At the edge of the forest, a motley herd was scattered, the cows were noisily picking off the lush grass, their muzzles were splashed with dew up to their eyes.
All my matches are out, and I am looking for the shepherd with my eyes. On the other side of the clearing, through the foliage of the old willow tree, smoke breaks through. It has a bitter-spicy brown aroma: apparently, the shepherds threw bird cherry branches into the fire to ward off mosquitoes.
I walk through the dewy grass straight into the white smoke. The grass is getting higher. I lift up the cuffs of my fishing boots. Water squelches underfoot and brittle calamus crunches. Only the top of the old tree is now visible ahead.
Now I’m getting out of the swampy thickets. I'm looking for the place where the shepherds built a fire. No! And suddenly I stop in amazement: under the spreading willow, entangled in its weeping leaves, the bird cherry is smoking in a white cloud!
Just yesterday I passed by this edge. The forest around was dark, and against its smooth green background every passing butterfly could be seen far away. So, the bird cherry blossomed today at dawn!
I throw off my backpack and eagerly break the white branches. The bird cherry pulls them away, splashes dew in the face, but gives itself up willingly: the branches break easily, with a juicy crunch. Apparently, she herself doesn’t want to just bloom and crumble without anyone noticing.
That’s how strangely man is constructed! First he breaks the bird cherry, and then he thinks about what to do with it. I don't need her. At home there is a large bush growing under the window, and now it has also blossomed at dawn.
But you shouldn’t throw flowers under a tree!
And suddenly a decision comes: I’ll give the bird cherry to the first person I meet! This thought occupies: who will get caught on the road? What kind of person?
The path winds through a dense thicket, stretches along a clearing, and runs across a clearing. To the right and left, warmed by the sun, the forest is increasingly smoking, enveloping itself in a bitter-spicy cinnamon aroma.
A thatched roof emerges between the thinning trees. I go down to the shallow stream that runs along the edge of the vegetable gardens. Having tucked up the hem of her long skirt, the old woman rinses her linen on a millstone. Water flows thinly and lightly through the flat stone, cutting into two twisting streams on bare feet.
The old woman straightens up and looks blindly in my direction.
For some reason I feel sorry for giving away the bouquet: I dreamed of meeting a girl!
I straighten the tattered branches and timidly hand them to the old woman.
Here's a spring gift for you, mother!
The old woman looks at me in fear. In blue and yellow thin hands there is a wet children's shirt.
Take it! Take it! - I encourage. - It just bloomed.
Finally the old woman understood. In her dull, faded green eyes, like squeezed grapes, I catch a barely noticeable sparkle of joy - that feminine joy that once would have made her cheeks turn pink in embarrassment and lower her eyes.
Thank you, darling,” she says. “Only for me, the old one, why is this?” Give it to someone younger!
The old woman leans over to the stream and begins to splash the flat of her shirt on the water.
I stomp around hesitantly. Then I wade to the other side and get out onto the road.
Only now, on a nearby slope, I notice two figures bending over some open boxes. A checkered shirt and a colorful dress are visible far away on the silver carpet of young wormwood. I climb up the hill and now clearly see sketchbooks with pieces of cardboard pinned on them. A guy and a girl are enthusiastically writing sketches. I silently approach them from behind.
Please put out the paint! - the guy turns to his companion. You can’t write so brightly.
Well what can I do! - the girl lowers her brush in confusion. - The wind dries the paper. I don't have time to blur it out.
She paints in watercolors. She is wearing a light sundress with a wide rollout, a slightly pink neck in the sun, and a funny child's braid. With one hand the girl holds a glass jar of water. She had just blurred the sky, and the water in the jar turned a deep turquoise.
You feel good! - she is offended. - You fiddle with the brush as much as you want. Oil is not water.
The guy, squatting and looking over the edge of the lid at the distant forest, leisurely practices the underpainting. Nearby, a bottle of lemonade and a torn packet of cookies gleam in the wormwood.
At the rustle of a canvas jacket, the girl turns around sharply. She peers at me like a frightened young teal, then turns her gaze to the bird cherry, and her dark eyes warm with admiration.
Can I have one twig? - she can’t resist.
Take the whole bouquet.
What do you! - she flushes, not taking her eyes off the bird cherry tree. - I only need one twig.
I silently place the bouquet next to her sketchbook.
Thank you! - she whispers. - But why is it all?.. Take it home...
I explain lamely.
“Thank you,” she repeats joyfully, takes a bouquet from the ground and buries her face in the stuffy panicles of flowers.
Sergey, look how lovely it is! I wish I could write!
Sergei reluctantly looks up from his sketchbook and frowns at me, then at the bird cherry tree. And I rejoice at the opportunity to stand next to youth. I want to talk, help deal with unruly paints, even run to the swamp and scoop up a jar of fresh water for watercolors.
And I say:
Why don't you go into the forest? There are such amazing places for sketches!
The girl quickly glances at her companion, and a blush of embarrassment appears on her untanned neck.
And suddenly I understand this flash and feel embarrassed myself. I understand why they stopped at this open hillside covered with wormwood, why they painted some kind of nondescript landscape - the sky, the road and the forest in the background, the same forest where the bird cherry blossomed today at dawn.
These are their first sketches, and maybe their first walk!
And I also understand that it’s time for me to leave.
But I stand behind them, painfully searching for words, looking for at least some reason to linger, and that only makes me feel more acutely that I am superfluous here.
Sergei, with his head buried, silently and intently rubs the paints on the palette. He didn’t put a single stroke in front of me. She tries to write, but the colors fall on the paper unruly, falsely: and the sky dims, and the silhouette from the distant forest becomes like a stage set.
I adjust the fishing rods on my shoulder and quietly leave. Along the way, I pick off young shoots of wormwood and put them in my bosom. I love these inconspicuous silver stems - faithful companions long and difficult roads. I love it, perhaps, more than bird cherry. If life had a clearly defined smell, it would most likely have the unsettling and earthy scent of wormwood.
I turn around and see that Sergei and his young girlfriend are looking after me.
If birds were assigned military ranks, then this goose should be given an admiral. Everything about him was admiral: his bearing, his gait, and the tone in which he spoke with other village geese.
He walked importantly, thinking about every step. He always held his long neck high and motionless, as if he was carrying a glass of water on his head.
In a word, the White Goose was the most important person in the village. Due to his high position, he lived carefree and at ease. The best geese of the village were staring at him; he owned the best sandbanks.
But the most important thing is that the reach on which I set up the bait was also considered by the White Goose to be his own. Because of this stretch, we have a long-standing dispute with him. He simply didn't acknowledge me. Then he leads his goose armada in a wake formation directly towards the fishing rods. Then the whole company will start swimming just at the opposite shore.
Many times he ate worms from a can and stole kukans with fish. He did it not like a thief, but with the same sedate leisureliness. Obviously, the White Goose believed that everything in this world existed only for him alone and, probably, would have been very surprised if he had learned that he himself belonged to the village boy Stepka, who, if he wanted, would chop off the White Goose’s head, and Stepkina Mother will cook cabbage soup with fresh cabbage from it.
One spring, when I came to my favorite place to fish, the White Goose was already there. Seeing me, he hissed, spread his wings and moved towards me. Styopka ran up and explained that the goose now has goslings, so he rushes at everyone.
-Where is their mother? - I asked Styopka.
- They are orphans. The car ran over the goose.
Only now did I see that the dandelions, among which the White Goose stood, had come to life and were huddled together and were frightenedly pulling their yellow heads out of the grass.
Once, when I was on my bait, I did not notice how a cloud crawled from behind the forest, then a whirlwind came; Immediately everything around began to rustle, and the cloud broke through and fell in a cold slanting downpour. The geese, spreading their wings, flew into the grass. Broods hid underneath them. Suddenly something hit the visor of my cap, and a white pea rolled down to my feet.
The geese froze in the grass, calling to each other anxiously.
The white goose sat with its neck stretched high. The hail hit him on the head, the goose shuddered and covered his eyes. When a particularly large hailstone hit the crown of his head, he shook his head and straightened up again.
The cloud raged with increasing force. The geese could not stand it and ran, while the hail drummed loudly on their bent backs. Here and there the plaintive calling squeak of goslings was heard. And it was no longer round peas that rolled down to my feet, but pieces of hastily rolled ice.
The cloud disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. Under the sun's rays, the white, powdery meadow darkened and thawed before our eyes. The mutilated goslings were entangled in the fallen wet grass, as if in nets. Almost all of them died.
The meadow, warmed by the sun, turned green again. And only in the middle of it the white mound did not melt. I came closer. It was the White Goose. He lay with his mighty wings spread and his neck stretched out across the grass. The gray unblinking eye looked after the flying cloud. A trickle of blood ran down the beak from a small nostril.
All twelve fluffy “dandelions”, safe and sound, pushing and crushing each other, poured out from under the wing of the White Goose. Squeaking merrily, they scattered across the grass, picking up the surviving hailstones. opened up before them amazing world, full of sparkling grass and sun.
WHITE GOOSE
If birds were given military ranks, then this goose should be given an admiral. Everything about him was admiral: his bearing, his gait, and the tone in which he spoke with other village geese.
He walked importantly, thinking about every step. Before moving its paw, the goose raised it to its snow-white jacket, collected the membranes, just as one folds a fan, and, after holding it for a while, slowly lowered its paw into the mud. So he managed to walk along the most squishy, spread-out road without dirtying a single feather.
This goose never ran, even if a dog followed him. He always held his long neck high and motionless, as if he was carrying a glass of water on his head.
In fact, he didn’t seem to have a head. Instead, a huge, colored orange peel a beak with some kind of bump or horn on the bridge of the nose. Most of all, this bump looked like a cockade.
When the goose on the shallows rose to its full height and flapped its elastic one and a half meter wings, gray ripples ran across the water and the coastal reeds rustled. If at the same time he uttered his cry, the milkmaids’ milkboxes rang loudly in the meadows.
In a word, the White Goose was the most important bird throughout the entire camp. Due to his high position in the meadows, he lived carefree and freely. The best geese of the village were staring at him. The shallows, which had no equal in the abundance of mud, duckweed, shells and tadpoles, completely belonged to him. The cleanest, sun-baked sandy beaches are his, the lushest areas of the meadow are also his.
But the most important thing is that the reach on which I set up the bait was also considered by the White Goose to be his own. Because of this stretch, we have a long-standing dispute with him. He simply didn't acknowledge me. Then he leads his entire goose armada in a wake formation directly to the fishing rods, and even lingers and hits the float that turns up. Then the whole company will start swimming just at the opposite shore. And swimming involves cackling, flapping wings, chasing and hiding under water. But no, he starts a fight with a neighboring flock, after which plucked feathers float down the river for a long time and there is such an uproar, such bragging that there is no point in even thinking about bites.
Many times he ate worms from a can and stole kukans with fish. He did this not like a thief, but with the same sedate slowness and awareness of his power on the river. Obviously, the White Goose believed that everything in this world existed only for him alone, and he would probably be very surprised if he learned that he himself belonged to the village boy Stepka, who, if he wanted, would chop off the White Goose’s head on the chopping block , and Stepka’s mother will cook cabbage soup with fresh cabbage from it.
This spring, as soon as the country roads became windy, I assembled my bike, attached a couple of fishing rods to the frame and rode off to open the season. On the way, I stopped in a village and ordered Styopka to get some worms and bring them to me for bait.
The white goose was already there. Forgetting about enmity, I admired the bird. He stood, bathed in sunshine, at the edge of the meadow, right above the river. The tight feathers fit together so well that it seemed as if the goose had been carved from a block of refined sugar. The sun's rays shine through the feathers, burrowing into their depths, just as they shine through a lump of sugar.
Noticing me, the goose bent its neck to the grass and moved towards me with a threatening hiss. I barely had time to fence myself off with my bike.
And he hit the spokes with his wings, bounced back and hit again.
Shoo, damn it!
It was Styopka shouting. He ran with a can of worms along the path.
Shoo, shoo!
Styopka grabbed the goose by the neck and dragged it. The goose resisted, lashed the boy with its wings, and knocked his cap off.
Here's a dog! - said Styopka, dragging the goose away. - Doesn't give anyone access. Doesn't let him get closer than a hundred steps. He has goslings now, so he is angry.
Now only I saw that the dandelions, among which the White Goose stood, came to life and huddled together and were frightenedly pulling their yellow heads out of the grass.
Where is their mother? - I asked Styopka.
They are orphans...
How is this possible?
The car ran over the goose.
Styopka found his cap in the grass and rushed along the path to the bridge. He had to get ready for school.
While I was settling into the bait, the White Goose had already managed to fight with its neighbors several times. Then a mottled red bull came running from somewhere with a piece of rope around his neck. The goose attacked him.
The calf kicked its hindquarters and began to run away. The goose ran after him, stepped on a piece of rope with his paws and tumbled over his head. For some time the goose lay on its back, helplessly moving its paws. But then, having come to his senses and becoming even more angry, he chased the calf for a long time, plucking tufts of red fur from its thighs. Sometimes the bull tried to take up defensive positions. He, spreading his front hooves wide and staring at the goose with violet eyes, clumsily and not very confidently shook his lop-eared muzzle in front of the goose. But as soon as the goose raised its one and a half meter wings, the goby could not stand it and took off running. At the end, the calf huddled in an impassable vine and mooed sadly.
“That’s it!..” - the White Goose cackled throughout the grazing, victoriously twitching its short tail.
In short, the hubbub, the terrifying hissing and flapping of wings, did not stop in the meadow, and Stepka’s goslings timidly huddled together and squealed pitifully, every now and then losing sight of their violent father.
The goslings are completely screwed up, your bad head! - I tried to shame the White Goose.
“Hey! Hey! - rushed in response, and the fry jumped in the river. - Hey!..” Like, it’s not like that!
In our country, you would immediately be taken to the police for such things. “Ga-ga-ha-ha...” the goose mocked me.
You are a frivolous bird! And also dad! There is nothing to say, you are raising a generation...
While quarreling with the goose and straightening the bait washed out by the flood, I didn’t even notice how a cloud had crept in from behind the forest. It grew, rose like a gray-blue heavy wall, without gaps, without cracks, and slowly and inevitably devoured the blue of the sky. Now a cloud has rolled into the sun. Its edge sparkled for a moment like molten lead. But the sun could not melt the entire cloud and disappeared without a trace in its leaden womb. The meadow darkened as if it were twilight. A whirlwind flew in, picked up the goose feathers and, swirling, carried them upward.
The geese stopped nibbling the grass and raised their heads.
The first drops of rain slashed across the burdock water lilies. Immediately everything around began to rustle, the grass began to billow in blue waves, and the vines were turned inside out.
I barely had time to throw my cloak over myself when the cloud broke through and fell in a cold, slanting downpour. The geese, spreading their wings, lay down in the grass. Broods hid underneath them. Heads raised in alarm were visible throughout the meadow.
Suddenly something hit the visor of my cap harshly, bicycle spokes echoed with a subtle ringing sound, and a white pea rolled down to my feet.
I looked out from under my cloak. Gray hairs of hail trailed across the meadow. The village disappeared, the nearby forest disappeared from sight. The gray sky rustled dully, the gray water in the river hissed and foamed. The cut-out burdocks of water lilies burst with a crash.
The geese froze in the grass and called to each other anxiously.
The white goose sat with its neck stretched high. The hail hit him on the head, the goose shuddered and covered his eyes. When a particularly large hailstone hit the crown of his head, he would bend his neck and shake his head. Then he straightened up again and kept glancing at the cloud, carefully tilting his head to the side. A dozen goslings quietly scurried about under his widely spread wings.
The cloud raged with increasing force. It seemed that, like a bag, it had burst open all over, from edge to edge. On the path, white ice peas bounced, bounced, and collided in an uncontrollable dance.
The geese couldn't stand it and ran. They ran, half-crossed by gray stripes that lashed them backhand, and the hail drummed loudly on their bent backs. Here and there, in the grass mixed with hail, the tousled heads of goslings flashed, and their plaintive calling squeak was heard. Sometimes the squeak suddenly stopped, and the yellow “dandelion”, cut by the hail, drooped into the grass.
And the geese kept running, bending to the ground, falling in heavy blocks from the cliff into the water and huddling under willow bushes and shore edges. Following them, small pebbles were poured into the river by the kids - the few who still managed to run. I wrapped my head in my cloak. It was no longer round peas that rolled down to my feet, but pieces of hastily rolled ice the size of a quarter of sawn sugar. The raincoat did not protect me well, and pieces of ice hit me painfully on the back.
A calf rushed along the path with a thunderous clatter, hitting his boots with a piece of wet grass. Ten steps away he was already out of sight behind the gray curtain of hail.
Somewhere, a goose entangled in the vines screamed and thrashed, and the spokes of my bicycle jingled more and more tensely.
The cloud rushed by as suddenly as it had come. The hail streaked my back for the last time, danced along the coastal shallows, and now a village had already opened up on the other side, and the rays of the emerging sun were shining into the wet district, into the willows and meadows.
I pulled off my cloak.
Under the sun's rays, the white, powdery meadow darkened and thawed before our eyes. The path was covered with puddles. The mutilated goslings were entangled in the fallen wet grass, as if in nets. Almost all of them died before reaching the water.
The meadow, warmed by the sun, turned green again. And only in the middle of it the white mound did not melt. I came closer. It was the White Goose.
He lay with his mighty wings spread and his neck stretched out across the grass. The gray unblinking eye looked after the flying cloud. A trickle of blood ran down the beak from a small nostril.
All twelve fluffy “dandelions”, safe and sound, pushing and crushing each other, poured out. Squeaking merrily, they scattered across the grass, picking up the surviving hailstones. One gosling, with a dark ribbon on its back, clumsily rearranging its wide crooked legs, tried to climb onto the gander’s wing. But every time, unable to resist, he fell head over heels into the grass.
The baby got angry, impatiently moved his paws and, untangling himself from the blades of grass, stubbornly climbed onto the wing. Finally, the gosling climbed onto his father's back and froze. He had never climbed this high.
A wonderful world opened before him, full of sparkling grass and sun.
Today I propose to dive into the world of literature. As a child, this story touched me deeply. A very powerful piece! Today I share it with you, dear Friends! So, the story “The White Goose” by Evgeny Nosov:
If birds were given military ranks, then this goose should be given an admiral. Everything about him was admiral: his bearing, his gait, and the tone in which he spoke with other village geese.
He walked importantly, thinking about every step. Before moving its paw, the goose raised it to its snow-white jacket, collected the membranes, just as one folds a fan, and, after holding it for a while, slowly lowered its paw into the mud. So he managed to walk along the most squishy, spread-out road without dirtying a single feather.
This goose never ran, even if a dog followed him. He always held his long neck high and motionless, as if he was carrying a glass of water on his head.
In fact, he didn’t seem to have a head. Instead, a huge, orange peel-colored beak with some kind of bump or horn on the bridge of the nose was attached directly to the neck. Most of all, this bump looked like a cockade.
When the goose on the shallows rose to its full height and flapped its elastic one and a half meter wings, gray ripples ran across the water and the coastal reeds rustled. If at the same time he uttered his cry, the milkmaids’ milkboxes rang loudly in the meadows.
In a word, the White Goose was the most important bird in the entire swarm. Due to his high position in the meadows, he lived carefree and freely. The best geese of the village were staring at him. The shallows, which had no equal in the abundance of mud, duckweed, shells and tadpoles, completely belonged to him. The cleanest, sun-baked sandy beaches are his, the lushest areas of the meadow are also his.
But the most important thing is that the reach on which I set up the bait was also considered by the White Goose to be his own. Because of this stretch, we have a long-standing dispute with him. He simply didn't recognize me. Then he leads his entire goose armada in a wake formation directly to the fishing rods, and even lingers and hits the float that turns up. Then the whole company will start swimming just off the opposite shore. And swimming involves cackling, flapping wings, chasing and hiding under water. But no, he starts a fight with a neighboring flock, after which plucked feathers float down the river for a long time and there is such an uproar, such bragging that there is no point in even thinking about bites.
Many times he ate worms from a can and stole kukans with fish. He did this not like a thief, but with the same sedate slowness and awareness of his power on the river. Obviously, the White Goose believed that everything in this world existed only for him alone, and he would probably be very surprised if he learned that he himself belonged to the village boy Stepka, who, if he wanted, would chop off the White Goose’s head on the chopping block , and Stepka’s mother will cook cabbage soup with fresh cabbage from it.
This spring, as soon as the country roads became windy, I assembled my bike, attached a couple of fishing rods to the frame and rode off to open the season. On the way, I stopped in a village and ordered Styopka to get some worms and bring them to me for bait.
The white goose was already there. Forgetting about enmity, I admired the bird. He stood, bathed in sunshine, at the edge of the meadow, right above the river. The tight feathers fit together so well that it seemed as if the goose had been carved from a block of refined sugar. The sun's rays shine through the feathers, burrowing into their depths, just as they shine through a lump of sugar.
Noticing me, the goose bent its neck to the grass and moved towards me with a threatening hiss. I barely had time to fence myself off with my bike.
And he hit the spokes with his wings, bounced back and hit again.
- Shoo, damn it!
It was Styopka shouting. He ran with a can of worms along the path.
- Shoo, shoo!
Styopka grabbed the goose by the neck and dragged it. The goose resisted, lashed the boy with its wings, and knocked his cap off.
- Here's a dog! - said Styopka, dragging the goose away. - He doesn’t allow anyone passage. Doesn't let him get closer than a hundred steps. He has goslings now, so he is angry.
Now only I saw that the dandelions, among which the White Goose stood, came to life and huddled together and were frightenedly pulling their yellow heads out of the grass.
-Where is their mother? - I asked Styopka.
- They are orphans...
- How is that?
- The car ran over the goose.
Styopka found his cap in the grass and rushed along the path to the bridge. He had to get ready for school.
While I was settling into the bait, the White Goose had already managed to fight with its neighbors several times. Then a mottled red bull came running from somewhere with a piece of rope around his neck. The goose attacked him.
The calf kicked its hindquarters and began to run away. The goose ran after him, stepped on a piece of rope with his paws and tumbled over his head. For some time the goose lay on its back, helplessly moving its paws. But then, having come to his senses and becoming even more angry, he chased the calf for a long time, plucking tufts of red fur from its thighs. Sometimes the bull tried to take up defensive positions. He, spreading his front hooves wide and staring at the goose with violet eyes, clumsily and not very confidently shook his lop-eared muzzle in front of the goose. But as soon as the goose raised its one and a half meter wings, the goby could not stand it and took off running. At the end, the calf huddled in an impassable vine and mooed sadly.
“That’s it!..” - the White Goose cackled throughout the grazing, victoriously twitching its short tail.
In short, the hubbub, the terrifying hissing and flapping of wings, did not stop in the meadow, and Stepka’s goslings timidly huddled together and squealed pitifully, every now and then losing sight of their violent father.
- The goslings are completely wound up, your bad head! - I tried to shame the White Goose.
“Hey! Hey!” came the answer, and the fry were jumping in the river. “Hey!..” Like, how could it be wrong!
- In our country, you would immediately be taken to the police for such things. “Ga-ga-ha-ha...” the goose mocked me.
- You are a frivolous bird! And also dad! There is nothing to say, you are raising a generation...
While quarreling with the goose and straightening the bait washed out by the flood, I didn’t even notice how a cloud had crept in from behind the forest. It grew, rose like a gray-blue heavy wall, without gaps, without cracks, and slowly and inevitably devoured the blue of the sky. Now a cloud has rolled into the sun. Its edge sparkled for a moment like molten lead. But the sun could not melt the entire cloud and disappeared without a trace in its leaden womb. The meadow darkened as if it were twilight. A whirlwind flew in, picked up the goose feathers and, swirling, carried them upward.
The geese stopped nibbling the grass and raised their heads.
The first drops of rain slashed across the burdock water lilies. Immediately everything around began to rustle, the grass began to billow in blue waves, and the vines were turned inside out.
I barely had time to throw my cloak over myself when the cloud broke through and fell in a cold, slanting downpour. The geese, spreading their wings, lay down in the grass. Broods hid underneath them. Heads raised in alarm were visible throughout the meadow.
Suddenly something hit the visor of my cap harshly, bicycle spokes echoed with a subtle ringing sound, and a white pea rolled down to my feet.
I looked out from under my cloak. Gray hairs of hail trailed across the meadow. The village disappeared, the nearby forest disappeared from sight. The gray sky rustled dully, the gray water in the river hissed and foamed. The cut-out burdocks of water lilies burst with a crash.
The geese froze in the grass and called to each other anxiously.
The white goose sat with its neck stretched high. The hail hit him on the head, the goose shuddered and covered his eyes. When a particularly large hailstone hit the crown of his head, he would bend his neck and shake his head. Then he straightened up again and kept glancing at the cloud, carefully tilting his head to the side. A dozen goslings quietly scurried about under his widely spread wings.
The cloud raged with increasing force. It seemed that, like a bag, it had burst open all over, from edge to edge. On the path, white ice peas bounced, bounced, and collided in an uncontrollable dance.
The geese couldn't stand it and ran. They ran, half-crossed by gray stripes that lashed them backhand, and the hail drummed loudly on their bent backs. Here and there, in the grass mixed with hail, the tousled heads of goslings flashed, and their plaintive calling squeak was heard. Sometimes the squeak suddenly stopped, and the yellow “dandelion”, cut by the hail, drooped into the grass.
And the geese kept running, bending to the ground, falling in heavy blocks from the cliff into the water and huddling under willow bushes and shore edges. Following them, small pebbles were poured into the river by the kids - the few who still managed to run. I wrapped my head in my cloak. It was no longer round peas that rolled down to my feet, but pieces of hastily rolled ice the size of a quarter of sawn sugar. The raincoat did not protect me well, and pieces of ice hit me painfully on the back.
A calf rushed along the path with a thunderous clatter, hitting his boots with a piece of wet grass. Ten steps away he was already out of sight behind the gray curtain of hail.
Somewhere, a goose entangled in the vines screamed and thrashed, and the spokes of my bicycle jingled more and more tensely.
The cloud rushed by as suddenly as it had come. The hail streaked my back for the last time, danced along the coastal shallows, and now a village had already opened up on the other side, and the rays of the emerging sun were shining into the wet district, into the willows and meadows.
I pulled off my cloak.
Under the sun's rays, the white, powdery meadow darkened and thawed before our eyes. The path was covered with puddles. The mutilated goslings were entangled in the fallen wet grass, as if in nets. Almost all of them died before reaching the water.
The meadow, warmed by the sun, turned green again. And only in the middle of it the white mound did not melt. I came closer. It was the White Goose.
He lay with his mighty wings spread and his neck stretched out across the grass. The gray unblinking eye looked after the flying cloud. A trickle of blood ran down the beak from a small nostril.
All twelve fluffy "dandelions", safe and sound, pushing and crushing each other, poured out. Squeaking merrily, they scattered across the grass, picking up the surviving hailstones. One gosling, with a dark ribbon on its back, clumsily rearranging its wide crooked legs, tried to climb onto the gander’s wing. But every time, unable to resist, he fell head over heels into the grass.
The baby got angry, impatiently moved his paws and, untangling himself from the blades of grass, stubbornly climbed onto the wing. Finally, the gosling climbed onto his father's back and froze. He had never climbed this high.
A wonderful world opened before him, full of sparkling grass and sun.
Class: 4
During the classes
1. Organizational moment.
Whatever awaits you in life, children,
There is a lot of grief and evil in life,
There are temptations from insidious networks
And the burning darkness of repentance,
There is a longing of impossible desires,
Hopeless, joyless work
For ten happy minutes.
Still, do not weaken your soul,
When the time comes for testing, -
Humanity is alive alone
All around goodness...
Teacher's word:
– One of the most important and, unfortunately, scarce human qualities today is kindness . To be kind means to be responsive, to have a feeling of compassion for all living things.
You can learn goodness in different ways: from the life examples of the people who surround you, from the worthy actions of literary and book heroes.
But today in the lesson, not only people will be role models. We will learn goodness from nature. Back in the 18th century, the German poet Johann Seime said: “Get more closely acquainted with pure nature, and you will soon become acquainted with virtue. From communion with nature you will take away as much light as you need and as much courage as you want.”
Therefore, the main character and mentor in the lesson will be a representative of the animal world - the White Goose, the hero of the novel of the same name by E. I. Nosov.
Now a word has been heard that is unfamiliar to you: short story . We will definitely find out a little later what kind of literary term this is and the lexical meaning of other words that are not clear from the text.
Sometimes a person lacks earthly language to express feelings and a deeper understanding of reality. And that’s when “ a more eloquent language is music ” (P. I. Tchaikovsky). It is she who will help me teach today’s lesson, and you will appreciate our hero more clearly and deeply: his character, his pranks, his feat. “ After all, without music life would be incomplete, deaf, poor …” (D. Shostakovich).
Now let’s see what the origins of the writer’s talent are, where he gets such a talent to write about the kindest things, to touch the strings of the soul. I want to tell you about Evgeny Ivanovich Nosov.
2. Acquaintance with the biography of the writer.
Evgeniy Ivanovich was born in 1925 near Kursk in the village of Tolmachevo. The father of the future writer was a craftsman - he worked as a mechanic, a hammer hammer in a forge shop, and a boilermaker. His grandfather was also a blacksmith in his time. From here, from family traditions, Evgeny Ivanovich came to have the deepest respect for work, “the ability to see through everyday life the beautiful side ... of any craft.”
As a boy, Evgeniy Ivanovich loved to go out at night with his grandfather. Horses, dewy grass, a fire, a chilly pre-dawn. Merging with nature greatly inspired the future writer.
It should be added that Zhenya was a romantic by nature: he played games that he invented himself, was interested in ships, and read books about travel and adventure. As a child, he climbed onto his father’s lap and watched with admiration as he cut out funny figures of horses and dogs from paper with scissors. The boy asked to carve a Budenovo man, a tractor or an airplane, but his father’s skills were not enough for these “orders.” And now five-year-old Zhenya himself begins to peer intently into the world, tries with the help of scissors and then a pencil to reproduce and “hold” everything that strikes him. Already as a teenager, he redrew a great many color images of animals and birds into a family album.
Evgeniy Ivanovich retained and developed this pictorial perception in himself. “In fact, when I describe something, I certainly ask myself: “How can this be painted with paints?” Therefore, in any story, living colors glow in many subtle shades. huge world.
Evgeniy Ivanovich was 18 years old when he went to the front as an artilleryman. Witness of many major battles. He was awarded many awards: “For courage” and “For victory over Germany.” May 1945 - wounded, hospital. Evgeny Ivanovich experienced the troubles and hardships of the war. He realized that life is given only once: you need to love it, love people, love all living things and do good.
He was twenty years old when he left the hospital with disability benefits. E.I. thinks to continue his studies, because before the war he completed the eighth grade. But when he entered the ninth-graders now, after the hospital, in a faded tunic, gleaming with medals and orders, the guys stood up in unison, mistaking him for a new teacher...
I had to leave school, especially since I had to earn a living. Nosov leaves for Kazakhstan, begins working in one of the local newspapers - first as a graphic designer (his former hobby came in handy), then as a literary employee. This work became the final school in which Evgeniy Ivanovich’s mastery developed.
In his works, E. I. Nosov equally deeply perceives the beauty of nature and the beauty of the human soul. He never acted as a children's writer. However, many of his stories are, of course, accessible, and most importantly, necessary for you, those who are preparing to enter adulthood.
3. Vocabulary work.
A list of words from the text is offered on the board and their lexical meaning is clarified.
Novella – literary genre centered on an important event, a case that reveals the character of the hero, with a sharp, exciting plot and an unexpected end, finale.
(For comparison, we can also give a definition of the concept “story”.)
Story - literary genre; it describes one or more events, an incident from the life of the hero, with a calm unfolding of the plot.
Shoal - a shoal extending from the shore.
Plyos – wide expanse of water between the islands.
Armada – about a large navy (for example: naval armada, air armada).
A dozen - quantity 12. Used in a humorous form about the number 13 (devil's dozen).
Privada – food for baiting animals and birds.
Wake- a wave stream remaining behind a moving ship. Wake formation (from the text) - a formation of goslings swimming one after another.
4. Work on the content of the text.
Before us is a narrative text, which means it can be divided into three parts.
(With the help of the children, work is underway to title parts of the text. It roughly looks like this:
1. Wayward White Goose.
2. Disaster.
3. Life goes on.
Other options are possible.)
A). Analysis of the first part of the work.
- Guys, what do you think is the significance of this part? ( Getting to know the hero, his character traits are revealed. )
– Who did the hero of the novel appear to us? Who does the author compare him to? (With the admiral. )
- So, our hero is “admiral”. Is it so? Prove it to me with text.
(Bearing, gait, tone, walked importantly, never ran, even if a dog came after him, held his neck high and motionless, elastic one and a half meter wings, ringing voice, did not recognize anyone.
A beautiful bird: snow-white tight feathers like a block of refined sugar, a snow-white jacket, a beak the color of an orange peel, the best geese stared at it.)
– Yes, the author chooses the word, it is really picturesque. Before us are “living colors of a huge world,” “an amazing world.” What music filled your soul when they talked about the goose - the admiral? ( Solemn, gentle, etc. .)
– Of course, everyone has their own music, their own vision of the hero. I suggest you listen to the music in which I saw the White Goose. ( Guys listening to music .)
– Now let’s read the beginning of the text to this music, so that the White Goose appears brighter for us and for our guests. ( Continue reading up to page 233 “...But most importantly...” )
– Guys, what kind of relationship does the author have with our hero? ( They explain with quotes from the text up to page 234 “...Obviously, the White Goose believed...” )
– And until what moment do you have such an opinion about him? And is there an excuse for him? ( Styopka, the owner of the goose, brings to our consciousness that all this was done by the goose - the father, the head large family, who has twelve orphan goslings, their mother died.)
B). Analysis of the second part of the novella.
– A new character, a new hero appears in the work. This cloud is a predator that “devours everything in its path.” What means of expressive speech does the author use to make the presentation vivid?
(Comparisons: heavy wall; like a bag; molten lead.
Personifications: grew, devoured, rose, raged...
)
– Now let’s reproduce what happened, the whole picture of the storm’s growth. ( Verbs are written on the board to help picture the disaster..)
– So, verbs helped us feel the increasing tension in nature.
– How did the supporting characters behave? ( Bustle . Answers are supported by quotations from the text.)
- How did our main character throughout the storm? ( Page 236 “...The white goose sat with its neck stretched high...” )
- Look - the admiral goose is in front of us again; he is courageous, he is a hero! Why didn't the goose run to escape? ( He could not abandon his children, he is responsible for the fate of twelve “dandelions,” as Evgeniy Ivanovich affectionately calls the goslings.)
IN). Analysis of the third part of the novella.
(To the music, the teacher reads the third part of page 236.)
“... The cloud rushed by as suddenly as it came. The hail streaked my back for the last time, danced along the coastal shallows, and now a village had already opened up on the other side, and the rays of the emerging sun were shining into the wet district, into the willows and meadows.
I pulled off my cloak.
Under the sun's rays, the white, powdery meadow darkened and thawed before our eyes. The path was covered with puddles. The mutilated goslings were entangled in the fallen wet grass, as if in nets. Almost all of them died before reaching the water.
The meadow, warmed by the sun, turned green again. And only in the middle of it the white mound did not melt. I came closer. It was the White Goose.
He lay with his mighty wings spread and his neck stretched out across the grass. The gray unblinking eye looked after the flying cloud. A trickle of blood flowed down the beak from a small nostril.
All twelve fluffy “dandelions”, safe and sound, pushing and crushing each other, poured out. Squeaking merrily, they scattered across the grass, picking up the surviving hailstones. One gosling with a dark ribbon on its back, clumsily rearranging its wide crooked legs, tried to climb onto the gander’s wing. But every time, unable to resist, he fell head over heels into the grass.
The baby got angry, impatiently moved his paws and, untangling himself from the blades of grass, stubbornly climbed onto the wing. Finally, the gosling climbed onto his father's back and froze. He had never climbed this high.
A wonderful world opened before him, full of sparkling grass and sun.”
– What feelings filled your hearts when reading this episode? ( Pain, sadness, sadness... )
– Was it worth going to death? ( Yes. To save twelve lives. )
– Why did I call this part “Life Goes On”? ( The stupid gosling, who climbed onto his father's back, resembles his father with his character traits, assertiveness, confidence, diligence, and willpower.)
– And again the goose looks like an admiral. He is beautiful even in death, he courageously accepted death and now lay, “spreading his mighty wings wide.” The author is proud of his hero. He tells us about the greatness of love, about the beauty of feat, and therefore does not hide his admiration.)
5. Conclusion, impressions of the novel.
– What is the main idea of the novella? ( Love for all living things .)
– What feelings did you have after reading it? ( Children's answers .)
– One of the means of expressiveness of speech is phraseological units that decorate it and make it figurative. You know that some of them arose from human observations of social and natural phenomena, others are associated with mythology and real historical events, others come from fairy tales, riddles, songs, and literary works.
Now we will recall several phraseological units related to the habits of animals, their character, and way of life. I will say the beginning catchphrase, and you its ending.
– Now remember what can be connected with fish? ( Dumb like a fish .)
- With a magpie? ( Chatty as a magpie .)
- Let's come up with a phraseological unit associated with the hero of our lesson. And let this phrase truly become true catchphrase. And the one who is compared to the White Goose will be given great honor. ( Bold, courageous, fearless, courageous, loving, noble, wayward, etc. like the White Goose .)
– I thank everyone for the lesson and hope that it will not pass without a trace. After all, the whole work, like all life, is built on love and kindness. And let's try with our actions to refute the saying said back in the 10th century BC by the Greek philosopher Heraclitus: “Animals, living with us, become tame, and people, communicating with each other, become wild.”
6. Homework.
- You can come up with your own ending, with a less tragic ending.
- Write reviews about what you read.
- Find and read works where the main characters are animals, whose actions can serve as an example for us.
