Yuri koval sparrow lake stories. The mystery of the title of the story by Yuri Koval Sparrow Lake

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Yuri Koval VOROBYNOE LAKE

Sparrow lake

Long ago I heard stories about Sparrow Lake.

They said that huge bream were caught there that did not fit into a basin, perches that did not fit into a bucket, monstrous pikes that did not fit into anything at all.

It was surprising that the pikes and perches were so huge, and the lake was Vorobyinoe.

Go to Vorobyinoe Lake. You will find him there in the woods.

I searched and got one day to Sparrow Lake. Not too big, but not too small, it lay among the spruce forests, and three islands cut its waters right in the middle. These islands looked like narrow-nosed ships that sail one after another, and the sails of the ships were birches.

There was no boat, and I could not get to the islands, I began to fish.

I saw pike, black perch, and golden bream. True, all of them were not too large, they fit in one bucket, and there was still space.

In this very place I put an onion, peeled the potatoes, threw in the peppers, refilled the water and hung the bucket over the fire.

While the ear was boiling, I looked at the island-ships, at their birch sails.

The Orioles flew over green sails that fluttered and fluttered in the wind, and could not budge their ships. And I liked that there are such ships in the world that cannot be budged.

Grunt

On a late spring evening, when the sun hides behind the treetops, a strange long-billed bird appears from nowhere above the forest. It flies low over a transparent alder and carefully examines all the glades and glades, as if looking for something.

Horch ... horkh ... - a hoarse voice comes from above - Horch ...

Earlier in the villages it was said that this is not a bird at all, but like an imp flying over the forest, looking for its horns, which it has lost.

But this, of course, is not a devil. This is a woodcock flying over the forest, looking for a bride.

The woodcock has evening eyes - large and dark. For a hoarse voice a woodcock is sometimes called a "grunt", and for a long beak - "elephant".

In one village, I heard, they call him affectionately "walishen". This is the name I like the most.

Dick and blueberry

With us in the hut lives a dog whose name is Dick. He loves to watch me smoke. He sits across from me and watches the smoke pouring out of my mouth.

Dick is a kind dog, but a glutton. Stuffing his stomach with fish entrails and burying his head under the tree so that mosquitoes don't bite - that's what he needs!

Once in a swamp I found a blueberry meadow. I could not tear myself away from the blueberries, collected and ate handful by handful.

Dick ran from one side, then from the other, looked into my mouth, not realizing that I was eating it.

It's blueberries, Dick! - I explained. - Look how much of it.

I scooped up a handful and handed it to him. He quickly removed the berries from his palm.

Now go ahead yourself, ”I said.

But Dick didn’t understand where the berries came from, he ran around, nudged him in the side so that I didn’t forget about him.

Then I decided to teach Dick some wisdom. I'm ashamed to tell, but I got down on all fours, winked at him and began to eat berries right from the bush. Dick jumped with admiration, opened his mouth - and only the bushes crackled.

Two days later, Dick gathered blueberries around the hut, and I was glad that I had not taught him to love currants and cloudberries.

Star ide

In early spring Vitya and I went fishing on the Most.

The Bridge is not so far from us, but still six kilometers. They walked, walked, kneaded the swamp and forest spring mud, tired. They came to the Bridge - they immediately put a fire on, they began to boil the tea. Vitya says:

I don’t know about you, but all my life I dream of catching a big ide.

How big? What are the sizes?

Not less than a boot.

What kind of boot? Ordinary or vagrant?

Well, it's you, boy, too. The ide is the size of a swamp roam! There is no such thing. Let's catch an ide with a usual, familiar tarpaulin boot.

We agreed and tied up a secret donkey. What is the secret of this donkey, I cannot tell - Vitya does not order.

And so we planted a dozen worms on a large hook and threw it all into the water.

And the ide does not take. A small sorochka pulls at worms. The bell on the donk tinkles.

Tortured the sorozhonka, - Vitya says, - overpowered. The little roach is a small roach. We have a name for roach in the North.

By the evening, at the very least, we caught sorozhonki, but the ide does not take in any way.

And then the night came.

Over Tsypina Mountain, under the stars, geese and cranes pulled northward, the woodcocks began to flutter and blink, and then an ide took over.

The line stretched terribly, Vitya trembled, grabbed the line with both hands, pulled it to the shore.

And in the distance, in the darkness by the reeds, an ide that had come out to the surface splashed. Silver glare rained down on the water from the blows of its tail, and the spray of stars flew.

And so Vitya brought the ide to the shore and almost pulled it out, when suddenly the ide pulled. Vitya slipped and fell into the water next to the ide.

And so they both wallow in the black water, and from both of them the star spray is flying. And I realized that the ide would go away now if I didn't think of something.

And I came up with. I also fell into the water on the other side of the ide. And now the two of us are already lying in the water and an ide is between us.

And above us, by the way, all the night constellations, all the main spring stars, shine and stand, and especially clearly, I see, Leo and Gemini are standing over us. And now it seems to me that Vitya and I are twins, and between us is a lion. Everything is somehow confused in my head.

And yet we pulled the ide out, dragged it ashore, and it turned out to be very large. There was no time to measure the boot - it was night, and he did not fit into the bucket.

We put it upside down in a bucket and ran through the swamp and forest spring mud home, to Tsypin Mountain. The ide beat in a bucket with its tail, and the main spring constellations - Leo and Gemini - played in each scale of it.

We hoped that the ide would not fall asleep until morning, but he fell asleep.

I was very upset that the star ide fell asleep and there was no trace of it left on the ground. He took the board, put the ide on it and drew it around with a pencil exactly along the contour. And then he sat for a long time - he cut out the star ide. Let his trace remain on my board.

And that ide that you see in the picture, we caught another time. This is not an ide, but an egg. But for some reason he is also stellar. I don’t know why. We caught him in the morning, when the stars disappeared under the veil of the sun ... Probably, every ide is a star ...

Chaga

Above the river, above the whirlpool, in which the outlandish northern fish, grayling, hides from the kite, there is a birch.

The trunk of the birch is crooked, it then bends towards the river, then pulls it away from the taiga water, and the bark burst on its steepest knee.

A black birch mushroom, chaga, has been growing in this place for many years.

I cut down the chaga with an ax.

Huge, with a bull's head, she barely climbed into a backpack.

For several days I dried the chaga in the sun, and when the mushroom dried up, I chopped the black-orange core with a knife, put it in a pot, and boiled it with boiling water.

The tea ran out and I drank chaga. It is bitter, like tea, smells of burnt mushroom and distant spring birch sap.

Its color is thick, coffee, the color of a pool, in which the northern grayling fish hides from the kite and from our eyes.

Neighborhood

I am not afraid of snakes, but I fear in the most serious way. In those places where there are a lot of vipers, I always walk in rubber boots and deliberately stomp strongly so that the snakes know that I am walking.

“This guy is stomping again,” the vipers probably think. - Look at that, it will come. We must leave. "

A family of vipers lives in the stones behind our house. On warm sunny days, they crawl out to bask on the pebbles. We have been living side by side for many years, and so far - pah, pah, pah - there has not been a case for us to quarrel.

Once Vitya decided to photograph a snake. I set up a tripod in the stones, began to watch for them.

Soon the viper crawled out, and Vitya clicked. I went to watch him shoot.

Curled up, the viper lay in the stones, glancing lazily at the photographer, and behind him, at the very heels, lay the second. Vitya did not notice this second and could step on it every second. I was about to shout when I suddenly saw a third one, crawling to the side of the tripod.

You're surrounded, ”I said to the photographer. - Stop filming.

Now, I'll make another duplicate. The sun will come out from behind a cloud.

The sun came out, at last, from behind a cloud, Vitya made a duplicate and carefully, maneuvering between the vipers, brought out his tripod.

Ugh, ugh, ugh, - I said, - nothing happened. And there was such a case with vipers.

We have an old house in the village, very deserted. The owner of this house rarely comes, the house is empty all winter.

And then one spring two girls-artists came to this house. They wanted to live in the village, paint.

They went into the house and first of all decided to light the stove.

They opened the stove door, and from there suddenly two hefty vipers crawled out.

That was really a cry!

Tuzik

In the village of Vasilevo, all the dogs are Tuziki, all the cows are Dawn, and all the aunts are Aunt Mani.

You go into the village, and you are met by the first Tuzik - Tuzik who meets you. He is cheerful, kind. Rubbing against your leg affectionately, they say - come in, come in. Give him a crust, and he jumps with joy, as if you rolled off a whole cake for him.

You walk through the village, and from behind the fences the new Tuziks are looking, thinking about the crust, and the Dawn mooing in the sheds, and Aunt Mani are all sitting on the benches, sniffing lilacs.

You go up to some aunt Manet and say:

Aunt Manya, would you pour some milk?

You will walk through the whole village - there you will drink milk, there you will taste radishes, you will break lilacs. And the last Tuzik will see you off the outskirts. And for a long time he looks after you and barks loudly goodbye, so that you do not forget the village of Vasilevo.

But in the village of Plutkovo, all the dogs are Dozorki, all the cows are Daughters, and all the aunts are still Aunt Many. My heartfelt friend Leva Lebedev also lives there.

Cloudberry

There is moss underfoot - soft shaggy fur.

Sunny berries, orange and yellow, scattered across the moss meadow. Cloudberry.

The yellow ones are ripe, the orange ones are about to ripen.

The cloudberry is a bit like the white raspberry. It seems that these are small raspberries growing among the moss.

But cloudberries are not as sweet and fragrant as raspberries.

Still, I won't trade cloudberries for raspberries. She has a northern, taiga taste, and there is nothing to compare it with - except with the taste of dew.

Cloudberry absorbed all the freshness of a damp forest, all the sweetness of a moss swamp - and there was a lot of freshness, but a little bit of sweetness.

But whoever needs it - some drink tea with a bite, others overlap.

When you get tired under the bag after a long journey, when your throat is dry, cloudberries seem like honey. Moss and cool marsh honey.

Porcelain bells

Who knows what, and I like the porcelain bell the most.

It grows in the depths of the forest, in the shade, and its color is strange - little sun. Not watery, but transparent, porcelain. Its flowers are weightless and cannot be touched. Just watch and listen.

Porcelain bells are ringing, but the noise of the forest always drowns them out.

Fir-trees hum, pine needles creak, aspen foliage trembles - where can you hear the light ringing of a porcelain bell?

But all the same, I lie down on the grass and listen. And I lie for a long time, and the spruce rumble and tremor of the aspen goes away - and a distant, modest bell is heard.

Perhaps this is not so, perhaps I am making this up, and porcelain bells do not ring in our forests. Listen to this. It seems to me - they are ringing!

Panteleev cakes

Last night we spent the night with grandfather Panteley. Long ago, fifty years ago, he cut down a house in the taiga and lives in it alone.

We got to Pantelei late at night. He was delighted with the guests, put the samovar on.

For a long time we sat at the table, talked, sang songs.

Panteley was more silent and kept looking at what they were, the people of the city. Our conversations and songs brought from the city seemed wonderful to him.

One song he liked: "It's raining outside, rain ..."

In the morning we got up early, after dark, and the grandfather was already up. I looked behind the partition to see him. There was a candle burning on the table, and in the light of her grandfather Panteley was kneading dough. Apparently, he was going to bake bread.

The sun rose. We began to get ready for the road and at parting decided to take a picture of Pantelei.

You, grandfather, take off your hat - why take pictures in a hat?

Why take it off? She warms my head.

Okay, then pick up the net as if you were mending it. Panteley did not take off his hat, but took the net in his hands, shaking his head and smiling at the ideas of the city man.

Then he went into the house and brought out something wrapped in a rag. The package was hot. I opened it and saw thin cakes made from rye flour.

Take, - said Panteley, - on the road.

When we crossed the Chuval mountain and stopped to rest, I took out Panteleev's cakes from the bag. They dried up and crumbled.

We began to eat them, soaking them in a stream.

There was neither salt nor sweetness in the Panteleev cakes. They were as fresh as water.

I wondered: what are these strange cakes, why they have no taste?

Then I realized that there is a taste, only very simple. Probably, such cakes can only be baked by a lonely old man living in the taiga.

Lapwing

Over the damp flooded field, in a place where there are especially many spring puddles, lapwings fly screaming all day.

They furiously flap their wide wings, dive in the air to the right, left, and somersault. It seems that the strong wind prevents them from flying.

But there is no wind in the field. The sun is shining, reflected in smooth sparkling puddles.

Lapwing has an extraordinary flight, playful. Lapwing plays, splashing in the air, like guys splashing in the river.

When a lapwing sits on the ground, you will not immediately believe that this is the same bird that just tumbled over the puddles, playing the fool. The sitting lapwing is strict and handsome, and the frivolous crest on his head seems completely unexpected.

Once I saw lapwings chasing a kestrel.

The kestrel inadvertently approached their nest and got into trouble. One lapwing all the time tumbling in front of her nose and interfering with flying, and the second swooped down from above and thrashed on whatever had to be done.

Having chased away the predator, lapwings sank to the ground and walked through the puddles, waving their proud crests.

Rough-legged Buzzard

The shepherd Volodya shot a bird and brought it to me.

Here, ”he said,“ look what I shot. The bird was alive. The shot broke her wing.

The bird, gray with golden eyes, looked angrily at me, clapped its beak and hissed.

Don't hiss at me, ”I said. - I didn't shoot you, but this fool. Why did you knock her out? - I asked Volodya. - Did he get mad, or what?

She flies, and I think: give me a shot.

You should hit. Into the eye.

Shepherd Volodya was offended. He screwed up the eye with which he was aiming, walked back to the corner of the hut and squatted down on his haunches.

A gray-haired bird with golden angry eyes sat on the table. As soon as I approached, it hissed and beat with its beak, its paws and claws were sharp, terrible.

She was large, the size of a goshawk, with black specks on her chest and tail, but the overall impression was silver, gray, wintry.

What kind of bird is this? - Volodya muttered in the corner. - What is her name?

Buteo lagopus, I replied. “You won’t remember anyway.

What ... butya? - Volodya finally huddled in a corner and now screwed up his other eye, which he did not aim at.

Go help, ”I said. - Let's try to straighten the wing.

I put on thick leather gloves and, while Volodya was holding the bird, I adjusted the wing as best I could.

It was the hardest thing to do. Buteo lagopus clicked, cracked and pecked, tore both gloves and jacket with its claws.

I put two planks-splints in place of the fracture, put a tight bandage on them, so that the furious Buteo lagopus would not rip it off the wing.

Then we carried the bird out into the street and set it on the fence. Buteo lagopus looked at us with hatred. Fearless and strong were his eyes.

Why are you looking at me like that? I said. - It was he who knocked you down, what have I got to do with it?

But the wounded Buteo lagopus did not see any difference between us - Volodya and me.

"Buteo lagopus" are Latin words. And in Russian this bird is called very simply - the Rough-legged Buzzard.

In our area, it appears very rarely, before the most severe winter.

Three jays

When a jay screams in the forest, it seems to me that a huge spruce cone is rubbing against the pine bark. But why should a lump rub against a bark? Is it stupid?

And the jay screams for beauty. She thinks that it is she who is singing. What a bird's delusion! And the jay looks good - the head is pale yellow with a tuft, on the wings - blue mirrors, and the voice, like a rake, - creak and wheeze.

Once, three jays gathered on the mountain ash and let's yell. Shouted, shouted, tore at the throat - tired. I jumped out of the house - they immediately flew away. I went up to a mountain ash - nothing was visible under the mountain ash, and everything was in order on the branches, it was not clear what they were shouting. True, the mountain ash is not yet fully ripe, not red, not crimson, but it's time - September.

I went into the house, and the jays again flocked to the mountain ash, yelling, raking. I listened and thought that they were cracking meaningfully.

One shouts: - Will mature! Matures!

Another: - Warm up! Warm up!

And the third shouts: - Thrintryabr!

The first one I immediately understood. It was she who shouted about the mountain ash, they say, the mountain ash is still ripe, the second - that the sun will warm up the mountain ash, and the third could not understand.

Then I realized that soykin "trintryabr" is our September. September is too sweet a word for her voice.

By the way, I noticed this jay. I listened to it both in October and in November, and all she shouted: "Thrintryabr!"

That's a silly woman, our whole autumn for her is Trintryabr.

One, two, horse, four

There were four haystacks in the field.

Every time I passed by, I looked at them with pleasure. I liked the way they moved from the road to the forest, and I always counted them to myself: one, two, three, four ...

Once I was walking along the road and, as usual, began to count: one, two, three, four ...

Where is the third haystack? There was a horse on the count of three. She was clearly chewing on the remains of the third haystack.

“Did she chew a whole haystack? I thought. - No, probably, the haystack was taken away, and the horse accidentally got to this place.

A month passed, and again I was nearby, and the score came out like this: lapwing, two, hare, four.

There was no longer the first haystack, and a lapwing walked in its place, and between the second and fourth I raised a hare.

And a month later, no account came out. Not a lapwing or a hare could be seen in the field, only one fourth hay stood, covered with snow. So he stood until spring.

White and yellow

The most important butterflies are, of course, lemongrass. They appear before everyone else.

There is still snow in the ravines, and lemongrass are circling over the warm meadow. Their yellow wings argue with the old snow and laugh at it. And from the ground - white and yellow - the first flowers rush - anemone, mother-and-stepmother.

White and yellow shows us at first spring, and only then everything else - and snowdrops, and lungwort, and chocolate.

But spring cannot part with white and yellow. Either marigolds and kupava will burst out, or bird cherry blossoms.

White and yellow pass through the whole spring, and even in the middle of summer, white and yellow converge in one chamomile flower.

Suspension bridge

There is a suspension bridge not far from the village of Luzhki.

It hangs over the Istra River, and when you walk along it, the bridge sways, your heart stops and you think - you’ll fly away!

And Istra below flows restlessly and seems to push: if you want to fly, fly! Then you go ashore, and your feet, like stone ones, reluctantly walk; unhappy that instead of flying again they poke into the ground.

So I came once to the village of Luzhki and immediately went to the bridge.

And then the wind rose. The suspension bridge creaked and swayed. My head started spinning, and I wanted to jump, and I suddenly jumped and - it seemed - took off.

I saw distant fields, great forests beyond the glades, and the Istra River cut the forests and fields with bends-crescents, drew fast patterns on the ground. I wanted to fly through the patterns to the great forests, but then I heard:

An old man was walking along the bridge with a stick in his hand.

Why are you jumping here?

I'm a lark too! Fat-nosed! Our bridge was completely shattered, and look, it will break off. Go, go, jump ashore!

And he threatened with a stick. I went off the bridge to the shore.

“Okay,” I think, “I’m not all jumping and flying. We must also land sometimes ”.

That day I walked for a long time along the Istra coast and remembered for some reason my friends. I remembered both Lyova and Natasha, I remembered my mother and brother Borya, and I also remembered Orekhievna.

I came home with a letter on the table. Orekhievna writes to me:

“I would fly to you on my wings. Yes, I have no wings. "

She-bear-kaya

Crawling along the wet sandy path Medveditsa-kaya.

In the morning, even before the rain, a moose passed here - a moose with five branches on the horns, and a moose cow with a calf. Then a lone and black boar crossed the path. And now you can still hear him tossing and turning in a ravine in dry reeds.

The Bear does not listen to the boar and does not think about the moose that passed in the morning. It crawls slowly and only shrivels if a belated drop of rain falls on it from the sky.

The bear-kaya does not even look at the sky. Then, when he becomes a butterfly, he will see it again, swoop in. And now she has to crawl.

Quiet in the forest.

The sweet smell of meadowsweet along with fog spreads over the swamp. The Bear-Kaya is crawling along the wet sandy path.

Rook

The rook was drowned in the grass. He fell from a tree into the grass, and he drowned in it, even choked a little.

The rook got scared. Sits in the grass. He goggled his eyes and saw nothing but grass. He sat there for a long time, and then stuck his head out of the grass - wow! The forest is around. The trees are shaggy and shaggy, thorny and dense.

Then the rook took it and hid in the grass again.

He sat, sat, looked out again. The forest stands still, looking at the rook. And the rook hid again.

And so it went with them. The rook sticks out his head - the forest stands; will hide, and the forest looks, and the grass rustles around, small blades of grass squeak, and dry ones crackle.

The rook went on foot through the grass, pushing the stems apart with its beak, but he himself was trembling with fear.

Suddenly the grass ran out, and the rook saw a field, and in the field two bulls were mooing at the rook. And both are white-fronted! What a horror - the white-fronted! Both! And the rook backed into the grass.

And then the earth trembled! There was a stomp, a crash!

Uncle rides a mare on the road! Uncle! In Hat!

Not only did he climb on the mare, but also put on a hat!

The rook flapped its wings from fear - and flew!

I flew for the first time in my life.

The horse thought

The horse thought about it. Stands in the meadow and thinks. And he doesn't chew grass, doesn't look at butterflies, doesn't even chase flies with his tail - he thinks.

The horse is thinking, ”said the driver, Uncle Agathon. - Yes, and there is something to think about. Life is complicated.

I don’t know what to think about? - Kolka said, machine operator. - Here I have worries - you will think about it! The tractor has a lot of horsepower, but there are not enough spare parts!

Think, dear, - said Orekhievna. - You have to think. There are not many of you horses left in the world.

And the horse thought. Her eyes were wet and serious. For a long time she stood like that, and then waved her tail and galloped into the field. Chasing butterflies.

Ant king

Sometimes it happens - you feel sad about something, you feel sad. You sit sluggish and boring - you see nothing, you walk through the forest and, like a deaf person, you hear nothing.

And then one day - and it was in early winter - lethargic and dull, sad and sad, I walked through the forest.

“It's bad,” I thought. “My life is no good. I don’t really know what to do? ”

Glue! - I suddenly heard.

What else to glue?

Glue! Glue! - shouted someone behind the trees. Suddenly I noticed a snowy mound under the tree.

I immediately realized that it was an anthill under the snow, but for some reason there were black holes in the anthill. Someone dug holes in it!

I came closer, bent down, and then a gray long nose, black antennae and a red cap stuck out of the hole, and again there was a cry:

Glue! Glue! Glue!

And, flapping green wings, the Ant King flew out of the anthill.

In surprise, I recoiled, and Tsar Ant flew down between the trees and shouted:

Glue! Glue! Glue!

“Ugh you abyss! I thought, wiping the sweat from my forehead. - Clay, he says. Why glue something? What to glue to what? Well, life. "

Meanwhile, the King of Ant flew away not far, sank to the ground.

There was another anthill, in which burrows were also black. The king dived into the hole and disappeared in the depths of the anthill.

It was only then that I realized who the Ant King was. It was the Green Woodpecker.

Not everyone has seen a green woodpecker, they do not live in every forest. But in the forest where there are many anthills, you will definitely meet a green woodpecker.

Ants are a favorite food of green woodpeckers. Green woodpeckers are very fond of ants. And ants don't like green woodpeckers, they just can't stand it.

“But how should I be? I thought. - I love both. How to be? How to figure it out? "

I went home on the sly, and the Ant King shouted after me:

Glue! Glue! Glue!

Okay, okay, I muttered back. - I'll glue! I will! In short, I'll try.

I began to lay out rotten on the floor. I posted the constellation Ursa Major.

Did I do the right thing to wake you up? - Nikolay was worried.

In the hut, they shone in the same way as on the street. They did not illuminate anything, did not warm, but I wanted to look and look at them.

At night

Yes, get up, wake up!

I woke up.

Come outside.

I thought: something happened. He grabbed a gun from the wall, stuck his feet into his boots, wet from yesterday, and jumped out of the hut.

Look, look, you have to see this.

Nikolai stood under the awning at the threshold. It was a dank and quiet deep night. The lightest fine rain rustled through the larch trees.

I did not see and did not understand where to look.

I don't see, I said.

Right under your feet.

I looked at my feet and saw faint glowing stars on the ground. So, it happens, the stars of heaven shine through a cloudy veil.

These are rotten ones, - said Nikolay. - You see, they glow ...

A luminous path stretched from the threshold to the fire. During the day we burned a rotten log and, while dragging it to the fire, poured dust on the ground.

These are rotten ones, - said Nikolay. - They glow. You have to see this, which is why I woke you up.

We stood side by side and looked at the ground, on which a calm and quiet, very simple light was scattered.

Soon we froze, collected the largest fireflies, carried them to the hut.

Order ribbons

Order Ribbons live in birch forests. I didn't know.

But then I went to the birch forest for the birch trees, and suddenly - in flocks, in flocks - the Order Ribbons began to take off in front of me.

I wanted to chase after them, but did not. It's stupid somehow to chase the Order Ribbons.

Order Ribbons - nocturnal butterflies. During the day they hide in birches, and at night they fly freely throughout the earth.

One night the Order Ribbon came to the hut. I saw her through the window.

He opened the window and put the candle on the windowsill to lure her closer. And she was tempted.

In smooth circles, hesitating and shuddering, she flew up to the hut. She sat down on the windowsill.

She looked at the candle, and I thought that there could be no better order in the world. For my hut.

Lake Kiyovo

White-white, they say, were the waters of Lake Kiyovo.

Even on windless days they moved and moved, and suddenly - like a white wave - they soared into the sky.

Seagulls - thousands of seagulls - lived on Lake Kiyovo. From here they scattered along the nearby rivers. We flew to the Moskva River, to the Klyazma, to the Yauza. All the gulls that we saw in Moscow were hatched on Lake Kiyovo.

At first, the lake was far from Moscow. But then it got closer, closer. The lake didn't move, but a huge city and its huge suburb grew. Houses and small houses cramped the lake, stepped on its shores. Rusty pieces of iron and bent pipes appeared on the banks.

Lake Kiyovo has dried up. The wrinkles of islands and bays split the water mirror. Many seagulls have gone to live in free places.

"Kiyovo" is, of course, an extraordinary word. The word still remains.

Remained on the lake and seagulls.

We also stayed with the last seagulls.

Bunny bouquet

Hares do not actually collect bouquets. Why does a hare need a bouquet? All wildflowers are above the ears of the hare, all the forest flowers are behind the tails of the hare. And the hare's tail itself is called "puff" or "flower". This is what the old hunters say about the hare's tail, and they know their word.

But now, look, a hare has appeared, who has collected a bouquet. He poked everyone in the bouquet: clover, and toad here, and porridge, and chamomile.

She walks with a bouquet and does not know who to give it to. Why does a fox or a wolf need a bunny bouquet? They have no time for flowers.

The bear loves flowers, but not in bouquets. He would have a raspberry bush.

And the badger? Only late at night does he get out of the hole, and if you give him, excuse me, a bouquet on the forest path, he can poke him on the neck.

I don’t know what to do with a bunny bouquet. It is assembled and must be handed over to someone.

Okay, let's give it to the badger and see what happens.

Bullfinches and cats

In late autumn, with the first powder, bullfinches came to us from the northern forests.

Plump and ruddy, they sat on the apple trees, as if instead of fallen apples.

And our cats are right there. We also climbed onto apple trees and settled on the lower branches. Say, sit down with us, bullfinches, we are also like apples.

Bullfinches have not seen cats for a whole year, but they think. After all, cats have a tail, and apples have a tail.

How good the bullfinches are, and especially the snow maidens! They have not such a fiery chest as that of the bullfinch owner, but tender - pale yellow.

Bullfinches fly away, snow maidens fly away. And the cats stay on the apple tree.

They lie on the branches and wag their apple tails.

Gray night

It began to get dark. Over the taiga, over the gloomy rocks, over the river with the splashing name Vels, a narrow fox month has risen. By dusk the ear was ripe.

Finding spoons in our backpacks, we settled down around the bucket, fished out pieces of grayling and put them in a separate pot so that the grayling would cool down while we were eating fish soup.

Well, Kozma and Demyan, sit down with us!

With a long juniper spoon, I fumbled in the depths of the bucket - my hand went into steam up to the elbows. I caught potatoes and fish giblets from the bottom - liver, caviar - then scooped up a transparent soup with green foam.

Well, Kozma and Demyan, sit down with us! - Lyosha repeated, putting his spoon into the bucket.

Sit down with us, sit down with us, Kozma da Demyan! - we confirmed.

We built a fire on the low bank of the Völs. Our coast is littered with muddy ice floes. They were left from the flood - they did not have time to melt. Here is an ice floe that looks like a huge ear, and here is a mushroom.

Who are they - Kozma and Demyan? - asked Pyotr Ivanovich, who for the first time got into the Ural taiga.

Ukhu Pyotr Ivanovich eats carefully and respectfully. His head is shrouded in steam, and small bonfires are burning with glasses.

The old fishermen taught me this, - answered Lyosha. - As if there are such Kozma and Demyan. They help catch the grayling. You need to call Kozma and Demyan in your ear so that you don't get offended.

By the hour it is already midnight, and the sky has not darkened, it remained clear, twilight, and the month added cold and light to it.

This is probably a white night, - said Pyotr Ivanovich thoughtfully.

White nights will begin later, - answered Lyosha. - They should be lighter. There is no name for this night.

Maybe silver?

What a silver one there! Gray night.

Having spread spruce branches on the ground, we laid out sleeping bags, lay down. I buried my head at the foot of the tree. Its lower branches have dried up, lichen has grown on them and hangs to the fire, like tow, like wet, like a white beard.

Nearby, behind me, something rustled.

Gray night, - Pyotr Ivanovich repeated thoughtfully.

It is gray, white or silver, it's still time to sleep.

Something rustled behind me again.

The ear was so worn out that I was too lazy to turn around and see what it was making noise. I see a month that hangs over the taiga - young, thin, piercing.

Chipmunk! - Lyosha suddenly said.

I looked around and immediately saw that two attentive night eyes were looking at us from behind the tree.

The chipmunk stuck out only his head, and his eyes seemed very dark and large, like a gonobel berry.

After looking at us a little, he hid. Apparently, horror attacked him: who are these sitting by the fire ?!

But then the big-eyed head stuck out again. Whistling lightly, the animal jumped out from behind the tree, ran along the ground and hid behind a backpack.

This is not a chipmunk, - said Lesha, - there are no stripes on the back. The animal jumped onto the backpack, put its paw into a canvas pocket. There was a rope. Hooking it with a claw, he pulled it.

Let's go! - I could not resist.

Jumping up to the tree, he grabbed the trunk and, cutting off pieces of bark with his claws, ran up the trunk, into dense branches.

Who is this? - said Pyotr Ivanovich. - Not a squirrel and not a chipmunk.

I don't know, - said Lesha. - It doesn't look like a sable, nor does it look like a marten. I probably have not seen this.

The gray night still brightened. The fire died down, and Lyosha got up, threw some sushina into it.

You shouldn't have bullied him, - Pyotr Ivanovich told me. “He’s not coming back now.”

We looked at the top of the tree. Not a single branch moved. Long sparks from the fire flew to the top and extinguished in the light gray sky.

Suddenly, a dark lump broke from the top and opened in the air, becoming angular, quadrangular. Crossing out the sky, he flew from tree to tree, catching the moon with the edge of his tail.

Then we immediately understood who he was. It was a flying squirrel, an animal that you cannot see during the day: it hides in hollows, and flies over the taiga at night.

Its wings are furry - membranes between the front and hind legs.

The flying squirrel was sitting on the very tree that grew above me. Here some kind of husk fell from above, pieces of bark - the flying squirrel descended. He peered out from behind a tree, then hid, as if he wanted to sneak up unnoticed.

Suddenly he looked out quite close to me, at arm's length. His eyes, dark, wide, stared at me.

"Will it be enough or not?" - thought, apparently, a flying squirrel.

He sat huddled up in a ball and looked at the fire.

The fire stirred and crackled.

The flying squirrel jumped to the ground and then noticed a large dark hollow. It was the boot of Pyotr Ivanitch, lying on the ground.

Whistling in surprise, the flying squirrel dived into the boot.

At the same instant I rushed to grab the boot, but the flying squirrel jumped out and ran, ran along the outstretched arm, along the shoulder and - jumped on a stump.

But it was not a stump. It was the knee of Pyotr Ivanitch with a large round cup.

Looking in horror at the flaming glasses, the flying squirrel coughed, jumped onto the tree and quickly climbed up.

Pyotr Ivanitch felt his knee in amazement.

What a light, - he said hoarsely.

Having flown to another tree, the flying squirrel went down again. Apparently, he was attracted by the dying fire of a bonfire, beckoning, like a lamp beckons a moth on a summer evening.

A dream attacked me. Or rather, not a dream - a wolf's sleep. I either closed my eyes and fell somewhere under a spruce root, then I opened them and then I saw a lichen beard hanging from the branches, and behind it a completely lightened sky and in it a flying squirrel flying from peak to peak.

With the first rays of the sun, the flying squirrel disappeared.

In the morning, over tea, I kept pestering Pyotr Ivanitch, asking him to give me a boot that the flying squirrel had been wearing. And Lyosha said, finishing his second mug of tea:

Didn't Kozma and Demyan send him to us?

Leafbreaker

At night, a leaf breaker blew out - a cold October wind. He came from the north, from the tundra, already caught in ice, from the banks of the Pechora.

The leaf-breaker howled in the chimney, stirred the aspen chips on the roof, beat and ruffled the trees, and you could hear them rustling obediently, throwing off the leaves.

The open window pounded against the frame, creaked with rusty hinges. With gusts of wind, birch leaves, growing under the window, flew into the room.

By morning, this birch was already wide open. Cold streams of leaf beetle flowed and flowed through its branches, clearly marked in the gray sky by a broken fluttering leaf.

The cobweb, stretched out in the Christmas trees by a strict spider-cross, was full of birch leaves. The owner himself had already disappeared somewhere, and she kept swelling with leaves, sagging like a net full of bream.

Old apple tree

The grandmother sits by the road all day, sells apples.

Cars, motorcycles rush past apples, tractors roar. Sometimes the car will stop, buy apples and keep on humming.

Here's a truck driving. This one will not buy apples, he has no time. I would buy a bus, but it has a stop three kilometers away. And this "Zaporozhets", if it buys, so half a kilo.

I stopped and bought half a bucket.

And you, guardian, are pulling on a bucket, - said the grandmother.

A grandmother sits by the road, and behind her is a mountain ash, and behind the fence there is an old apple tree, apples ripen on it, fall to the ground.

They work all day. The grandmother sells, the apple tree drops apples. So they live.

Shen-shen-shen

Who knows how to lure horses? Well, everyone knows how to lure kittens and chickens.

Geese should be like this: - Tag-tag-tag ...

Reindeer: - Meat-pulp-soft ...

Sheep, I heard, one aunt beckons like this: - Fables, fables, fables ...

And the horses, Vitya Belov told me, must be lured away: - Shen-shen-shen ...

Indeed, what a good word, quite a horse. Horses need to understand it, for sure.

So I learned a new word and went around the village to look for horses.

He took, of course, a piece of black bread, salted it, put it in his pocket. Salt, of course, woke up a little in my pocket, but it doesn’t matter.

I've had a lot of things in this pocket.

Here I go, looking for horses.

Yes, something is not to see the horses.

The foreman rides a bicycle towards him, shouts:

Have you seen horses? And I answer him:

Shen-shen-shen ...

Are you nuts? - the foreman says. - The horses broke the fence, went into the open field.

The foreman galloped into a clear field, looking for horses through binoculars. And I went up to the river, to the place where the poplars grew, and I say in a low voice:

Shen-shen-shen.

And then three white horses came out of the thickets, they look at me in the eyes, they understand everything.

So much for "shen-shen-shen"! I have only one piece of bread.

Summer cat

Here the other day I met the Summer Cat.

Red-haired and hot, absorbing the heat of the sun, he sprawled lazily in the grass, barely moving his mustache. Hearing my steps, he raised his head and looked sternly: they say, come in, come in, do not block the sun.

The Cat lay in the sun all day. Now the right side will expose the sun, then the left, then the tail, then the mustache.

Sunset began and ended. Night fell, but for a long time something glowed in the garden. It was a summer sunny cat-sunflower glowing.

Night burbot

With the first cold weather in the Oka, he began to take burbot. In summer, burbot was lazy to swim in warm water, lay under snags and roots in pools and backwaters, and hid in holes overgrown with mucus.

Late in the evening I went to check the donkey.

A thick cloak of black rubber creaked on his shoulders, dry pearl barley shells dotting the Oka sandy shore crackled under his boots.

The darkness is always alarming. I walked the usual way, but I was afraid to get lost and looked anxiously around, looking for noticeable willow bushes.

A fire suddenly flared up on the shore and went out. Then it flashed again and went out. This fire gave me alarm. Why does it flash and go out there, why doesn't it burn longer?

I guessed that it was a village night fisherman who was checking the fishing rods and didn’t want to, apparently, that by the flash of the lantern they would recognize his good place.

Hey! - I shouted deliberately to scare. - Did you catch a lot of burbots?

"Multi-linedalims ..." - an echo flew off the other shore, something gurgled in the water, and there was no more flash.

I stood for a while, wanted to shout something else, but did not dare and walked slowly to my place, trying not to creak with my cloak and pearl barley.

I found my donki with difficulty, slipped my hand into the water and did not immediately find the line in the icy autumn water.

The fishing line came to me easily and freely, but suddenly it tensed a little, and a dark funnel appeared on the water near the shore, a white fish belly flashed in it.

Crawling on the sand, a burbot crawled out of the water. He did not thrash or tremble. He slowly and tensely bent in his hand - a night slippery autumn fish. I raised the burbot to my eyes, trying to make out the patterns on it; a small, like a ladybug, burbot eye gleamed dimly.

On other donks, too, there were burbots.

Back home, I looked at the burbots for a long time in the light of a kerosene lamp. Their sides and fins were covered with dark patterns like wildflowers.

All night long the burbots could not sleep and moved lazily in the cage.

Snow rider

They say when the first snow falls, the Snow Rider is announced in the forests.

He rides on a white horse along snow-covered ravines, over pine forests, over birch groves.

Now there, behind the trees, then there, on the clearing, the Snow Rider flashes by, appears in front of people and rushes silently on - along snow-covered ravines, through pine forests, through birch groves. No one knows why he appears in the forest and where he is going.

And how does he talk to people, - I asked Orekhievna, - does he talk?

Why should he talk to us? What to ask about? After all, he just looks at you and immediately understands everything. He, like a book, reads what is written in your soul.

The fortieth day has already passed since the first snow. A strong frosty winter has come.

But somehow, in a snow-covered ravine, I saw the Snow Rider rushing in the distance.

Wait! - I shouted after.

The Horseman paused, glanced at me briefly and immediately spurred his horse, galloped on. I immediately read what was in my heart. But in my heart I had nothing special, except for black grouse and hares. And felt boots with galoshes.

Another time in the middle of winter I met the Horseman. Whistled - and the Snow Rider paused, turned around and immediately read what was in my soul. And in my heart again there was nothing special. Except, of course, hot tea with honey.

All the more severe, winter became deeper. The snow kept falling and falling to the ground. It was covered with snow, the forests and villages were covered with snow.

In the darkest winter season, the Horseman met me for the third time.

Unhurriedly, at a step, he rode along a clearing, along a birch grove towards me. He saw me and stopped.

I wanted to ask him how long until spring, but I was ashamed.

The Snow Rider looked at me attentively and patiently, reading my soul from end to beginning.

And what is there, in my soul, then?

Ice hole

As soon as there was strong ice on the river, I cut a hole in it with an ice-hole.

A round window turned out to be in the ice, and through the window, through the ice, black living water peeped out.

I went to the ice-hole for water - to boil tea, to heat a bathhouse - and made sure that the ice-hole did not overgrow, cracked the ice that had grown overnight, opened up living river water.

Our neighbor, Ksenya, often went to the ice hole to rinse the clothes, and Orekhievna swore at her through the glass:

Who rinsing like that ?! Tyr-pyr - and into the basin! No, today's women do not know how to rinse linen. You rinse a little longer, take your time. You will be in time for the TV! Here I used to rinse. My face is red from the frost, my hands are blue, and my underwear is white. And now everyone is in a hurry to the TV. Tyrpyr - and into the basin!

Once, her little daughter, Natasha, went with Ksenya to the river.

While her mother was rinsing, Natasha stood aside, and was afraid to approach the ice-hole.

Come, do not be afraid, - said the mother.

Don't… I won’t go… there’s someone there.

Yes, there is no one ... who is there?

I do not know who. And only suddenly it will jump out and drag it under the ice.

The neighbors rinsed their sheets and shirts, went home, and Natasha kept looking back at the hole: would anyone come out?

I went to the ice hole to see what she was afraid of, if there really was someone under the ice.

I looked into the black water and saw two dull green eyes in the water.

The bottom pike approached the ice-hole to breathe winter, ringing, free air.

Hare trails

What is it! Wherever you go, there are hare tracks.

And in the garden there are not only footprints - real paths have been trampled by white hags between pears and apple trees.

It turned out eleven.

It hurt me - I slept like a dead man all night, and I never dreamed of hares.

I put on my boots and went into the forest.

And in the forest, the hare paths turned into roads, just some kind of hare highway. It can be seen that at night the hares and the hares walked in herds here, in the dark, their foreheads collided.

And now not a single one is visible - snow, footprints, sun.

Finally I noticed one white hare. He slept in the roots of a fallen aspen tree, his black ear protruding from under the snow.

I came closer and said quietly:

The black ear protruded a little more, and behind it the other ear was white.

This other ear - white - listened calmly, but the black one moved all the time, incredulously leaning in different directions. As you can see, it was more important.

I sniffed - and the black ear jumped up, and the whole hare came out from under the snow.

Without looking at me, he ran sideways to the side, and only a black ear looked around uneasily - what am I doing there? Am I standing still? Or am I running after?

The hare was running faster and faster and was already headlong, jumping over the snowdrifts.

His black ear flashed among the birch trunks. And I laughed, watching how it flashed, although I could no longer make out whether it was a hare's ear or a black stripe on a birch.

Cloud and jackdaws

In the village of Tarakanovo lives a horse Tuchka, red as fire. Jackdaws love her.

The jackdaws do not pay attention to other horses, but when they see the Cloud, they immediately sit on her back and begin to pluck the fur.

Her wool is as warm as a camel's, says Agathon the carter. - To knit socks from that wool.

Jackdaws jump on their broad back, and Cloud snores, it is pleasant to her, as jackdaws pinch. The wool itself climbs, every now and then you have to itch against the fence. Having collected a full beak of warmth, jackdaws fly under the roof, into the nest.

The cloud is a peaceful horse. She never kicks.

The driver Agathon is also a kind person. Looks thoughtfully at the horse's tail. If some jackdaw sat on his head, he probably wouldn't even blink an eye.

About the authors

YURI KOVAL is the author of fascinating, dissimilar books: "Underdog", "The Adventures of Vasya Kurolesov", "Five Abducted Monks", "The Lightest Boat in the World" and many others. Yuri Koval's works have been translated into the languages of our union republics and foreign countries, they are often heard on the radio, films are shot on them.

Yu. Koval's books are a favorite reading of many thousands of young and adult readers.

GALINA MAKAVEEVA is a famous artist, illustrator of more than sixty children's books. Books by Yu. Koval, V. Berestov, R. Pogodin, N. Matveeva, I. Tokmakova with illustrations by G. Makaveeva were awarded with diplomas of All-Russian and All-Union competitions. For ten years G. Makaveeva was the chief artist of the popular children's magazine "Murzilka". G. Makaveeva's works have been exhibited in more than 25 countries.

Sparrow lake

Grunt

Dick and blueberry

Star ide

Neighborhood

Tuzik

Cloudberry

Porcelain bells

Panteleev cakes

Lapwing

Rough-legged Buzzard

Three jays

One, two, horse, four

White and yellow

Suspension bridge

She-bear-kaya

The horse thought

Ant king

At night

Order ribbons

Lake Kiyovo

Bunny bouquet

Bullfinches and cats

Gray night

Leafbreaker

Old apple tree

Shen-shen-shen

Summer cat

Night burbot

Snow rider

Ice hole

Hare trails

Cloud and jackdaws

About the authors