanya?” And he opened his eyes wide, waiting for me to answer him. Well, I tell him that I am an experienced person and know everything. He came in from the right side, I opened the door, sat him next to me, and off we went. Such a smart guy, and suddenly he became quiet for some reason, thought about it, and no, no, and looked at me from under his long, upward-curved eyelashes, and sighed. Such a small bird, but he has already learned to sigh. Is it his business? I ask: “Where is your father, Vanya?” He whispers: “He died at the front.” - “And mom?” - “Mom was killed by a bomb on the train while we were traveling.” - “Where were you coming from?” - “I don’t know, I don’t remember...” - “And you don’t have anyone relatives here?” - “No one.” - “Where are you spending the night?” - “Where will you have to?”
A burning tear began to boil inside me, and I immediately decided: “It’s impossible for us to disappear separately! I’ll take him as my child.” And immediately my soul felt light and somehow light. I leaned over to him and quietly asked: “Vanyushka, do you know who I am?” He asked and exhaled: “Who?” I told him just as quietly. "I am your father".
My God, what happened here! He rushed to my neck, kissed me on the cheeks, on the lips, on the forehead, and he, like a waxwing, screamed so loudly and thinly that even in the booth it was muffled: “Dear dad! I knew! I knew that you would find me! You'll find me anyway! I've been waiting for so long for you to find me! " He pressed himself close to me and trembled all over, like a blade of grass in the wind. And there’s a fog in my eyes, and I’m also trembling all over, and my hands are shaking... How I didn’t lose the steering wheel then, you can wonder! But he still accidentally drove into a ditch and turned off the engine.
Source: Mikhail Sholokhov. "The Fate of Man"

Answer from Anna Bobrysheva[newbie]
Nina's monologue from "The Seagull" by A.P. Chekhov. At the university we staged a play based on Chekhov, we recorded this monologue and played the recording... it sounds at the same time touching and creepy, heartbreaking.
People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those that could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, faded away ...For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. Cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves. Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Scary, scary, scary.
Pause.
The bodies of living beings disappeared into dust, and eternal matter turned them into stones, into water, into clouds, and the souls of them all merged into one. The common world soul is me... I... I have the soul of Alexander the Great, and Caesar, and Shakespeare, and Napoleon, and the last leech. In me, the consciousness of people has merged with the instincts of animals, and I understand everything, everything, and I experience every life in myself again.

Answer from Anna Alekberova[guru]
Nina's monologue from "The Seagull" by A.P. Chekhov. At the university we staged a play based on Chekhov, we recorded this monologue and started recording it... It sounds both touching and eerie, heartbreaking.
People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those that could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, faded away .. . For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. Cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves. Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Scary, scary, scary.
Pause.
The bodies of living beings disappeared into dust, and eternal matter turned them into stones, into water, into clouds, and the souls of them all merged into one. The common world soul is me... I.. . I have the soul of Alexander the Great, and Caesar, and Shakespeare, and Napoleon, and the last leech. In me, the consciousness of people has merged with the instincts of animals, and I understand everything, everything, and I experience every life in myself again.

Victor DRAGUNSKY
Glory to Ivan Kozlovsky

I have only A's on my report card. Only in penmanship is a B. Because of the blots. I really don't know what to do! Blots always jump off my pen. I only dip the very tip of the pen into ink, but the blots still jump off. Just some miracles! Once I wrote a whole page, pure and simple, a real five-star page that was a pleasure to look at. In the morning I showed it to Raisa Ivanovna, and there was a blot right in the middle! Where did she come from? She wasn't there yesterday! Maybe it was leaked from some other page? Don't know...
And so I only have A's. Only a C in singing. This is how it happened. We had a singing lesson. At first we all sang in chorus “There was a birch tree in the field.” It turned out very beautifully, but Boris Sergeevich kept wincing and shouting:
Pull out your vowels, friends, pull out your vowels!..
Then we began to draw out the vowels, but Boris Sergeevich clapped his hands and said:
A real cat concert! Let's deal with each one individually.
This means with each individual separately.
And Boris Sergeevich called Mishka.
Mishka went up to the piano and whispered something to Boris Sergeevich.
Then Boris Sergeevich began to play, and Mishka quietly sang:

Like on thin ice
A little white snow fell...

Well, Mishka squeaked funny! This is how our kitten Murzik squeaks. Is that really how they sing? Almost nothing can be heard. I just couldn't stand it and started laughing.
Then Boris Sergeevich gave Mishka a high five and looked at me.
He said:
Come on, laugher, come out!
I quickly ran to the piano.
Well, what will you perform? Boris Sergeevich asked politely.
I said:
Song of the Civil War "Lead us, Budyonny, boldly into battle."
Boris Sergeevich shook his head and began to play, but I immediately stopped him:
Please play louder! I said.
Boris Sergeevich said:
You won't be heard.
But I said:
Will. And how!
Boris Sergeevich began to play, and I took in more air and started drinking:

High in the clear sky
The scarlet banner flutters...

I really like this song.
I can see the blue, blue sky, it’s hot, the horses are clattering their hooves, they have beautiful purple eyes, and a scarlet banner is flying in the sky.
At this point I even closed my eyes with delight and shouted as loud as I could:

We are racing there on horseback,
Where is the enemy visible?
And in a delightful battle...
I sang well, probably even heard on the other street:

A swift avalanche! We are rushing forward!.. Hurray!..
Reds always win! Retreat, enemies! Give it!!!

I pressed my fists on my stomach, it came out even louder, and I almost burst:

We crashed into Crimea!

Then I stopped because I was all sweaty and my knees were shaking.
And although Boris Sergeevich was playing, he was somehow leaning towards the piano, and his shoulders were also shaking...
I said:
So how?
Monstrous! Boris Sergeevich praised.
Good song, right? I asked.
“Good,” said Boris Sergeevich and covered his eyes with a handkerchief.
It’s just a pity that you played very quietly, Boris Sergeevich, I said, you could have been even louder.
Okay, I’ll take it into account, said Boris Sergeevich. Didn’t you notice that I played one thing, and you sang a little differently!
No, I said, I didn't notice that! Yes, it doesn’t matter. I just needed to play louder.
Well, said Boris Sergeevich, since you didn’t notice anything, we’ll give you a C for now. For diligence.
How about a three? I was even taken aback. How can this be? Three is very little! Mishka sang quietly and then got an A... I said:
Boris Sergeevich, when I rest a little, I’ll be able to get even louder, don’t think so. I didn't have a good breakfast today. Otherwise I can sing so hard that everyone’s ears will be covered. I know one more song. When I sing it at home, all the neighbors come running and ask what happened.
Which one is this? asked Boris Sergeevich.
Compassionate, I said and started:

I loved you...
Love still, perhaps...

But Boris Sergeevich hastily said:
Okay, okay, we'll discuss all this next time.
And then the bell rang.
Mom met me in the locker room. When we were about to leave, Boris Sergeevich approached us.
Well, he said, smiling, perhaps your boy will be Lobachevsky, maybe Mendeleev. He may become Surikov or Koltsov, I would not be surprised if he becomes known to the country, as Comrade Nikolai Mamai or some boxer is known, but I can assure you absolutely firmly of one thing: he will not achieve the fame of Ivan Kozlovsky. Never!
Mom blushed terribly and said:
Well, we'll see about that later!
And when we walked home, I kept thinking:
“Does Kozlovsky really sing louder than me?”

"HE IS ALIVE AND GLOWING..."

One evening I sat in the yard, near the sand, and waited for my mother. She probably stayed late at the institute, or at the store, or maybe stood at the bus stop for a long time. Don't know. Only all the parents in our yard had already arrived, and all the kids went home with them and were probably already drinking tea with bagels and cheese, but my mother was still not there...
And now the lights began to light up in the windows, and the radio started playing music, and dark clouds moved in the sky - they looked like bearded old men...
And I wanted to eat, but my mother was still not there, and I thought that if I knew that my mother was hungry and was waiting for me somewhere at the end of the world, I would immediately run to her, and would not be late and not made her sit on the sand and get bored.
And at that time Mishka came out into the yard. He said:
- Great!
And I said:
- Great!
Mishka sat down with me and picked up the dump truck.
- Wow! - said Mishka. - Where did you get it? Does he pick up sand himself? Not yourself? And he leaves on his own? Yes? What about the pen? What is it for? Can it be rotated? Yes? A? Wow! Will you give it to me at home?
I said:
- No I will not give. Present. Dad gave it to me before he left.
The bear pouted and moved away from me. It became even darker outside.
I looked at the gate so as not to miss when my mother came. But she still didn’t go. Apparently, I met Aunt Rosa, and they stand and talk and don’t even think about me. I lay down on the sand.
Here Mishka says:
- Can you give me a dump truck?
- Get off it, Mishka.
Then Mishka says:
- I can give you one Guatemala and two Barbados for it!
I speak:
- Compared Barbados to a dump truck...
And Mishka:
- Well, do you want me to give you a swimming ring?
I speak:
- It's burst.
And Mishka:
- You will seal it!
I even got angry:
- Where to swim? In the bathroom? On Tuesdays?
And Mishka pouted again. And then he says:
- Well, it was not! Know my kindness! On the!
And he handed me a box of matches. I took it in my hands.
“You open it,” said Mishka, “then you will see!”
I opened the box and at first I didn’t see anything, and then I saw a small light green light, as if somewhere far, far away from me a tiny star was burning, and at the same time I myself was holding it in my hands.
“What is this, Mishka,” I said in a whisper, “what is this?”
“This is a firefly,” said Mishka. - What, good? He's alive, don't think about it.
“Bear,” I said, “take my dump truck, would you like it?” Take it forever, forever! Give me this star, I’ll take it home...
And Mishka grabbed my dump truck and ran home. And I stayed with my firefly, looked at it, looked and couldn’t get enough of it: how green it was, as if in a fairy tale, and how close it was, in the palm of my hand, but shining as if from afar... And I couldn’t breathe evenly , and I heard my heart beating, and there was a slight tingling in my nose, as if I wanted to cry.
And I sat like that for a long time, a very long time. And there was no one around. And I forgot about everyone in this world.
But then my mother came, and I was very happy, and we went home. And when they started drinking tea with bagels and feta cheese, my mother asked:
- Well, how's your dump truck?
And I said:
- I, mom, exchanged it.
Mom said:
- Interesting! And for what?
I answered:
- To the firefly! Here he is, living in a box. Turn out the light!
And mom turned off the light, and the room became dark, and the two of us began to look at the pale green star.
Then mom turned on the light.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s magic!” But still, how did you decide to give such a valuable thing as a dump truck for this worm?
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” I said, “and I was so bored, but this firefly, it turned out to be better than any dump truck in the world.”
Mom looked at me intently and asked:
- And why, why exactly is it better?
I said:
- How come you don’t understand?! After all, he is alive! And it glows!..

GREEN LEOPARDS

The teacher wrote the topic of the essay on the board: “Your comrade.”
“Do I have a REAL comrade? thought Andryusha. With whom you can climb mountains, go on reconnaissance missions, and dive to the bottom of the World Ocean. And in general, at least go to the ends of the world!..”
Andryusha thought and thought, then thought and thought again and decided: he has such a friend! And then he wrote in his notebook in capital letters:
MY COMRADE GRANDMOTHER

Her name is Klavdia Stepanovna, or simply Grandma Klava. She was born a long time ago, and when she grew up, she became a railway worker. Grandma Klava took part in various physical education parades. That's why she's so brave and clever
Andryusha read the essay and sighed: he didn’t like it. Is it possible to write so boringly about a grandmother?
“No way,” he thought.
And he began to dream. About real mountains that I have never been to. I wish I could climb to the very top!..

Where eternal glaciers do not melt.
Where is the snow avalanche
falls off a cliff.
Where it's cold even in July
And eagles soar in the sky

The mountain paths there are dangerous.
There is a rockfall in the gorge.
Here the snow leopards appear -
in the snow from head to toe.

They go out onto the road
They have an excellent appetite!
And each of the leopards by the leg
tries to grab you.

A horde of leopards approached.
Belt slips out of fear
But here to the top
Grandma Klava climbed up
as agile as a deer.

The backpack is on her back,
and there are 28 cutlets in it,
piece of African cheese
and even a Chinese bracelet.

And grandma fed the leopards
maybe two minutes
and with a hardworking hand
I stroked them on the head.

Snow leopards have had their fill
and politely say this:
“Thank you, Grandma Klava,
for a delicious and satisfying lunch!..”
And then we brushed our teeth and
went to the den to take a nap.

“That’s it, grandma! - thought Andryusha. “With such a comrade, not only in the mountains, but also in reconnaissance, you’re not the least bit afraid.”
And then it occurred to him:
Night. Street. Flashlight. Pharmacy
No, it's better like this:
Night. Lake. Moon. Dubrava. And in the middle is a ravine. In short, a typical military situation

Intelligence is nothing to sneeze at!
Do you see the ravine turning black?
The enemy is hiding there -
enemy of the Soviet people.

How will he jump out of the ditch?
when he pulls out his gun,
as he asks Grandma Klava:
“How old are you, grandma?”

But Grandma Klava will not flinch -
That's the kind of person she is!
(no, it's better like this:
She's such a person!)
That's why it won't even flinch
removing the duffel bag.

And in that duffel bag, according to the regulations
Allowed: 20 cutlets,
bottle of ghee
and even a tram ticket.

Our enemy will feed
he will sigh not our way:
“Thank you, Grandma Klava!
This is a very nutritious story
treat"
And he will immediately throw his pistol far into the sea.

Andryusha was now dreaming well: he clearly imagined how the gun was slowly sinking to the very bottom of the World Ocean. Wow, how deep!..

Washing half the world with water,
The world ocean is seething.
It's very damp at the bottom
happens at night.

There is water on both the left and the right
so I can't breathe
But dear grandmother Klava
knows how to dive bravely!

And in the deep valley
The sperm whale lies with a mustache.
He thinks a bitter thought
and quietly gnaws on a bone:

“And who is that there with fins?
moves like a sawfish?
Excuse me, yes, it’s yourself
Yes, this is Grandma Kla"

The sperm whale is overjoyed
breath stifled in the goiter -
he can't say the words
but only mumbles: BU-BU-BU

And the grandmother from scuba gear
took out 12 cutlets,
cherry jam jar
and even a bouquet of daisies.

And the sperm whale mumbles: “Save-BU BU-BU-BU-shka, save-BU BU-BU-Shka” and only blows multi-colored bubbles out of happiness.
And those bubbles rise to the surface where the edge of the water is. Or the edge of the air in general, the real edge of the world. And Anryusha rises with them. There is no land, no water, no air in sight. Continuous airless space. It's called space. And the Earth, somewhere far away, flickers with a dim light. And it melts, it melts

Our planet has melted,
and with it our country.
There is no white light visible here,
but Grandma Klava is visible!

She is near the starry outskirts,
flies among interplanetary worlds,
like Yuri Gagarin,
or maybe like German Titov.

In a spacesuit with Grandma Klava
8 cutlets hidden,
pot of chicken broth
and even the Dawn alarm clock.

Astronomers of the Universe are watching
for a tasty and filling lunch
into your big telescopes
and send a grateful greeting:

THANK YOU PTA
GRANDMOTHER KLAUDIA STEPANOVNA PTA
YOUR MATERNAL CARE
IN THE NAME OF THE WORLD PUBLIC
TSK

National glory thunders -
a thundering sound spreads:
“Long live Grandma Klava,
and also grandma’s grandson!”

And even the constellations in the sky
Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius –
greeting grandmother and grandson
I'll end with this:
END

And on time! Because the bell just rang.
“Oh, it’s a pity,” Andryusha sighed, the lesson is so short.”
He remembered that he had another grandmother. Her name is Elena Gerasimovna, or simply Grandma Lena. She was also born a long time ago. And also
“Okay,” Andryusha decided. I’ll definitely write about it another time.”
And he signed the essay: Andryusha IVANOV, grandson of grandmother Klava (and grandmother Lena too)

Tatiana PETROSYAN
A NOTE

The note looked most harmless.
According to all gentleman's laws, it should have revealed an inky face and a friendly explanation: “Sidorov is a goat.”
So Sidorov, without suspecting anything bad, instantly unfolded the message and was dumbfounded.
Inside, in large, beautiful handwriting, it was written: “Sidorov, I love you!”
Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of the handwriting. Who wrote this to him? Squinting, he looked around the class. The author of the note was bound to reveal himself. But this time, for some reason, Sidorov’s main enemies did not grin maliciously. (That’s how they usually grinned. But this time they didn’t.)
But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning! There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him?!
And then Sidorov’s thought reached a dead end and fluttered helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DOES LOVES MEAN??? What consequences will this entail and what should Sidorov do now?..
“Let’s reason logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. For example, what do I love? Pears! “Love means I always want to eat”
At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long untrimmed claws, and yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyova greedily gnawed at a bony chicken leg
“You need to pull yourself together, Sidorov pulled himself together. (My hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there is no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often carries me around his neck. And I love them for that"
Here Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with sadness that he would now have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and carry her to school around his neck in order to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and discovered that Vorobyova was not thin and would probably not be easy to wear.
“All is not lost, Sidorov did not give up. I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for walks"
Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyova could force him to jump for every pie, and then take him for a walk, holding him tightly by the leash and not allowing him to deviate either to the right or to the left.
“I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow right into her ear, Sidorov thought in despair, no, it’s not that I like to catch flies and put them in a glass, but I also love toys that you can break and see what’s inside.”
The last thought made Sidorov feel unwell. There was only one salvation. He hastily tore a piece of paper out of the notebook, pursed his lips resolutely and in a firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you.”
Let her be scared.

O. KOSHKIN
TIRED OF FIGHTING!

At exactly 13:13 the secret intelligence officer was declassified. He ran through the streets to escape pursuit. Two men in civilian clothes were chasing him, shooting as they went. The scout had already managed to swallow three ciphers and was now hastily chewing on the fourth. “Oh, I wish I had some soda now!” he thought. How tired he is of fighting!
Top-top-top!.. the boots of the pursuers were knocking closer and closer.
And suddenly, oh, happiness! the scout saw a hole in the fence. Without hesitation, he jumped into it and ended up in the zoo.
Boy, come back!” the usherette angrily waved her hands.
No matter how it is! Former intelligence officer Mukhin ran along the path, climbed over one grate, through another and found himself in an elephant enclosure.
I'll hide here with you, okay? he shouted, panting.
“Hide, I don’t mind,” the elephant answered. He stood with his ears moving and listened to the radio about events in Africa. After all, homeland!
Are you at war? he asked when the latest news was over.
Yeah, I ate all the encryption! Mukhin boasted, slapping his stomach.
Child's play, the elephant sighed and sadly stomped on the spot. My great-grandfather fought, yes!
Whoa? Mukhin was surprised. Your great-grandfather was a tank, or what?
A stupid boy! the elephant was offended. My great-grandfather was Hannibal's war elephant.
Who? Mukhin didn’t understand again.
The elephant perked up. He loved to tell the story of his great-grandfather.
Sit down and listen! he said and drank water from an iron barrel. In 246 BC, a son, Hannibal, was born to the Carthaginian commander Hamilcar Barca. His father fought endlessly with the Romans and therefore entrusted the education of his son to a war elephant. This was my dear great-grandfather!
The elephant wiped away his tears with his trunk. The animals in the neighboring enclosures became quiet and also listened.
Oh, it was an elephant mountain! When he fanned himself with his ears on hot days, such a wind rose that the trees cracked. So, great-grandfather loved Hannibal as his own son. Without closing his eyes, he made sure that the child was not kidnapped by Roman spies. Noticing the spy, he grabbed him with his trunk and threw him across the sea back to Rome.
“Hey, the spies are flying! looking into the sky, the inhabitants of Carthage said. It must be war!
And exactly, to the First Punic War! Hamilcar Barca had already fought the Romans in Spain.
Meanwhile, the boy grew up under the care of a war elephant. Oh, how they loved each other! Hannibal recognized the elephant by its steps and fed it with choice raisins. By the way, do you have any raisins? The elephant asked Mukhin.
Nope! he shook his head.
It's a pity. So, when Hannibal became a commander, he decided to start the Second Punic War. "Maybe we should not? my great-grandfather dissuaded him. Maybe we’d better go for a swim?” But Hannibal didn’t want to listen to anything. Then the elephant trumpeted, calling the army, and the Carthaginians set off on a campaign.
Hannibal led his army across the Alps, intending to hit the Romans in the rear. Yes, it was a difficult transition! Mountain eagles carried away soldiers, and hail the size of melons fell from the sky. But the road was blocked by an abyss. Then the great-grandfather stood over her, and the army crossed over him as if across a bridge.
The appearance of Hannibal took the Romans by surprise. Before they had time to deploy the formation, the elephant was already running towards them, sweeping away everything in its path. The infantry moved behind him, the ace of the flanks was cavalry. Victory! The army rejoiced. They picked up the War Elephant and began to rock it.
“Brothers, let’s go swimming!” The elephant suggested again.
But the soldiers did not listen to him: “What else, I want to fight!”
The Romans were not going to make peace either. Consul Gaius Flaminius gathered an army and marched against the Carthaginians. Then Hannibal resorted to a new trick. He mounted the army on an elephant and led it through the swamps, bypassing the enemy. Great-grandfather was up to his neck in water. Soldiers hung from the sides like bunches of grapes. On the way, many got their feet wet, and the commander lost an eye.
And again Hannibal won! Then the Romans gathered for a council and decided to decide, the elephant’s voice trembled, he raised the barrel and, in order to calm down, poured all the water on himself, to kill his great-grandfather! That same night, a spy dressed as Hannibal crept into the Carthaginian camp. He had poisoned raisins in his pocket. Approaching the elephant, he stood on the leeward side and said in the voice of Hannibal: “Eat, father elephant!” Great-grandfather swallowed just one raisin and fell dead
The animals in the neighboring enclosures were crying. Crocodile tears flowed from the crocodile's eyes.
What about Hannibal? asked Mukhin.
For three days and three nights he mourned his elephant. Since then, his luck has changed. His army was defeated. Carthage was destroyed, and he himself died in exile in 183 BC.
The elephant finished the story.
“I thought only horses fought,” Mukhin sighed.
We all fought here! We are all fighting!.. the animals shouted vying with each other: camels, giraffes, and even a hippopotamus that surfaced like a submarine.
And the crocodile is the loudest:
Grab the belly, twirl the tail and carry it! Like a battering ram. And bite the enemy. You'll break all your teeth!..
And they let mice under the armor, the elephant interjected accusingly. This is to tickle knights!
And us, us! The frogs were straining themselves in the terrarium. They will tie you to the front line all night, sit and croak at the scouts!..
Mukhin grabbed his head straight: what is it like, all the animals were forced to fight?..
Here he is! suddenly a voice came from behind. Gotcha! Hands up!
Mukhin turned around. His friends Volkov and Zaitsev stood at the bars, aiming their guns.
Come on, I'm tired of you! Mukhin waved him off. Let's go swimming!
That's right, the crocodile approved. Come to my pool, there’s enough room for everyone! And the water is warm
Mukhin began to unbutton his coat.
“I’ll bring you raisins tomorrow,” he said to the elephant. Good raisins, not poisoned. I'll ask my mom.
And he climbed into the water.

Tatiana PETROSYAN
MOM, BE A MOM!

Yurik did not have a father. And one day he told his mother:
If only my dad had been there, he would have made me a hockey stick.
Mom didn't answer. But the next day the “Young Carpenter” set appeared on her bedside table. Mom was sawing, planing, gluing something, and one day she handed Yuri a wonderful polished hockey stick.
“It’s a good stick,” Yurik sighed. Only my dad would go to football with me. The next day, my mother brought two tickets to the match in Luzhniki.
Well, I’ll go with you, Yurik sighed. You don't even know how to whistle. A week later, at all matches, my mother furiously whistled with two fingers and demanded that the referee be given up. That's when the difficulties with soap began. But Yurik sighed:
If only there was a dad, he would lift me up with his left hand and teach me tricks
The next day, mom bought a barbell and a punching bag. She achieved excellent athletic results. In the mornings she would lift the barbell and Yurika with one left hand, then hit a punching bag, then run to work, and in the evening the semi-finals of the World Cup awaited her. And when there was no football or hockey, my mother would bend over the radio circuit with a soldering iron in her hands until late at night.
Summer came, and Yurik went to the village to visit his grandmother. But mom stayed. At parting, Yurik sighed:
If only there was a dad, he would speak in a deep voice, wear a vest and smoke a pipe
When Yurik returned from his grandmother’s, his mother met him at the station. Only Yurik didn’t even recognize her at first. Mom’s biceps bulged under her vest, and the back of her head was cropped short. With a calloused hand, my mother took the pipe out of her mouth and said in a gentle bass voice:
Well, hello son!
But Yurik just sighed:
Dad would have a beard
At night Yurik woke up. The light was on in my mother's bedroom. He got up, walked to the door and saw his mother with a shaving brush in her hand. Her face was tired. She soaped her cheeks. Then she took the razor and saw Yurik in the mirror.
“I’ll try, son,” my mother said quietly. They say that if you shave every day, your beard will grow.
But Yurik rushed to her and roared, burying himself in his mother’s hard press.
No, no, he sobbed. No need. Become a mother again. You won't grow your dad's beard anyway!.. You'll grow your mom's beard!
Since that night, my mother dropped the barbell. And a month later I came home with some skinny guy. He didn't smoke a pipe. And he didn't have a beard. And his ears were protruding.
He unbuttoned his coat, under which, instead of a vest, he discovered a cat. He unwound the muffler; it was a small boa constrictor. He took off his hat and a white mouse was scurrying around there. He handed Yuri the cake box. There was a chicken sitting in it.
Dad! Yurik beamed. And he dragged dad into the room to show him the barbell.

Alexander DUDOLADOV
BAM AND DONE!

Let everything remain the same, and I will have the Spanish name Pedro.
Bah!..
Everything remains the same. And I am a Spaniard with black eyebrows. A smile is like a photo flash.
Hello Pedro!
Smile.
Salute, Pedro!
Smile in response. I don't understand the language. A guest from a friendly country. I go, gawking at the achievements.
Eh, it’s good to be a foreign guest of Moscow! Much better than Nitkin Em. Just how to do it. You can't do it without a magic wand.
Let me be the magic wand myself! So wooden and thin. And magical!
Bang!
I'm a magic wand! I bring benefit to people. As soon as I wave, all sorts of benefits arise.
What if you become useful?
Bam!
And here I am benefit! Everyone is happy to see me. Everyone is smiling. Old people and youth. No! Bam!
I am the smile of youth!
I'm laughing! Ha ha ha ha!
Nitkin! Where are you? Why are you laughing in class? Nitkin, get up! What is the topic of the essay?
The topic of the essay, Olga Vasilievna, the essay “What do I want to become when I grow up?”
Well, what do you want to become when you grow up?
I want to become I want to become
Snegirev, don’t give Nitkin any advice!
I want to become a scientist.
That's good. Sit down and write: to scientists.
Nitkin sat down and began to write in his notebook: “I want to become a scientist cat so that I can walk around the chain.”
And Olga Vasilievna went to the table and also began to write. Report for the district: “In the third “B” a test was carried out on the topic “Who do I want to become.” Based on the results of the essay, I report the following data: one doctors, eight singers, five cooperators, scientists "
Mmm-uh!
Nitkin! Get up now! And take off this stupid chain!

Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann. The Nutcracker and the Mouse King

On December 24, the children of Medical Advisor Stahlbaum were not allowed to enter the passage room all day, and they were not allowed into the living room adjacent to it at all. In the bedroom, Fritz and Marie sat huddled together in a corner. It was already completely dark, and they were very scared, because no lamps had been brought into the room, as was supposed to be the case on Christmas Eve. Fritz, in a mysterious whisper, told his sister (she had just turned seven years old) that since the very morning there had been rustling, noise and gentle knocking in the locked rooms. And recently a small dark man with a large box under his arm slipped through the hallway; but Fritz probably knows that this is their godfather, Drosselmeyer. Then Marie clapped her hands for joy and exclaimed:
- Oh, did the godfather make us something this time?
The senior court adviser, Drosselmeyer, was not distinguished by his beauty: he was a small, dry man with a wrinkled face, with a large black patch instead of his right eye and completely bald, which is why he wore a beautiful white wig. Every time the godfather had something entertaining in his pocket for the children: either a little man rolling his eyes and shuffling his feet, or a box from which a bird jumps out, or some other little thing. And for Christmas he always made a beautiful, intricate toy, which he worked hard on. Therefore, his parents carefully removed his gift.
- Oh, my godfather made something for us this time! - Marie exclaimed.
Fritz decided that this year it would certainly be a fortress, and in it pretty little soldiers would march and throw out articles, and then other soldiers would appear and go on an attack, but those soldiers in the fortress would bravely fire cannons at them, and they would rise noise and rumble.
“No, no,” Marie interrupted Fritz, “my godfather told me about the beautiful garden.” There is a big lake, wonderfully beautiful swans with golden ribbons on their necks swim on it and sing beautiful songs. Then a girl will come out of the garden, go to the lake, lure the swans and feed them sweet marzipan...
“Swans don’t eat marzipan,” Fritz interrupted her, not very politely, “and the godfather can’t make a whole garden. And what good are his toys to us?” They are immediately taken away from us. No, I like my father’s and mother’s gifts much better: they stay with us, we manage them ourselves.
And so the children began to guess what their parents would give them. Marie said that Mamzel Trudchen (her big doll) has completely deteriorated: she has become so clumsy, she keeps falling on the floor, so now she has nasty marks all over her face. And then, mom smiled when Marie admired Greta’s umbrella so much. And Fritz insisted that he just lacked a bay horse in his court stables, and not enough cavalry in his troops. Dad knows this well.
So, the children knew very well that their parents had bought them all sorts of wonderful gifts and were now placing them on the table; but at the same time, they had no doubt that the kind baby Christ shone everything with his gentle and gentle eyes and that Christmas gifts, as if touched by his gracious hand, bring more joy than all others.

TREE Zoshchenko
The children were looking forward to a fun holiday. And even through the crack of the door we could see how my mother was decorating the Christmas tree.
Sister Lela was seven years old at that time. She was a lively girl.
She once said:
Minka, mom has gone to the kitchen. Let's go to the room where the tree is and see what's going on there.
The children entered the room. And they see: a very beautiful tree. And there are gifts under the tree. And on the tree there are multi-colored beads, flags, lanterns, golden nuts, lozenges and Crimean apples.
Lelya says:
Let's not look at the gifts. Instead, let's eat one lozenge at a time.
And so she approaches the tree and instantly eats one lozenge hanging on a thread.
Lelya, if you ate a lozenge, then I’ll also eat something now.
And Minka comes up to the tree and bites off a small piece of apple.
Lelya says:
Minka, if you took a bite of the apple, then I’ll now eat another lozenge and, in addition, I’ll take this candy for myself.
And Lelya was such a tall, lanky girl. And she could reach high. She stood on her tiptoes and began to eat the second lozenge with her big mouth.
And Minka was surprisingly short. And he could hardly get anything except one apple that hung low.
If you, Lelishcha, ate the second lozenge, then I will bite off this apple again.
And Minka again took this apple with his hands and again bit it off a little.
Lelya says:
If you took a second bite of the apple, then I will no longer stand on ceremony and will now eat the third lozenge and, in addition, I will take a cracker and a nut as a souvenir.
Minka almost roared. Because she could reach everything, but he couldn’t.
And I, Lelishcha, how will I put a chair by the tree and how will I get myself something besides an apple.
And so he began to pull a chair towards the tree with his thin hands. But the chair fell on Minka. he wanted to lift the chair. But he fell again. And straight for gifts.
Minka, it seems you broke the doll. This is true. You took the porcelain hand from the doll.
Then mother’s steps were heard, and the children ran into another room.
Soon the guests arrived. Many children with their parents.
And then mom lit all the candles on the tree, opened the door and said:
Everyone come in.
And all the children entered the room where the Christmas tree stood.
Now let each child come to me, and I will give each one a toy and a treat.
The children began to approach their mother. And she gave everyone a toy. Then she took an apple, lozenge and candy from the tree and gave it to the child.
And all the children were very happy. Then mom picked up the apple that Minka had bitten off.
Lelya and Minka, come here. Which of you two took a bite of this apple?
This is Minka's work.
Lelka taught me this.
I’ll put Lelya in the corner with her nose, and I wanted to give you a wind-up little train. But now I will give this winding little train to the boy to whom I wanted to give the bitten apple.
And she took the train and gave it to one four-year-old boy. And he immediately began to play with him.
Minkaa got angry with this boy and hit him on the hand with a toy. And he roared so desperately that his own mother took him in her arms and said:
From now on, I will not come to visit you with my boy.
You can leave, and then the train will remain for me.
And that mother was surprised by these words and said:
Your boy will probably be a robber.
And then mom took Minka in her arms and said to that mom:
Don't you dare talk about my boy like that. Better leave with your scrofulous child and never come to us again.
I will do so. It's common for you to sit in nettles.
And then another, third mother, said:
And I will leave too. My girl didn't deserve to
· she was given a doll with a broken arm.
And Lelya shouted:
You can also leave with your scrofulous child. And then the doll with the broken arm will be left to me.
And then Minka, sitting in his mother’s arms, shouted:
In general, you can all leave, and then all the toys will remain for us.
And then all the guests began to leave. Then dad entered the room.
This kind of upbringing is ruining my children. I don't want them to fight, quarrel and kick guests out. It will be difficult for them to live in the world, and they will die alone.
And dad went to the tree and put out all the candles:
Go to bed immediately. And tomorrow I will give all the toys to the guests.
And thirty-five years have passed since then, and this tree is still not forgotten.

Bazhov Malachite box
From Stepan, you see, there are only three little kids left.
Two boys. They are timid, but this one, as they say, is neither like mother nor father. Even when Stepanova was a little girl, people marveled at this girl. Not just the girls and women, but also the men said to Stepan:
- It’s no different that this one, Stepan, fell out of your hands and into someone it just arose! She herself is black and small, and her eyes are green. It’s like she doesn’t look like our girls at all.
Stepan used to joke:
- It’s no surprise that she’s black. My father hid in the ground from an early age. And that the eyes are green is also not surprising. You never know, I stuffed master Turchaninov with malachite. This is the reminder I still have.
So I called this girl Memo. - Come on, my reminder! - And when she happened to buy something, she would always bring something blue or green.
So that little girl grew up in people’s minds. Exactly and in fact, the horsetail fell out of the festive belt - it can be seen far away. And although she was not very fond of strangers, everyone was Tanyushka and Tanyushka. The most envious grandmothers admired it. Well, what a beauty! Everyone's nice. One mother sighed:
- Beauty is beauty, but not ours. Exactly who replaced the girl for me.
According to Stepan, this girl was killing herself. She was all clean, her face lost weight, only her eyes remained. Mother came up with the idea of ​​giving Tanya that malachite box - let him have some fun. Even if she’s small, she’s still a girl—from a young age, it’s flattering for them to make fun of themselves. Tanya started taking these things apart. And it’s a miracle - the one she tries on, she also fits it. Mother didn’t even know why, but this one knows everything. And he also says:
- Mommy, what a good gift my dad gave! The warmth from it, as if you were sitting on a warm bed, and someone was stroking you softly.
Nastasya sewed the patches herself; she remembers how her fingers would become numb, her ears would hurt, and her neck could not get warm. So he thinks: “It’s not without reason. Oh, it’s not without reason!” - Yes, hurry up and put the box back in the chest. Only Tanya has since then asked:
- Mommy, let me play with my dad’s gift!
When Nastasya gets strict, well, a mother’s heart, she will regret it, take out the box, and only punish:
- Don't break anything!
Then, when Tanya grew up, she began to take out the box herself. The mother and the older boys will go to mowing or somewhere else, Tanya will stay behind to do housework. First, of course, he will manage that the mother punished him. Well, wash the cups and spoons, shake off the tablecloth, wave a broom in the hut, give food to the chickens, look at the stove. He’ll get everything done as quickly as possible, and for the sake of the box. By that time, only one of the upper chests remained, and even that one had become light. Tanya slides it onto a stool, takes out the box and sorts through the stones, admires it, and tries it on for herself.

War and Peace
In Mozhaisk there were troops standing and marching everywhere. Cossacks, foot and horse soldiers, wagons, boxes, guns were visible from all sides. Pierre was in a hurry to move forward as quickly as possible, and the further he drove away from Moscow and the deeper he plunged into this sea of ​​​​troops, the more he was overcome by anxiety and a new joyful feeling that he had not yet experienced. It was a feeling similar to the one he experienced in the Slobodsky Palace during the Tsar’s arrival - a feeling of the need to do something and sacrifice something. He now experienced a pleasant feeling of awareness that everything that constitutes people's happiness, the comforts of life, wealth, even life itself, is nonsense, which is pleasant to discard in comparison with something With which, Pierre could not give himself an account, and even her I tried to understand for myself for whom and why he found it especially charming to sacrifice everything. He was not interested in what he wanted to sacrifice for, but the sacrifice itself constituted a new joyful feeling for him.

On the morning of the 25th, Pierre left Mozhaisk. On the way down the huge steep mountain leading out of the city past the cathedral, Pierre got out of the carriage and started walking. Behind him came a regiment of cavalry with singers in front. A train of carts with those wounded in yesterday's case was coming towards us. The carts, on which three or four wounded soldiers lay and sat, were jumping on a steep incline. The wounded, tied with rags, pale, with pursed lips and frowning brows, holding onto the beds, jumped and pushed in the carts. Everyone looked at Pierre's white hat and green tailcoat with almost naive childish curiosity.

One cart with the wounded stopped at the edge of the road near Pierre. One wounded old soldier looked back at him.
- Well, fellow countryman, they’ll put us here, or what? Ali to Moscow?
Pierre was so lost in thought that he did not hear the question. He looked first at the cavalry regiment that had now met the train of wounded, then at the cart where he was standing and on which two wounded were sitting. One was probably wounded in the cheek. His whole head was tied with rags, and one cheek was swollen as big as a child's head. His mouth and nose were on one side. This soldier looked at the cathedral and crossed himself. Another, a young boy, a recruit, fair-haired and white, as if completely without blood in his thin face, looked at Pierre with a kind smile. The cavalrymen walked over the cart itself.
- Oh, the hedgehog’s head is gone, Yes, they are tenacious on the other side - they performed a soldier’s dance song. As if echoing them, but in a different kind of fun, the metallic sounds of ringing were interrupted in the heights. But under the slope, near the cart with the wounded, it was damp, cloudy and sad.
The soldier with a swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalrymen.
“Today I’ve seen not only soldiers, but also peasants!” The peasants are being driven away too,” said the soldier standing behind the cart with a sad smile, addressing Pierre. - Nowadays they don’t understand. They want to attack all the people, one word - Moscow. They want to do one end. “Despite the vagueness of the soldier’s words, Pierre understood everything he wanted to say and nodded his head approvingly.

“Cavalrymen go to battle and meet the wounded, and do not think for a minute about what awaits them, but walk past and wink at the wounded. And out of all these, twenty thousand are doomed to death!” – thought Pierre, heading further.

Having driven into a small village street, Pierre saw militia men with crosses on their hats and in white shirts, who were working on something on a huge mound. Seeing these men, Pierre remembered the wounded soldiers in Mozhaisk, and he understood what the soldier wanted to express when he said that the whole people wanted to attack.

How dad studied at school

HOW DADDY WENT TO SCHOOL

When dad was little, he was sick a lot. He did not miss a single childhood illness. He suffered from measles, mumps, and whooping cough. After each illness he had complications. And when they passed, little dad quickly fell ill with a new disease.

When he had to go to school, little daddy also lay sick. When he recovered and went to class for the first time, all the children had been studying for a long time. They had all already become acquainted, and the teacher knew them all too. But no one knew little dad. And everyone looked at him. It was very unpleasant. Moreover, some even stuck out their tongues.

And one boy tripped him up. And little daddy fell. But he didn't cry. He stood up and pushed that boy. He also fell. Then he stood up and pushed little daddy. And little daddy fell again. He didn't cry again. And he pushed the boy again. They would probably push each other like that all day. But then the bell rang. Everyone went to class and sat down in their seats. And little daddy didn’t have his own place. And they sat him next to the girl. The whole class started laughing. And even this girl laughed.

Here little dad really wanted to cry. But suddenly he felt funny, and he laughed himself. Then the teacher laughed too.
She said:
Well done! And I was already afraid that you would cry.
“I was afraid myself,” Dad said.
And everyone laughed again.
Remember, children, the teacher said. When you feel like crying, be sure to try laughing. This is my advice to you for life! Now let's study.

Little dad found out that day that he reads better than anyone in the class. But then he found out that he wrote worse than anyone. When it turned out that he was the best speaker in class, the teacher shook her finger at him.

She was a very good teacher. She was both strict and cheerful. It was very interesting to study with her. And little dad remembered her advice for the rest of his life. After all, it was his first day of school. And then there were many of these days. And there were so many funny and sad, good and bad stories at little dad’s school!

HOW THE POPE TOOK REVENGE OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE
Alexander Borisovich Raskin (19141971)

When dad was little and in school, he had different grades. In Russian it is “good”. According to arithmetic, “satisfactory.” In terms of penmanship, “unsatisfactory.” In terms of drawing, it’s “bad” with two minuses. And the art teacher promised dad a third minus.

But then one day a new teacher entered the class. She was very pretty. Young, beautiful, cheerful, in some very elegant dress.
My name is Elena Sergeevna, what’s your name? she said and smiled.
And everyone shouted:
Zhenya! Zina! Lisa! Misha! Kolya!
Elena Sergeevna covered her ears, and everyone fell silent. Then she said:
I will teach you German. Do you agree?
Yes! Yes! The whole class shouted.
And so little dad began to learn German. At first he really liked that the chair in German is der stul, the table is der tysh, the book is das buch, the boy is der knabe, the girl is das metchen.

It was like some kind of game, and the whole class was interested in finding out. But when declensions and conjugations began, some knaben and methen got bored. It turned out that I needed to study German seriously. It turned out that this is not a game, but a subject like arithmetic and the Russian language. I had to learn three things at once: write in German, read in German and speak in German. Elena Sergeevna tried very hard to make her lessons interesting. She brought books with funny stories to class, taught the children to sing German songs and joked in German during the lesson. And for those who studied properly, it was really interesting. And those students who did not study and did not prepare lessons did not understand anything. And, of course, they were bored. They looked into the house less and less often and were more and more silent as shit when Elena Sergeevna questioned them. And sometimes, just before the German lesson, a wild cry was heard: “Ich habe spatziren!” Which translated into Russian meant: “I have a walk!” And translated into school language it meant: “I have to play truant!”

Hearing this cry, many students echoed: “Shpaciren! Shpaciren! And poor Elena Sergeevna, coming to class, noticed that all the boys were studying the verb “shpatziren”, and only girls were sitting at their desks. And this, understandably, made her very upset. Little dad also was mainly engaged in shpatziren. He even wrote poems that began like this:
There are no more pleasant words for a child’s ear than familiar words: “We’re running from the German!”

He did not want to offend Elena Sergeevna by this. It was just a lot of fun to run away from class, hide from the principal and teachers, and hide in the school attic from Elena Sergeevna. It was much more interesting than sitting in class without learning a lesson, and when Elena Sergeevna asked: “Haben sie den Federmesser?” (“Do you have a penknife?”) answer after a long thought: “Ikh niht”... (which sounded very stupid in Russian: “I don’t...”). When little daddy answered like that, the whole class laughed at him. Then the whole school laughed. And little dad really didn’t like it when they laughed at him. He liked to laugh at others much more. If he were smarter, he would start studying German, and people would stop laughing at him. But little daddy was very offended. He was offended by the teacher. He was offended by the German language. And he took revenge on the German language. Little dad never took it seriously. Then he did not study French properly at another school. Then he hardly studied English at the institute. And now dad doesn’t know a single foreign language. Who did he take revenge on? Now dad understands that he offended himself. He cannot read many of his favorite books in the language in which they are written. He really wants to go on a tourist trip abroad, but he is ashamed to go there without knowing how to speak any language. Sometimes dad is introduced to different people from other countries. They speak Russian poorly. But they all learn Russian, and they all ask dad:
Sprechen si deutsch? Parle vous France? Do you speak English?
And dad just throws up his hands and shakes his head. What can he answer them? Only: “Their niht.” And he is very ashamed.

HOW DADDY TOLD THE TRUTH

When dad was little, he was very bad at lying. Other children were somehow better at it. But they told little dad right away: “You’re lying!” And they always guessed right.
Little dad was very surprised. He asked: “How do you know?”
And everyone answered him: “It’s written on your nose.”

After hearing this several times, little daddy decided to check his nose. He went to the mirror and said:
I am the strongest, the smartest, the most beautiful! I am a dog! I'm a crocodile! I'm a locomotive!..
Having said all this, little dad looked at his nose in the mirror for a long time and patiently. There was still nothing written on the nose.
Then he decided that he needed to lie even harder. Continuing to look in the mirror, he said quite loudly:
I can swim! I draw very well! I have beautiful handwriting!
But even this blatant lie achieved nothing. No matter how little dad looked in the mirror, nothing was written on his nose. Then he went to his parents and said:
I lied a lot and looked at myself in the mirror, but there was nothing on my nose. Why do you say that it is written there that I am lying?

Little daddy's parents laughed a lot at their stupid child. They said:
No one can see what is written on his nose. And the mirror never shows it. It's like biting your own elbow. Haven't you tried it?
No, said little daddy. But I'll try...

And he tried to bite his elbow. He tried very hard, but nothing worked. And then he decided not to look at his nose in the mirror anymore, not to bite his elbow and not to lie.
Little dad decided to tell everyone only the truth starting Monday. He decided that from that day on, only the pure truth would be written on his nose.

And then this Monday came. As soon as little dad washed his face and sat down to drink tea, he was immediately asked:
Have you washed your ears?
And he immediately told the truth:
No.
Because all boys don't like to wash their ears. There are too many of them, these ears. First I wash one ear, and then the other. And they are still dirty in the evening.
But adults don't understand this. And they shouted:

A shame! Slob! Wash it immediately!
Please... little daddy said quietly.
He went out and returned very quickly.
Did you wash your ears? asked him.
Soaped, he replied.
And then they asked him a completely unnecessary question:
Both or one?

One...
And then he was sent to wash his second ear. Then he was asked:
Did you drink fish oil?
And little daddy answered the truth:
Drank.
A teaspoon or a tablespoon?
Until that day, little dad always answered: “Dining room,” although he drank tea. Anyone who has ever tried fish oil should understand it. And this was the only lie that was not written on the nose. Everyone here believed little daddy. Moreover, he always poured fish oil into a tablespoon first, and then poured it into a teaspoon, and poured the rest back.
Tea room... said little dad. After all, he decided to tell only the truth. And for this he received another teaspoon of fish oil.
They say that there are children who love fish oil. Have you ever seen such children? I've never met them.

Little daddy went to school. And he had a hard time there too. The teacher asked:
Who didn't do their homework today?
Everyone was silent. And only little daddy told the truth:
I did not do.
Why? asked the teacher. Of course, one could say that there was a headache, that there was a fire, and then an earthquake began, and then... In general, one could lie about something, although this usually does not help much.
But little daddy decided not to lie. And he told the honest truth:
I read Jules Verne...
And then the whole class laughed.
Very good, the teacher said, I’ll have to talk to your parents about this writer.
Everyone laughed again, but little daddy felt sad.

And in the evening one aunt came to visit. She asked little daddy:
Do you like chocolate?
I love you very much, said honest little dad.
Do you love me? asked the aunt in a sweet voice.
No, said little daddy, I don’t like it.
Why?
First of all, you have a black wart on your cheek. And then you scream a lot, and all the time it seems to me that you are swearing.
What's too long to tell? Little daddy didn't get any chocolate.
And the little dad’s parents told him this:
Lying, of course, is bad. But you shouldn’t tell only the truth all the time, on every occasion, by the way or inopportunely. After all, it’s not my aunt’s fault that she has a wart. And if she doesn’t know how to speak quietly, then it’s too late for her to learn. And if she came to visit and also brought chocolate, there would be no need to offend her.

And little daddy is completely confused, because sometimes it is very difficult to understand whether it is possible to tell the truth or whether it is better not to.
But still he decided to tell the truth.
And from then on, little dad tried his whole life to never lie to anyone. He always tried to tell only the truth. And often for this he received bitter instead of sweet. And they still tell him that when he lies, it’s written all over his nose. Well then! It's written like that! There's nothing you can do about it!

V. Golyavkin. My good dad

3. On the balcony

I go to the balcony. I see a girl with a bow. She lives in that front door. She can whistle. She will look up and see me. This is what I need. “Hello,” I’ll say, “tra-la-la, three-li-li!” She will say: "Fool!" - or something different. And it will go further. As if nothing had happened. As if I wasn't teasing her. Me too! What a bow to me! It's like I'm waiting for her! I'm waiting for dad. He will bring me gifts. He will tell me about the war. And about different old times. Dad knows so many stories! No one can tell it better. I would listen and listen!

Dad knows about everything in the world. But sometimes he doesn't want to tell. He is then sad and keeps saying: “No, I wrote the wrong music, the wrong music, but it’s you!” - He’s telling me this. “You won’t let me down, I hope?” I don't want to offend dad. He dreams of me becoming a composer. I'm silent. What is music to me? He understands. “It’s sad,” he says. “You can’t even imagine how sad it is!” Why is it sad when I'm not sad at all? After all, dad doesn’t wish me harm. Then why is that? "Who will you be?" - says he. “Commander,” I say. "War again?" - My dad is unhappy. And he fought. He rode a horse and fired a machine gun.

My dad is very kind. My brother and I once told our dad: “Buy us ice cream. But more of it. So that we can eat.” “Here’s a basin for you,” said dad, “run for some ice cream.” Mom said: “They’ll catch a cold!” “It’s summer now,” dad answered, “why would they catch a cold?” - “But the throat, the throat!” - Mom said. Dad said: “Everyone has a sore throat. But everyone eats ice cream.” - “But not in such quantities!” - Mom said. “Let them eat as much as they want. What does quantity have to do with it! They won’t eat more than they can!” That's what dad said. And we took the basin and went for ice cream. And they brought a whole basin. We placed the basin on the table. The sun was shining from the windows. The ice cream began to melt. Dad said: “That’s what summer means!” - He told us to take the spoons and sit down at the table. We all sat down at the table - me, dad, mom, Boba. Boba and I were delighted! Ice cream runs down your face and shirts. We have such a kind dad! He bought so much ice cream! That now we won’t soon want

Dad planted twenty trees on our street. Now they have grown up. A huge tree in front of the balcony. If I reach down, I'll get the branch.

I'm waiting for dad. He will appear now. It's hard for me to look through the branches. They are closing the street. But I bend down and see the whole street.

"Notes of an Outstanding Loser" Arthur Givargizov

TEACHERS CANNOT STAND IT

Everyone knows that teachers can’t stand each other; they only pretend that they love each other, because everyone considers their subject to be the most important. And the Russian language teacher considers her subject to be the most important. That’s why she assigned an essay on the topic “The most, most important subject.” It was enough to write just one sentence: “The most important subject is the Russian language,” even with mistakes, and get an A; and everyone did so, except Seryozha; because Seryozha did not understand what kind of objects we were talking about, he thought that the object was something solid, and wrote about a lighter.
“The most important item,” the teacher read Seryozha’s essay out loud, is a lighter. You can’t light a cigarette without a lighter.” Just think, she stopped, you won’t light a cigarette. I asked a passerby for a light, and that was it.
What if in the desert? Seryozha calmly objected.
In the desert, you can light a cigarette from the sand, the teacher calmly answered. There is hot sand in the desert.
Okay, Seryozha agreed calmly, but in the tundra, at minus 50??
In the tundra, yes, the Russian language teacher agreed.
Then why two? asked Seryozha.
“Because we are not in the tundra,” the Russian language teacher sighed calmly. And not in the tundra, she suddenly shouted, the most important subject is the great and mighty Russian language!!!

RESULTS of the All-Russian competition “Living Classics”
19th century
1. Gogol N.V. "Taras Bulba" (2), "Enchanted Place", "The Inspector General", "The Night Before Christmas" (3), "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka".
2. Chekhov A.P. “Thick and Thin” (3), “Chameleon”, “Burbot”, “Joy”, “Summer Residents”.
3. Tolstoy L.N. “War and Peace” (excerpts “Petya Rostov”, “Before the Battle”, “The Death of Petya”, monologue by Natasha Rostova (5)), “The Lion and the Dog”
4. Turgenev I.S. Prose poem “Pigeons”, “Sparrow” (2), “Shchi”, “Russian language”.
5. Pushkin A.S. “Peasant Young Lady” (3).
Aksakov S.T. "Early summer".
Glinka F.N. "Partizan Davydov".
Dostoevsky F.M. "Netochka Nezvanova."
Korolenko V. “The Blind Musician.”
Ostrovsky N.A. "Storm".
20th century
1. Green A. "Scarlet Sails" (7)
2. Paustovsky K.G. “Basket with fir cones” (3), “Old cook”, “Tenants of the old house”.
3. Platonov A.P. "Unknown flower" (2), "Flower on the ground"
4. M. Gorky (1), “Tales of Italy”
5. Kuprin A.I. (2)
Alekseevich S. “The Last Witnesses”
Aitmatov Ch.T. "The block"
Bunin I.A. "Lapti"
Zakrutkin V. “Mother of Man”
Rasputin V.G. "French lessons".
Tolstoy A. N. “Nikita’s Childhood”
Sholokhov M.A. "Nakhalenok."
Shmelev I.S. “Summer of the Lord,” excerpt from the chapter “Breaking the Fast”
Troepolsky G.N. "White Bim Black Ear"
Fadeev A. “Young Guard” excerpt “Mom”
Original work (search engines by title do not provide links)
"The Tale of Aimio, the North Wind and the Fairy of the Taka River - Tika"
Children's literature
Alexandrova T. “Traffic Light”
Gaidar A.P. "Far Countries", "Hot Stone".
Georgiev S. “Sasha + Tanya”
Zheleznikov V.K. "Scarecrow"
Nosov N. “Fedina’s task”
Pivovarova I. “Nature Protection Day”
Black Sasha “Diary of Mickey the Pug”
Foreign literature
1. Antoine de Saint-Exupery “The Little Prince” (4).
2. Hugo V. “Les Miserables.”
3. Lindgren A. “Pippi, Longstocking.”
4. Sand J. “What the flowers talk about.”
5. S.-Thompson “Lobo”.
6. Twain M. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer”
7. Wilde O. “Boy Star”.
8. Capek Karel “A Dog’s Life.”

For example, Lev Kassil became famous for his book “Conduit and Schwambrania”, Nikolai Nosov for his novels about Dunno, Vitaly Bianchi for his “Forest Newspaper”, Yuri Sotnik for his story “How I Was Independent”

But Radiy Pogodin does not have such a book. Even his story “Dubravka”, the story “Turn on the Northern Lights”, the story “Chizhi”

After “Scarlet,” Yuri Koval began to write one after another his wonderful stories and novellas: “The Adventures of Vasya Kurolesov,” “The Little Napoleon III,” “Five Kidnapped Monks,” “Wormwood Tales.” The novel "Suer-Vier".

Well, Lizaveta Grigorievna, I saw young Berestov; I've seen enough; We were together all day.
Like this? Tell me, tell me in order.
If you please, let's go, I, Anisya Egorovna, Nenila, Dunka
Okay, I know. Well then?
Let me tell you everything in order. We arrived just before lunch. The room was full of people. There were the Kolbinskys, the Zakharyevskys, the clerk with her daughters, the Khlupinskys
Well! and Berestov?
Wait, sir. So we sat down at the table, the clerk was in first place, I was next to her and my daughters were sulking, but I don’t care about them
Oh Nastya, how boring you are with your eternal details!
How impatient you are! Well, we left the table and we sat for three hours, and the dinner was glorious; blancmange cake blue, red and striped So we left the table and went into the garden to play burners, and the young master appeared here.
Well? Is it true that he is so good-looking?
Surprisingly good, handsome, one might say. Slender, tall, blush all over his cheek
Right? And I thought that his face was pale. What? What did he look like to you? Sad, thoughtful?
What do you? I've never seen such a madman in my entire life. He decided to run with us into the burners.
Run into the burners with you! Impossible!
Very possible! What else did you come up with! He'll catch you and kiss you!
It's your choice, Nastya, you're lying.
It's your choice, I'm not lying. I got rid of him by force. He spent the whole day with us like that.
Why, they say, he’s in love and doesn’t look at anyone?
I don’t know, sir, but he looked at me too much, and at Tanya, the clerk’s daughter, too; and even Pasha Kolbinskaya, it’s a shame to say, he didn’t offend anyone, he’s such a spoiler!
It is amazing! What do you hear about him in the house?
The master, they say, is wonderful: so kind, so cheerful. One thing is not good: he likes to chase girls too much. Yes, for me, this is not a problem: it will settle down over time.
How I would like to see him! Lisa said with a sigh.
What's so clever about that? Tugilovo is not far from us, only three miles: go for a walk in that direction, or ride a horse; you will surely meet him. Every day, early in the morning, he goes hunting with a gun.
No, not good. He might think I'm chasing him. Besides, our fathers are in a quarrel, so I still won’t be able to meet him. Ah, Nastya! Do you know what? I'll dress up as a peasant girl!
And indeed; put on a thick shirt, a sundress, and go boldly to Tugilovo; I guarantee you that Berestov will not miss you.
And I can speak the local language perfectly well. Oh, Nastya, dear Nastya! What a wonderful idea!

Victor Golyavkin
THAT'S WHAT'S INTERESTING!
When Goga started going to first grade, he knew only two letters: O for a circle, and T for a hammer. That's all. I didn't know any other letters. And I couldn't read. Grandma tried to teach him, but he immediately came up with a trick: “Now, now, grandma, I’ll wash the dishes for you.” And he immediately ran to the kitchen to wash the dishes. And the old grandmother forgot about studying and even bought him gifts for helping him with the housework. And Gogin’s parents were on a long business trip and relied on their grandmother. And of course, they didn’t know that their son still hadn’t learned to read. But Goga often washed the floor and dishes, went to buy bread, and his grandmother praised him in every possible way in letters to his parents. And I read it aloud to him. And Goga, sitting comfortably on the sofa, listened with his eyes closed. “Why should I learn to read,” he reasoned, if my grandmother reads aloud to me.” He didn't even try. And in class he dodged as best he could. The teacher tells him: “Read it here.” He pretended to read, and he himself told from memory what his grandmother read to him. The teacher stopped him. To the laughter of the class, he said: “If you want, I’d better close the window so it doesn’t blow.” Or: “I’m so dizzy that I’m probably going to fall... He pretended so skillfully that one day his teacher sent him to the doctor.” The doctor asked: - How are you? “It’s bad,” said Goga. - What hurts? - All. - Well, go to class then. - Why? - Because nothing hurts you. - How do you know? - How do you know that? - the doctor laughed. And he slightly pushed Goga towards the exit. Goga never pretended to be sick again, but continued to prevaricate. And the efforts of my classmates came to nothing. First, Masha, an excellent student, was assigned to him.
“Let’s study seriously,” Masha told him. - When? - asked Goga. - Yeah right now. “I’ll come now,” Goga said. And he left and did not return. Then Grisha, an excellent student, was assigned to him. They stayed in the classroom. But as soon as Grisha opened the primer, Goga reached under the desk. - Where are you going? - asked Grisha. “Come here,” Goga called. - For what? - And here no one will interfere with us. - Yah you! - Grisha, of course, was offended and left immediately. No one else was assigned to him.
As time went. He was dodging. Gogin's parents arrived and found that their son could not read a single line. The father grabbed his head, and the mother grabbed the book she had brought for her child. “Now every evening,” she said, “I will read this wonderful book aloud to my son.” Grandma said: “Yes, yes, I also read interesting books aloud to Gogochka every evening.” But the father said: “You really shouldn’t have done that.” Our Gogochka has become so lazy that he cannot read a single line. I ask everyone to leave for the meeting. And dad, along with grandmother and mom, left for a meeting. And Goga was at first worried about the meeting, and then calmed down when his mother began to read to him from a new book. And he even shook his legs with pleasure and almost spat on the carpet. But he didn't know what kind of meeting it was! What was decided there! So, mom read him a page and a half after the meeting. And he, swinging his legs, naively imagined that this would continue to happen. But when mom stopped at the most interesting place, he became worried again. And when she handed him the book, he became even more excited. “Then read for yourself,” his mother told him. He immediately suggested: “Let me wash the dishes for you, mommy.” And he ran to wash the dishes. But even after that, my mother refused to read. He ran to his father. His father sternly told him never to make such requests to him again. He thrust the book to his grandmother, but she yawned and dropped it from her hands. He picked up the book from the floor and gave it to his grandmother again. But she dropped it from her hands again. No, she had never fallen asleep so quickly in her chair before! “Is she really asleep,” thought Goga, “or was she instructed at the meeting to pretend?” Goga tugged at her, shook her, but the grandmother did not even think about waking up. And he really wanted to know what happens next in this book! In despair, he sat down on the floor and began to look at the pictures. But from the pictures it was difficult to understand what was happening there next. He brought the book to class. But his classmates refused to read to him. Not only that: Masha immediately left, and Grisha defiantly reached under the desk. Goga pestered the high school student, but he flicked him on the nose and laughed. What to do next? After all, he will never know what is written next in the book until he reads it.
All that remained was to study. Read for yourself. That's what a home meeting is all about! This is what the public means! He soon read the entire book and many other books, but out of habit he never forgot to go buy bread, wash the floor or wash the dishes. That's what's interesting!

Victor Golyavkin

TWO GIFTS
On his birthday, dad gave Alyosha a pen with a gold feather. The golden words were engraved on the handle: “On Alyosha’s birthday from dad.” The next day Alyosha went to school with his new pen. He was very proud: after all, not everyone in the class has a pen with a gold nib and gold letters! And then the teacher forgot her pen at home and asked the kids to borrow it. And Alyosha was the first to hand her his treasure. And at the same time I thought: “Maria Nikolaevna will definitely notice what a wonderful pen he has, read the inscription and say something like: “Oh, what a beautiful handwriting it’s written!” or: “What a beauty!” Then Alyosha will say: “And you look on a gold pen, Maria Nikolaevna, the real gold one!" But the teacher did not look at the pen and did not say anything like that. She asked Alyosha for the lesson, but he did not learn it. And then Maria Nikolaevna wrote a deuce in the journal with a gold pen and returned the pen. Alyosha, looking at his golden pen in confusion, said: “How does it happen?.. This is how it happens!..” “What are you talking about, Alyosha?” the teacher did not understand. “About the golden feather...” said Alyosha. “Isn’t it possible?” Can you give twos with a golden pen?
“So today you don’t have golden knowledge,” said the teacher. - It turns out that dad gave me a pen so that they could give me two grades with it? - said Alyosha. - That's the number! What kind of gift is this?! The teacher smiled and said: “Dad gave you a pen, but today’s gift you made for yourself.”

FASTER, FASTER! (V. Golyavkin)

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