The sun is shining joyfully on a spring day. The snow is quickly melting in the fields.
Cheerful, talkative streams ran along the roads.
The ice on the river turned blue.
Smelly sticky buds swelled on the trees.
The rooks have already arrived from warmer climes. Important, black, they walk on the roads.
The guys put birdhouses on the trees. They rush from school to see if there are any spring guests - starlings.
Our river has overflowed widely. It flooded the meadows, flooded the bushes and trees along the banks. Only here and there you can see islands overgrown with bushes in the flood.
They fly in a long line over the river wild ducks. And in the high cloudless sky, quietly purring, the cranes are drawn to their homeland.
The warm wind and gentle sun dry the wet soil.
The collective farmers went in a boat to the other side of the river to inspect and check their distant fields and meadows.
It's time to start early sowing.
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, a nightingale loudly clicked and sang.
It’s good for animals and birds in the forest in spring!
Bunnies gathered in a green clearing early in the morning. They rejoice in the warm sun, jump, play, and feast on young, lush grass.
With the onset of spring, the collective farm fields come to life. Sowing begins.
Tractors hum day and night.
Cheerful, cheerful voices of people can be heard from all sides.
The collective farmers set to work together.
The earth lies behind the plow in black, fat layers. Heavy seeds fall like a golden rain into the divided arable land.
A light midday wind blows over the plowed and sown fields.
Black-backed rooks wander along fresh furrows, collecting worms and harmful larvae.
And from the high blue sky comes a distant, familiar click.
- Cranes! Cranes! - the guys rejoice at the first crane cry.
In these spring days The sun-warmed earth breathes a warm breath.
Soon, soon they will sprout into warm earth seeds and green shoots will cover a wide collective farm field from edge to edge.
The spring sun gently warms from the high sky.
The lark rose to meet the warm sun - higher and higher, and it poured from the sky, its ringing song ringing like a bell over the ground.
"Sun! Sun! Sun!" - the birds rejoice.
"Sun! Sun! Sun!" - flowers open.
"Sun! Sun! Sun!" - the guys are happy.
Friendly warm spring.
They are working vigorously native land happy Soviet people.
The school garden is blooming.
Songbirds made a nest among the green branches.
The blue testicles lie close together. Warm and comfortable in a cozy nest. Not everyone sees it in the dense branches.
Soon the naked chicks will hatch from the testicles. The birds will feed them midges and fat caterpillars. The voracious chicks will eat many midges and harmful caterpillars over the summer.
If you find a bird's nest in the garden or forest, do not destroy it and do not touch the eggs!
Sokolov-Mikitov Iv
From spring to spring - Spring is red
Ivan Sokolov-Mikitov
From spring to spring
Spring is red
The sun is shining joyfully on a spring day. The snow is quickly melting in the fields.
Cheerful, talkative streams ran along the roads.
The ice on the river turned blue.
Smelly sticky buds swelled on the trees.
The rooks have already arrived from warmer climes. Important, black, they walk on the roads.
The guys put birdhouses on the trees. They rush from school to see if there are any spring guests - starlings.
Our river has overflowed widely. It flooded the meadows, flooded the bushes and trees along the banks. Only here and there you can see islands overgrown with bushes in the flood.
Wild ducks fly in a long line over the river. And in the high cloudless sky, quietly purring, the cranes are drawn to their homeland.
The warm wind and gentle sun dry the wet soil.
The collective farmers went in a boat to the other side of the river to inspect and check their distant fields and meadows.
It's time to start early sowing.
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, a nightingale loudly clicked and sang.
It’s good for animals and birds in the forest in spring!
Bunnies gathered in a green clearing early in the morning. They rejoice in the warm sun, jump, play, and feast on young, lush grass.
With the onset of spring, the collective farm fields come to life. Sowing begins.
Tractors hum day and night.
The collective farmers set to work together.
The earth lies behind the plow in black, fat layers. Heavy seeds fall like a golden rain into the divided arable land.
A light midday wind blows over the plowed and sown fields.
Black-backed rooks wander along fresh furrows, collecting worms and harmful larvae.
And from the blue high sky comes a distant, familiar click.
Cranes! Cranes! - the guys rejoice at the first crane cry.
On these spring days, the sun-warmed earth breathes a warm breath.
Soon, soon the seeds will sprout in the warm soil and the wide collective farm field will be covered with green shoots from edge to edge.
The spring sun gently warms from the high sky.
The lark rose to meet the warm sun - higher and higher, and it poured from the sky, its ringing song ringing like a bell over the ground.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny!" - the birds rejoice.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny!" - flowers open.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny!" - the guys are happy.
Friendly warm spring.
Happy Soviet people are working vigorously in their native land.
The school garden is blooming.
Songbirds made a nest among the green branches.
The blue testicles lie close together. Warm and comfortable in a cozy nest. Not everyone sees it in the dense branches.
Soon the naked chicks will hatch from the testicles. The birds will feed them midges and fat caterpillars. The voracious chicks will eat many midges and harmful caterpillars over the summer.
If you find a bird's nest in the garden or forest, do not destroy it and do not touch the eggs!
© Sokolov-Mikitov I. S., heirs, 1954
© Zhekhova K., preface, 1988
© Bastrykin V., illustrations, 1988
© Design of the series. Publishing house "Children's Literature", 2005
All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.
I. S. SOKOLOV-MIKITOV
Sixty years of active creative activity in the turbulent 20th century, full of so many events and shocks - this is the result of the life of the remarkable Soviet writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov.
He spent his childhood in the Smolensk region, with its sweet, truly Russian nature. In those days, the village still preserved its ancient way of life and way of life. The boy's first impressions were festive festivities and village fairs. It was then that he became one with his native land, with its immortal beauty.
When Vanya was ten years old, he was sent to a real school. Unfortunately, this institution was distinguished by bureaucratic behavior, and the teaching went poorly. In spring, the smells of awakened greenery irresistibly attracted the boy beyond the Dnieper, to its banks, covered with a gentle haze of blossoming foliage.
Sokolov-Mikitov was expelled from the fifth grade of the school “on suspicion of belonging to student revolutionary organizations.” It was impossible to go anywhere with a “wolf ticket”. The only one educational institution, where a certificate of trustworthiness was not required, turned out to be St. Petersburg private agricultural courses, where a year later he was able to attend, although, as the writer admitted, he was very attracted to agriculture he did not experience, as indeed he had never experienced, any desire to settle down, to own property, to be a homebody...
Boring coursework soon turned out to be not to the liking of Sokolov-Mikitov, a man with a restless, restless character. Having settled in Reval (now Tallinn) on a merchant ship, he wandered around the world for several years. I saw many cities and countries, visited European, Asian and African ports, and became close friends with working people.
First World War found Sokolov-Mikitov in a foreign land. With great difficulty, he made it from Greece to his homeland, and then volunteered for the front, flew on the first Russian bomber “Ilya Muromets”, and served in medical detachments.
Met in Petrograd October Revolution I listened with bated breath to V. I. Lenin’s speech in the Tauride Palace. At the editorial office of Novaya Zhizn I met Maxim Gorky and other writers. During these critical years for the country, Ivan Sergeevich became a professional writer.
After the revolution, he worked briefly as a teacher at a unified labor school in his native Smolensk region. By this time, Sokolov-Mikitov had already published the first stories, noticed by such masters as I.
Bunin and A. Kuprin.
“Warm Earth” - this is what the writer called one of his first books. And it would be difficult to find a more accurate, more capacious name! After all, the native Russian land is really warm, because it is warmed by the warmth of human labor and love.
The stories of Sokolov-Mikitov date back to the time of the first polar expeditions about the voyages of the flagships of the icebreaker fleet “Georgy Sedov” and “Malygin”, which marked the beginning of the development of the Northern Sea Route. On one of the North Islands Arctic Ocean The bay was named after Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov, where he found the buoy of the lost Ziegler expedition, the fate of which was unknown until that moment.
Sokolov-Mikitov spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian Sea, traveling through the Kola and Taimyr Peninsulas, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan Mountains, the Northern and Murmansk Territories. He wandered through the dense taiga, saw the steppe and the sultry desert, and traveled all over the Moscow region. Each such trip not only enriched him with new thoughts and experiences, but was also imprinted by him in new works.
This man of good talent gave people hundreds of stories and tales, essays and sketches. The pages of his books are illuminated with the wealth and generosity of his soul.
The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is close to Aksakov’s, Turgenev’s, and Bunin’s style. However, his works have their own special world: not outside observation, but live communication with the surrounding life.
The encyclopedia says about Ivan Sergeevich: “Russian Soviet writer, sailor, traveler, hunter, ethnographer.” And although there is a full stop next, this list could be continued: teacher, revolutionary, soldier, journalist, polar explorer.
Sokolov-Mikitov's books are written melodiously, richly and at the same time very in simple language, the same thing that the writer learned in his childhood.
In one of his autobiographical notes, he wrote: “I was born and grew up in a simple working Russian family, among the forest expanses of the Smolensk region, its wonderful and very feminine nature. The first words I heard were bright folk words, the first music I heard were folk songs, which the composer Glinka was once inspired by.”
In search of new visual means, back in the twenties of the last century, the writer turned to a unique genre of short (not short, but short) stories, which he successfully dubbed epics.
To an inexperienced reader, these tales may seem like simple notes from a notebook, made on the fly, as a reminder of the events and characters that struck him.
We have already seen the best examples of such short, non-fictional stories in L. Tolstoy, I. Bunin, V. Veresaev, M. Prishvin.
Sokolov-Mikitov in his epic stories comes not only from the literary tradition, but also from folk art, from the spontaneity of oral stories.
His tales “Red and Black”, “On Your Coffin”, “Terrible Dwarf”, “Bridegrooms” and others are characterized by extraordinary capacity and accuracy of speech. Even in his so-called hunting stories, man is in the foreground. Here he continues the best traditions of S. Aksakov and I. Turgenev.
Reading short stories Sokolov-Mikitov about Smolensk places (“On the Nevestnitsa River”) or about bird wintering grounds in the south of the country (“Lenkoran”), you involuntarily become imbued with sublime sensations and thoughts, the feeling of admiration for your native nature turns into something else, more noble - into a feeling of patriotism.
“His creativity, having its source in a small homeland (that is, the Smolensk region), belongs to the big Motherland, our great land with its vast expanses, innumerable riches and varied beauty - from north to south, from the Baltic to the Pacific coast,” said about Sokolov-Mikitov A. Tvardovsky.
Not all people are able to feel and understand nature in organic connection with human mood, and only a few can simply and wisely paint nature. Sokolov-Mikitov had such a rare gift. He knew how to convey this love for nature and for people living in friendship with it to his very young readers. Our preschool and school children have long loved his books: “The Body”, “The House in the Forest”, “Fox Evasion”... And how picturesque his stories about hunting are: “On the Wood Grouse Current”, “Pulling”, “The First Hunt” and others. You read them, and it seems that you yourself are standing on the edge of a forest and, holding your breath, watching the majestic flight of a woodcock or in the early, pre-dawn hour listening to the mysterious and magical song of a wood grouse...
The writer Olga Forsh said: “You read Mikitov and wait: a woodpecker is about to knock overhead or a little hare is going to jump out from under the table; how great it is, how he really told it!”
Sokolov-Mikitov’s work is autobiographical, but not in the sense that he wrote only about himself, but because he always talked about everything as an eyewitness and participant in certain events. This gives his works a vivid persuasiveness and that documentary authenticity that so attracts the reader.
“I was lucky enough to get close to Ivan Sergeevich in early years his literary work,” recalled K. Fedin. - It was shortly after Civil War. For half a century, he devoted me so much to his life that sometimes it seems to me that it has become mine.
He never set out to write his biography in detail. But he is one of those rare artists whose life seemed to combine everything that was written by him.”
Kaleria Zhekhova
ON THE NATIVE LAND
Sunrise
Also in early childhood I had the opportunity to admire the sunrise. Early in the spring morning, on a holiday, my mother sometimes woke me up and carried me to the window in her arms:
- Look how the sun plays!
Behind the trunks of old linden trees, a huge flaming ball rose above the awakened earth. He seemed to swell, shine with a joyful light, play, and smile. My childish soul rejoiced. For the rest of my life I will remember my mother’s face, illuminated by the rays of the rising sun.
As an adult, I watched the sun rise many times. I met him in the forest, when before dawn the pre-dawn wind passes above the tops of the heads, one after another the clear stars go out in the sky, the black peaks appear more clearly and clearly in the lightened sky. There is dew on the grass. A spider's web stretched out in the forest sparkles with many sparkles. The air is clean and transparent. On a dewy morning, the dense forest smells of resin.
I saw the sunrise over my native fields, over a green meadow covered with dew, over the silver surface of the river. The cool mirror of the water reflects the pale morning stars, the thin crescent of the month. The dawn is breaking in the east, and the water appears pink. As if in a steamy light haze, the sun rises above the earth to the singing of countless birds. Like the living breath of the earth, a light golden fog spreads over the fields, over the motionless ribbon of the river. The sun is rising higher and higher. The cool, transparent dew in the meadows shines like a diamond scattering.
Watched the sun appear in the frosty weather winter morning When the deep snow shone unbearably, light frosty frost scattered from the trees. Admired the sunrise in the high mountains of the Tien Shan and Caucasus, covered with sparkling glaciers.
The sunrise over the ocean is especially beautiful. As a sailor, standing on watch, I watched many times how the rising sun changes its color: it either swells with a flaming ball, or is obscured by fog or distant clouds. And everything around suddenly changes. The distant shores and the crests of the oncoming waves seem different. The color of the sky itself changes, covering the endless sea with a golden-blue tent. The foam on the crests of the waves seems golden. The seagulls flying astern seem golden. The masts gleam with scarlet gold, and the painted side of the ship glistens. You used to stand on watch at the bow of a steamship and your heart would be filled with unspeakable joy. A new day is born! How many meetings and adventures does it promise for the young happy sailor!
Residents of big cities rarely admire the sunrise. Tall stone hulks of city houses block the horizon. Even villagers wake up for the short hour of sunrise, the beginning of the day. But in the living world of nature, everything awakens. On the edges of the forest, over the illuminated water, nightingales sing loudly. Light larks soar from the fields into the sky, disappearing in the rays of dawn. Cuckoos crow joyfully, blackbirds whistle.
Only sailors, hunters - people closely connected with Mother Earth, know the joy of the solemn sunrise, when life awakens on earth.
My dear readers, I strongly advise you to admire the sunrise, the clear early morning glow. You will feel your heart fill with fresh joy. There is nothing more beautiful in nature than early morning, early morning dawn, when the earth breathes with maternal breath and life awakens.
Russian Winter
Good, pure Russians snowy winters. Deep snowdrifts sparkle in the sun. Large and small rivers disappeared under the ice. On a frosty, quiet morning, smoke rises into the sky in pillars over the roofs of village houses. Under a snow coat, the earth is resting, gaining strength.
Quiet and bright winter nights. Showering the snow with a subtle light, the moon shines. Fields and treetops twinkle in the moonlight. The well-worn winter road is clearly visible. Dark shadows in the forest. The winter night frost is strong, the tree trunks crackle in the forest. Tall stars are scattered across the sky. The Big Dipper shines brightly with the clear Polar Star pointing north. The Milky Way stretches across the sky from edge to edge - a mysterious celestial road. In the Milky Way, the Cygnus, a large constellation, spread its wings.
There is something fantastic, fabulous about a moonlit winter night. I remember Pushkin’s poems, Gogol’s stories, Tolstoy, Bunin. Anyone who has ever driven on a moonlit night along winter country roads will probably remember their impressions.
And how beautiful is the winter dawn, the morning dawn, when snow-covered fields and hillocks are illuminated by the golden rays of the rising sun and the dazzling whiteness sparkles! The Russian winter is extraordinary, bright winter days, moonlit nights!
Once upon a time, hungry wolves roamed the snowy fields and roads; Foxes ran, leaving thin chains of footprints in the snow, looking for mice hidden under the snow. Even during the day you could see a mouse-like fox in the field. Carrying her fluffy tail over the snow, she ran through the fields and copses, with her keen hearing sensing mice hidden under the snow.
Wonderful winter sunny days. Expanse for skiers running on light skis on slippery snow. I didn't like the trails beaten by skiers. Near such a ski track, where man after man runs in a chain, it is difficult to see an animal or a forest bird. I went alone into the forest on skis. The skis glide smoothly and almost silently over the untouched snow. The pine trees raise their curly, whitened tops into the high sky. White snow lies on the green thorny branches of spreading spruce trees. Under the weight of frost, young tall birch trees bent into an arc. Dark ant heaps are covered with snow. Black ants spend the winter in them.
The seemingly dead winter forest is full of life.
A woodpecker knocked on a dry tree. Carrying a cone in his beak, he flew with a colorful handkerchief to another place - to his “smithy”, built in the fork of an old stump, deftly set the cone into his workbench and began to hammer with his beak. Resinous scales flew in all directions. There are a lot of pecked cones lying around the stump. A nimble squirrel jumped from tree to tree. A large white snow cap fell from the tree and crumbled into snow dust.
At the edge of the forest you can see black grouse sitting on birch trees. In winter they feed on birch buds. Wandering in the snow, they collect black juniper berries. The surface of the snow is scrawled between the bushes with cross-shaped tracks of grouse paws. On cold winter days, black grouse, falling from birches, burrow into the snow, into deep holes. A happy skier sometimes manages to raise grouse hidden in snow holes. One after another, birds fly out of the deep snow in the diamond snow dust. You will stop and admire the wondrous spectacle.
Many miracles can be seen in the winter sleeping forest. A hazel grouse will fly noisily or a heavy capercaillie will rise up. All winter, wood grouse feed on hard needles on young pines. Fiddling around under the snow forest mice. Hedgehogs sleep under the roots of trees. Angry martens are running through the trees, chasing squirrels. A flock of red-breasted cheerful crossbills, dropping the snowy overhang, sat with a pleasant whistle on the spruce branches covered with resinous cones. You stand and admire how quickly and deftly they pull the heavy cones, extracting seeds from them. A light trail of a squirrel stretches from tree to tree. Clinging to the branches, a gnawed pine cone fell from above and fell at his feet. Raising my head, I see how the branch swayed, freed from its weight, how the nimble forest prankster jumped over and hid in the dense top. Somewhere in a dense forest, bears sleep in their dens in an almost sound sleep. The stronger the frost, the more soundly the bear sleeps. Horned elk roam in the aspen forest.
The surface of the deep snowdrifts is covered in intricate patterns of animal and bird tracks. At night, a white hare ran here, fattening in the aspen forest, and left round nuts of droppings on the snow. Brown hares run through the fields at night, dig up winter crops, and leave tangled tracks in the snow. No, no, yes, and he will sit on his hind legs, raising his ears, listening to the distant barking of dogs. In the morning, hares hide in the forest. They double and line up their tracks, make long runs, lie down somewhere under a bush or spruce branch, with their heads facing their tracks. It is difficult to see a hare lying in the snow: it is the first to notice a person and quickly runs away.
Near villages and ancient parks you see swollen red-throated bullfinches, and nimble, bold titmice squeaking near the houses. It happens that on a frosty day, tits fly into open windows or into the canopy of houses. I tamed the tits that flew into my small house, and they quickly settled in it.
The crows remaining for the winter fly from tree to tree. Grey-headed jackdaws call to each other with womanish voices. Just under the window, a nuthatch flew in and settled on a tree, an amazing bird that can crawl up the trunk upside down. Sometimes a nuthatch, like tits, flies into an open window. If you don’t move and don’t scare him, he’ll fly into the kitchen and pick up bread crumbs. Birds are hungry in winter. They forage in crevices of tree bark. Bullfinches feed on seeds of plants overwintered above the snow, rose hips, and stay near grain sheds.
It seems that the river is frozen and sleeping under the ice. But there are fishermen sitting on the ice near the holes. They are not afraid of frost, cold, piercing wind. Avid fishermen's hands get cold from the cold, but small perches are caught on the hook. In winter, burbots spawn. They hunt dozing fish. In winter, skilled fishermen catch burbots in spaced tops and holes, blocking the river with spruce branches. They catch burbot in winter using hooks and bait. In the Novgorod region, I knew an old fisherman who brought me live burbot every day. Burbot ear and liver are delicious. But, unfortunately, there are few burbots left in polluted rivers that love clean water.
And how beautiful in winter are the forest lakes covered with ice and snow, frozen small rivers, in which life invisible to the eye continues! Aspen trees are beautiful in winter with the thinnest lace of their bare branches against the backdrop of a dark spruce forest. Here and there the wintered berries on the rowan trees are turning red in the forest, and bright clusters of viburnum are hanging.
March in the forest
In the riches of the calendar of Russian nature, March is considered the first month of spring, a joyful holiday of light. The cold, blizzard February – “crooked roads”, as people call it – has already ended. As the popular saying goes, “winter is still showing its teeth.” Frosts often return in early March. But the days are getting longer and earlier and earlier the bright spring sun rises above the sparkling snowy veil. Deep snowdrifts lie untouched in the forests and fields. If you go out on skis, the surroundings will sparkle with such unbearable whiteness!
The air smells like spring. Casting purple shadows on the snow, the trees stand motionless in the forest. The sky is transparent and clear with high light clouds. Under the dark spruce trees, the spongy snow is sprinkled with fallen pine needles. A sensitive ear catches the first familiar sounds of spring. A ringing drum trill was heard almost overhead. No, this is not the creaking of an old tree, as inexperienced urban people usually think when they find themselves in the forest in early spring. Having chosen a dry, sonorous tree, the forest musician, the spotted woodpecker, drums like spring. If you listen carefully, you will certainly hear: here and there in the forest, closer and further, as if echoing, drums solemnly sound. This is how woodpecker drummers welcome the arrival of spring.
Now, warmed by the rays of the March sun, a heavy white cap fell off the top of the tree by itself and crumbled into snow dust. And, as if alive, the green branch, freed from the winter shackles, sways for a long time, as if waving its hand. A flock of crossbills, whistling cheerfully, scattered in a wide red-lingonberry necklace over the tops of the spruce trees hung with cones. Only a few observant people know that these cheerful, sociable birds spend the whole winter in coniferous forests. In the most severe cold, they skillfully build warm nests in thick branches, hatch and feed the chicks. Leaning on your ski poles, you admire for a long time how nimble birds with their crooked beaks fiddle with the pine cones, choosing seeds from them, how, circling in the air, light husks quietly fall onto the snow.
At this time, the barely awakened forest lives an almost invisible and inaudible life, accessible only to a keen eye and a sensitive ear. So, having dropped the gnawed cone, a light squirrel flew up onto the tree. Jumping from twig to twig, titmouses are shading just above the snowdrift like spring. Flashing behind the tree trunks, a tawny jay flies silently and disappears. A timid hazel grouse will flutter, thunder and hide in the depths of a forest overgrown ravine.
Illuminated by the rays of the sun, bronze trunks of pine trees rise, raising their spreading tops to the very sky. The greenish branches of bare aspens are woven into the finest lace. It smells of ozone, resin, wild rosemary, the tough evergreen branches of which have already emerged from a disintegrated snowdrift near a tall stump warmed by the March sun.
Festive, clean in the illuminated forest. Bright spots of light lie on the branches, on tree trunks, on compacted dense snowdrifts. Gliding on skis, you would come out onto a sunny, sparkling clearing surrounded by a birch forest. Suddenly, almost from under your very feet, black grouse begin to burst out of their holes in the diamond snow dust. All morning they fed on spreading birch trees strewn with buds. One after another, red-browed black grouse and yellowish-gray female grouse, resting in the snow, fly out.
On clear days in the mornings you can already hear the first spring muttering of the displaying kosher whales. Their booming voices can be heard far in the frosty air. But the real spring current will not begin soon. These are just red-browed soldiers clad in black armor trying their hand, sharpening their weapons.
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Sokolov-Mikitov Iv
From spring to spring – Spring is red
Ivan Sokolov-Mikitov
From spring to spring
Spring is red
The sun is shining joyfully on a spring day. The snow is quickly melting in the fields.
Cheerful, talkative streams ran along the roads.
The ice on the river turned blue.
Smelly sticky buds swelled on the trees.
The rooks have already arrived from warmer climes. Important, black, they walk on the roads.
The guys put birdhouses on the trees. They rush from school to see if there are any spring guests - starlings.
Our river has overflowed widely. It flooded the meadows, flooded the bushes and trees along the banks. Only here and there you can see islands overgrown with bushes in the flood.
Wild ducks fly in a long line over the river. And in the high cloudless sky, quietly purring, the cranes are drawn to their homeland.
The warm wind and gentle sun dry the wet soil.
The collective farmers went in a boat to the other side of the river to inspect and check their distant fields and meadows.
It's time to start early sowing.
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, a nightingale loudly clicked and sang.
It’s good for animals and birds in the forest in spring!
Bunnies gathered in a green clearing early in the morning. They rejoice in the warm sun, jump, play, and feast on young, lush grass.
With the onset of spring, the collective farm fields come to life. Sowing begins.
Tractors hum day and night.
The collective farmers set to work together.
The earth lies behind the plow in black, fat layers. Heavy seeds fall like a golden rain into the divided arable land.
A light midday wind blows over the plowed and sown fields.
Black-backed rooks wander along fresh furrows, collecting worms and harmful larvae.
And from the blue high sky comes a distant, familiar click.
- Cranes! Cranes! - the guys rejoice at the first crane cry.
On these spring days, the sun-warmed earth breathes a warm breath.
Soon, soon the seeds will sprout in the warm soil and the wide collective farm field will be covered with green shoots from edge to edge.
The spring sun gently warms from the high sky.
The lark rose to meet the warm sun - higher and higher, and it poured from the sky, its ringing song ringing like a bell over the ground.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny!" - the birds rejoice.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny!" - flowers open.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny!" - the guys are happy.
Friendly warm spring.
Happy Soviet people are working vigorously in their native land.
The school garden is blooming.
Songbirds made a nest among the green branches.
The blue testicles lie close together. Warm and comfortable in a cozy nest. Not everyone sees it in the dense branches.
Soon the naked chicks will hatch from the testicles. The birds will feed them midges and fat caterpillars. The voracious chicks will eat many midges and harmful caterpillars over the summer.
If you find a bird's nest in the garden or forest, do not destroy it and do not touch the eggs!
I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov “Spring in the Forest”
In early spring, a hunter made his way through the deep thickets and swamps from edge to edge through the dense forest.
He saw many birds and animals in the awakened forest. I saw a capercaillie grazing on the edge of a swamp, an elk grazing in a young aspen forest in the sun, and an old wolf making its way through a forest ravine to its lair and running with its prey.
The attentive hunter saw and heard a lot in the forest.
Joyful, noisy and fragrant spring. Birds sing loudly, spring streams ring under the trees. The swollen buds smell like resin.
A warm wind runs through the high peaks.
Soon, soon the forest will be covered with leaves, bird cherry trees will bloom on the edges, and vociferous nightingales will click over the streams. Long-tailed cuckoos will fly by and crow: “Kuk-ku! Cuckoo! Ku-ku!
Busy ants run over the hummocks, fly out of their winter shelter, and the first bumblebee buzzes.
Shoots of young grass and blue and white snowdrops will cover the forest clearings.
Good, joyful, cheerful spring in the forest!
