Fragments from the works of Prishvin about nature. Mikhail Prishvin

Many parents take the choice of children's books very seriously and reverently. Editions for children should awaken the warmest feelings in tender children's souls. Therefore, it is best to stop your choice on small stories about nature, its greatness and beauty.

A real naturalist, a connoisseur of swamps and forests, an excellent observer of the living life of nature, is the famous writer Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin (1873 - 1954). His stories, even the smallest ones, are simple and understandable. The mastery of the author, his manner of conveying all the unsurpassedness of the surrounding nature is admirable! He describes the noise of the wind, the smells of the forest, the habits of animals and their behavior, the rustling of leaves with such accuracy and certainty that when you read it, you involuntarily find yourself in this environment, experiencing everything with the writer.

Once I walked through the forest all day and returned home in the evening with rich booty. I took off my heavy bag from my shoulders and began to spread my goods on the table. Read...

In one swamp, on a tussock under a willow, wild mallard ducklings hatched. Shortly thereafter, their mother led them to the lake along a cow trail. I noticed them from afar, hid behind a tree, and the ducklings came up to my very feet. Read...

A little wild duck, the whistling teal, finally decided to transfer her ducklings from the forest, bypassing the village, into the lake to freedom. Read...

Once I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He also noticed me, curled up and mumbled: knock-knock-knock. It was very similar, as if a car was moving in the distance. Read...

My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. Sometimes, we go somewhere to our craft, he is in front, I am in the heel. Read...

Once we had it, we caught a young crane and gave it a frog. He swallowed it. Gave another - swallowed. The third, fourth, fifth, and then we didn’t have more frogs at hand. Read...

I will tell you an incident that happened to me in a hungry year. A yellow-mouthed young rook got into the habit of flying to me on the windowsill. Apparently, he was an orphan. Read...

Yarik became very friendly with the young Ryabchik and played with him all day. So, in the game, he spent a week, and then I moved with him from this city to a deserted house in the forest, six miles from Ryabchik. Before I had time to settle down and properly look around in a new place, when suddenly Yarik disappeared from me. Read...

My cop puppy is called Romulus, but I call him Roma or just Romka more, and sometimes I call him Roman Vasilich. Read...

It is known to all hunters how difficult it is to teach a dog not to chase animals, cats and hares, but to look only for a bird. Read...

The dog, just like the fox and the cat, approaches the prey. And suddenly freeze. This is what hunters call a stance. Read...

Three years ago I was in Zavidovo, the farm of the Military Hunting Society. The huntsman Nikolai Kamolov suggested that I look at his nephew's one-year-old bitch, pointer Lada, at his nephew's in the forest lodge. Read...

One can easily understand why the sika deer has frequent white spots scattered everywhere on its skin. Read...

I heard in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, from one citizen about a bear and, I confess, I did not believe it. But he assured me that in the old days, even in a Siberian magazine, this incident was published under the title: "A Man with a Bear Against Wolves."

Fun hunting for foxes with flags! They will go around the fox, recognize her lying down and through the bushes for a mile or two around the sleeping one they will hang a rope with red flags. The fox is very afraid of colored flags and the smell of calico, frightened, looking for a way out of the terrible circle. Read...

I got a speck in my eye. While I was taking it out, a speck still got into the other eye. Read...

A hazel grouse in the snow has two salvations: the first is to spend the night warm under the snow, and the second is that the snow drags with it various seeds from the trees to the ground for food for the hazel grouse. Under the snow, the hazel grouse looks for seeds, makes moves there and windows up for air.

Small, but very informative stories by Mikhail Prishvin vividly convey to us what we so rarely encounter today. The beauty and life of nature, deaf unfamiliar places - all this today is so far from dusty and noisy megacities. Maybe many of us would be happy to immediately go on a little trip through the forest, but it won’t work. Then we will open the book of Prishvin's stories and we will be transported to distant and desirable places to the heart.

- Oh, how are you with me! I said, and with the tip of my boot shoved him into the stream.

Instantly, the hedgehog turned around in the water and swam to the shore like a small pig, only instead of bristles on its back there were needles. I took a stick, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and carried it home. I had a lot of mice, I heard - the hedgehog catches them, and decided: let him live with me and catch mice.

So I put this prickly lump in the middle of the floor and sat down to write, while I myself looked at the hedgehog out of the corner of my eye. He did not lie motionless for a long time: as soon as I calmed down at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go there, here and finally chose a place under the bed and there it completely calmed down.

When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! The hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that it was the moon that had risen in the forest: in the moonlight, hedgehogs like to run through the forest clearings. And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.

I picked up the pipe, lit a cigarette and let a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: the moon and the clouds, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked it, he darted between them, sniffing and scratching the back of my boots with needles.

After reading the newspaper, I dropped it on the floor, went to bed and fell asleep.

I always sleep very soundly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit a candle, and only noticed how a hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and I don’t sleep myself, thinking: “Why did the hedgehog need a newspaper?” Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper, spun around near it, made noise, noise, and finally managed: he somehow put a corner of the newspaper on the thorns and dragged it, huge, into the corner.

Then I understood him: the newspaper was like dry leaves in the forest, he dragged it for himself for a nest, and it turned out, it’s true: soon the hedgehog all turned into a newspaper and made a real nest out of it. Having finished this important business, he went out of his dwelling and stood opposite the bed, looking at the candle - the moon.

I let the clouds in and I ask:

– What else do you need?

The hedgehog was not afraid.

- Do you want to drink?

I wake up. The hedgehog does not run.

I took a plate, put it on the floor, brought a bucket of water, and now I pour water into the plate, then pour it into the bucket again, and I make such a noise as if it were a stream splashing.

“Well, go, go…” I say. “You see, I arranged for you the moon and clouds, and here’s water for you ...

I look like I'm moving forward. And I also moved my lake a little towards it. He will move - and I will move, and so they agreed.

“Drink,” I say finally.

He began to cry.

And I so lightly ran my hand over the thorns, as if stroking, and I keep saying:

"You're good, little one!"

The hedgehog got drunk, I say:

- Let's sleep.

Lie down and blow out the candle.

I don’t know how much I slept, I hear: again I have work in my room.

I light a candle - and what do you think? The hedgehog runs around the room, and he has an apple on his thorns.

He ran to the nest, put it there, and after another runs into the corner, and in the corner there was a bag of apples and collapsed. Here the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and runs again - on the thorns he drags another apple into the nest.

And so the hedgehog got a job with me. And now, like drinking tea, I will certainly put it on my table and either I will pour milk into a saucer for him - he will drink it, then I will eat the ladies' buns.

What are crayfish whispering about?

I am surprised at crayfish - how much, it seems, they have too much messed up: how many legs, what mustaches, what claws, and they walk with their tail forward, and the tail is called the neck. But what surprised me most in childhood was that when the crayfish were collected in a bucket, they began to whisper among themselves. Here they are whispering, here they are whispering, but you won’t understand what.

And when they say: “Crayfish whispered,” it means that they died, and all their crayfish life went into a whisper.

In our river Vertushinka earlier, in my time, there were more crayfish than fish. And then one day grandmother Domna Ivanovna with her granddaughter Zinochka came to visit us at Vertushinka for crayfish. Grandmother and granddaughter came to us in the evening, rested a little - and went to the river. There they placed their crayfish nets. These crayfish nets do everything ourselves: a willow twig is bent in a circle, the circle is covered with a net from an old net, a piece of meat or something is placed on the net, and best of all, a piece of frog fried and steamed for crayfish. Nets are lowered to the bottom. Smelling the smell of a fried frog, the crayfish crawl out of the coastal caves and crawl onto the nets.

From time to time the nets are pulled up by the ropes, the crayfish are removed and lowered again.

It's simple stuff. All night the grandmother and granddaughter pulled out crayfish, caught a whole large basket and in the morning gathered back, ten miles away to their village. The sun has risen, the grandmother and granddaughter are walking, steamed up, exhausted. They are now not up to crayfish, just to get home.

“Crayfish would not have whispered,” said grandmother.

Zinochka listened.

The crayfish in the basket whispered behind Grandma's back.

What are they whispering about? Zinochka asked.

- Before death, granddaughter, they say goodbye to each other.

And the crayfish at this time did not whisper at all. They only rubbed against each other with rough bone barrels, claws, antennae, necks, and from this it seemed to people that a whisper was coming from them. The crayfish were not going to die, but they wanted to live. Each crayfish put all its legs into action in order to find a hole at least somewhere, and a hole was found in the basket, just enough for the largest crayfish to crawl through. One big crayfish crawled out, after it the smaller ones jokingly got out, and it went, and it went: from the basket - to my grandmother's katsaveyka, from the katsaveyka - to the skirt, from the skirt - to the path, from the path - into the grass, and from the grass a river is within easy reach.

The sun burns and burns. Grandmother and granddaughter go and go, and the crayfish crawl and crawl.

Domna Ivanovna and Zinochka come up to the village. Suddenly, the grandmother stopped, listened to what was happening in the basket at the crayfish, and did not hear anything. And that the basket had become light, she didn’t even know: without sleeping the night, the old woman left so much that she couldn’t even feel her shoulders.

“Crayfish, granddaughter,” said the grandmother, “they must have been whispering.

- Are you dead? the girl asked.

- They fell asleep, - answered the grandmother, - they do not whisper anymore.

They came to the hut, the grandmother took off the basket, picked up the rag:

- Fathers, dear ones, but where are the crabs?

Zinochka looked in - the basket was empty.

The grandmother looked at her granddaughter - and only spread her hands.

“Here they are, crayfish,” she said, “whispering!” I thought - they are with each other before death, and they said goodbye to us, fools.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "The Last Mushrooms"

The wind scattered, the linden sighed and seemed to exhale a million golden leaves from itself. The wind still scattered, rushed with all its might - and then all the leaves flew off at once, and remained on the old linden, on its black branches only rare gold coins.

So the wind played with the linden, crept up to the cloud, blew, and the cloud splashed and immediately dispersed into rain.

The wind caught up and drove another cloud, and bright rays burst out from under this cloud, and the wet forests and fields sparkled.

Red leaves were covered with mushrooms, but I found a little mushrooms, and boletus, and boletus.

These were the last mushrooms.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "The conversation of trees"

The buds open, chocolate, with green tails, and a large transparent drop hangs on each green beak.

You take one kidney, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.

You sniff a bird cherry bud and immediately remember how you used to climb up a tree for berries, shiny, black-lacquered. He ate handfuls right with the bones, but nothing but good came from this.

The evening is warm, and such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And now the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a birch with another white birch from afar echoes; a young aspen came out into the clearing, like a green candle, and calls to itself such a green aspen candle, waving a twig; bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds.

If you compare with us, we echo with sounds, and they have a fragrance.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "Birch bark tube"

I found an amazing birch bark tube. When a person cuts a piece of birch bark for himself on a birch, the rest of the birch bark near the cut begins to curl up into a tube. The tube will dry out, curl up tightly. There are so many of them on birch trees that you don’t even pay attention.

But today I wanted to see if there was anything in such a tube.

And in the very first tube I found a good nut, stuck so tightly that I could hardly push it out with a stick.

There was no hazel around the birch. How did he get there?

“Probably the squirrel hid it there, making its winter supplies,” I thought. “She knew that the pipe would curl up tighter and tighter and grab the nut tighter and tighter so it wouldn’t fall out.”

But later I guessed that it was not a squirrel, but a nutcracker stuck a nut, perhaps stealing from a squirrel's nest.

Looking at my birch bark tube, I made another discovery: I settled under the cover of a walnut - who would have thought? - the spider and the entire inside of the tube tightened with its cobweb.

Eduard Yurievich Shim "The Frog and the Lizard"

- Hello, Lizard! Why are you without a tail?

- It remained in the puppy's teeth.

- Hee hee! I, the Frog, even have a small tail. A. you could not save!

- Hello, Frog! Where is your ponytail?

- I lost my tail...

- Hee hee! And I, the Lizard, have grown a new one!

Eduard Yurievich Shim "Lily of the valley"

- What flower in our forest is the most beautiful, most delicate, most fragrant?

- Of course it's me. Lily of the valley!

- What kind of flowers do you have?

- My flowers are like snow bells on a thin stem. They seem to glow at dusk.

- What's the smell like?

- The smell is such that you will not inhale!

- And what do you have on the stem now, in place of the little white bells?

- Red berries. Also beautiful. A feast for the eyes! But don't rip them off, don't touch them!

- Why do you, delicate flower, poisonous berries?

- So that you, sweet tooth, do not eat!

Eduard Yurievich Shim "Stripes and spots"

Two kids met in a clearing: Roe deer - a forest goat and Boar - a forest pig.

They stood nose to nose and looked at each other.

- Oh, how funny! - says Kosulenok. - All striped, striped, as if you were painted on purpose!

- Oh, you are so funny! - says Kabanchik. - All in specks, as if you were deliberately splashed!

- I'm spotted in order to play hide and seek better! - said Kosulenok.

- And I'm striped, so I can play hide-and-seek better! — said Kabanchik.

- It's better to hide with spots!

— No, stripes are better!

- No, with spots!

— No, with stripes!

And argued, and argued! No one wants to give up

And at this time, the branches crackled, the deadwood crunched. She went out into the clearing Bear with cubs. The Kabanchik saw her and goaded into the thick grass.

All the grass is striped, striped, - the Boar disappeared into it, as if it had fallen through the ground.

I saw the Bear Roe — and shot into the bushes. Between the leaves the sun breaks through, everywhere there are yellow specks, specks, - the Roe deer disappeared into the bushes, as if he had not been.

Bear did not notice them, passed by.

So, both have learned to play hide and seek well. They argued in vain.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy "Swans"

Swans flew in herds from the cold side to the warm lands. They flew across the sea. They flew day and night, and another day and another night they flew without rest over the water. There was a full moon in the sky, and the swans below saw blue water below them.

All the swans are tired, flapping their wings; but they did not stop and flew on. Old, strong swans flew in front, those that were younger and weaker flew behind.

One young swan flew behind everyone. His strength has weakened.

He flapped his wings and could not fly further. Then he spread his wings and went down. He descended closer and closer to the water, and his comrades farther and farther whitened in the moonlight. The swan landed on the water and folded its wings. The sea stirred under him and rocked him.

A flock of swans was seen as a white line in the bright sky. And it was barely audible in the silence how their wings rang. When they were completely out of sight, the swan bent its neck back and closed its eyes. He did not move, and only the sea, rising and falling in a wide strip, raised and lowered him.

Before dawn, a light breeze began to stir the sea. And the water splashed into the white chest of the swan. The swan opened his eyes. The dawn was red in the east, and the moon and the stars became paler.

The swan sighed, stretched out his neck and flapped his wings, rose and flew, clinging to the water with his wings. He rose higher and higher and flew alone over the gently swaying waves.

Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy "Bird Cherry"

One bird cherry grew on a hazel path and drowned out the hazel bushes. I thought for a long time - to chop or not to chop it, I was sorry. This bird cherry did not grow as a bush, but as a tree three inches in length and four fathoms in height, all forked, curly and all sprinkled with a bright, white, fragrant color. Her scent could be heard from afar. I would not have cut it down, but one of the workers (I told him before to cut down all the bird cherry trees) started cutting it without me. When I arrived, he had already cut an inch and a half into it, and the juice squished under the ax when it hit the old chopper. “There is nothing to do, apparently, fate,” I thought, took the ax itself and began to chop together with the peasant.

Any work is fun to work, fun and chop. It's fun to drive the ax deep obliquely, and then cut straight through the mowed down one, and further and further cut into the tree.

I completely forgot about the bird cherry and only thought about how to dump it as soon as possible. When I was out of breath and put down the ax, I ran into a tree with the peasant and tried to knock him down. We shook: the tree trembled with leaves, and dew dripped on us from it and white, fragrant flower petals fell down.

At the same time, as if something screamed, it crunched in the middle of the tree; we leaned on it, and, as if weeping, it crackled in the middle, and the tree fell down. It was torn at the notch and, swaying, lay down in branches and flowers on the grass. Branches and flowers trembled after the fall and stopped.

“Oh, something important! - said the man. "It's a pity!" And I was so sorry that I quickly went to other workers.

Leo Tolstoy "Apple Trees"

I planted two hundred young apple trees, and for three years in spring and autumn I dug them in, and wrapped them in straw for winter. In the fourth year, when the snow melted, I went to look at my apple trees. They got fat in the winter; the bark on them was glossy and poured; the knots were all intact, and at all the tips and on the forks sat round, like peas, flower buds. In some places, the raspukalki had already burst and the scarlet edges of the flower leaves could be seen. I knew that all the unravelings would be flowers and fruits, and I rejoiced looking at my apple trees. But when I unfolded the first apple tree, I saw that below, above the ground itself, the bark of the apple tree was gnawed all around to the very wood, like a white ring. The mice did it. I unrolled another apple tree - and the other one had the same thing. Of the two hundred apple trees, not a single one remained intact. I smeared the gnawed places with pitch and wax; but when the apple trees blossomed, their flowers immediately fell asleep. Little leaves came out - and they withered and withered. The bark was wrinkled and blackened. Of the two hundred apple trees, only nine remained. On these nine apple trees, the bark was not eaten around, but a strip of bark remained in the white ring. On these strips, in the place where the bark diverged, outgrowths became, and although the apple trees got sick, they went. The rest all disappeared, only shoots went below the gnawed places, and then they are all wild.

The bark of trees is the same veins in a person: through the veins the blood goes through a person - and through the bark the juice goes through the tree and rises into branches, leaves and flowers. It is possible to hollow out the whole inside of a tree, as is the case with old vines, but if only the bark was alive, the tree would live; but if the bark is gone, the tree is gone. If a person's veins are cut, he will die, firstly, because the blood will flow out, and secondly, because the blood will no longer flow through the body.

So the birch dries up when the guys make a hole to drink the juice, and all the juice will flow out.

So the apple trees disappeared because the mice ate all the bark around, and the juice no longer had a way from the roots to the branches, leaves and color.

Leo Tolstoy "Hares"

Description

Hares feed at night. In winter, forest hares feed on the bark of trees, field hares - on winter crops and grass, bean gooses - on grains on the threshing floor. During the night, hares make a deep, visible trail in the snow. Before hares, hunters are people, and dogs, and wolves, and foxes, and crows, and eagles. If the hare walked simply and straight, then in the morning he would now be found on the trail and caught; but the hare is cowardly, and cowardice saves him.

The hare walks at night through the fields and forests without fear and makes straight tracks; but as soon as morning comes, his enemies wake up: the hare begins to hear either the barking of dogs, or the screech of sleighs, or the voices of peasants, or the crackling of a wolf in the forest, and begins to rush from side to side with fear. It will jump forward, be frightened of something and run back in its wake. He will hear something else - and with all his might he will jump to the side and gallop away from the previous trace. Again something will knock - again the hare will turn back and again jump to the side. When it becomes light, he will lie down.

In the morning, the hunters begin to disassemble the hare's trail, get confused by double tracks and long jumps, they are surprised at the tricks of the hare. And the hare did not think to be cunning. He's just afraid of everything.

Leo Tolstoy "Owl and Hare"

It got dark. Owls began to fly in the forest along the ravine, looking out for prey.

A big hare jumped out into the clearing, began to preen. The old owl looked at the hare and sat on the bough, and the young owl said:

- Why don't you catch a hare?

The old one says:

- Unbearable - a great hare: you will cling to him, and he will drag you into the thicket.

And the young owl says:

- And I will grab with one paw, and with the other I will quickly hold on to the tree.

And a young owl set off after a hare, clung to its back with its paw so that all the claws were gone, and prepared the other paw to cling to a tree. As a hare dragged an owl, she clung to a tree with her other paw and thought: “It won’t leave.”

The hare rushed and tore the owl. One paw remained on the tree, the other on the hare's back.

The next year, the hunter killed this hare and marveled that he had overgrown owl claws in his back.

Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy "Bulka"

Officer's Tale

I had a face... Her name was Bulka. She was all black, only the tips of her front paws were white.

In all muzzles, the lower jaw is longer than the upper and the upper teeth extend beyond the lower ones; but Bulka's lower jaw protruded so far forward that a finger could be placed between the lower and upper teeth. Bulka's face was broad; the eyes are large, black and shiny; and white teeth and fangs always stuck out. He looked like an arap. Bulka was gentle and did not bite, but he was very strong and tenacious. When he used to cling to something, he would grit his teeth and hang like a rag, and he, like a tick, could not be torn off in any way.

Once they let him attack a bear, and he grabbed the bear's ear and hung like a leech. The bear beat him with his paws, pressed him to himself, threw him from side to side, but could not tear him off and fell on his head to crush Bulka; but Bulka kept on him until they poured cold water on him.

I adopted him as a puppy and fed him myself. When I went to serve in the Caucasus, I did not want to take him and left him quietly, and ordered him to be locked up. At the first station, I was about to sit down on another sling, when I suddenly saw that something black and shiny was rolling along the road. It was Bulka in his copper collar. He flew at full speed to the station. He rushed towards me, licked my hand and stretched out in the shade under the cart. His tongue stuck out to the palm of his hand. He then pulled it back, swallowing saliva, then again stuck it out on a whole palm. He was in a hurry, did not keep up with breathing, his sides were jumping. He turned from side to side and tapped his tail on the ground.

I later found out that after me he broke through the frame and jumped out of the window and, right in my wake, galloped along the road and galloped about twenty versts in the heat.

Leo Tolstoy "Bulka and the boar"

Once in the Caucasus we went hunting for wild boars, and Bulka came running with me. As soon as the hounds drove off, Bulka rushed to their voice and disappeared into the forest. It was in the month of November: wild boars and pigs then are very fat.

In the Caucasus, in the forests where wild boars live, there are many delicious fruits: wild grapes, cones, apples, pears, blackberries, acorns, blackthorn. And when all these fruits ripen and are touched by frost, the boars eat up and grow fat.

At that time, the boar is so fat that it can not run under the dogs for long. When he is chased for two hours, he hides in a thicket and stops. Then the hunters run to the place where he is standing and shoot. By the barking of dogs, you can know whether the boar has stopped or is running. If he runs, then the dogs bark with a squeal, as if they were being beaten; and if he is standing, then they bark, as if at a person, and howl.

During this hunt, I ran for a long time through the forest, but not once did I manage to cross the path of a wild boar. Finally, I heard the long-drawn-out barking and howling of the hounds and ran to that place. I was already close to the boar. I've already heard more crackling noises. It was a boar tossing and turning with dogs. But it was heard by barking that they did not take him, but only circled around. Suddenly I heard something rustling behind me and saw Bulka. He apparently lost the hounds in the forest and got confused, and now he heard their barking and, just like me, that was the spirit rolled in that direction. He ran through the clearing, along the tall grass, and all I could see from him was his black head and bitten tongue in his white teeth. I called out to him, but he did not look back, overtook me and disappeared into the thicket. I ran after him, but the farther I went, the forest became more and more often. The knots knocked off my hat, hit me in the face, the needles of the blackthorn clung to my dress. I was already close to barking, but I couldn't see anything.

Suddenly I heard the dogs barking louder, something crackled violently, and the boar began to puff and wheeze. I thought that now Bulka got to him and was messing with him. With the last of my strength, I ran through the thicket to that place. In the most remote thicket I saw a motley hound. She barked and howled in one place, and something blackened and fussed about three steps away from her.

When I moved closer, I examined the boar and heard that Bulka squealed piercingly. The boar grunted and poked at the hound - the hound tucked its tail and jumped back. I could see the side of the boar and his head. I aimed to the side and fired. I saw that it hit. The boar grunted and crackled away from me more often. The dogs squealed and barked after him, and more often I rushed after them. Suddenly, almost under my feet, I saw and heard something. It was Bulka. He lay on his side and squealed. There was a pool of blood underneath. I thought, "The dog is missing"; but now I was not up to it, I was breaking further. Soon I saw a boar. The dogs grabbed him from behind, and he turned first to one side, then to the other. When the boar saw me, he leaned towards me. I fired another time, almost at point-blank range, so that the bristles on the boar caught fire, and the boar grunted, staggered, and slammed his whole carcass heavily to the ground.

When I approached, the boar was already dead, and only here and there it was swollen and twitching. But the dogs, bristling, some tore at his belly and legs, while others lapped up the blood from the wound.

Then I remembered Bulka and went to look for him. He crawled towards me and groaned. I went up to him, sat down and looked at his wound. His stomach was torn open, and a whole lump of intestines from his stomach dragged along the dry leaves. When the comrades approached me, we set Bulka's intestines and sewed up his stomach. While they sewed up the stomach and pierced the skin, he kept licking my hands.

The boar was tied to the horse's tail to be taken out of the forest, and Bulka was put on the horse and so they brought him home.

Bulka was ill for six weeks and recovered.

Leo Tolstoy "Milton and Bulka"

I got myself a setter dog for the pheasants.

This dog was called Milton: it was tall, thin, speckled in grey, with long beaks and ears, and very strong and intelligent.

They did not squabble with Bulka. Not a single dog has ever snapped at Bulka. He would only show his teeth, and the dogs would curl their tails and walk away.

Once I went with Milton for pheasants. Suddenly Bulka ran after me into the forest. I wanted to drive him away, but I couldn't. And it was a long way to go home to take him away. I thought that he would not interfere with me, and went on; but as soon as Milton sensed a pheasant in the grass and began to search, Bulka rushed forward and began to poke his head in all directions. He tried before Milton to raise the pheasant. He heard something like that in the grass, jumped, twirled; but his instincts are bad, and he could not find a trace alone, but looked at Milton and ran where Milton was going. As soon as Milton sets off on the trail, Bulka will run ahead. I recalled Bulka, beat him, but could not do anything with him. As soon as Milton began to search, he rushed forward and interfered with him. I wanted to go home already, because I thought that my hunting was spoiled, but Milton figured out better than me how to deceive Bulka. This is what he did: as soon as Bulka runs ahead of him, Milton will leave a trace, turn in the other direction and pretend that he is looking. Bulka will rush to where Milton pointed, and Milton will look back at me, wag his tail and follow the real trail again. Bulka again runs to Milton, runs ahead, and again Milton purposely takes ten steps to the side, deceives Bulka and again leads me straight. So all the hunting he deceived Bulka and did not let him ruin the case.

Leo Tolstoy "Turtle"

Once I went hunting with Milton. Near the forest, he began to search, stretched out his tail, raised his ears and began to sniff. I prepared my gun and followed him. I thought he was looking for a partridge, a pheasant, or a hare. But Milton did not go into the forest, but into the field. I followed him and looked ahead. Suddenly I saw what he was looking for. In front of him ran a small turtle, the size of a hat. A naked dark gray head on a long neck was stretched out like a pestle; the turtle moved widely with its bare paws, and its back was all covered with bark.

When she saw the dog, she hid her legs and head and sank down on the grass so that only one shell was visible. Milton grabbed it and began to gnaw, but could not bite through it, because the turtle has the same shell on its belly as on its back. Only in front, behind and on the sides there are holes where she passes her head, legs and tail.

I took the tortoise from Milton and looked at how its back is painted, and what kind of shell, and how it hides there. When you hold it in your hands and look under the shell, then only inside, as in a basement, you can see something black and alive.

I threw the turtle on the grass and went on, but Milton did not want to leave it, but carried it in his teeth behind me. Suddenly Milton yelped and let her go. The turtle in his mouth released a paw and scratched his mouth. He was so angry with her for this that he began to bark and grabbed her again and carried her after me. I again ordered to quit, but Milton did not listen to me. Then I took the turtle from him and threw it away. But he didn't leave her. He began to hurry with his paws to dig a hole near her. And when he dug a hole, he filled the tortoise into the hole with his paws and covered it with earth.

Turtles live both on land and in water, like snakes and frogs. They hatch their children with eggs, and they lay the eggs on the ground, and do not incubate them, but the eggs themselves, like fish caviar, burst - and turtles hatch. Turtles are small, no more than a saucer, and large, three arshins in length and weighing twenty pounds. Large turtles live in the seas.

One turtle lays hundreds of eggs in the spring. The shell of a turtle is its ribs. Only in humans and other animals the ribs are each separately, and in the turtle the ribs are fused into a shell. The main thing is that all animals have ribs inside, under the meat, and the turtle has ribs on top, and meat under them.

Nikolay Ivanovich Sladkov

Day and night rustles are heard in the forest. It's whispering trees, bushes and flowers. Birds and animals are talking. Even fish speak words. You just need to be able to hear.

They will not reveal their secrets to the indifferent and indifferent. But the inquisitive and patient will tell everything about themselves.

In winter and summer rustles are heard,

In winter and summer, conversations do not stop.

Day and night...

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov "Forest Strongmen"

The first drop of rain hit, and the competition began.

Three competed: mushroom boletus, mushroom boletus and mushroom mushroom.

The birch boletus was the first to squeeze out the weight. He picked up a birch leaf and a snail.

The second number was the boletus mushroom. He picked up three aspen leaves and a frog.

Mokhovik was third. He got angry, boasted. Parted the moss with his head, crawled under a thick twig and began to squeeze. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry - did not squeeze. He only forked his hat: it became like a hare's lip.

The boletus was the winner.

His reward is the scarlet cap of the champion.

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov "Songs Under the Ice"

It happened in winter. My skis are up! I ran on skis on the lake, and the skis sang. They sang well, like birds.

And around the snow and frost. Nostrils stick together and teeth freeze.

The forest is silent, the lake is silent. The roosters in the village are silent. And the skis are singing!

And their song - like a stream, it flows, it rings. But it’s not the skis, in fact, that sing, where are they, wooden ones! Under the ice someone sings, right under my feet.

If I had gone then, the under-ice song would have remained a wonderful forest mystery. But I didn't leave...

I lay down on the ice and hung my head into the black hole.

During the winter, the water in the lake dried up, and the ice hung over the water like an azure ceiling. Where it hung, and where it collapsed, and steam curls from the dark failures. But it's not the fish that sing with bird voices there, is it? Maybe there really is a stream there? Or maybe the icicles born from steam are ringing?

And the song is ringing. She is alive and pure; no stream, no fish, no icicles can sing like this. Only one creature in the world can sing such a song - a bird ...

I hit the ski on the ice - the song stopped. I stood quietly - the song rang out again.

Then I slammed my ski on the ice with all my might. And just then a miracle bird fluttered out of the dark basement. She sat down on the edge of the hole and bowed to me three times.

— Hello, under-ice songbird!

The bird nodded again and sang an under-ice song in plain sight.

“But I know you!” - I said. - You are a dipper - a water sparrow!

Olyadka did not answer: he could only bow and squat politely. Again he darted under the ice, and his song thundered from there. So what if it's winter? There is neither wind nor frost under the ice. Under the ice there is black water and a mysterious green twilight. There, if you whistle louder, everything will ring: the echo will rush, knocking on the icy ceiling, hung with ringing icicles. What would a dipper not sing!

Why don't we listen to him!

Valentin Dmitrievich Berestov "Honest caterpillar"

The caterpillar considered itself very beautiful and did not miss a single drop of dew so as not to look into it.

- How good am I! the Caterpillar rejoiced, looking with pleasure at her flat face and arching her shaggy back to see two golden stripes on it. It's a pity no one notices this.

But one day she got lucky. A girl walked through the meadow and picked flowers. The caterpillar climbed onto the most beautiful flower and waited. And the girl saw her and said:

- That's disgusting! Even looking at you is disgusting!

- Ah well! The Caterpillar got angry. - Then I give an honest caterpillar word that no one will ever, anywhere, for anything and for no reason, in any case, under no circumstances will see me again!

I gave my word - you need to keep it, even if you are a Caterpillar.

And the caterpillar crawled up the tree. From trunk to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to branch, from branch to leaf. She took out a silk thread from her belly and began to wrap herself around it.

She labored for a long time and finally made a cocoon.

“Ugh, how tired I am!” The Caterpillar sighed. - Totally screwed up.

It was warm and dark in the cocoon, there was nothing else to do, and the Caterpillar fell asleep.

She woke up because her back was itching terribly. Then the Caterpillar began to rub against the walls of the cocoon. Rubbed, rubbed, rubbed them through and fell out. But she fell somehow strange - not down, but up.

And then the Caterpillar in the same meadow saw the same girl.

"Horrible! thought the Caterpillar. - Even though I'm not beautiful, it's not my fault, but now everyone will know that I'm also a liar. I gave an honest caterpillar that no one would see me, and did not restrain him. A shame!"

And the caterpillar fell into the grass.

And the girl saw her and said:

- Such a beauty!

“So trust people,” grumbled the Caterpillar. “Today they say one thing, and tomorrow they say something completely different.

Just in case, she looked into the dewdrop. What? In front of her is an unfamiliar face with long, long mustaches. The caterpillar tried to bend its back and saw that large multi-colored wings appeared on its back.

— Oh, that's it! she guessed. “A miracle happened to me. The most ordinary miracle: I became a Butterfly! This happens.

And she spun merrily over the meadow, because she did not give an honest butterfly word that no one would ever see her.

Interesting stories about forest animals, stories about birds, stories about the seasons. Fascinating forest stories for middle school children.

Mikhail Prishvin

FOREST DOCTOR

We wandered in the spring in the forest and observed the life of hollow birds: woodpeckers, owls. Suddenly, in the direction where we had previously planned an interesting tree, we heard the sound of a saw. It was, we were told, cutting firewood from deadwood for a glass factory. We were afraid for our tree, hurried to the sound of the saw, but it was too late: our aspen lay, and around its stump there were many empty fir cones. The woodpecker peeled all this over the long winter, collected it, wore it on this aspen, laid it between two bitches of his workshop and hollowed it out. Near the stump, on our cut aspen, two boys were only engaged in sawing the forest.

- Oh, you pranksters! - we said and pointed them to the cut aspen. - You were ordered dead trees, and what did you do?

“The woodpecker made holes,” the guys answered. - We looked and, of course, sawed off. It will still disappear.

They all began to examine the tree together. It was quite fresh, and only in a small space, no more than a meter in length, did a worm pass through the trunk. The woodpecker, obviously, listened to the aspen like a doctor: he tapped it with his beak, understood the emptiness left by the worm, and proceeded with the operation of extracting the worm. And the second time, and the third, and the fourth... The thin aspen trunk looked like a flute with valves. Seven holes were made by the "surgeon" and only on the eighth he captured the worm, pulled out and saved the aspen.

We carved this piece as a wonderful exhibit for the museum.

“You see,” we said to the guys, “the woodpecker is a forest doctor, he saved the aspen, and it would live and live, and you cut it off.

The boys marveled.

Mikhail Prishvin.

SQUIRREL MEMORY

Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since autumn, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran a dozen meters, dived again, again left the shell on the snow and after a few meters she made the third climb.

What a miracle You can't think that she could smell a nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. So, since the fall, she remembered her nuts and the exact distance between them.

But the most amazing thing is that she could not measure centimeters, as we do, but directly by eye with accuracy determined, dived and pulled out. Well, how could one not envy the squirrel's memory and ingenuity!

Georgy Skrebitsky

FOREST VOICE

Sunny day at the very beginning of summer. I wander not far from home, in a birch copse. Everything around seems to be bathed, splashing in golden waves of heat and light. Birch branches flow above me. The leaves on them seem either emerald green or completely golden. And below, under the birches, on the grass, too, like waves, light bluish shadows run and stream. And bright bunnies, like the reflections of the sun in the water, run one after another along the grass, along the path.

The sun is both in the sky and on the ground... And it becomes so good, so fun that you want to run away somewhere far away, to where the trunks of young birch trees sparkle with their dazzling whiteness.

And suddenly, from this sunny distance, I heard a familiar forest voice: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

Cuckoo! I've heard it many times before, but I've never even seen it in a picture. What is she like? For some reason, she seemed to me plump, big-headed, like an owl. But maybe she's not like that at all? I'll run and take a look.

Alas, it turned out to be far from easy. I - to her voice. And she will be silent, and here again: “Ku-ku, ku-ku”, but in a completely different place.

How to see her? I stopped in thought. Maybe she's playing hide-and-seek with me? She hides, and I'm looking. And let's play the other way around: now I'll hide, and you look.

I climbed into a hazel bush and also cuckooed once, twice. The cuckoo fell silent, maybe looking for me? I sit silently and I, even my heart is pounding with excitement. And suddenly somewhere nearby: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

I am silent: look better, don't shout at the whole forest.

And she is already very close: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

I look: some kind of bird flies through the clearing, the tail is long, it is gray itself, only the breast is covered with dark spots. Probably a hawk. This one in our yard hunts for sparrows. He flew up to a neighboring tree, sat down on a branch, bent down and shouted: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

Cuckoo! That's it! So, she is not like an owl, but like a hawk.

I will cuckoo her from the bush in response! With a fright, she almost fell off the tree, immediately rushed down from the branch, sniffing somewhere in the thicket, only I saw her.

But I don't need to see her anymore. So I solved the forest riddle, and besides, for the first time I myself spoke to the bird in its native language.

So the sonorous forest voice of the cuckoo revealed to me the first secret of the forest. And since then, for half a century now, I have been wandering in winter and summer along deaf, untrodden paths and discovering more and more secrets. And there is no end to these winding paths, and there is no end to the secrets of native nature.

Konstantin Ushinsky

FOUR WISHES

Vitya rode on a sledge from an icy mountain and skated on a frozen river, ran home ruddy, cheerful and said to his father:

How fun in winter! I wish it was all winter!

“Write down your wish in my pocket book,” said the father.

Mitya wrote.

Spring came. Mitya ran plenty of colorful butterflies across the green meadow, picked flowers, ran to his father and said:

What a beauty this spring is! I wish it were all spring.

Father again took out a book and ordered Mitya to write down his wish.

It's summer. Mitya and his father went to haymaking. The boy had fun all day long: he fished, picked berries, tumbled in fragrant hay, and in the evening he said to his father:

"I've had a lot of fun today!" I wish there was no end to summer!

And this desire of Mitya was written down in the same book.

Autumn has come. In the garden they picked fruits - ruddy apples and yellow pears. Mitya was delighted and said to his father:

Autumn is the best of all seasons!

Then the father took out his notebook and showed the boy that he said the same thing about spring, and about winter, and about summer.

Vera Chaplin

WINGED ALARM CLOCK

Serezha is happy. He moved to a new house with his mom and dad. Now they have a two-room apartment. One room with a balcony, parents settled in it, and Seryozha in the other.

Seryozha was upset that there was no balcony in the room where he would live.

“Nothing,” Dad said. - But we will make a bird feeder, and you will feed them in the winter.

“So only sparrows will fly,” Seryozha objected with displeasure. - The guys say they are harmful, and they shoot them with slingshots.

- Don't repeat stupid things! the father got angry. - Sparrows are useful in the city. They feed their chicks with caterpillars, and hatch chicks two or three times during the summer. See how useful they are. The one who shoots birds from slingshots will never be a real hunter.

Seryozha was silent. He didn't want to say that he, too, shot birds with a slingshot. And he really wanted to be a hunter, and be sure to be like dad. Just shoot accurately and just recognize everything in the footsteps.

Dad fulfilled his promise, and on the first day off they set to work. Seryozha gave nails, planks, and dad planed and knocked them together.

When the work was completed, dad took the feeder and nailed it under the very window. He did this on purpose so that in winter he could pour food for the birds through the window. Mom praised their work, but there’s nothing to say about Seryozha: now he himself liked his father’s idea.

— Dad, will we start feeding the birds soon? he asked when everything was ready. Because winter hasn't come yet.

Why wait for winter? Dad replied. - Now let's start. You think how you poured food, so all the sparrows will flock to peck it! No, brother, you need to teach them first. Although the sparrow lives near a person, the bird is cautious.

And rightly so, as dad said, so it happened. Every morning Seryozha poured various crumbs, grains into the feeders, and the sparrows did not even fly close to her. They sat at a distance, on a large poplar tree, and sat on it.

Seryozha was very upset. He really thought that, as soon as he poured the food, the sparrows would immediately flock to the window.

“Nothing,” his dad consoled him. “They will see that no one offends them, and they will stop being afraid. Just don't hang around the window.

Seryozha carried out all the advice of his father exactly. And soon he began to notice that every day the birds became bolder and bolder. Now they were already sitting on the nearby branches of the poplar, then they completely took courage and began to flock to the table.

And how carefully they did it! They will fly by once or twice, they will see that there is no danger, they will grab a piece of bread and soon fly off with it to a secluded place. They peck there slowly so that no one takes it away, and again they fly to the feeder.

While it was autumn, Seryozha fed the sparrows with bread, but when winter came, he began to give them more grain. Because the bread quickly froze, the sparrows did not have time to peck it and remained hungry.

Seryozha was very sorry for the sparrows, especially when severe frosts began. The poor fellows sat disheveled, motionless, tucking their frozen paws under them, and patiently waiting for a treat.

But how happy they were for Seryozha! As soon as he went to the window, they, chirping loudly, flocked from all sides and hurried to have breakfast as soon as possible. On frosty days, Seryozha fed his feathered friends several times. After all, it is easier for a well-fed bird to endure the cold.

At first, only sparrows flew to Seryozha's feeder, but one day he noticed a titmouse among them. Apparently, the winter cold also drove her here. And when the titmouse saw that it was possible to profit here, she began to fly in every day.

Seryozha was glad that the new guest was so willing to visit his dining room. He read somewhere that tits love lard. He took out a piece, and so that the sparrows would not drag it away, he hung it on a thread, as dad taught.

Titmouse instantly guessed that this treat was in store for her. She immediately clung to the fat with her paws, pecks, and she herself, as if on a swing, swings. Long pecked. It is immediately clear that this delicacy was to her taste.

Seryozha fed his birds always in the morning and always at the same time. As soon as the alarm clock rings, he gets up and pours food into the feeder.

The sparrows were already waiting for this time, but the titmouse was especially waiting. She appeared out of nowhere and boldly sat down on the table. In addition, the bird turned out to be very savvy. It was she who first figured out that if Seryozha's window banged in the morning, she had to hurry to breakfast. Moreover, she never made a mistake and, if the window of the neighbors knocked, she did not fly.

But this was not the only thing that distinguished the quick-witted bird. Once it happened that the alarm clock went bad. That he had deteriorated, no one knew. Even my mother didn't know. She could oversleep and be late for work, if not for the titmouse.

A bird flew in to have breakfast, sees - no one opens the window, no one pours food. She jumped with sparrows on an empty table, jumped and began to knock on the glass with her beak: “Let's, they say, eat soon!” Yes, she knocked so hard that Seryozha woke up. I woke up and could not understand why the titmouse was knocking on the window. Then I thought - she must be hungry and asks for food.

Got up. He poured food for the birds, looks, and the hands on the wall clock are already showing almost nine. Then Seryozha woke up his mother, father and quickly ran to school.

From that time on, the titmouse got into the habit of knocking on his window every morning. And knocked something like - exactly at eight. It was as if I could guess the time by the clock!

Sometimes, as soon as she tapped her beak, Seryozha would rather jump out of bed - he was in a hurry to get dressed. Still, because until then it will be knocking until you give it food. Mom - and she laughed:

- Look, the alarm clock has arrived!

And dad said:

- Well done, son! You will not find such an alarm clock in any store. It turns out you've been hard at work.

All winter the titmouse woke Seryozha, and when spring came, she flew into the forest. After all, there, in the forest, tits build nests and hatch chicks. Probably, Seryozha the titmouse also flew to breed chicks. And by the fall, when they are adults, she will again return to Seryozha's feeding trough, yes, perhaps not alone, but with the whole family, and again she will wake him up in the morning for school.

Mikhail Prishvin (1873 - 1954) was in love with nature. He admired her grandeur and beauty, studied the habits of forest animals and knew how to write about it in a fascinating and very kind way. Prishvin's short stories for children are written in simple language, understandable even to kindergarteners. Parents who want to awaken in their children a kind attitude towards all living things and teach them to notice the beauty of the world around them should read Prishvin's stories more often to both kids and older children. Children love this kind of reading, after which they return to it several times.

Prishvin's stories read

Prishvin's stories about nature

The writer liked to observe the life of the forest. “It was necessary to find something in nature that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one else had ever met this in their lives,” he wrote. In Prishvin's children's stories about nature, the rustle of leaves, the murmur of a stream, the breeze, forest smells are so accurately and reliably described that any little reader is involuntarily transported in his imagination to where the author has been, begins to sharply and vividly feel all the beauty of the forest world.

Prishvin's stories about animals

Since childhood, Misha Prishvin treated birds and animals with warmth and love. He was friends with them, tried to learn to understand their language, studied their life, trying not to disturb. In Prishvin's stories about animals, entertaining stories about the author's encounters with various animals are conveyed. There are funny episodes that make the children's audience laugh and wonder at the mind and quick wit of our smaller brothers. And there are sad stories about animals in trouble, which evoke a feeling of empathy and a desire to help the children.

In any case, all these stories are filled with kindness and, as a rule, have a happy ending. It is especially useful for our children growing up in dusty and noisy cities to read Prishvin's stories more often. So let's get started as soon as possible and dive with them into the magical world of nature!