Nekrasov once in the cold winter season. Peasant children

My daughter is in the 3rd grade, learning an excerpt from N. Nekrasov’s poem (allegedly) “Peasant Children”:

Once upon a time in the cold winter time

I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold.

I see it's slowly going uphill

A horse carrying a cart of brushwood.

And walking importantly, in decorous calm,

A man leads a horse by the bridle

In big boots, in a short sheepskin coat,

In big mittens... and he's as small as a fingernail!

“Great lad!” - “Go past!” -

“You’re so formidable, as I can see!

Where did the firewood come from?" - "From the forest, of course;

Father, you hear, chops, and I take it away."

(A woodcutter’s ax was heard in the forest.)

“What, does your father have a big family?”

"The family is big, two people

Just men: my father and I..." -

“So that’s it! What’s your name?” -

“Vlas.” - “What year are you?” - “The sixth year has passed...

Well, she’s dead!” the little one shouted in a deep voice,

He pulled the reins and walked faster.

The analysis in the head turns on automatically: a six-year-old child cannot lead a horse by the bridle:

1. He is small in stature and he will have to keep his arm extended upward all the time, which is impossible in a sheepskin coat (and even without it).

2. The horse’s stride (especially with a load) is wider than the child’s stride and, in order not to get under the hooves and get hit in the back of the head by the shafts, he must run ahead of the horse, which is impossible in “big boots” and in a “sheepskin coat” and on loose snow .

Or maybe the poet slightly corrected reality for the sake of rhyme and the peasant leads the horse not by the bridle, but by the rein at the side of the sleigh?

But this option is also impossible:

At that time there were no municipal services and equipment, and no one cleaned the road, which means that it was not a road, but a sled track, on the sides of which there were snowdrifts that you could not walk on.

It is also not clear what the poet was doing in the forest in the cold winter season and in the severe frost? Did you draw inspiration or were people drawn to lumberjacks?

And about the woodcutter himself: you shouldn’t take a child with you to work in such weather: there was only folk medicine...

Wife: “Don’t split your child’s mind! They’ll kick her out of school!”

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I'm in the village again. I go hunting, I write my verses - life is easy. Yesterday, tired from walking through the swamp, I wandered into the barn and fell asleep deeply. I woke up: the rays of the cheerful sun were peeping through the wide cracks of the barn. The dove coos; flying over the roof, young rooks screaming; Some other bird was also flying - I recognized the crow from the shadow; Chu! some kind of whisper... but here is a line along the crack of attentive eyes! All gray, brown, blue eyes - Mixed together like flowers in a field. There is so much peace, freedom and affection in them, There is so much holy kindness in them! I love the expression of a child’s eye, I always recognize it. I froze: tenderness touched my soul... Chu! whisper again! F irst g o l o s Beard! Second A master, they said!.. Third Quiet you devils! Second: A bar doesn't have a beard - it's a mustache. First And the legs are long, like poles. Fourth And there's a clock on his hat, look! P i ty y Ay, important thing! Sixth And the golden chain... Seventh Tea, is it expensive? Eighth How the sun burns! N ew And there is a dog - big, big! Water runs from the tongue. P i t y Shotgun! look at it: the double barrel, the carved locks... THIRD (with fear) Look! FOURTH Keep quiet, nothing! Let's wait a little longer, Grisha! The third one will kill... _______________ My spies were frightened and rushed away: when they heard a man, So sparrows fly from the chaff in a flock. I calmed down, squinted - they appeared again, Little eyes flickering through the cracks. What happened to me - they marveled at everything and pronounced my verdict: - What kind of hunting is such and such a goose! I would lie on the stove! And it’s clear that it’s not a master: as he rode from the swamp, So next to Gavrila... - “If he hears, be silent!” _______________ O dear rogues! Whoever has seen them often, I believe, loves peasant children; But even if you hated them, Reader, as “a low kind of people,” I still must admit openly, That I often envy them: So much poetry has been poured into their lives, As God forbid your spoiled children. Happy people! They know neither science nor bliss in childhood. I made mushroom forays with them: I dug up leaves, rummaged through stumps, tried to spot a mushroom spot, but in the morning I couldn’t find it for anything. “Look, Savosya, what a ring!” We both bent down and grabbed the Snake at the same time! I jumped: the sting hurt! Savosya laughs: “I just got caught!” But then we destroyed them quite a lot and laid them in a row on the railing of the bridge. We must have expected glory for our deeds. We had a big road: There were countless people scurrying along it. A Vologda ditch digger, a tinker, a tailor, a wool-beater, and then a city dweller goes to the monastery to pray on holiday. Under our thick ancient elms tired people were drawn to rest. The guys will surround you: stories will begin about Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals. Some people will play around, just hold on - He will start from Volochok, and will reach Kazan. richer than all, Yes, one day he decided to grumble at God, - Since then, Vavilo has become seedy, ruined, There is no honey from the bees, no harvest from the earth, And only one happiness was in him, That the hairs grew out of his nose a lot...” The worker will arrange, arrange shells - Planes, files, chisels, knives: “Look, little devils!” And the children are happy, How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything. A passer-by will fall asleep listening to your jokes, The guys get to work - sawing and planing! They will use a saw - you won’t sharpen it in a day! They will break a drill - and run away in fear. It happened that there are whole the days flew by, - Like a new passer-by, then a new story... Wow, it’s hot! desert river Like white mushrooms in a forest clearing! The river resounded with laughter and howling: Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game... And the sun scorches them with the midday heat. - Home, kids! It's time for lunch. - We're back. Everyone has a basket full, And so many stories! Got caught with a scythe, caught a hedgehog, got a little lost and saw a wolf... wow, what a scary one! They offer the hedgehog flies and boogers, I gave him my Root milk - He doesn’t drink! retreated... Who catches leeches On the lava, where the queen beats the laundry, Who nurses his sister, two-year-old Glashka, Who drags a bucket of kvass for reaping, And he, tying his shirt under his throat, Mysteriously draws something in the sand; That one huddled in a puddle, and this one with a new one: She wove herself a glorious wreath, Everything white, yellow, lavender, and occasionally a red flower. Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting. Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket - she caught it, jumped up and rode it. And is she, born under the sunny heat And brought home from the field in an apron, Afraid of her humble horse?.. The mushroom time has not yet had time to depart, Look - everyone’s lips are so black, They’ve filled their lips: the blueberry is ripe! And there are raspberries, lingonberries, and nuts! A childish cry, echoed, thunders through the forests from morning to night. Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter, Will the grouse take off, squawking at the chicks, Will the little hare jump up - soda, turmoil! Here is an old capercaillie with a faded wing, busy in the bush... well, the poor thing feels bad! They drag the living one into the village in triumph... - Enough, Vanyusha! You’ve been walking a lot, It’s time to get to work, dear! - But even work will first turn out to Vanyusha with its elegant side: He sees how his father fertilizes the field, How he throws grain into the loose soil, How the field then begins to turn green, How the ear grows, pours grain ; The finished harvest will be cut with sickles, tied into sheaves, taken to the barn, dried, pounded and pounded with flails, ground in a mill and baked. The child tastes the fresh bread and runs more willingly into the field after his father. Will they wind up the hay: “Climb up, little shooter!” Vanyusha enters the village as a king... However, it would be a pity for us to sow envy in a noble child. So, by the way, we must wrap the medal with the other side. Suppose a peasant child grows up freely without learning anything, but he will grow up if God pleases, and nothing prevents him from bending. Suppose he knows the forest paths, prances on horseback, is not afraid of water, but the midges eat him mercilessly, but he knows the work early... One day, in the chilly winter season, I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold. I see a horse slowly ascending the mountain, carrying a cart of brushwood. And, walking importantly, in decorous calm, the horse is led by the bridle by a peasant in large boots, in a short sheepskin coat, and in large mittens. ..and from the nail itself! - Great, lad! - “Go past!” - You’re too formidable, as I can see! Where did the firewood come from? - “From the forest, of course; Father, you hear, chops, and I take it away.” (A woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.) - What, does your father have a big family? “It’s a big family, but two people. Just men: my father and me...” - So that’s it! What is your name? - “Vlas”. - How old are you? - “The sixth year has passed... Well, she’s dead!” - the little one shouted in a deep voice, pulled the reins and walked faster. The sun was shining so much on this picture, The child was so hilariously small, As if it was all cardboard, As if I was in a children's theater! But the boy was a living boy, a real one, And the firewood, and the brushwood, and the piebald horse, And the snow that lay up to the windows of the village, And the cold fire of the winter sun - Everything, everything was real Russian, With the stigma of an unsociable, deadening winter, Which is so true for the Russian soul It’s painfully sweet, That Russian thoughts instill in the minds, Those honest thoughts that have no will, For which there is no death - don’t push, In which there is so much anger and pain, In which there is so much love! Play, children! Grow in freedom! That's why you were given a red childhood, So that you can forever love this meager field, So that it always seems sweet to you. Keep your centuries-old inheritance, Love your labor bread - And let the charm of childhood poetry Guide you into the depths of your native land!.. _______________ Now it’s time for us to return to the beginning. Noticing that the guys had become bolder, “Hey, thieves are coming!” I shouted to Fingal: “They’ll steal, they’ll steal!” Well, hide it quickly!” Shiner made a serious face, buried my belongings under the hay, hid the game with special care, lay down at my feet and growled angrily. The vast field of canine science was perfectly familiar to Him; He started doing such things that the audience couldn’t leave their seats. They marvel and laugh! There's no time for fear here! They command themselves! - “Fingalka, die!” - Don’t freeze, Sergei! Don’t push, Kuzyakha, - “Look - he’s dying - look!” I myself enjoyed, lying in the hay, their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark in the barn: it darkens so quickly on the stage, When a thunderstorm is destined to break out. And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn, a river of rain poured into the barn, the actor burst into a deafening bark, and the audience gave a shout! The wide door unlocked, creaked, hit the wall, and locked again. I looked out: a dark cloud was hanging just above our theater. In the heavy rain, the children ran barefoot to their village... My faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm and went out to look for great snipes.