He started tossing and turning, covered in pollen, and got dirty. Sladkov, willow feast
The vaunted swamp. Author: N. I. Sladkov
I’m walking through the forest and hear a sandpiper praising its swamp. There is one swamp here - nothing special. But the lapwing sandpiper praises him. I was literally bursting with joy!
Squealing with delight, he rushes and somersaults over the swamp hummocks, loudly commanding himself: “Root! Ku-vyrk!
It flies up, hovers, flickering with its wide motley wings, and then corkscrews down, and even wobbles from side to side - only the wind whistles in its wings! It's about to hit the ground and break. But no, almost slapping the bump with its red paws, it screws in again - and falls down again, screaming and squealing with joy.
The sandpiper has finally reached its vaunted swamp from far away!
All winter he must have been imagining it in a foreign land. And now he is at home - and it is in front of him.
And such uncontrollable joy, such unimaginable happiness in his frantic throws and somersaults, in his desperate squeals and screams, which can only be heard in small children when they are floundering in the water.
Each of us has our own special rivers, forests and groves, forest glades- unforgettable corners.
We always remember them, we try to visit them to see them and suffocate with happiness.
The mosquitoes are dancing. Author: V. V. Bianki
In sunny warm days mosquitoes are already dancing in the air. Don't be afraid of them: these don't bite, they're pusher mosquitoes.
In a light flock, in a column, they stay in the air, jostling, circling. And where there are many of them, the air is speckled, like freckles.
Coltsfoot, Anemone, blue Copse and Lungwort.
- The snow has not yet melted in the fields everywhere, the earth has not yet warmed up, but for me, Mother and Stepmother, flowers are already blooming. Round as the sun, yellow as the sun, cheerful as the sun!
“Your flowers are really nice, my friend.” But I wouldn’t praise them too much... Whatever you say, your petals are rather rough, your stems are thick, and there are no leaves at all - just funny scales bristling... But I, blue Pereleski, have a flower like a spring sky, clear, slender stems, leaves like green hearts...
- Oh, I should have been silent, Pereleska! What kind of leaves do you have? Last year's old ones, they spent the winter under the snow and were covered in spots. Now look at me, at Vetrenitsa. My leaves are fresh, young, and white flower so tender that it just shines through...
- Now turn around at me, girlfriends,
- Who are you?
- And I am the beautiful Sorreltail. Isn’t my stem slender? Aren't the leaves young?
- But the flowers are modest, invisible!
- It seems to you, girlfriends... You take a longer look, take a closer look. My flowers are changing before my eyes. When they bloom, they turn pale pink, when they completely bloom, they turn purple, and when they begin to fade, they turn blue... Have you ever seen this?
Willow feast. Author: N. I. Sladkov
The willow blossomed - guests from all sides. The bushes and trees are still bare, gray - the willow among them is like a bouquet, and not just a simple one, but a golden one. Each new “lamb” is a downy yellow chick: it sits and glows. If you touch it with your finger, your finger will turn yellow. If you click, golden smoke will evaporate. Smell it - honey.
The guests are rushing to the feast.
The bumblebee arrived - clumsy, shaggy, like a bear. He got excited, tossed and turned, and got covered in pollen.
The ants came running: lean, fast, hungry. They pounced on the pollen, and their bellies swelled up like barrels. Just look, the rims on their bellies will burst.
The mosquitoes arrived: their legs were a handful, their wings were flickering. Tiny helicopters.
Some bugs are crawling around.
The flies are buzzing.
Butterflies spread their wings.
A hornet on mica wings is striped, angry and hungry, like a tiger.
Everyone is buzzing and in a hurry: the willow will turn green - the feast will end.
It will turn green and get lost among the green bushes. Go find her then! And now she’s like a golden bouquet. And he calls everyone to a willow feast.
We look - And twenty plump morels are sticking out all around! We collected so many of them there - we barely conveyed them. We forgot that we were tired, - We walked very happily! We ate them throughout the apartment. We didn’t want to boast, We don’t like boasting, But we still sang to our neighbors: “Didn’t you really go mushroom picking in April?”
M. M. Prishvin. Conversation of trees
The buds open, chocolate with green tails, and on each green beak hangs a large transparent drop.
You take one bud, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.
The evening is warm, and there is such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And then the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a white birch with another white birch echoes from afar; a young aspen came out into the clearing, like a green candle, and called to itself the same green aspen candle, waving a twig; The bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds.
If you compare with us, we echo sounds, but they have aroma.
Before you have time to look back, the forest has blossomed and is covered with a green, delicate haze.
Bird cherry trees bloomed in fragrant white clusters on the edges of the forest.
Cuckoos cuckooed in the green groves, and above the river in the dewy flowering bushes the nightingale clicked loudly and sang.
It’s good for animals and birds in the forest in spring!
Gathered in a green clearing early morning bunnies. They rejoice in the warm sun, jump, play, and feast on young, lush grass.
M. M. Prishvin. birch bark tube
I found an amazing birch bark tube. In the spring, when the birch bark is wet, a person will cut out a piece of it for himself, then the rest of the birch bark in a circle begins to curl into a tube. Afterwards, along with the heat, the birch bark dries and becomes tighter and tighter. The next spring, the tubes are already hanging on the birch trees, and there are so many of them that you don’t pay attention.
But today, while looking for a hollow, I wanted to see if there was anything in such a tube. In the very first tube I found a good nut, grabbed so tightly that it was difficult to push it out with a stick. There were no hazel trees around the birches, and the nut itself could not get into the tube. In all likelihood, the squirrel hid it, probably realizing that the tube would close tighter and tighter and the nut would not fall out. But the nut is not enough: a spider settled down in the tube underneath, under the cover of the nut, and filled its entire interior with cobwebs. Afterwards, I came to guesses that it was not a squirrel who stuck the nut, but a nut that may have stolen it from the squirrel’s nest.
Mockingbirds. Author: N. I. Sladkov
Ducks quack, owls mutter, rooks scream in a deep voice. And about small birds and there is nothing to say, in the spring they sing from dawn to dusk!
And there are those who not only sing their own songs, but also mock other singers... So a jay whistled like a buzzard and quietly clucked a chicken. The Garden Warbler stole a note from all the thrushes: the Warbler, the White-browed, and the Fieldfare. But the starling’s own song is never enough; he adopts others’ songs. He sits on a birch tree, shiny and black, as if smeared with tar or dipped in resin, sings and conducts himself with his wings. He also clicks his beak like a hairdresser with scissors. Sometimes it whistles like a thrush, sometimes like an oriole. Either it quacks like a duck, or it bleats like a lamb. For different voices - for yourself and for others.
Another bird lives in the forest, which constantly mocks and imitates others. Her whole song is woven from other people's voices. You listen to it, and it seems like a whole choir is singing! You hear thrush and oriole, chaffinch and tit, sandpiper and woodpecker, willow warbler and redstart, jackdaw and sparrow. She even outshines a mockingbird! That's why they call it: the mocking warbler.
"Goat-ram." Author: V.V. Golyavkin
We have a singing lesson at school. We sing different songs there. I generally like to sing songs, but sometimes I don’t know the words. Nobody wants to learn words. It's good when you remember it right away. But will you remember right away?
One day Vovka was singing a song. He didn't know any words at all. So he sang different words. Just any kind. And no one noticed.
I didn’t know the words to one song either. The teacher called me to sing this song. I told the teacher: “Please, I ask you to be louder.” Otherwise I won’t be able to hear.
And I think to myself: “He won’t hear what I sing, but I’ll sing whatever.” He looked at me and said:
- With pleasure! - and began to play with all his might. And I began to sing quietly. I sang two words: “Goat-ram.” Only I sang the tune correctly. And the words were “goat-ram.”
The teacher didn't stop me. He didn't reprimand me. Only when I finished singing did he ask:
— Did you hear well?
“Okay,” I say, “very much so!”
“And now,” he says, “I will play quietly.” And you sing louder. Just please, no goat. And without the ram, of course...
Municipal budget educational institution city of Mtsensk
"Average secondary school No. 7"
ABSTRACT
lesson literary reading
Subject: N. Sladkov " Willow Feast »
3rd grade
Teacher of the highest category: Sotnikova Irina Nikolaevna
Target: improve reading skills, the ability to work with text, continue to get acquainted with the work of N. Sladkov;
Develop students' speech and imagination, replenish vocabulary. Expand children's knowledge about the nature of our Motherland.
Instill a love for works about animals, cultivate a sense of kindness and careful attitude to nature.
Equipment: textbook, paints, palette, portrait of N. Sladkov, image of a blooming willow, message about Sladkov, instructions for compiling a syncwine.
Progress of the lesson.
Org moment. Psychological mood.
Let’s read the title of the section in unison, placing logical emphasis on the first and third words.
Spring coming, spring way! (message)
We highlight the second and fourth (we tell you how it happens)
Spring coming, spring way!
Take some paints and try to express in color with strokes on your palettes: What spring!
Conclusion: Why did you end up with a different palette of colors? You expressed your feelings for one time of year?
I wanted that throughout the lesson, the whole diverse palette of your feelings and emotions would help you discover something new in N. Sladkov’s work about spring.
Working with the text before reading.
- Guessing the content based on the author's last name . What is he writing about?
On the board: Willow Feast. How do we put the emphasis? Let us clarify the meaning of the word feast.
Let's try to guessanticipate the content of a text by title .
Open the textbook on page 164 and conduct a speech warm-up using key words.Let's supplement our assumptions about the content of the group keywords and illustrations.
Generalized.
Working with text while reading – thoughtful reading.
Primary reading of the text is “combined”.
(Genre of the work, events take place around a willow tree, guests are insects)
On whose behalf is the story being told?
Question No. 4 p. 166 (card with 3 questions)
(describes, draws, pictures and discusses)
What mood or feeling did you create after reading this story?
Now, rereading the work, we will try to understand what words created this mood. How Sladkov paints verbal pictures in his own way spring nature using magic paint words.
What are they called? (comparisons, personifications)
Work “in pairs”: divide the text into parts and give titles.
Part 1 “The willow tree has bloomed - guests from all sides”
Find and read the description of willow and willow flowers. What does the author compare them to?
Pollen?
2 part “Guests Hurry to the Feast”
We will find other comparisons in this text. How are the objects being compared similar?
Working on expressive reading.
Why are all the guests in such a hurry to enjoy the pollen? This answer is in part 3.
Part 3 “The feast ends here.”
What will happen. When will the willow bloom?
Explain the title of the work?
Sladkov describes the period of spring, followed by a riot of greenery.
For him, spring is a feast.
Working with the text after reading. Achieving understanding at the level of meaning.
Message about the writer (several students).
Sladkov wrote: “Nature has excited and attracted me all my life. Her beauty, secrets, charm, amazing harmony and coherence, inexhaustible knowledge amazed the imagination and attracted the heart. That's why all my books are about her.
No one deliberately introduced me to nature, no one “accustomed” me or “opened my eyes.” I was born a ready-made fan of hers.
He often takes up the pen not only out of a desire to acquaint the reader with little-known phenomena in nature. He wants to show that life in all its forms is the most amazing phenomenon. That it must be protected and respected.
“To take care of the earth, nature, you need to love it; to love it, you need to know it. Once you find out, it’s impossible not to love. He believes this is the meaning of the work.
Sladkov’s books are not so much educational as they show the aesthetic impact of nature on the human soul.
There are simply sciences - geography, zoology - Nikolai Ivanovich creates his own poetic geography, poetic zoology. Animals for him are living beings, very close to humans, generated by a common mother - nature. Close attention to our smaller brothers is the basis of his work. But the main thing character in the works of N. Sladkov, man: his feelings, his thoughts, his actions.
-The problematic question is repeated.
Student answers.
Bottom line.
In the section “Spring is coming, make way for spring!” We, reading the works of different authors, saw that this time of year is different for the authors. For A. Chekhov, spring is happiness, K. Paustovsky’s spring is joy, N. Gogol’s spring is festivities, A. Pleshcheev’s spring is renewal, celebration. Is it spring for N. Sladkov?
Compiling a syncwine on the theme “SPRING” based on the work of N. Sladkov “The Willow Feast”.
Spring.
Golden, honey.
Scurrying, buzzing and in a hurry.
The willow will bloom and the fun will end.
Feast.
D/z – Compose a syncwine on the topic “Spring”, based on your feelings.
Draw a picture that reflects the entire content of the text.
Retelling according to the plan.
Reflection.
On back side palette shows a flower with three petals. Color it in three colors that reflect how you feel after the lesson.
Answers to pages 58 - 59
Nikolay Sladkov
Willow Feast
The willow blossomed - guests from all sides. The bushes and trees around are still bare and gray; the willow among them is like a bouquet, and not just a simple one, but a golden one. Each willow lamb, like a downy yellow chicken, sits and glows. If you touch it with your finger, your finger will turn yellow. If you click, golden smoke will steam away. Smell it - honey.The guests are rushing to the feast.
The bumblebee arrived: clumsy, fat, shaggy, like a bear. He got excited, tossed and turned, and got covered in pollen.
The ants came running: lean, fast, hungry. They pounced on the pollen, and their bellies swelled up like barrels. Just look, the rims on their bellies will burst.
The mosquitoes arrived: their legs were a handful, their wings were flickering. Tiny helicopters.
Some bugs are crawling around.
The flies are buzzing.
Butterflies spread their wings.
The hornet on mica wings is striped, angry and hungry, like a tiger.
Everyone is buzzing and in a hurry.
And I was there, smelling honey lambs.
The willow will bloom, turn green, and get lost among the other green bushes. This is where the feast ends...
1. Reread the first paragraph of the story “The Willow Feast.” Find and underline comparisons.
The willow blossomed - guests from all sides. The bushes and trees around are still bare and gray; willow among them like a bouquet, but not simple, but golden. Every willow lamb, like a fluffy yellow chicken, sits and glows. If you touch it with your finger, your finger will turn yellow. If you click, golden smoke will evaporate. Smell it - honey.The guests are rushing to the feast.
2 ∗ . Solve the crossword puzzle. Find the answers in the story “The Willow Feast.”
1. Whose stomachs are swollen like barrels?
2. Who is clumsy like a bear?
3. Who spread its wings?
4. Who looks like a tiny helicopter?
5. Who is angry and hungry like a tiger?
3. Reread N. Sladkov’s story “Dandelion and Rain.” How do you imagine heroes? Write it down or draw it.
Nikolay Sladkov
Dandelion and Rain
- Hooray! Guard! Hooray! Guard!
- What's wrong with you, Dandelion? Are you sick? Look, all yellow! Why are you shouting “hurray” or “guard”?
- You’ll scream here!.. My roots are happy for you, Rain, dear ones, everyone shouts “hurray”, and the flower “guard” screams - it’s afraid that you’ll spoil the pollen. So I was confused - hurray, guard, hurray, guard!
- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?
- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. That’s it, brother, I’ve gotten into gear – it’s been five months without waking up. All sides rested.
- Or maybe, Bear, it’s time for us to get up?
- It's not time. Sleep some more.
- Won’t you and I sleep through the spring right away?
- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.
“Will she knock on our door, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels?” I, Misha, fear is hard to rise!
- Wow! You'll probably jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under your sides - I bet you’ll lay low! Sleep while you're dry.
Everything has its time
Soroka is tired of winter. If only it were summer now!
- Hey, Waxwing, would you be happy about summer?
-Are you asking again? - The waxwing answers. - I’m switching from rowan to viburnum, my tongue is set on edge!
And Soroka is already asking Kosach. Kosach also complains:
- I sleep in the snow, for lunch I have only birch porridge! Red eyebrows - frostbitten!
Magpie knocks on the Bear's door: how are you spending the winter?
- So-so! - Misha is grumbling. - From side to side. I’m lying on my right side and I see raspberries, and on my left I see linden honey.
- It's clear! - The magpie is chirping. - Everyone is tired of winter! May you fail, winter!
And winter failed...
Before you know it, summer is around! Warmth, flowers, leaves. Have fun, forest people!
And the forest people began to spin...
– I’m kind of confused, Soroka! - The waxwing says. – What position have you put me in? I rushed to you from the north along the mountain ash, and you have only leaves. On the other hand, I’m supposed to be in the north in the summer, but I’m stuck here! My head is spinning. And there is nothing to eat...
– I’ve done forty things! - Kosach hisses angrily. -What nonsense? Where did spring go? In the spring I sing songs and dance. The most fun time! And in the summer they just moult and lose feathers. What nonsense?
- So you yourself dreamed about summer! - Magpie screamed.
– You never know! - The bear speaks. – We dreamed of summer with honey and raspberries. Where are they if you jumped over the spring? Neither the raspberries nor the linden trees had time to bloom, so there will be no raspberries or linden honey! Turn your tail - I'll pluck it for you now!
Wow, how angry Magpie was! She swerved, jumped, flew up onto the tree and shouted:
- You will go down with the summer!
And the unexpected summer failed. And again it’s winter in the forest. Again the Waxwing pecks at the rowan... But they endure. The real spring is awaiting.
Current page: 4 (book has 20 pages total) [available reading passage: 12 pages]
UNINVITED GUESTS
A woodpecker punched a hole in the maple bark and drank some sweet juice.
A long-tailed tit flew after the woodpecker and also wet its nose. Behind the long-tailed one is a blue tit: it drank three drops.
The birds flew away - the insects gathered. The flies have arrived. Two wren butterflies. The mourner is a beauty.
Everyone sucks the sweet juice - they are not going to fly away.
The ant crawled up and moved its mustache.
The mosquito flew in and got stuck in the molasses with its long legs.
Maybe someone else would have come along, but here the woodpecker flutters again! Uninvited guests - who goes where.
The ant hesitated and stuck to the woodpecker’s tongue.
The woodpecker washed down the sour guest with sweet juice.
And the woodpecker flew away - the guests were right there again.
Behind the long-tailed tit is a blue tit. Behind the blue tit are flies and butterflies. Behind the butterflies is a mosquito. Behind the mosquito is an ant.
The guests are not proud.
Even though they are uninvited, they still want something sweet.
Who doesn't want something sweet?
SWANSThe swans nodded irritably: they were angry that the man was looking at them.
These were whooper swans, white as sea foam, with thin, strict necks and beaks cast in gold.
Here and there there are white shoals in the sky: tensely stretched necks, measured flapping of wings.
Incessant swan voices sound from the sky, from the water, from the ice floes. Everything is drowned in them: the ringing of hasty duck wings, the lazy cackle of geese, the mournful whistles of curlews and the joyful squeals of lapwings.
Several swans swam beak to beak, then at once stretched their necks upward, opened their beaks and trumpeted. White wings whip, whipping up boiling foam, splashing cascades of water. A huge water lily on the water made of white bodies - petals and thin necks - stamens! This is the famous swan dance and swan song.
This is how swans welcome spring.
Every spring, flocks of ducks and swans stop at the swamp to rest. It was so from time immemorial, and it is so now. And how I would like this to remain in the future. After all, there are no other cities on earth where wild swans can be found at the last tram stop. And there aren’t that many swans left on the whole earth.
And that’s not just the point. What can replace a green swamp with white swans? Isn’t it a pavilion of laughter with a distorting mirror or a platform for running in bags that they want to build here?
On the shore - at the edge of the earth! – you can sit for hours. Waves of water and wind. Either it smells of warmth and algae, or it smells of the piercing freshness of blue water. A faded, cluttered shore, a dull reality at your feet and nearby - before your eyes! – blue fairy tale with white ice floes and white birds.
Slow lines fairy birds with curved necks they swim along the azure edge of the ice. Slow shoals pull along the bluish side of the white cloud. From the water and from the sky, swan calls float like distant bells. Cliques of whooper swans.
Swans lie and stand on ice floes. Or they run through the water, straining their necks forward and loudly splashing their wide black paws.
Having taken off, they float above the water, smoothly raking the currents of wind under them. And their wings creak as if on hinges. Otherwise, they flop onto the waves in flight, raising their wings like arms and breaking the water with their steep white chest.
They stretch, preen themselves, sort out their feathers. They look at their reflection.
Why can you watch these birds for hours? Doesn't your eye linger on the quarrelsome, noisy ducks scurrying around here?
There is something about these majestic and slow birds that compels everyone - from young to old! - raise your face to the sky: “Look, swans are flying!” And follow them with your eyes for a long, long time.
WHOLE LIFEA starling flew to the birdhouse. There’s a ring on my leg – it’s familiar! He has been living in my birdhouse for six years.
Every spring he flies to the birdhouse, examines it from all sides, climbs inside, rustles and tosses and turns for a long time. Then he sits on the roof and sings quietly. Quietly, but with pleasure: it crackles, clicks and whistles with pleasure, like a playful pig. Its golden beak points to the sky, it rolls its eyes and spreads its wings. And he himself is either a rooster, or a lamb, or a cat, or a dog. I miss home in a foreign land...
Then the birdhouse is cleaned with the birdling and the chicks are taken out. They raise them together and fly away to the pastures with them.
In the autumn, before leaving, the starling flew to the birdhouse alone. Starlings have this rule: they fly to the nest before leaving. Sit in silence, brush your feathers in the sun, purr to yourself. And then - to the south. To distant countries, foreign lands, beyond the blue horizon.
But it’s almost spring - my starling is right there! He sits on a birdhouse, sings songs, spreads his wings. And the ring on her paw shines.
And so it has been for six years now...
Six times in the spring I said “hello” to him and five times in the fall I said “goodbye.”
And I began to notice that my starling was getting older.
In the first spring, I remember, he was shaking all over from the songs! The feathers on the neck stand on end. Everything shines, as if smeared with oil.
I look at the sixth spring and can’t believe my eyes. He’s sitting in the entrance, just sticking his nose out. He sings reluctantly: he whistles and is silent, he whistles and is silent, as if he is listening to himself. He doesn’t imitate other birds, he’s forgotten their voices or something.
He whistled and whistled, warmed himself in the sun - and dozed off. And this is in the midst of singing! He hung his head, nodded, and closed his eyes. This has never happened to him.
In the sixth autumn I flew to an empty birdhouse only once. He sat, was silent, and touched the ring on his paw.
- Goodbye! – I told him. For the sixth time he said “goodbye.”
Spring has come. Again the starling flew to the birdhouse, but not the same one, not mine, without a ring. Maybe his neighbor, maybe his son. Young, loud-mouthed and restless. And it shines like it’s been smeared with oil!
But the old man did not return. Somewhere the wind blew his feathers away? Farewell, old starling, - in last time. Hello, young one, for the first time!
THRUSH AND OWL- Listen, explain to me: how to distinguish an owl from an eagle owl?
- It depends on what kind of owl...
- What kind of owl... An ordinary one!
- There is no such owl. There is a barn owl, a gray owl, a hawk owl, a marsh owl, a polar owl, a long-eared owl...
- Well, what kind of owl are you?
- Me? I am a tawny owl.
- Well, how can we tell you apart from an eagle owl?
- It depends on which owl... There is a dark eagle owl - a forest owl, there is a light eagle owl - a desert one, and there is also a fish eagle owl...
- Ugh, you evil spirits of the night! Everything is so confused that you yourself won’t be able to figure out who is who!
- Ho-ho-ho-ho! Boo!
DANCERSPushing mosquitoes are famous dancers. They dance wherever they have to, as long as it’s warm. The warmth invigorates them, cheers them up, and lifts them straight into the air.
Where it is quiet, sunny, where it is heated, there is a dance floor. It is easier to dance in warm currents.
While there is still snow on the ground, they dance between the warm pine branches. Then they huddle over the first thawed patch. Over a thawed anthill, over a heated woodpile, over a shock of straw. Above a warmed slope, above a dried path, above a dug up bed. Up and down, up and down - a living column of golden dust particles. They celebrate each victory of spring with a dance.
Spring is coming - and dancing is expanding. Mosquitoes love to dance!
Sometimes they swarm over your head. You drive and chase, but they don’t care. Dance, since it's warm and sunny. What's someone's head or a pile of firewood down there? What do they care? They don't care about that.
PHILIP AND FEDIAI leaned against the tree and began to listen to the song thrush. A blackbird sang on the topmost spruce candle. Above him there was only the sky. And in the sky there is a star.
The blackbird whistled. He whistles and hesitates. As if he was listening: did he whistle? He whistles again and hesitates again: is that how the echo responded? And suddenly there was a trill - as if pieces of glass were falling from the tree! You can even hear the tongue clicking. I’m probably glad that I managed to whistle and the echo responded as it should. Every whistle is a word. So he just whistles and pronounces: “Philip, Philip, Philip!” Come, come! Drink tea, drink tea! With sugar, with sugar!
“Who is this Philip?! - I think to myself.
And the blackbird: “Come, godfather!” Come, godfather! Let's drink, let's drink!
And then the neighbor thrush flew to the top of the neighboring tree. And he whistled: “Fedya, Fedya, Fedya!” I don’t want, I don’t want, I don’t want!”
So that’s who he is – godfather Philip!
“With sugar, with sugar, with sugar!” - Fedya persuades.
And godfather Philip said: “I don’t want, I don’t want, I don’t want!”
So they bickered until both the sky and the forest became pitch black. Then they fell silent. What kind of tea is this - it’s time to sleep!
FUNNY OLD LADIESWrens are having fun on a sunny rock. Butterflies have survived the winter and are enjoying the warmth. The winter was fierce, its icy claws penetrated into the most secret shelters. Not all butterflies survived. Their wings were faded and frayed. Some were left without a mustache, some were left without a leg. And who has only veins left from colored wings, like a dried leaf? But the cripples and disabled people who have outlived their time, the ancient butterfly old women are the envy of everyone, cheerful and playful! Old ladies playing tag!
The spots fly cheerfully on those sitting calmly and dozing in the sun. The flickering of wings, a cheerful bustle, a flock of butterflies corkscrewing into blue sky. They tumble and flounder in the currents warm wind. Then they rush down headlong and sit down again on the smooth heated rock. They playfully move their frayed wings and straighten their plucked mustaches with their paws. Old men and women play and have fun. It was as if the terrible winter had never happened.
FLAGS ON THE SWAMPI don’t want to get out from under a warm blanket!
It's a damp spring night outside. It’s already chilling, but now put on some slippery boots and a stiff jacket.
- Well, where is it taking you? - the whiner in me is indignant. - Into the black forest swamp? Water will gurgle under the boots, the abyss will sniff and smack, branches will poke into your eyes...
And the cheerful one swaggers:
- Just think - it's abyss, the first time, or what? What if you see something!
- Well, what will you see? - the whiner whines. “You’ve been kneading mud all spring; everything has already been seen and seen! Everything is scheduled down to the minute. At two-fifty the snipe will bleat, and at three o'clock the korea will arrive. At five ten a raven will fly over the current, at five thirty seagulls will fly to the swamp. At least check your watch!
- What if? - the cheerful one resists.
– What “suddenly”, what “suddenly”? - the whiner gets angry. “Suddenly” only happens in books. But your feet will get cold in hiding - tea, knee-deep water. The back will freeze, the fingers will stop bending. And this is not suddenly, but for sure!
- That's right! – the cheerful one sighs. - And arms, and legs, and fingers. And your back will freeze. And the seagulls will arrive at half past five. Went!
I go out the door and stand for a long time, looking closely at the darkness. But then the cloud moves and the moon appears. And immediately the earth separated from the sky - you can go.
I walk past the village. It’s freezing, the dirt underfoot wrinkles like elastic plasticine. The moon alternately flashes in the windows of houses, as if someone lights them and immediately turns off the light.
I'm walking through the swamp and moonlight now it flares up and goes out in the puddles. Everything, as the whiner said, is darkness, cold, and abyss.
Vigorous is breathing hoarsely. Then he pushes me into the hut and hides my nose in my collar.
Two hours and fifty minutes. A snipe bleated overhead.
Three o'clock. A short “pa-pa-pa!” – and the kosach sat down next to him.
Three hours and five minutes. A strange gurgling sound is heard, as if water is being poured from a bottle. It was the scythe that cooed.
Whiner yawns:
- What did I say?
And suddenly...
Vigo shouts right in your ear:
– Just listen, you’ve never heard anything like this before!
“Hush, hush,” I reassure him. - Maybe it was your imagination?
But I already know: it didn’t seem like it! There are sounds that I have never heard before. I listen and write: “3 hours 30 minutes. There are unfamiliar sounds in the black swamp – like bubbles bursting quickly.” As expected, at exactly five ten, a crow flew over the current. At exactly five thirty the seagulls appeared. But the whiner is no longer being sarcastic.
The water in the swamp is golden from the sun. The bumps in it are like black stones. And on almost every bump there is a white flag! Incomprehensible white triangles, incomprehensible quiet sounds.
White dots appear and disappear. They know how to wink sunbeams. But these are not “bunnies”, these are lapwings. For the first time in my life I see lapwings dancing!
Vigorous grabs the whiner by the collar:
-Are you going to whine? Did I tell you “what if”? That's right, Thomas is an unbeliever.
On every bump there is a pair. How good are they! Green wings and backs, snow-white breasts and red legs, shining from dew and sun.
He will bow to her, pick a blade of grass with his beak and throw it to the right. She immediately bows back and also picks a blade of grass, but throws it to the left. A bow and a blade of grass, a bow and a blade of grass. They probably abandoned them for luck: it looks like they will have a nest here.
“Uh-huh, cuckoo-coo-coo!” Oooh, coo-coo-coo!” - the gentleman begins to sing, and he leans his chest into the moss, puts his folded wings upright, lifts his tail up and shakes it like a white handkerchief.
The lapwings were waiting for this day. It would be nice if I missed it! I would never have known that these feathered people were dancing so amusingly on the hummocks of the swamp.
I poke the whiner's nose into the moss. Because not learning something new is worse than forgetting the old. Just think, it's old! Everyone knows it.
Woodpecker's RingThe woodpecker is a master at different things.
It can hollow out a hollow. Smooth, round, like a snout.
Maybe make a machine for pine cones. He squeezes the cone into it and knocks out the seeds.
The woodpecker also has a drum - a ringing elastic knot.
He'll get drunk, he'll get drunk and he'll want to drink.
For this case, the woodpecker has a drinking ring. He also makes it himself.
The woodpecker does not like to go down to the ground: he is short-legged - he feels awkward on the ground. He does not fly to a watering hole - to a river or stream. Drinks as needed. In winter he will grab a snowball, in summer he will lick a drop of dew, in autumn he will lick a drop of rain. The woodpecker needs a little. And only in spring is it a special thing. In spring the woodpecker likes to drink birch sap. This is why the woodpecker makes a drinking ring.
Everyone probably saw the ring. Even on birch logs. Hole to hole on birch bark - a ring around the trunk. But few people know how the woodpecker makes this ring. And why is it made not just one way, but always with a ring...
I started watching and realized that the woodpecker... doesn’t even think about making rings!
He will simply punch a hole in the birch tree and lick off a drop of sap.
A little later it will fly again, because the juice is swelling on the hole. It will sit in such a way that it is convenient to lick it off, it will lick off the swollen drop - it’s delicious. It’s a pity, the juice from the old beak flows quietly. The woodpecker moves its head slightly to the side and punches a new hole.
When it arrives again, it sits under the new hole, the old one has swollen. He drinks juice from a new one and drills a fresh hole next to it. And again, neither higher nor lower, but on the side, where, without moving from its place, it is convenient to reach with your beak.
There is a lot to do in the spring: a hollow, a drum, a machine. I want to scream: everything is dry in my throat! That’s why every now and then it flies onto the birch tree to wet the neck. He will sit, lick, and add a beak to the row. This is how you get a ring on a birch tree. And nothing else can happen.
It's a hot spring.
A woodpecker rings a birch tree. Lowers ring to ring.
Master woodpecker on things.
DRUMMER“Drummer” is a courageous, strong word!
And drumming is a man's job. A drummer woodpecker sounds about right.
A woodpecker beats a drum in the spring. Woodpecker drum is a dry, sonorous twig. But even though it’s a knot, the roll on it turns out to be a real drum roll. There are no sticks either: he drums with his own nose.
It turns out great: drrrrrrr! - and an echo across the river.
I myself thought and read in books that only male woodpeckers drum on the drum.
He declares to everyone: “This is my hollow, I’m the boss here - get out of here!” So I decided to take it off.
He heard the beat, saw the drummer and began to approach, hiding behind the trees. I approached, and the drum was thundering. It was a special drum: a drum for all drums! The knot was dry and loud, and the drummer was dashing. He leaned back, leaning on his tail, proudly examined the forest from above and, trembling, suddenly began to knock his nose on a twig with such speed that its head was seen as a blurry, indistinct speck. Put your ear to the tree - it will deafen you! What a great guy! Yes, the drum is a male instrument.
I aimed the photo gun and suddenly I saw up close not a drummer, but... a drummer! Not a woodpecker, but a woodpecker! On the back of her head she did not have a red stripe - the decoration of a male woodpecker.
Didn't see it, didn't hear it. And I would never believe anyone, but I see with my own eyes: a musician, not a musician!
I retreat with my back, trail after trail, from tree to tree, taking away my little discovery.
And the drum is thundering. Dashing drum! Even the echo responds across the river.
WILLOW FeastThe willow blossomed - guests from all sides. The bushes and trees are still bare and gray; the willow among them is like a bouquet, and not just a simple one, but a golden one. Each new lamb is a downy yellow chick: it sits and glows. If you touch it with your finger, your finger will turn yellow. If you click, golden smoke will evaporate. Smell it - honey.
The guests are rushing to the feast.
The bumblebee arrived - clumsy, shaggy, like a bear. He got excited, tossed and turned, and got covered in pollen.
The ants came running: lean, fast, hungry. They pounced on the pollen, and their bellies swelled up like barrels. Just look, the rims on their bellies will burst.
The mosquitoes arrived: their legs were a handful, their wings were flickering. Tiny helicopters.
Some bugs are crawling around.
The flies are buzzing.
Butterflies spread their wings.
The hornet on mica wings is striped, angry and hungry, like a tiger.
Everyone is buzzing and in a hurry: the willow will turn green - the feast will end.
It will turn green and get lost among the green bushes. Go find her then!
And now - like a golden bouquet.
FIVE GROSESAt dawn, a hazel grouse flew to the side of the grouse current and started his song: “Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”
I counted: six scythes on the lek! Five are on the side in the snow, and the sixth is sitting next to the hut on a gray hummock.
And the hazel grouse says: “Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”
- Six! - I say.
“Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”
The neighbor - the sixth - heard, got scared and flew away.
“Five-five, five-five, five grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.
I'm silent. I see for myself that it’s five. The sixth one flew away.
But the hazel grouse doesn’t let up: “Five-five, five-five, five grouse!”
- I don’t argue! - I say. - Five is five!
“Five-five, five-five, five grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.
- I see without you! – I barked. - Probably not blind!
How the white wings fluttered, how they began to flutter - and not a single black grouse remained! And the hazel grouse flew away with them.
WHISPERING TRACESIn the light aspen and alder groves the snow has melted, the fallen leaves are drying in the sun, curling up into rolls, curling up into little balls, clenching into fists. The leaf is dry, but the ground underneath is wet. You go and press dry leaves into the damp ground with your boot.
Whether an elk passes by or a person passes by, they will all leave traces and press a leaf into the ground. They will pass, become silent in the distance, and their traces will suddenly begin to whisper. Then the crushed sheet will straighten out and touch the neighboring one. The stem will dry out and straighten out. The ribbon of yellow grass will come undone. Or a bunch of lingonberries squeezed into an accordion will shake out.
The elk and the man left the forest a long time ago, somewhere they are already far, far away, and their traces are still whispering and whispering. For a long, long time...
EVERYONE WANTS TO SINGToads sing, owls drone. The bumblebee hums in a bass voice. There’s nothing to say about birds! They sing from dawn to dusk.
The starling doesn't have enough of his own song, so he sings other people's songs. He sits on a birch tree, shiny and black, as if dipped in tar, spreading his wings as if he was conducting himself, and clicking his beak like a hairdresser with scissors.
Either it will whistle with a white-browed bird, or it will scream with its whirligig, or it will quack like a duck. And a rooster, and a gander, and a lamb.
Oriole, warbler, magpie!
FOREST SCALLOPNo matter how dense the bush is, it is a forest comb. And the comb will not miss a single scruffy slob - he will certainly comb his hair. Whether it’s a fox, a bear, a hare, it doesn’t matter to him: he combs, combs, smoothes everyone. From a hare - a white tuft, from a fox - a red bunch, from a bear - brown hairs.
Another bush, the thickest and the most prickly, - rosehip or hawthorn - will itself become like a shaggy animal in the spring. The fur on it stands on end, it’s scary to even approach!
May
The cheerful May thunder struck - it loosened the tongues of all living things. Streams of sounds poured out and flooded the forest. May thundered in the forest!
Everything that can sound sounded.
Gloomy silent owls mutter. Cowardly hares scream fearlessly and loudly.
The forest is full of screams, whistles, knocks and songs. Some songs flew into the forest along with migratory birds from distant countries. Others were born here, in the forest. We met songs after long separation and they ring with joy from dawn to dusk.
And in the heated, steamy thicket, where the stream muttered angrily, where the golden willows peered into the water, where the bird cherry trees threw tremulous white bridges from bank to bank, the first mosquito squeaked. And the white bells of the first lilies of the valley sounded barely audible...
The thunderstorm has passed a long time ago, but on the birch trees mischievous raindrops are jumping from leaf to leaf, as if from step to step. They hang on the tip, trembling with fear, and, flashing desperately, jump into the puddle.
And in the puddles the frogs are tossing and turning and chatting blissfully.
Even the dry twisted leaves that had overwintered on the ground came to life: they either scurry and rustle along the ground like mice, or flutter up like herds of fast birds.
Sounds from all sides: from fields and forests, from the sky, from water, from underground.
May is thundering across the earth!
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