FAIRY TALES AND STORIES ABOUT SUMMER FOR CHILDREN

Story: I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov “Summer in the Forest”

It’s nice and relaxing in the forest in the summer.
The trees are covered with green foliage. It smells like mushrooms, ripe, fragrant strawberries.
The birds are singing loudly. Orioles whistle, restless cuckoos cuckoo as they fly from tree to tree. Nightingales sing in the bushes above the streams.
Animals prowl under the trees in the forest. Bears roam, moose graze, cheerful squirrels frolic. A robber lynx is hiding in the dark thicket.
At the very top of the old spruce, in the dense branches, goshawks made a nest. They see many forest secrets and fabulous wonders from a high dark peak.

Summer dawn

The warm summer night has ended. The morning dawn is breaking over the forest.
A light fog is still spreading over the forest fields. The leaves on the trees are covered with cool dew.
The songbirds have already woken up. The sleepy cuckoo crowed and choked.
“Cuckoo! Kuk-kuk-kuk! — her cuckoo rang loudly through the forest.
The warm sun will rise soon and dry the dew. Greeting the sun, the birds will sing even louder and the cuckoo will crow. The fog over the clearing will melt.
A tired white hare returns from his night hunt.
The little bunny has many enemies. A cunning fox chased him, a terrible eagle owl scared him, and a robber lynx caught him.
The little bunny escaped from all his enemies.

Forest guards

The most sensitive and intelligent bird is the raven.
Smart crows - vigilant forest guards - see everything, smell everything.
So, with prey in his teeth, burying himself in the bushes, a wolf ran through the forest. The sharp-eyed crows saw the wolf, circled over the robber, and shouted at the top of their lungs:
“Carrr! Karrr! Beat the robber! Beat the robber!”
The wolf heard this cry, covered his ears, and ran quickly to his lair.
On the shore of a forest lake, crows noticed a fox. The gossip quietly made her way into the hole. She destroyed many birds' nests and offended many chicks.
The crows and the fox saw:
“Carrr! Karrr! Catch, catch the robber!”
The fox got scared and hid in the dark forest. She knows that sensitive forest guards will not allow her to destroy nests or harm little chicks.

Fox

A fox dug a deep hole in a pine forest.
In early spring, blind little fox cubs were born here in a hole.
Every day the fox leaves for prey, leaving fox cubs in the hole. The red fox cubs grew up, became stronger, and began to emerge from the cramped dark hole. It’s fun to play and frolic in the forest under the trees, tumble on the soft moss.
Hiding behind the trees, the old fox returns with prey.
Hungry fox cubs will greedily pounce on their prey.
The lively fox cubs grow quickly and eat a lot.

Over the river

Along the banks of the river there is a pine forest.
The wind is blowing over the river. Noisy waves splash on the shore. Gray white white lambs walk along the waves.
A huge white-tailed eagle soared above the waves. Holds a living, quivering fish in its claws.
Sharp-sighted eagles know how to fish. From a great height they throw themselves onto the waves like stones and tenaciously grab their prey.
In the most large forests on the peaks tall trees Eagles build nests. They bring a lot of different prey to the voracious chicks.
Vigilant and strong eagles see far. They soar under the very clouds clear days. They can clearly see where the little hare hid in the grass with his ears flattened, where a fish splashed above the waves, where a cautious mother capercaillie brought her brood out into the forest clearing.

summer night

It's a warm night in the forest
The moon is shining on a clearing surrounded by forest. Night grasshoppers chirp, nightingales sing in the bushes.
In the tall grass, long-legged, agile corncrakes scream without rest.
“Whoa, whoa! Whoa, whoa! Whoa, whoa!” - Their loud hoarse scream is heard from all sides.
Bats fly silently in the air.
At the edge of the path, green lanterns of fireflies lit up here and there.
Quiet in the night forest. A hidden forest stream is barely audible. The beauties of the night—violets—smell fragrantly.
Here a white hare hobbled and crunched a twig, setting off to hunt. Casting a light shadow across the clearing, an owl flew and disappeared.
In the depths of the forest, a scarecrow owl suddenly hooted and laughed, like in a scary fairy tale.
The eagle owl got scared, woke up in the nest, a small forest bird squeaked timidly...

Slovak folk tale "The Sun Visits"

One day a large cloud covered the sky. The sun didn't show for three days.

The chickens are bored without sunlight.
-Where did that sun go? - They say. “We need to return him to heaven as soon as possible.”
-Where will you find him? - the hen cackled. - Do you know where it lives?
“We don’t know, but we’ll ask whoever we meet,” answered the chickens.

The hen collected them for the journey. She gave me a bag and a purse. In the bag there is a grain, in the purse there is a poppy seed.

The chickens have left. They walked and walked and saw: in the garden, behind a head of cabbage, a snail was sitting. She is big, horned, and has a hut on her back.

The chickens stopped and asked:
- Snail, snail, do you know where the sun lives?
- Don't know. There's a magpie sitting on the fence - maybe she knows.

But the magpie did not wait for the chickens to come to her. She flew up to them, chattered, and crackled:
- Chickens, where are you going, where? Where are you chickens, chickens, going, where?
The chickens answer:
- Yes, the sun has disappeared. He was not in heaven for three days. Let's go look for him.
- And I will go with you! And I will go with you! And I will go with you!
- Do you know where the sun lives?
“I don’t know, but the hare maybe knows: he lives next door, across the border!” - the magpie chirped!

The hare saw that guests were coming to him, straightened his hat, wiped his mustache and opened the gate wider.
“Hare, hare,” the chickens squealed, the magpie chattered, “do you know where the sun lives?” We're looking for him.
“I don’t know, but my neighbor the duck, she probably knows; she lives near a stream in the reeds.

The hare led everyone to the stream. And near the stream there is a duck house and a shuttle is tied nearby.
- Hey, neighbor, are you home or not? - shouted the hare.
- Home, home! - the duck quacked. “I still can’t dry out; there hasn’t been any sun for three days.”
- And we’re just going to look for the sun! - the chickens, the magpie and the hare shouted back to her. - Do you know where it lives?
“I don’t know, but behind the stream, under a hollow beech tree, a hedgehog lives - he knows.”

They crossed the stream in a canoe and went to look for the hedgehog. And the hedgehog sat under a beech tree and dozed:
“Hedgehog, hedgehog,” the chickens, magpie, hare and duck shouted in unison, “do you know where the sun lives?” He had not been in heaven for three days; had he fallen ill?
The hedgehog thought and said:
- How can you not know! I know where the sun lives. Behind the beech tree is a large mountain. There is a big cloud on the mountain. Above the cloud is the silver moon, and there the sun is just a stone's throw away!

The hedgehog took a stick, pulled his hat down and walked ahead of everyone to show the way.

Here they come to the top high mountain. And there the cloud clung to the top and lay there.

A chicken, a magpie, a hare, a duck and a hedgehog climbed onto the cloud, sat tight, and the cloud flew straight to visit the month. And the moon saw them and quickly lit up its silver horn.

“A month, a month,” the chickens, the magpie, the hare, the duck and the hedgehog shouted to him, “show us where the sun lives!” He was not in heaven for three days, we missed him.

The month brought them straight to the gates of the sun's house, but the house was dark, there was no light: it had fallen asleep, apparently the sun did not want to wake up.

Then the magpie chattered, the chickens squeaked, the duck quacked, the hare flapped his ears, and the hedgehog rattled with his stick:
- Bucket sun, look out, shine it!
- Who is screaming under the window? - asked the sun. - Who is stopping me from sleeping?
- It’s us - chickens, a magpie, a hare, a duck, and a hedgehog. We came to wake you up: morning has come.
“Oh, oh!..” the sun moaned. - How can I look at the sky? For three days the clouds hid me, for three days they obscured me, now I won’t even be able to shine...

The hare heard about this - he grabbed a bucket and started carrying water. A duck heard about this - let’s wash the sun with water. And magpie - wipe with a towel. Let's clean the hedgehog with prickly bristles. And the chickens began to brush away specks from the sun.

The sun came out into the sky, clean, clear and golden. And everywhere it became light and warm.

The chicken also came out to bask in the sun. She came out, clucked, and called the chickens to her. And the chickens are right there. They run around the yard, look for grains, and bask in the sun.

If you don’t believe me, let him look: are there chickens running around the yard or not?

Fairy tale "Wonderful time."

Everything in nature changes. A bright and rainy autumn gives way to a frosty and blizzard winter. After winter comes the green beauty of spring. But now the time comes for the red spring to leave. And behind it, the red summer is right there, just waiting for it.
And all the inhabitants of the magical forest were waiting for summer.
First of all, the forest animals were happy. Little newborn fox cubs have crawled out of their holes and are playing contentedly in the sun. And the wolf cubs are right there. They just don't care about the game. Their mother wolf teaches them to hunt. But the cubs went further into the forest and began to eat everything that came along the way - this is how they began to accumulate fat for the winter, so that they would not be cold to sleep later. It’s good for the animals in the summer - there’s a lot of food, it’s warm, it’s good.
And the birds are also happy and happy about the warm sun. All the voices are chirping incessantly, you can listen to them. But birds not only need to sing and fly from branch to branch, little chicks are waiting for them in their nests, which need to be fed and warmed. Well, this is not a problem - in the summer there is food, apparently and invisibly, for bugs and spiders and dragonflies of all kinds. The birds are happy.
What about insects? They have a lot of work in the summer. Ants swarm in an anthill, lay eggs and hatch offspring, a bee collects useful honey, caterpillars turn into butterflies, and an earthworm loosens the soil in vegetable gardens. Everything brings benefits - after all, summer flies by quickly, and then it’s time to hibernate.
And the flowers, the little flowers-buds, have opened their buds and beckon with their aroma, inviting insects for nectar. And in the clearings, berries peek out from the grass and ask to be put into your mouth. What a beauty, and what a aroma!
And people are happy about the warm summer. He bathes in the river, picks berries, and basks in the sun. And everyone, everyone wants this wonderful time to never end.

Fairy tale: L.N. Tolstoy "The Squirrel and the Wolf"

The squirrel jumped from branch to branch and fell straight onto the sleepy wolf. The wolf jumped up and wanted to eat her. The squirrel began to ask:

Let me go.

Wolf said:

Okay, I’ll let you in, just tell me why you squirrels are so cheerful. I’m always bored, but I look at you, you’re up there all playing and jumping.

Belka said:

Let me go up the tree first, and from there I’ll tell you, otherwise I’m afraid of you.

The wolf let go, and the squirrel went up a tree and from there said:

You're bored because you're angry. Anger burns your heart. And we are cheerful because we are kind and do no harm to anyone.

Vitaly Bianki "Conversation of birds at the end of summer" ("Bird conversations")

Yellow Chiffchaff from a yellowed branch:

- Shadow!
Pe-noch-ke
Day-day
Shadow!

Pied crested hoopoe: - It's bad here! It's bad here! It's bad here!

Bullfinch: - Creepy! Horrible!

Redstart: - Live! Live!

Sparrow: - Barely alive! Barely alive!

The crows will fly to the trash heap and shout: “Harch!” Grub!

Swallows chirp:

- Baking rolls,
Roast on the stove
Yay-ishenku!

Snipes are heavenly lambs, falling from under the clouds:

- Bake, bake, bake, bake -
Ba-ee-ee!

Cranes:

- Touch, touch! Let's go on a hike!
Over the mountains, over the seas:
We are not flying in vain
We and the eagles -
Kurls! Kurls!

Wild geese flying by:

- Hungry! Cold!

Terenty-Teterev:

- Nonsense! Selling a hoodie, selling a hoodie, buying...

Eagle owl from the forest: - Shubu!

Grouse: - I’ll buy a fur coat! I'll buy a fur coat!

Chizhik:

- Stockings, stockings, felt boots!
Stockings, stockings, mittens!

Heavenly lambs:

- Well, buy, buy, buy -
Ba-ee-ee!..

Chiffchaff:

- Shadow!
Pe-noch-ke
Day-day

Stories for children about summer, nature and animals in summer.

My Russia

Since this summer, I have become forever and wholeheartedly attached to Central Russia. I do not know a country that has such enormous lyrical power and such touchingly picturesque - with all its sadness, calm and spaciousness - as middle lane Russia. The magnitude of this love is difficult to measure. Everyone knows this for themselves. You love every blade of grass, drooping from the dew or warmed by the sun, every mug of water from the summer well, every tree above the lake, its leaves fluttering in the calm, every rooster crow, every cloud floating across the pale and high sky. And if I sometimes want to live to be one hundred and twenty years old, as grandfather Nechipor predicted, it is only because one life is not enough to fully experience all the charm and all the healing power of our Central Ural nature.

Summer in the forest

It's good in the forest on a hot afternoon. What you won’t see here! Tall pines hung their needle-like tops. Christmas trees arch their thorny branches. A curly birch tree with fragrant leaves shows off. The gray aspen tree is trembling. A stocky oak tree spreads its carved leaves. A strawberry eye peeks out from the grass. A fragrant berry is blushing nearby.

Lily of the valley catkins swing between the long, smooth leaves. A woodpecker knocks on the trunk with its strong nose. The oriole screams. A tenacious squirrel flashed its fluffy tail. A cracking sound is heard far away in the bowl. Isn't this a bear?

Forest

Otherwise, you’ll order a racing droshky and go into the forest to hunt hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along the narrow path between two walls of tall rye. Ears of corn quietly hit you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; the long, hanging branches of the birches barely move; a mighty oak tree stands like a fighter next to a beautiful linden tree. You are driving along a green path dotted with shadows; large yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, lighter in the shade, darker in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds with innocent, chatty joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest becomes deaf... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and everything around is so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown leaves; The mushrooms stand separately under their caps. The hare will suddenly jump out, the dog will rush after him with a ringing bark.

The aspen groves darkened in the depths, the forest became a thick cloud, and over the white-trunked birches the crowns that had just turned red, but were already turning black, silently closed. The sky was still light, but it was burning down from the sunset edge. The birds chattered less and less, shaking themselves off on the branches before going to sleep. Blackbirds chattered grumpily, and woodcocks rarely flew through the bush, marked in the middle with last year's black snow, uttering a calling cry and shaking their beaks in tune with their leathery creaking.
... In the evening, which has already shrouded the forest, in the cooling sky, in the eared anemone flowers, closing their white eyelashes at night, in the splayed corydalis, in the spiny herbal grasses, in the anthill leaned against a stump, in the rustle of a mouse under a haystack, in every aspen tree , a birch tree, a fir tree - in everything, in everything, there was hidden the joy of awakening that was close to me, although it seemed that everything around was going to rest.
It seemed to me like a child's game. Nature closed only one eye at night, pretending to be asleep - after all, the sun had set, and evening had come, and there was supposed to be peace, sleep and rest.
The earth sighed and was damply foggy with the distances, but it did all this with slyness, as if playing at sleep and obedience.
Chu! A snowy stream mutters in the ravine, covered with dark bird cherry trees; a hare wandered into the aspen forests, having lost its fear and caution in passion; and the raven, the silent raven, fussed about in the fir trees and began to purr and talk so much that it seemed like there wasn’t a single living soul in the whole forest who was kinder and more loving than him. Somewhere a little sandpiper, a cheerful cavalryman, is crying; somewhere, a black woodpecker made a burst of bursts of beak on a dry trunk. I jerked off and listened to it myself - what music! And far, far away, in quiet and deserted fields filled with puddles, the lapwings burst into tears and awakened a groan in the chest of a lonely crane, which for the third day had been walking lanky across the field and calling, calling someone in a sick voice...
There is no dream, there is the appearance of it. There is no peace either, and there will not be until the first leaf. Everything lives, rejoices and mischiefs in the homelessness of the forest, enjoying freedom, confusion, and the premonition of love.
Mother Earth and all of nature wisely, with a condescending grin, watches her children - soon, very soon, all this will end: nests will be made, holes will be dug, hollows will be found in trees, there will be fights on the currents, only feathers will fly, passions will rage. The forest brotherhood, careless and careless, will boil over, rage, split into families and strengthen itself by caring for children and home. Business and long troubles will enter the world, respectful work will triumph in the forest...
In the meantime, the emaciated but smart forest people, subsisting more on songs rather than on God’s food, are impatiently waiting for the first ray of sunshine, delirious about the inevitably approaching love. In the veins of all living things, in the cores of trees, in the hearts of birds and animals, the juices and blood of spring flow, pound, and ferment.

On the field in summer

Fun on the field, free on the wide field! Multi-colored fields seem to run along the hills to the blue stripe of the distant forest. The golden rye is agitated; she inhales the strengthening air. Young oats turn blue; Blooming buckwheat with red stems and white-pink, honey-colored flowers turns white. Hidden away from the road was a curly pea, and behind it a pale green strip of flax with bluish eyes. On the other side of the road, the fields turn black under the flowing steam.

The lark flutters over the rye, and the sharp-winged eagle looks vigilantly from above: he sees a noisy quail in the thick rye, he also sees a field mouse as it hurries into its hole with a grain that has fallen from a ripe ear. Hundreds of invisible grasshoppers are chattering everywhere.

Morning rays

The red sun floated into the sky and began sending out its golden rays everywhere - waking up the earth.
The first ray flew and hit the lark. The lark started, flew out of the nest, rose high, high and sang its silver song: “Oh, how good it is in the fresh morning air! How good! How fun!”
The second beam hit the bunny. The bunny twitched his ears and hopped merrily across the dewy meadow: he ran to get some juicy grass for breakfast.
The third beam hit the chicken coop. The rooster flapped his wings and sang: ku-ka-re-ku! The chickens flew away from their infestations, clucked, and began to rake away the rubbish and look for worms. The fourth beam hit the hive. A bee crawled out of its wax cell, sat on the window, spread its wings and - zoom-zoom-zoom! - flew off to collect honey from fragrant flowers.
The fifth ray hit the nursery, on the little lazy man’s bed: it hit him right in the eyes, and he turned on the other side and fell asleep again.

Dostoevsky Fyodor Mikhailovich

I remembered the month of August in our village: the day was dry and clear, but somewhat cold and windy; Summer is coming to an end, and soon I have to go to Moscow again to be bored all winter with French lessons, and I’m so sorry to leave the village. I walked behind the threshing floor and, descending into the ravine, climbed up to Losk - that’s what we called the dense bush on the other side of the ravine all the way to the rain. I am completely immersed in my work, I am busy: I break out a walnut whip for myself to whip frogs with; hazel whips are so beautiful and so fragile, compared to birch ones. I am also interested in insects and beetles, I collect them, there are some very elegant ones; I also love small, agile, red-yellow lizards with black spots, but I’m afraid of snakes. However, snakes are found much less often than lizards. There are few mushrooms here, you have to go to the birch forest to get mushrooms, and I’m going to go. And I loved nothing in life more than the forest with its mushrooms and wild berries, with its insects and birds, hedgehogs and squirrels, with its so-beloved damp smell of decaying leaves.

Nikita's childhood

(Excerpts)

The languor and heat intensified. The birds fell silent, the flies grew drowsy on the windows. By evening, the low sun disappeared into the hot darkness. Dusk came quickly. It was completely dark - not a single star. The barometer needle firmly pointed - “storm”...
And in the dead silence, the willows on the pond were the first to rustle, dully and importantly, and the frightened cries of the rooks could be heard. The noise became louder and more solemn, and finally, a strong gust of wind crushed the acacia trees near the balcony, a fragrant perfume blew through the door, brought in several dry leaves, the fire in the frosted globe of the lamp flickered, the rushing wind whistled and howled in the chimneys and in the corners of the house.
Somewhere a window crashed and broken glass rang. The whole garden was now noisy, the trunks creaked, the invisible peaks swayed.
And then - the night opened up with a dazzling white-blue light, and for a moment low-bending trees appeared as black outlines. And again darkness. And the whole sky thundered and collapsed. Over the noise, no one heard the raindrops falling and flowing on the windows. The rain poured down - strong, abundant, in torrents.
The smell of moisture, dampness, rain and grass filled the hall...

Bezhin meadow

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull purple, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - peacefully emerges from under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and plunges into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver... But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose merrily and majestically, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; perhaps here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, the scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, it glows on it evening star. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness.

On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwind vortices - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

Summer morning in July: the oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming.
And how good this same forest is late autumn... There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; an autumn smell, similar to the smell of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a thin fog stands in the distance... the earth is elastic under your feet... Your chest breathes calmly...

On an early summer morning, go into the forest, to the river that quietly flows between the trees.
Take care of food: take bread and butter with you. Near the river, sit down on a mossy bank, undress and throw yourself into the cold water.
Don't be afraid to catch a cold. Discover willpower. After swimming, find an open spot and lie down in the hot sun. Do this daily and you will be healthy. And a summer, July morning!.. You part the wet bush and you will be doused with the accumulated warm smell of the night. Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a spring... You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move, you are in the shadows, you are breathing odorous dampness; you're good...

Summer evening

In the distant and pale depths of the sky, stars were just appearing; in the west it was still red - there the sky seemed clearer and cleaner; the semicircle of the moon glittered gold through the black mesh of the weeping birch. Other trees either stood as gloomy giants, with a thousand gaps, like eyes, or merged into solid gloomy masses. Not a single leaf moved; the upper branches of lilacs and acacias seemed to be listening to something and stretched out in the warm air. The house grew dark nearby; Long illuminated shadows were drawn on it with spots of reddish light. The evening was gentle and quiet; but a restrained, passionate sigh was felt in this silence.

Thunderstorm in the forest

Tolstoy Alexey Nikolaevich But what is this? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is there a cloud coming? But then lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing; its front edge is extended by the sleeve, tilted by the arch. The grass, the bushes, everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... quickly... You ran, entered...
How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!..

The recently risen sun flooded the entire grove with a strong, although not bright, light; Dewdrops glittered everywhere, and here and there large drops suddenly lit up and glowed; everything breathed with freshness, life and that innocent solemnity of the first moments of the morning, when everything is already so light and still so silent. All that could be heard was the scattered voices of larks over the distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three birds, in a hurry, raised their short little knees and seemed to listen later to how it turned out for them. There was a healthy, strong smell from the wet earth, and the clean, light air shimmered with cool currents.

The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white like late spring snow, flat and oblong like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round spongy growths with gray edges, the same growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; the strawberries sent out their pink tendrils over them: the mushrooms immediately sat closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of “crane peas”, golden cups of “night blindness”, half lilac, half yellow Ivan da Marya flowers; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles - there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up and then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out - everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully - you would be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and everything again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth.

And a summer, July morning! Who, besides the hunter, has experienced how pleasant it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? The trace of your feet lies like a green line across the dewy, whitened grass. If you part the wet bush, you will be bombarded with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the whole air is filled with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, buckwheat honey and “porridge”; In the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming. The head is languidly spinning from the excess of fragrances. There is no end to the bush... here and there in the distance ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. The cart creaked; A man makes his way step by step, puts his horse in the shade... You greeted him, walked away - the sonorous clang of a scythe can be heard behind you... The sun is getting higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. It's already getting hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; The still air breathes with stinging heat. “Where can I get a drink here, brother?” - you ask the mower. “And there’s a well in the ravine.”

Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a source; the oak bush greedily spread its clawed branches over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom covered with fine velvet moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe the odorous dampness; you feel good, but opposite you the bushes heat up and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is a cloud approaching?.. But lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud grows: its front edge stretches out like a sleeve, tilts like an arch. The grass, the bushes - everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! Over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... hurry up! You ran, entered... How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!..

But then evening comes. The dawn burst into flames and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; soft steam lies in the distance, warm in appearance; along with the dew, a scarlet shine falls onto the clearings, recently doused with streams of liquid gold; Long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the tall haystacks... The sun had set; the star has lit up and is trembling in the fiery sea of ​​sunset... Now it is turning pale; the sky turns blue; individual shadows disappear, the air fills with darkness. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing the gun over your shoulders, you walk quickly, despite your fatigue... Meanwhile, night comes; twenty steps away you can no longer see anything; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Here, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky becomes vaguely clear. What is this? Fire?.. No, it's the moon rising.

The heat forced us to enter the grove. I rushed under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple had spread its light branches.

Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads widely beneath you, that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far away, ending at the end of a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and another one sways next to it, reminiscent of the play of a fishpond in its movement, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass - and now, suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to endless fine sand of a sudden swell. You don't move - you look; and it is impossible to express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in the heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them, in a slow string, happy memories pass through your soul, and it still seems to you that your gaze is leaving further and further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth...

("Taras Bulba")

The further the steppe went, the more beautiful it became. Then the whole south, all that space... right up to the Black Sea was a green, virgin desert... Nothing in nature could be better. The entire surface of the earth seemed like a green-golden ocean, over which millions of different colors splashed... an ear of wheat brought from God knows where was pouring in the thick... The air was filled with a thousand different bird whistles. Hawks stood motionless in the sky, spreading their wings and motionlessly fixing their eyes on the grass... A seagull rose from the grass with measured strokes and bathed luxuriously in the blue waves of air. There she has disappeared in the heights and only flickers like a single black dot; there she turned her wings and flashed in front of the sun... Damn you, steppes, how good you are!..”

How tedious are those hot hours when midday shines in silence and heat.
... Everything seemed to have died; only above, in the heavenly depths, a lark trembles, and silvery songs fly along the airy steps to the loving land, and occasionally the cry of a seagull or the ringing voice of a quail echoes in the steppe. Lazily and soullessly, as if walking without a goal, the oak trees stand under the clouds, and the dazzling blows of the sun's rays ignite entire picturesque masses of leaves, casting over others a shadow dark as night, along which gold flecks only with a strong wind. Emeralds, topazes, and jahonts of ethereal insects rain down over the colorful vegetable gardens, overshadowed by old sunflowers. Gray haystacks and golden sheaves of bread are encamped in the field and wander through its immensity. Wide branches of cherries, plums, apple trees, pears bent over from the weight of fruits: the sky, its pure mirror-river in green, proudly raised frames.

The forest is noisy

Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich

The forest is noisy...

There was always a noise in this forest - even, drawn-out, like the echo of a distant ringing, calm and vague, like a quiet song without words, like a vague memory of the past. There was always noise in it, because it was an old, dense forest, which had not yet been touched by the saw and ax of the forest dealer. Tall hundred-year-old pines with red mighty trunks stood like a gloomy army, tightly closed at the top with green tops. It was quiet below and smelled of resin; through the canopy of pine needles with which the soil was strewn, bright ferns emerged, luxuriantly spread out in a bizarre fringe and standing motionless, without moving a leaf. In damp corners green grasses stretched on tall stems; the white porridge bowed its heavy heads, as if in quiet languor. And above, without end or interruption, the forest noise continued, like the vague sighs of an old forest.

What kind of dew happens on the grass?

When you go into the forest on a sunny morning in summer, you can see diamonds in the fields and grass. All these diamonds sparkle and shimmer in the sun in different ways. flowers and yellow, both red and blue.

When you come closer and see what it is, you will see that these are drops of dew collected in the triangular leaves of the grass and glistening in the sun. The inside of the leaf of this grass is shaggy and fluffy, like velvet.

And the drops roll on the leaf and do not wet it.

When you carelessly pick a leaf with a dewdrop, the droplet will roll off like a light ball, and you will not see how it slips past the stem. It used to be that you would tear off such a cup, slowly bring it to your mouth and drink the dewdrop, and this dewdrop seemed tastier than any drink.

Burdock

I was returning home through the fields. It was the very middle of summer. The meadows had been cleared and they were just about to mow the rye.

There is a lovely selection of flowers for this time of year: red, white, pink, fragrant, fluffy porridges... milky white, with a bright yellow center “love it or not” with its rotten spicy stench; yellow colza with its wise smell; tall purple and white tulip-shaped bells; creeping peas; yellow, red, pink, lilac, neat scabioses; with slightly pink fluff and a slightly audible pleasant smell of plantain, cornflowers, bright blue in the sun and in youth and blue and reddening in the evening and in old age; and tender, almond-scented, immediately fading dodder flowers.

I dialed large bouquet of different colors and was walking home when he noticed in a ditch a wonderful crimson, in full bloom, burdock of the variety that we call “Tatar” and which they carefully mow down, and when it is accidentally mowed down, they throw out the mows from the hay so as not to prick their hands on it . I decided to pick this burdock and put it in the middle of the bouquet. I climbed down into the ditch and, having driven away the shaggy bumblebee that had dug into the middle of the flower and sweetly and sluggishly slept there, I began to pick the flower. But it was very difficult: not only did the stem prick from all sides, even through the scarf with which I wrapped my hand, it was so terribly strong that I fought with it for about five minutes, tearing the fibers one by one. When I finally tore off the flower, the stem was already all in tatters, and the flower no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. In addition, due to its rudeness and clumsiness, it did not suit the delicate flowers of the bouquet. I regretted that I had in vain destroyed a flower that was good in its place, and threw it away. “What energy and strength of life, however,” I thought, remembering the efforts with which I tore off the flower.

How he strenuously defended and sold his life dearly.”

Young shoots

Along the banks of the river, currant bushes, willows, alders and wild raspberries huddled together; the green, juicy sedge went into the very water, where it glistened and bent under the pressure of the river stream, as if alive. In some places the logs sticking out of the ground were rotting, and young shoots of honeysuckle were already crawling out from under them; immediately the pink arrows of the fireweed swayed and swamp yellow flowers dazzled. Near the old stumps, like expensive lace, fragrant meadowsweet clung with its yellow caps. Near the forest itself, a whole island of young aspen trees stretched out, shimmering in the sun with their ever-moving, metallic foliage, and then a birch forest rose like a green wall and went out of sight along the flow of the river. But most beautiful of all were the young spruce and birch trees that grew along the dumps and landfills: they looked like a crowd of children running out onto the steep slope with all their might and from here admiring everything that was below. It seemed that these forest youth were whispering slyly among themselves, happy with the sunny day and the fact that only youth full of strength gives.

Summer nights in the Urals

At the end of July summer nights in the Urals they are especially beautiful: bottomless blue depths look down at you from above, flickering with intense phosphorescent light, so that individual stars and constellations are somehow lost in the general tone of light; the air is quiet and sensitive to the slightest sound; the forest sleeps in the fog; the water stands motionless; even night birds appear and disappear in the frozen air completely silently, like shadows on the screen of a magic lantern.

Early August

The first days of August have arrived. Two cold mornings fell, and the forest flowers that had not had time to bloom faded, and the grass became covered yellow spots. The sun no longer shone so brightly from the blue sky; it rose later and went to bed earlier; a gusty wind came from nowhere, shook the tops of the trees and quickly disappeared, leaving a cold stream in the air. The joys of the short northern summer were coming to an end, and endless autumn with its torrential rains, bad weather, dark nights, mud and cold was threateningly approaching ahead. I spent almost all my free time in the forest, hunting; coniferous forest with the onset of autumn it became even better and seemed fresher every day.

Mowing

On a beautiful summer day, when the sun’s rays had long since absorbed the freshness of the night, my father and I drove up to the so-called “Hidden Kolka”, consisting for the most part of young and already quite thick, straight linden trees, like a pine tree - a kolka, long reserved and preserved with particular rigor. As soon as we climbed up to the forest from the ravine, a dull, extraordinary noise began to reach my ears: now some kind of abrupt and measured rustling, momentarily intermittent and reappearing, now some kind of ringing metallic shuffling. I now asked: “What is this?” - “But you’ll see!” - answered the father, smiling. But behind the young and dense aspen trees nothing was visible; when we rounded it, a wonderful sight struck my eyes. About forty peasants were mowing down, lining up in one line, as if by a thread; Shining brightly in the sun, the scythes flew up, and the thick cut grass lay in orderly rows. Having passed a long row, the mowers suddenly stopped and began to sharpen their braids with something, cheerfully exchanging playful speeches among themselves, as one could guess from the loud laughter: it was still impossible to hear the words. Metallic sounds occurred while the braids were being sharpened with wooden spatulas coated with clay and sand, which I learned about later. When we arrived close and my father said the usual greeting: “God help!” or “God help you”, loud: “Thank you, Father Alexey Stepanovich!” announced the clearing, was echoed in the ravine, and again the peasants continued to swing their scythes widely, deftly, easily and freely! There was something kind and cheerful about this work, so I didn’t suddenly believe it when they told me that it was also very hard. What a light air, what a wonderful smell wafted from the nearby forest and the grass that had been mown early in the morning, replete with many fragrant flowers, which had already begun to wither from the hot sun and emit a particularly pleasant aromatic smell! The untouched grass stood like a wall, waist-high, and the peasants said: “What kind of grass! Bear is a bear! Jackdaws and crows, having flown in from the forest where their nests were located, were already walking along the green, tall rows of mown grass. I was told that they were picking up various bugs, boogers and worms that had previously been hidden in the thick grass, but were now running in plain sight on overturned plant stems and on the bare ground. As I came closer, I saw with my own eyes that this was absolutely true. Moreover, I noticed that the bird also pecked berries. The strawberries were still green in the grass, but unusually large; in open places she was already keeping up. From the mown rows, my father and I picked a large bunch of berries, some of which were larger than an ordinary nut; Many of them, although they had not yet turned red, were already soft and tasty.

sea ​​of ​​grass

From the very first step, lush grasses engulfed us from all sides. They were so high and so thick that the person seemed to be drowning in them. Below under your feet there is grass, in front and behind there is grass, on the sides there is also grass, and only at the top is the blue sky. It seemed as if we were walking along the bottom of a sea of ​​grass. This impression became even stronger when, having climbed some hummock, I saw how the steppe was agitated. With timidity and apprehension, I again plunged into the grass and walked on. It is just as easy to get lost in these places as in the forest. We lost our way several times, but immediately rushed to correct our mistake. Having found some hummock, I climbed onto it and tried to look at something ahead. Dersu grabbed the wormwood with his hands and bent it to the ground. I looked ahead - an endless sea of ​​​​grass spread out everywhere in front of me.

In the forest

We go further into the forest, into the bluish darkness, cut by the golden rays of the sun. In the warmth and comfort of the forest, some special noise is quietly breathing, dreamy and exciting dreams. Crossbills creak, tits ring, the cuckoo laughs, the oriole whistles, the jealous song of the finch sounds incessantly, and a strange bird, the bee-eater, sings thoughtfully. Emerald frogs jump underfoot; between the roots, having raised its golden head, it lies and guards them. A squirrel clicks, its fluffy tail flashes in the paws of the pine trees; you see an incredible amount, you want to see more and more, go further.

Night fire in the forest

And at night the forest took on an indescribably eerie, fabulous appearance: its blue wall grew higher, and in the depths of it, between the black trunks, red, furry animals darted and jumped madly. They fell to the ground to the roots and, hugging the trunks, climbed up like agile monkeys, fought with each other, breaking branches, whistled, hummed and hooted.

The figures of fire were formed in an infinite variety of ways between the black trunks, and the dance of these figures was tireless. So, clumsily bouncing, tumbling, a red bear rolls out to the edge of the forest and, losing tufts of fiery fur, climbs up the trunk, as if for honey, and, having reached the crown, embraces its branches with a shaggy embrace of crimson paws, swings on them, showering the needles with a rain of golden ones. sparks; Now the animal easily jumped to the next tree, and where it was, a multitude of blue candles were lit on the black, bare branches, purple mice were running along the branches, and with their bright movement, one could clearly see how intricately the blue smoke smoked and how Hundreds of fire ants crawl up and down the trunk bark.

Sometimes the fire crawled out of the forest, stealthily, like a cat hunting for a bird, and suddenly, raising its sharp muzzle, it looked around - what to grab? Or suddenly a sparkling, fiery fescue bear would appear and crawl along the ground on its belly, spreading its paws wide, raking grass into its huge red mouth.

Native places

I love the Meshchersky region because it is beautiful, although all its charm is not revealed immediately, but very slowly, gradually.

At first glance, this is a quiet and simple land under a dim sky. But the more you get to know it, the more, almost to the point of pain in your heart, you begin to love this extraordinary land. And if I have to defend my country, then somewhere in the depths of my heart I will know that I am also defending this piece of land, which taught me to see and understand beauty, no matter how inconspicuous in appearance it may be - this thoughtful forest land, love for who will never be forgotten, just as first love is never forgotten.

Summer thunderstorms

Summer thunderstorms pass over the land and fall below the horizon. Lightning either strikes the ground with a direct blow, or blazes on black clouds.

A rainbow sparkles over the damp distance. Thunder rolls, rumbles, grumbles, rumbles, shakes the earth.

Summer heat

It was hot. We walked through pine forests. The bears screamed. It smelled of pine bark and strawberries. A hawk hung motionless over the tops of the pines. The forest was heated with heat. We rested in dense bowls of aspen and birch trees. There they breathed the smell of grass and roots. In the evening we went to the lake. The stars were shining in the sky. The ducks flew to roost for the night with a heavy whistle.

Lightning... The very sound of this word seems to convey the slow night shine of distant lightning.
Most often, lightning occurs in July, when the grain is ripening. That’s why there is a popular belief that lightning “lights the bread” - they illuminate it at night - and this makes the bread pour faster.
Next to lightning stands in the same poetic row the word dawn - one of the most beautiful words in the Russian language.
This word is never spoken loudly. It is impossible to even imagine that it could be shouted. Because it is akin to that established silence of the night, when a clear and faint blue shines over the thickets of a village garden. “Unseeing,” as people say about this time of day.
At this dawn hour, the morning star burns low above the earth itself. The air is as pure as spring water.
There is something girlish and chaste in the dawn, in the dawn. At dawn the grass is washed with dew, and the villages smell of warm fresh milk. And the pitiful shepherds sing in the fogs outside the outskirts.
It's getting light quickly. There is silence and darkness in the warm house. But then squares of orange light fall on the log walls, and the logs light up like layered amber. The sun is rising.
The dawn is not only morning, but also evening. We often confuse two concepts - sunset and evening dawn.
The evening dawn begins when the sun has already set beyond the edge of the earth. Then it takes possession of the fading sky, spills a multitude of colors across it - from red gold to turquoise - and slowly passes into the late twilight and night.
Corncrakes scream in the bushes, quails strike, bitterns hum, the first stars are burning, and the dawn smolders for a long time over the distances and fogs.

Flowers

Near the water, innocent blue-eyed forget-me-nots peeked out from the mint thickets in large clumps. And further, behind the hanging loops of blackberries, wild rowan with tight yellow inflorescences bloomed along the slope. Tall red clover mixed with mouse peas and bedstraw, and above all this closely crowded community of flowers rose a gigantic thistle. He stood waist-deep in the grass and looked like a knight in armor with steel spikes on his elbows and knee pads.
The heated air above the flowers “mellowed”, swayed, and from almost every cup the striped abdomen of a bumblebee, bee or wasp protruded. Like white and lemon leaves, butterflies always flew at random.
And even further, hawthorn and rose hips rose like a high wall. Their branches were so intertwined that it seemed as if the fiery rosehip flowers and the white, almond-scented hawthorn flowers had somehow miraculously blossomed on the same bush.
The rosehip stood with its large flowers turned towards the sun, elegant, completely festive, covered with many sharp buds. Its flowering coincided with the shortest nights - our Russian, slightly northern nights, when nightingales thunder in the dew all night long, the greenish dawn does not leave the horizon and in the deepest part of the night it is so light that the mountain peaks of the clouds are clearly visible in the sky.

blessed rain

At the beginning of June there were frequent rains that were unusual for summer: quiet, calm as in autumn, without thunderstorms, without wind. In the mornings, an ash-gray cloud crawled out from the west, from behind the distant hillocks. It grew, spread, occupied half the sky - its dark wings darkened ominously, and then dropped so that its lower flakes, transparent as muslin, clung to the roof of a windmill standing in the steppe, on a mound; somewhere high and good-naturedly, thunder spoke in a barely audible octave, and blessed rain descended.

Warm like spray fresh milk, the drops fell vertically onto the ground hidden in the foggy silence, and swelled in white bubbles on the wet, foamy puddles. And this light summer rain was so quiet and peaceful that the flowers did not bow their heads, even the chickens in the yards did not seek shelter from it. With businesslike concern, they rummaged around the sheds and damp, blackened wattle fences in search of food, and the wet roosters, which had slightly lost their majestic bearing, despite the rain, crowed at length and in turns. Their cheerful voices merged with the chirping of sparrows shamelessly bathing in puddles and the squeaking of swallows, as if falling in swift flight to the gently alluring earth smelling of rain and dust.

In the steppe, wheatgrass rose above the knee. Behind the pasture the sweet clover blossomed. By evening the honey smell spread throughout the entire farm. The winter crops stood like a solid dark green wall to the horizon, while the spring crops pleased the eye with unusually friendly shoots. The gray sands were thickly bristling with the arrows of young shoots of corn. By the end of the first half of June, the weather had firmly established itself, not a single cloud appeared in the sky, and the blooming steppe, washed by the rains, looked marvelous under the sun! She was now like a young nursing mother - unusually beautiful, quiet, a little tired and all glowing with a beautiful, happy and pure smile of motherhood.

Rain in the forest

A large dark cloud rose and covered half the sky. Thunder rumbled.
A strong whirlwind swept through the forest tops. The trees rustled, swayed, and torn leaves swirled over the path. Heavy drops fell. Lightning flashed and thunder struck.
Warm, pouring rain poured down drop by drop.
After heavy rain, the forest smells strongly of mushrooms. In the grass near the path, strong boletus mushrooms, pink wet russula are hiding, and fly agaric mushrooms are turning red. Black-headed boletuses crowd around like little kids.
Between the white trunks of the birches a young spruce forest has grown densely. Fragrant milk mushrooms and red-headed boletuses hide here.
And in the forest clearings the first saffron milk caps appeared, the golden chanterelles turned yellow.

Summer has begun

There was a dull thump in the distance - dark, heavy clouds were creeping towards the village. They crawled slowly, swirling menacingly and imperiously growing to the very horizon.
The village became dark and silent. Even the cattle became silent in anticipation. And suddenly a deafening roar shook the earth.
Doors and gates slammed all over the village. People ran out into the street, placed tubs under the floods, and joyfully called to each other in the pouring rain. Barefoot children ran through the puddles like foals, and the short northern summer began.

Heat

August brought with him a dry wind. The heat has begun. In the mornings the dew was not caught in the white haze, the streams and rivulets dried up, and by midday the leaves withered on the trees. In the sultry, white-hot sky, an ash-gray buzzard darted about all day long, crying piercingly and sadly:
“Pi-it!.. Pi-it!..” Summer is over.
The short northern summer is over.
A squirrel came out into the home pine forests, still red and not molted. With the first snow, when autumn passes through it with a blue fog, the squirrel will migrate to the remote sezemes, onto a fir cone.
Fog, fog over the village...
It was as if white clouds had descended to the ground, as if rivers of milk had spilled under the window.
By noon, the fog will settle, the sun will emerge briefly, and you will see cranes in the sky. They fly in their well-known wedge, humming sadly and pitifully, as if apologizing: we are, they say, in warm regions We’re flying away, and you’re here to croak.

Despite the fact that the story about summer involves the free expression of one’s thoughts and does not provide for any specific knowledge, this type of work is not easy for many. After all, how can you write quickly and easily when you can write about virtually everything?

How to write any school essay correctly

1. Any school student opus must consist of three parts - introduction, conclusion and main part. This means that you can’t just start the text with words, for example, “One sunny summer day I went to pick mushrooms in the nearest pine forest.” A couple of introductory sentences are needed, for example, if we are writing a story about summer, they will be as follows:

• I had been waiting for the summer holidays for a very long time and was very happy when they finally arrived.
• I was overwhelmed with emotions on the first day of my school holidays. I knew this summer would be special and that great things were in store for me.
• Summer time- a wonderful time, because it’s warm outside, everything is blooming and green. And in the summer there is a great opportunity to relax and go out of town, which is what I did.
• I really love summer, because at this time you can walk a lot, it’s light in the evenings, and it’s so warm outside that you don’t need to wear a lot of clothes. In the summer I usually go to camp. It was the same this year.

In this case, the introduction and conclusion should not occupy more than a third of the narrative.

2. The content of the student’s work should illuminate the topic of the work, and not touch upon it in passing. That is, for example, if a student is writing an essay about the summer, then you should not take up half a page with information about how difficult it was to pass exams in May, or compare the summer holidays with the winter holidays and devote most of it to the latter. In essence, any essay is an answer to the question posed in the topic. Here the question is quite specific: “What happened in the summer?”

3. It is also worth dividing the text into paragraphs. One huge layer of text without semantic breakdowns looks monstrous. The essay must contain at least three paragraphs. As you might guess, this is precisely the introduction, the main part and the conclusion.

Why are children forced to write short stories about summer?

An essay about summer vacation is primarily intended to set students in a working mood. Over the summer, they got a little out of the habit of studying and expressing their thoughts in writing. This essay is designed to force children to strain their brains, remember what was forgotten during three months of rest, and get into a working rhythm. Well, and brag a little in front of your classmates, for example, suddenly someone went to the sea, to warm places, jumped with a parachute, went to a language camp, had a wonderful birthday, etc.

Also, this type of essay on free topics helps children better learn to express their thoughts. In addition, this is a certain general control of knowledge.

If a student, for example, cannot describe a character in an essay on literature because he has not read the work in which he is mentioned, this does not mean that the child does not know how to write. He simply lacks theoretical knowledge specifically about this hero. You need to read the work again.

Or if a student cannot answer a question in a German lesson about what the economy of Germany is like, this does not mean that he does not know German, maybe he really just does not know about the economic situation in the country of Schiller and Goethe. I didn't finish my education. However, a story about summer in German will give general idea about the student’s knowledge, because in this type of essay he can use those words that are familiar to him, and not just highly specialized vocabulary (as in the above-mentioned case with the German economy). In foreign language lessons, essays about summer holidays are a very good way to understand how well a student speaks the language. Not everyone can cover complex topics. Not everyone experienced certain events in life either. Everyone had summer holidays.

Plan for writing an essay about summer

There should be a plan in every job, even the smallest one. For example, even if a summer story for children is only a few sentences long, it still needs to be written in a specific format. So, the introduction should indicate what the student will write about. In the main part there is a presentation of events. The conclusion contains conclusions. This plan specifically for an essay about summer vacation can be structured and presented in the form of a list:

1. Designation of the topic (summer has arrived and with it the long-awaited summer holidays; we have all been waiting for this time for a long time; I am happy about summer and holidays).
2. Designation of a specific event or events (the most interesting day was..., the most interesting thing I remember was the following...).
3. Description of the most significant event or events.
4. Conclusions (I liked the summer; it was one of the most interesting holidays of my life, next year I will definitely go there again).

How to get a coherent story

In a story about summer, you need to pay attention to the connection between the elements of the text. For example, it will not be very harmonious if a student simply writes “in June... in July... in August” and lists the events of three months. It is much better to try to do it beautifully, so that one follows from the other.

Incorrect: In June I stayed at home because my parents worked. In July we went to the sea.

Correct: I spent June in the city because my parents continued to work. I read a lot and walked in the park. I didn't get a chance to swim in June. But in July everything was completely different. Then my family and I went to the sea.

What to write about in an essay

Summer time gives you a huge selection of topics that you can cover in your story. Briefly they can be described as follows:

1. Description of nature, wonderful weather, picturesque landscapes, etc. Suitable for those who like to describe things more than events.
2. A story about a specific event that was most memorable. This is just an option for those students who like specifics. Out of 91 days, one is chosen, the most beloved, and it is this one that is described.
3. A detailed story about the summer with a description of the events of June, July, August. This is an option for those who love to write and who have no problems expressing thoughts and structuring text.

Landscape sketches

If you simply describe nature and the wonderful weather outside the window, you will already get a beautiful story. For example, even if a child did not go anywhere during the summer holidays, he still noticed how everything around him had changed and was able to enjoy the warm days. Even a simple walk in the park can become the theme for a short story about summer. A child can describe how beautifully the flowers bloom in the meadows, what bizarre shapes the clouds have in the azure sky, how the birds sing in the summer forest.

A story about one day in summer

You can describe any summer events, for example, one day of summer time (at a picnic, on a river) or a fragment that you remember most. Children, as a rule, most look forward to swimming or going to the countryside or to the sea. Therefore, a description of a trip to the lake or a vacation trip will come in handy.

You can also write about some holiday that took place in the summer, for example, the birthday of a child or a friend, or a picnic in the park.

If a child studies at a school with a focus on foreign language, then in a story about summer in English you can include a story about communicating with a foreigner, a trip to a language camp, etc.

Description of all holiday events

An essay about summer can be presented as a coherent story about all the important events of this period. The main rule here is that you need to be able to write about it coherently and relatively briefly (don’t rant, otherwise your notebook won’t be enough). You can divide the story about summer into thematic groups and cover topics regardless of chronology.

For example, what you liked and didn’t like about the holidays; time at home and time traveling; meetings with friends and time to yourself, etc.

Stories about summer nature, stories about insects, stories about flowers in summer .

In a living room

The newborn beetle spent too much time crawling, flying and fussing around as it celebrated its first day of life. By evening he was so tired that he could not move his legs or antennae.

He was lying in the middle yellow flower. The flower was not a cup, but a cake and all of narrow petals, soft, soft! He smelled like honey. And he was still warm: the sun heated him so much.

And it was already falling over the hill. And the sky, which was blue, as if forget-me-nots were blooming on it, only forget-me-nots, became red, as if poppies were blooming there.

The newborn beetle looked at this huge fiery sky, and he suddenly became scared. Here he is so small, small, but he lies in plain sight. I wish I could hide in a dark crevice somewhere! But he was so tired that he could not move either his paws or his antennae.

The first star lit up in the sky. The newborn beetle perked up. He wanted to fly. Fly straight there and circle around this sparkling star. But she was so far away!

Suddenly he felt that the flower was moving under him. The beetle grabbed onto it with its paws tighter.

“Maybe he, the flower, wanted to fly?” - thought the beetle. Then he saw that yellow walls were growing around him on all sides. And they get higher and higher.

And the sky is getting narrower and narrower. Only the star still sparkles. And now she has become smaller. It flashed and went out. And it became dark, very dark and cramped.

“How did the flower suddenly become a crack?” - thought the newborn beetle, falling asleep.

On the second morning of its life, the beetle woke up at the bottom of a dark bag. I tried to climb up the soft wall. But he failed. The paws slid and fell between the smooth narrow leaves. And he fell to the bottom of the bag again. And again I tried to climb up. And he fell again.

Soon he was completely exhausted. He sat sadly at the bottom of a closed flower. And I thought that I would never see the sun again.

Suddenly he felt the flower move. And immediately a light broke through above. Broke through a crack that wasn't there before. And now it was getting wider and wider. And the yellow walls suddenly quietly lowered. Now the flower has become a cake again!

And then the beetle saw the sun! It rose behind the forest. And when his beam fell on the beetle, the beetle immediately became stronger and cheerful.

- I'm flying! - he shouted to the sun. He spread his wings on the edge of the flower. And he flew away, not knowing where.

N. Pavlova

Let there be both the Nightingale and the Beetle

The Nightingale sang in the garden. His song was beautiful. He knew that people loved his song and therefore looked with pride at the blooming garden, at the bright blue sky, at the little Girl who was sitting in the garden listening to his song.

And next to the Nightingale flew a large horned Beetle. He flew and buzzed. The Nightingale interrupted his song and said with annoyance to the Beetle:

- Stop your buzzing. You don't let me sing. No one needs your buzzing, and in general, it would be better if you, Bug, did not exist at all.

The beetle answered with dignity:

- No, Nightingale, without me, Bug, the world is also impossible, just as without you, Nightingale.

- That's wisdom! - Nightingale laughed. - So people need you too? Let's ask the Girl, she will tell you who people need and who they don't need.

The Nightingale and the Beetle flew to the Girl and asked:

- Tell me, Girl, who should be left in the world - the Nightingale or the Beetle?

“Let there be a Nightingale and a Beetle,” answered the Girl. — And after thinking, she added: “How can you do without the Beetle?”

V. Sukhomlinsky

Butterfly and mosquito

One day a butterfly flew onto the roof of a barnyard and sat on a perch there. Then a mosquito saw her and hid right there, in the crack of the fence. I saw it and got angry.

A mosquito flew up to the butterfly, sat down next to it and said:

- Why did you come here? This yard is my domain!

But the butterfly was not confused:

- Well, I didn’t fly into the yard, we’re on the roof.

- No food! Otherwise I'll break your neck! - the mosquito screamed. And the butterfly laughed in response:

- If only you have enough strength...

- I'll show you! I will pierce your skin with my sting and suck out all the blood.

- I don’t believe you! - the butterfly said deliberately to anger the mosquito.

- Well, prove it...

And the mosquito flew to the calf, which was standing nearby on a leash. He sat on his ear and launched a sting.

And then the calf began to itch with its hind leg and crushed the mosquito, which did not have time to free its sting from the thick fur.

Kazakh fairy tale

Ant measure

Many centuries ago, a sage lived in this world. He knew the language of birds, animals and all other creatures.

One day that sage went on the road. Halfway there he stopped to give his horse a rest. A man sits and sees that an ant is dragging a grain. He took the ant and placed it in his palm.

- Tell me, ant, where are you taking this grain? he asks.

“Into the anthill,” the ant answered him.

- Why do you need it?

“I’ll leave it in reserve,” says the ant.

- And have you stored a lot of grain? - the sage became interested.

The ant told the man that he had been working all summer, preparing for winter, and therefore faced it without fear.

The sage looked at the ant from all sides and was surprised:

- Why is your head so big?

- I talk a little and think a lot.

- Why are your waist so thin?

- I don't overeat.

- How many grains do you eat in a year?

- One grain

- And you are content with this?

“If I ate more, what would the other ants eat?” There must be moderation in everything.

The sage liked the ant's intelligence and insight, and he decided to test it. He put one grain in a box and put an ant in it. The box was placed in a dry, protected place.

- I'll be back in a year. Food for the year is provided for you, lie down and don’t worry about anything,” he told the ant.

The sage wanted to make sure that the ant would be able to manage the food supply left for him.

Exactly a year later he returned to the ant. I found some boxes left in a secluded place. I opened it to see if the ant was alive. The ant turned out to be safe and sound. Next to him lay half a grain. The sage was amazed.

“Hey, ant,” he turned to his captive. “You said that you eat one grain per year.” Why did you leave half the grain? Why are you saving it?

The ant replied:

“You’re right, I said that I eat one grain a year.” But you left me locked in a box. I couldn't get out. If you had forgotten about your promise to return in a year and free me, then I would have remained in my prison for a long time. If I ate the whole grain, I would doom myself to starvation. I thought about this and curbed my appetite.

The sage was amazed at the ant’s patience and moderation, his ability to be content with little. He regretted that he had committed violence - that he had caused suffering to an intelligent and worthy creature.

“I did wrong, forgive me,” he said to the ant and let him go.

Since then, the sage taught people moderation and patience.

Kazakh fairy tale

Ant

One ant, leaving his anthill, began to make friends with bees, beetles and other living creatures, of which there were a great variety in the area.

One day, while going out to look for food, an ant found a grain on the road. He groaned and puffed, but he couldn’t move the grain. The ant rushed to ask for help from his winged friends. The first bee he came across was flying from flower to flower, collecting nectar.

“Bee, bee, I found a grain, but I can’t lift it alone, please help me,” the ant asks her.

“Don’t you see that I don’t sit idle either!” - said the bee and flew away.

The ant had no choice but to move on. He came across a beetle.

- A beetle, a beetle! - he began and, telling about his find, began to ask for help.

“Do I really have to quit my job for you?” - the beetle got angry and, buzzing, flew away.

Having lost hope in his friends, the saddened ant wandered back and soon came across his anthill. Seeing how sad he was, the ants asked him:

-What are you sad about?

The lonely ant answered them:

“It turns out that I myself am to blame for my orphanhood!”

The ants calmed him down, picked him up and carried the grain. Here our ant joined them.

“It’s not for nothing that they say: “An old friend is better than two new ones,” said one wise ant then.

Kazakh fairy tale

Where is her home?

A butterfly sat on a flower, and the flower bent down. The butterfly swayed along with the flower to the left, then to the right. A butterfly swings on a flower, like on a swing. She either lowers her long, thin, curved proboscis inside the flower or takes it out.

Ten stamens lined up in a circle. Pollen from the stamens showers the butterfly on all sides, and this causes the butterfly's head, abdomen, and legs to turn yellow.

There are different flowers. The butterfly loves flowers with petals open in all directions so that it can sit on the flower and see what is happening around it. And there are some flowers that have porches and a roof. You sit on the porch, you have to stick your head under the roof, but your wings remain outside. It’s good for the bee: it’s small - everything fits under the roof. You can't see it from the outside, you can only hear the flower buzzing.

Sometimes tiny, squirmy thrips crawl between the petals in the flowers. There are so many of them that wherever a butterfly lowers its proboscis, it bumps into them everywhere. And you can’t get away from these thrips, because in the flower they are the rightful owners - this is their home. Where is the butterfly's home?

Hot. Midges swarm in the sunbeam. A whole cloud of midges. The butterfly does not go around them. She flies straight towards the cloud. Cuts right through it. And now behind the butterfly there is already a whole train of midges. The midges fly after the butterfly, trying to catch up with it, but in vain. Butterflies fly faster than midges.

Having flown over wide road, the butterfly finds itself above a narrow path leading into the bushes. There's shade here. It's not so hot here. A butterfly flies over the path between the bushes. The bushes above the path are closing closer and closer. And lower and lower the butterfly has to fly. Now the branches above have already completely closed and covered the sky. And suddenly the butterfly, with all its might, stumbles upon some thin sticky barrier. Her wings beat spasmodically against the web. The web becomes shiny, sparkling with scales that fall from the butterfly’s wings. And the wings become completely transparent, like glass.

Above the butterfly in the right corner, a huge cross spider. He's waiting. Waiting for the butterfly to become completely confused. But the butterfly suddenly frees its wings from the web and hangs on its two hind legs. One more jerk and she flies into the air. Her hind legs remain on the web.

Glade. There are many yellow flowers in the clearing. Butterflies fly over the flowers. There are a lot of them too. They sit on one flower, then on another. Having sat on a flower, butterflies untwist their proboscis, which is curled into a spiral when flying. Unwind and lower into the flower. Butterflies drink nectar and transfer pollen from flower to flower. There are many flowers in the meadow. They have all opened their petals, they have all stretched out their stamens, they are all waiting for butterflies.

Spruce, pine, birch. No, that's not what it's all about. And here is the field. And there is cabbage in the field. Large, tight, cracked with juice. A person would pick such a head of cabbage and take it to the children. But the butterfly doesn’t like this head of cabbage for her children. It is not sweet enough, not juicy enough for butterfly children. A butterfly flies from one head of cabbage to another and tastes the cabbage with its front paws. The butterfly's front legs sense taste. And they don’t just feel, but feel in the most subtle way. The taste of a butterfly is developed two hundred, three hundred times stronger than that of a human. The butterfly will fly over the field for a long time, and it will take a long time to choose the sweetest, most delicious cabbage. And when it chooses, it will sit on the lower green leaf and lay yellow, large, ribbed eggs.

The wind rustled through the trees. The leaves are green, and the rustling is soft, barely audible. But there are two dry leaves on the branch. Like dry paper. But they are so small and also torn. So you won’t make the same noise here. Yes, these are not leaves. These are the dried wings of a dead butterfly.

The butterfly died right on the branch, clinging to it with its paws. So she sits there tight. Dead. A strong wind blew the branch and tore off the butterfly. There's a butterfly in the air again! She's flying again! Only now there are winged seeds in the air next to her. These seeds have wings as lifeless as those of a dead butterfly.

The butterfly did not have a home. Every hollow tree, every convenient twig, every silken blade of grass, every fragrant flower. And why does this butterfly need a home if it only lives for sixteen days? And if in sixteen days you need to know the world.

According to N. Romanova

How Heaven was going to visit Earth

Heaven never came to visit Earth, but it wanted it so bad. From above it looked at the seas, rivers, fields, meadows, forests, people: he liked all this very much. The sky noticed that people looked at it quite often, but did not know whether they liked it.

The Sky began to preen itself in order to please the Earth and its inhabitants. She sewed herself a blue dress, decorated it with lace from the Clouds, put on a solar hoop instead of a crown, and girded herself with a seven-colored Rainbow instead of a belt.

- Oh, what a day today beautiful sky! - people admired, - they would have looked at it without looking up. I wish I could turn into birds and fly in such a sky!

Heaven was happy and began to try even harder. She sewed herself a black velvet dress, scattered silver Stars along the skirt, pinned the yellow-eyed Moon on her chest, and placed a clear Moon on her head. Admire the sky quiet rivers, night birds, fireflies turned on their lights to get a better look at it. The night sky was regal, solemn. The stars in the darkness twinkled and beckoned, the yellow Moon winked with one eye, illuminating the lunar path on the river, and the Moon, the son of the Moon, danced with pride for the Sky.

Morning has come, and Heaven has a new dress again! The sunrise illuminated the snow-white clouds with pink. The sun rose higher and higher, and the sky became more and more beautiful. All the plants, animals and people who woke up along with the Sun rejoiced.

- Take us to you, Heaven! - they asked, - we loved you! Always remain as beautiful!

Birds and insects flocked skyward to admire the sky above. People rose to the Sky on airplanes, helicopters, hang gliders and hot air balloons. They so wanted to touch the sky with their hands, to touch his pink dress!

But then black clouds began to gather. They stained all of Heaven's beautiful dress with mud. It was very upset.

- Everyone will turn their backs on me now! - thought Heaven, - we need to do something urgently.

The sky took out a huge electric lightning needle and threw it at the cloud to disperse it. The cloud, frightened, screamed so loudly that Thunder heard it and answered it, roaring menacingly. Out of fright, the Cloud began to cry, she melted before our eyes, and very soon the dirty dress of the Sky again became clean, but already blue.

The sky has made all the inhabitants of the Earth fall in love with it. Finally, it came to visit the Earth, but this was only possible on the horizon.

E. Alyabyeva

Medicinal plants of July

In ancient songs about hard times, wormwood is often mentioned. This is understandable, because you cannot find a herb that is more bitter than it. No wonder there is a saying: “It’s bitter like wormwood.”

Wormwood is one of the oldest medicinal plants. It is used very widely in folk medicine. Wormwood tincture - good remedy to improve digestion, expel worms from the human body.

Common yarrow is often found in meadows and forest edges. Look at its leaf, and you will immediately understand where the name of the plant came from. Each leaf is meticulously cut into small slices, and each slice also has openwork edges.

Yarrow is one of the oldest medicinal plants. Man has long noticed this herb, which has proven useful in treating wounds, bleeding, gastrointestinal diseases, and increasing appetite.

Yarrow may be of interest to vegetable growers and gardeners: a decoction and infusion from it is used against sucking pests instead of some pesticides.

Yarrow rids cultivated plants of various pests (aphids, copperheads, thrips, and spider mites).

Yarrow is collected in July, at the time of flowering, and this herbaceous plant is dried, only without roots. Decoctions and infusions are prepared from dried plants.

Go out onto the sunny lawn in the summer and you will probably come across cheerful, golden flowers of St. John's wort. Folk wisdom speaks about this healing plant: “Just as you can’t bake bread without flour, you can’t cure a person without St. John’s wort.” It is also called St. John's wort as a herb for ninety-nine diseases.

Scientists from St. John's wort have obtained a wonderful drug (imanin), with which they treat wounds, ulcers, burns, the drug also helps plants, saving them from pests (tobacco mosaic, which affects tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, tobacco).

Infusion, tincture and extract of St. John's wort have astringent and antimicrobial properties. Pharmacy tincture of St. John's wort is an excellent remedy for strengthening gums and eliminating bad breath.

The stems, leaves and flowers of St. John's wort are also used to obtain plant dyes for dyeing fabrics.

All parts of the plant contain tannins, which are used to tan leather, giving it density and elasticity.

B. Alexandrov

How Sasha was burned by nettles

The guys went out for a walk. They ran around the yard. And it’s warm and sunny in the yard! Sasha saw green grass near the fence and called everyone:

- Look how much grass has grown!

And Vera Ivanovna says:

“Don’t touch it, it’s nettle: you’ll get burned.”

Sasha didn’t listen: isn’t grass a stove? Does it burn?

He grabbed the nettle and screamed:

Oh, it hurts!

Sasha’s hand turned red and white blisters appeared on it. Vera Ivanovna had to console him. It's good that nettle blisters go away quickly.

Why are flowers beautiful and fragrant?

Children usually think that flowers are beautiful and fragrant so that everyone can admire them. However, they do not bloom for people. Flowers need bright colors and aroma to attract insects.

Only we humans can admire the beauty of flowers. But for insects, only the color, shape of the flower and smell are important. After all, flowers not only attract, they also feed: some insects with nectar, others with pollen, and others with both.

In order for plants to produce seeds, pollen must be transferred from one flower to another. This is exactly what insects do. A butterfly will fly in for a sweet drop of nectar, sit on a flower, and the pollen will stick to it. Then the butterfly will sit on a neighboring plant and pollinate its flower with the pollen that sticks to its legs.

This is how not only butterflies, but also other insects carry pollen. Only some people like some flowers, and others like others. For example, a bee or bumblebee will not sit on a lily of the valley. But the mosquito's bell of the lily of the valley is both a table and a house. The flower, which is called snapdragon, is avoided by small insects: they cannot get into the flower, they are not strong enough. And a bee or a bumblebee, please, rest its back against the upper part of the flower, bend the lower part with its paws and climb inside.

Insects never confuse flowers: they fly only to those in which food is suitable for them and can be obtained.

Many flowers open and release scents only in the evening. These flowers are usually white: white is most noticeable at dusk. Who are they luring? Butterflies! Only now they are not daytime, but nighttime. Thus, day and night, from spring to autumn, great work goes on in nature: countless voluntary messengers carry and carry pollen. Some plants fade, flowers appear on others.

In the spring, insects pollinate flowers on fruit trees; after this, in the summer, ruddy apples, pears, juicy cherries and other fruits appear on them. And bees, bumblebees and other insects participated in the creation of this abundance... Without them, there would be no fruits.

A. Dietrich

Cabbage whites

The boy caught a white butterfly in the garden and brought it to his father.

“This is a nasty butterfly,” said the father, “if there are too many of them, our cabbage will disappear.”

- Is this butterfly so greedy? - asks the boy.

“Not the butterfly itself, but its caterpillar,” answers the father, “this butterfly will lay tiny eggs, and caterpillars will crawl out of the eggs.”

The caterpillar is very voracious. All she does is eat and grow. When she grows up, she will become a pupa. The pupa does not eat, does not drink, lies motionless, and then a butterfly, just like this one, will fly out of it.

This is how every butterfly turns from an egg into a caterpillar, from a caterpillar into a pupa, from a pupa into a butterfly, and the butterfly lays eggs and freezes somewhere on a leaf.

K. Ushinsky

Urticaria and lemongrass

- I can’t stand strange names! Why are you Lemongrass if lemons don’t even grow here? Here I am: I have an appetite for nettles - I am Urticaria! She has an appetite for cabbage - she's a Cabbage Girl! Everything is simple and clear!

- And they called me Lemongrass not for my appetite, but for my beauty! My dress is beautiful, lemon color. But you gluttons just don’t understand this...

N. Sladkov

Where is her home?

A butterfly sat on a flower, and the flower bent down. The butterfly swayed along with the flower to the left, then to the right. A butterfly swings on a flower, like on a swing. She either lowers her long, thin, curved proboscis inside the flower or takes it out.

Ten stamens lined up in a circle. Pollen from the stamens showers the butterfly on all sides, and this causes the butterfly's head, abdomen, and legs to turn yellow.

There are different flowers. The butterfly loves flowers with petals open in all directions so that it can sit on the flower and see what is happening around it. And there are some flowers that have porches and a roof. You sit on the porch, you have to stick your head under the roof, but your wings remain outside. It’s good for the bee: it’s small - everything fits under the roof. You can't see it from the outside, you can only hear the flower buzzing.

Sometimes tiny, squirmy thrips crawl between the petals in the flowers. There are so many of them that wherever a butterfly lowers its proboscis, it bumps into them everywhere. And you can’t get away from these thrips, because in the flower they are the rightful owners - this is their home. Where is the butterfly's home?

Hot. Midges swarm in the sunbeam. A whole cloud of midges. The butterfly does not go around them. She flies straight towards the cloud. Cuts right through it. And now behind the butterfly there is already a whole train of midges. The midges fly after the butterfly, trying to catch up with it, but in vain. Butterflies fly faster than midges.

Having flown across a wide road, the butterfly finds itself above a narrow path leading into the bushes. There's shade here. It's not so hot here. A butterfly flies over the path between the bushes. The bushes above the path are closing closer and closer. And lower and lower the butterfly has to fly. Now the branches above have already completely closed and covered the sky. And suddenly the butterfly, with all its might, stumbles upon some thin sticky barrier. Her wings beat spasmodically against the web. The web becomes shiny, sparkling with scales that fall from the butterfly’s wings. And the wings become completely transparent, like glass.

Above the butterfly in the right corner, a huge cross spider froze tensely. He's waiting. Waiting for the butterfly to become completely confused. But the butterfly suddenly frees its wings from the web and hangs on its two hind legs. One more jerk and she flies into the air. Her hind legs remain on the web.

Glade. There are many yellow flowers in the clearing. Butterflies fly over the flowers. There are a lot of them too. They sit on one flower, then on another. Having sat on a flower, butterflies untwist their proboscis, which is curled into a spiral when flying. Unwind and lower into the flower. Butterflies drink nectar and transfer pollen from flower to flower. There are many flowers in the meadow. They have all opened their petals, they have all stretched out their stamens, they are all waiting for butterflies.

Spruce, pine, birch. No, that's not what it's all about. And here is the field. And there is cabbage in the field. Large, tight, cracked with juice. A person would pick such a head of cabbage and take it to the children. But the butterfly doesn’t like this head of cabbage for her children. It is not sweet enough, not juicy enough for butterfly children. A butterfly flies from one head of cabbage to another and tastes the cabbage with its front paws. The butterfly's front legs sense taste. And they don’t just feel, but feel in the most subtle way. The taste of a butterfly is developed two hundred, three hundred times stronger than that of a human. The butterfly will fly over the field for a long time, and it will take a long time to choose the sweetest, most delicious cabbage. And when it chooses, it will sit on the lower green leaf and lay yellow, large, ribbed eggs.

The wind rustled through the trees. The leaves are green, and the rustling is soft, barely audible. But there are two dry leaves on the branch. Like dry paper. But they are so small and also torn. So you won’t make the same noise here. Yes, these are not leaves. These are the dried wings of a dead butterfly.

The butterfly died right on the branch, clinging to it with its paws. So she sits there tight. Dead. A strong wind blew the branch and tore off the butterfly. There's a butterfly in the air again! She's flying again! Only now there are winged seeds in the air next to her. These seeds have wings as lifeless as those of a dead butterfly.

The butterfly did not have a home. Every hollow tree, every convenient twig, every silken blade of grass, every fragrant flower was home for her. And why does this butterfly need a home if it only lives for sixteen days? And if in sixteen days you need to know the world.

According to N. Romanova

Hospital under the pine tree

The ants quickly “comb out” everything that has accumulated under the wings, and at the same time spray the bird’s body with a pungent-smelling acid. Naturalists have noticed: almost half of all forest birds take ant baths.

V. Peskov

Can animals talk? (excerpt)

Everyone knows that in fairy tales animals and birds talk. But that’s in a fairy tale! But what about in life?

Animals have many different signals. Animals can communicate a lot to each other with these signals. Insects also have signals.

With its antennae, one ant can, for example, “tell” another: “Feed me,” “Share food.” By touching their antennae, ants recognize whether they have met one of their own or a stranger.

And bee signals are absolutely extraordinary. Returning to the hive, the scout bee sits on the honeycomb and begins to perform an intricate dance. She makes circles or figure eights with a buzz and at the same time shakes her belly. And the foraging bees are watching the dancer. By the direction and speed of movement, by the size of circles and figures of eight, by how often the dancer raises her abdomen, the bees learn in which direction and at what distance the scout found flowers full of sweet juice-nectar. As soon as the dance is over, the miners fly out of the hive and unmistakably find the place from which the scout flew.

A. Dietrich

The Tale of the Daughter of Thunder and Clouds

In a certain kingdom-state there lived Uncle Thunder. He lived in a large and very uncomfortable cave. In winter, he slept so soundly that he even forgot to grumble, although this was his favorite pastime.

But then Spring came, Uncle Thunder woke up and was very, very bored. The bright cheerful Sun, which always sees everything from above, noticed his sadness and said: “You are sad because you live alone. You need to find a bride and get married. Then there will be no time to be sad.

Uncle Thunder was delighted with this advice: “Listen, Sun, you go everywhere, you look into all corners of Mother Earth. Please find me a bride!” The sun agreed with pleasure and immediately went on a search: it looked very carefully at Mother Earth, looked into lakes and rivers, wanting to find a bride there for Uncle Thunder. From this stare In rivers and lakes, water began to heat up and rise with steam, turning into thick fog. The fog rose into the high blue Sky and, illuminated by the sun's rays, turned into pink, white, blue Clouds. The bully Wind appeared out of nowhere. It was he who drove these multi-colored clouds into a large purple Cloud.

The cloud was majestic and beautiful. “Why not a bride for Uncle Thunder?” - thought the Sun and asked: “Listen, Wind, please take this beauty to Uncle Thunder!” Frisky Wind agreed and immediately brought Cloud to the cave. Thunder looked out of his home and froze... He saw a magnificent Cloud, illuminated by the Sun, wrapped in pink lace. He couldn't even grumble as usual. “Ra-tara-ta! - Grom grumbled. - How charming and lovely you are! You seem to have a very serious character, I like that too. Would you like to marry me? Cloud really liked Uncle Thunder’s words, his politeness and admiration. She, of course, agreed only if he would always be so loving and attentive.

One day Cloud said to Thunder: “Dear Thunder, I’m tired of living in this damp cave, let’s go, let’s walk across the blue sky, look at others, show ourselves!”

“With pleasure,” thunder rumbled, “let’s go, let’s go for a walk.” They were beautiful: the Majestic Cloud and the good-natured Thunder in the blue Sky. Everyone admired them and said: “Look, look, what a Cloud is coming! Now there will be thunder! And the bully Wind spun, spun and shouted: “Why are you walking around doing nothing, it’s time for you to work!” - and, with all his might, he blew on Cloud. The cloud spread its wings and poured warm rain. And Thunder, frightened for his beauty, menacingly reprimanded the mischievous man: “Ra-ra-ra-ra-ra, don’t act like that!” But Cloud said: “It’s my job to water the fields, wash the flowers.” "You're red-red r-work! - Thunder rumbled.

At this time, the Sun asked them: “Why do you still live alone? You need to have a child! A little son or daughter." “It’s true, it’s long overdue,” Thunder rejoiced. “I want us to have a red-orange-yellow daughter!” “No,” protested Cloud, “just like me, green-blue-violet!” They would have quarreled very much, but then the good Sun came to the rescue. It said: “Don’t quarrel, I will give you a daughter the way you, Thunder, and you, Cloud, want to see her!”

And a Miracle happened! The sun touched with its shining ray the edge of the Cloud and the curly lock of Thunder, and at the same moment a multi-colored Rainbow was born. It had seven colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet!

All life on Mother Earth froze with satisfaction, admiration and delight! Everyone admired the daughter of Cloud and Thunder - the magnificent and cheerful Rainbow.

Since then, people have known that there are seven colors in the Rainbow and call them a spectrum.

How Heaven was going to visit Earth

Heaven never came to visit Earth, but it wanted it so bad. From above it looked at the seas, rivers, fields, meadows, forests, people: he liked all this very much. The sky noticed that people looked at it quite often, but did not know whether they liked it.

The Sky began to preen itself in order to please the Earth and its inhabitants. She sewed herself a blue dress, decorated it with lace from the Clouds, put on a solar hoop instead of a crown, and girded herself with a seven-colored Rainbow instead of a belt.

- Oh, what a beautiful sky today! - people admired, - they would have looked at it without looking away. I wish I could turn into birds and fly in such a sky!

Heaven was happy and began to try even harder. She sewed herself a black velvet dress, scattered silver Stars along the skirt, pinned the yellow-eyed Moon on her chest, and placed a clear Moon on her head. Quiet rivers, night birds admired the sky, fireflies turned on their lights to get a better look at it. The night sky was regal, solemn. The stars in the darkness twinkled and beckoned, the yellow Moon winked with one eye, illuminating the lunar path on the river, and the Moon, the son of the Moon, danced with pride for the Sky.

Morning has come, and Heaven has a new dress again! The sunrise illuminated the snow-white clouds with pink. The sun rose higher and higher, and the sky became more and more beautiful. All the plants, animals and people who woke up along with the Sun rejoiced.

- Take us to you, Heaven! - they asked, - we loved you! Always remain as beautiful!

Birds and insects flocked skyward to admire the sky above. People rose to the Sky on airplanes, helicopters, hang gliders and hot air balloons. They so wanted to touch the sky with their hands, to touch his pink dress!

But then black clouds began to gather. They stained all of Heaven's beautiful dress with mud. It was very upset.

- Everyone will turn their backs on me now! - thought Heaven, - we need to do something urgently.

The sky took out a huge electric lightning needle and threw it at the cloud to disperse it. The cloud, frightened, screamed so loudly that Thunder heard it and answered it, roaring menacingly. Out of fright, the Cloud began to cry, she melted before our eyes, and very soon the dirty dress of the Sky again became clean, but already blue.

The sky has made all the inhabitants of the Earth fall in love with it. Finally, it came to visit the Earth, but this was only possible on the horizon.

E. Alyabyeva

Cloud's Journey

On this summer day, the sun was burning so hot that all the animals and people hid in the shadows, and the water in the river began to evaporate so quickly that water vapor rose into the sky in a column. There they cooled and turned into small droplets, which were so small that they did not fall to the Earth, but gathered together, forming a snow-white Cloud.

- The world is beautiful! - Cloud exclaimed, - and I really want to watch it. But how to do this?

Then someone rubbed their cheek against his side. The cloud turned around and saw a mischievous boy with flowing long hair.

- Who are you? - Cloud asked.

- I am the breeze! - Veterok answered cheerfully.

-What are you doing in Heaven? - Cloud asked.

“And I play with the Clouds and disperse the Clouds,” Veterok shouted, turning in all directions.

- Breeze, please help me see the world. He's so beautiful! “But I can’t budge,” Cloud asked plaintively.

- Of course, I will help you. You are so fluffy, snow-white, cool, like cotton wool, like fluff, like the whipped cream that people eat, like the most delicious ice cream in the world! “I will blow on you and move you across the Sky in any direction,” Veterok sang joyfully.

That's how they became friends. The breeze helped Cloud either quietly float over the Earth, then fly rapidly, or rush as hard as he could. He blew on it, now weakly, now a little harder, now with all his might. And Cloud was happy and surprised at his acquaintance with the world.

The first thing Cloud did was to go to the sea, into which the river flowed, to admire himself in the reflection of the water surface. The cloud looked into the water, as if into a mirror, and saw itself in all directions.

- And I really am beautiful! - Cloud exclaimed.

But then it noticed that it began to gain weight and became larger. It was from the sea that water vapor managed to fly to Cloud.

- Oh, oh! - Cloud was upset, - I don’t want to get fat! We need to quickly fly away from the water. Although the sea is so big! And there are so many clouds floating above it. Maybe they are my brothers and sisters? We need to swim closer.

The Cloud approached the other Clouds and began to get to know them. It didn’t even notice how, during the conversations, all the Clouds merged into one huge Cloud, which rose above the Earth as a beautiful snow-white palace with silver lace on the columns. The breeze barely moved this Cloud from its place. It turned out to be just above the fields and vegetable gardens. The cloud was so heavy that it could not stay in the sky and fell to Earth in a short, warm summer rain. It cried, and people rejoiced. There had been no rain for a long time, the grass in the fields began to turn yellow, and vegetables in the gardens did not grow without moisture. People danced and sang with joy:

- Rain, rain, water!

There will be a grain harvest.

Rain, rain, let it come!

Let the cabbage grow.

The rain passed, and the hot summer Sun shone in the Sky again. It instantly dried up the puddles on the roads. Where is Cloud? Is his journey over? Yes, here it is. Water vapor from the moisture after the rain quickly rose into the Sky, forming a Cloud.

- How scared I was that it had disappeared! - Cloud exclaimed, - but how many good deeds I have done. Everyone was happy: people, plants, and animals. It turns out that everyone needs me?! Great! I’ll swim further, maybe I’ll help someone else.

And Cloud went on with the Wind. It was late in the evening. All nature was preparing for bed. The cloud felt tired and began to yawn. And then the Sun, which was setting behind the horizon, illuminated the Cloud with its radiance. It first closed its eyes from the bright light, and then slowly opened its eyelashes and looked around the sky.

- Fire! Fire! - Cloud shouted.

“Don’t shout like that,” Veterok calmed Cloud, “it’s not a fire, but the Sun is setting.” It’s tired of keeping everyone warm and shining during the day, and now it’s going to bed.

The cloud looked around. It was quiet and calm in Heaven. Rare Clouds spread over it like milk jelly. They were extraordinarily beautiful! What colors did the setting Sun and Evening paint them with! Their dresses shimmered in pink, violet, crimson, gold, and smoky colors. Cloud looked at her dress - it was amazingly beautiful. At least now to the ball! But what is this?! The bright colors have disappeared.

- Who stole my beautiful dress?! - Cloud exclaimed - Return it now!

“How funny you are, Cloud,” giggled Veterok, “no one stole your dresses.” The sun just went to bed and it became dark. Night has come. And at night everyone sleeps. And you lie down and rest. Tomorrow we will continue our journey.

The cloud closed its eyes and fell asleep. And Veterok stroked his head for a long time and protected his peace. Distant countries and long roads awaited them.

E. Alyabyeva

Who cares?

A piece of blue sky, peeking out from behind the clouds, was frightened.

“It’s so gray and boring on Earth,” he whispered. - Something must have happened.

- What, what happened? - other pieces of the blue sky shouted and peeked out from behind the clouds.

- But we can’t see it! Both we and we want to see! - rushing from everywhere...

And when the clouds were dispersed so that they would not interfere with the view, and all the pieces of the blue sky could look at the Earth, there was nothing alarming anymore...

- Who says that something happened on Earth? - they began to shout. “Where is the deceiver?”

But no one admitted it - who wants to stand in a corner, and even near the horizon?

V. Khmelnitsky

Birch

Of all the trees in the Russian forest, our birch is the cutest. The light birch groves are nice and clean. White trunks are covered with thin birch bark. As soon as the snow melts in the forest, resinous, fragrant buds will swell on the birch trees.

Many migrating songbirds gather in birch groves. Voiced thrushes sing, cuckoos crow, and nimble titmice fly from tree to tree. Blue and white snowdrop coppices are spread out like a carpet and bloom below the birch trees.

On hot summer days it is good to wander in a birch grove. A warm wind rustles green leaves overhead. It smells like mushrooms and ripe fragrant strawberries. The sun's rays break through the dense foliage.

I. Sokolov-Mikitov

Birch

Birch trees love sunlight very much and therefore grow on forest edges, bright clearings and clearings.

After forest fires When all the vegetation burns out in large areas, the first tree to grow from the ashes will be a birch. She loves light, space, and is not afraid of bitter frosts, gusty winds, or spring frosts.

Birch grows very quickly, which is why foresters call it a “racing” tree. Birch can live up to 150-180 years.

In Rus', the beautiful white-trunked birch tree has always been loved. It was called the tree of happiness. It was considered a symbol of girlish tenderness and beauty.

Birch is a generous and kind tree!

Since ancient times, peasants have woven baskets and tuyeskis from birch bark for berries and mushrooms, and made birch bark horns on which shepherds played when leading a herd of cows from the pasture to the village.

In ancient times, birch bark was used instead of paper. Medicines were prepared from birch buds and birch bark, and they were used to steam baths with birch brooms to drive out illness.

In spring the tree treats people and forest inhabitants sweet and healing juice.

Animals and birds drink with pleasure birch sap. A woodpecker, having pierced the bark with its sharp, strong beak, feasts on life-giving moisture. If a woodpecker flies away, tits, finches, and robins will flock to the birch tree. Sweet birch tears are loved by bears, capercaillie, ants, lemongrass and urticaria butterflies.

L. Sonin

I walked and I found a fairy tale

On a hot afternoon, a small company gathered under the burdock tree; Grasshopper, furry Hoverfly, Hives Butterfly yes Ladybug. They were exhausted from the heat, sitting in the shade, chatting about various things.

“Still, I don’t understand you butterflies,” Ladybug said thoughtfully. - After all, for the sake of beauty and life, you don’t feel sorry. Any bird will notice your colorful, patterned wings.

- He can see it from a distance! - the Hoverfly supported, - he will notice, fly in and with his beak - a bale!

- Oh, they scared me! - Butterfly laughed. “You’re saying he’ll notice my wings from afar?” Then watch!

The Hives raised, folded her motley wings and disappeared: a brown birch leaf tossed by the wind was hanging on a stem, but the butterfly was gone.

- Well, how? — the Butterfly asked, opening its wings.

- 3-w-great! - said the Hoverfly, rubbing her paws. - Just like a dry leaf. It turns out that your wings below are completely different.

“This is how we save ourselves,” answered the Butterfly. “And it’s not just us, hives, many are like that.” Some turn into a dry leaf, some turn into a green one. And other butterflies, in order to become invisible, do not fold their wings, but, on the contrary, open them. They will sit on a bright flower, open their wings and seem to disappear. The flower is blue - and the butterfly is blue, the flower is white - and the wings of the butterfly too. Blue on blue, white on white - go and notice! This is how we escape from the birds. Our paint is protective!

- Me too! Me too! - the Grasshopper crackled. - Whoever is painted in a protective color, the enemy is not so terrible. We, grasshoppers, have invisible suits against the bird-checks. Some grasshoppers hide on dry grass: the stems and the ground are grayish-brown - and the grasshoppers are the same. Well, I live where the grass is, the leaves are green. Look, here I am pressed against the green stem - and you won’t be able to see me!

- 3-w-wonderful! Not at all noticeable! - the Hoverfly praised. - It’s even envious!

“Well, you have nothing to complain about,” remarked Ladybug. “The birds over there don’t bother you either.”

“I’m not w-complaining,” the Hoverfly grinned. - I'm s-disguised. Under the bee. Look how fat, shaggy, and similar in color I am to her. It’s not for nothing that people call me “the beekeeper.” A bird flies up, and I say to her: “I’m so sorry!” I’m sorry!” The bird will think that I am really a bee, it will get scared - and move away!

- Wow! The fly dressed up as a bee! A real camouflage outfit! - exclaimed the Grasshopper. And, turning to the Ladybug, he remarked: “Nature gave nothing to you alone, did not protect you with anything.” Noticeable, red and even with dots! There's no way you can hide from the bird!

“Whoever needs it, let them hide, but I won’t,” responded Ladybug.

- Oh, it's terrible! - The Hoverfly became worried. - This is imminent death! And where do you get this unnecessary courage from?

“It’s in my blood, so to speak.” I'm not afraid of birds, let them be afraid of me.

- Ay-ay-ay! - the Butterfly flapped its wings. - How are you still alive?

“We ladybugs have such a burning, caustic liquid.” When there is danger, we release her. If some foolish chick pecks at our sister, he will immediately spit it out and remember the lesson for the rest of his life. The birds know what we taste like, that’s why no one bothers us. Well, so that the birds don’t make a mistake and confuse us, ladybugs, with other insects, we warn them with our coloring: “Look, we are bright red, dangerous for everyone!”

Then something flashed in the air.

- Tr-rr-revoga! - Grasshopper chirped desperately. - Save yourself!

At the same moment, a young Starling sat down on the ground. Looked around -

no one, looked under the burdock - and there was nothing edible there.

“It’s strange,” Starling said to himself. - I perfectly heard the Grasshopper crackling, I saw the Butterfly - Where did they disappear to? Everyone flew away, only Ladybug remained, which is of no use to me. Oh, how badly everything in nature is arranged! It's no good - everyone is trying to hide!

- Hey, Kr-r-rapivnitsa! The tr-r-r-r-rejoice has passed! Did you hear how this Starling talked about nature? “Poorly designed!” Since the Starling didn’t find us, that means it’s very good!