Nikolay sweet forest tales. Sladov's stories for extracurricular reading

Now, when the trees are bare, you will see things on them that you cannot see in the summer. There are birch trees in the distance, and it’s as if they are all in rooks’ nests. And if you come closer, these are not nests at all, but some black lumps of thin rods growing in different directions, witch’s brooms. Remember any fairy tale about Baba Yaga or a witch. Baba Yaga flies through the air in a mortar, and covers her trail with her broom. The witch flies out of the chimney riding on a broom. Neither a yaga nor a witch can do without a broom. So they inject such disease into the trees that ugly clumps of twigs like brooms grow on their branches. So say the funny storytellers.

Well, what about scientifically?

These "clumps" of branches form on the branches due to disease, and disease is due to special mites or fungi. The hazel tick is so small and light that the wind carries it freely through the forest. The tick lands on some branch, climbs into a bud and settles down to live in it. Growth bud ready-made shoot, stem with leaf rudiments. The tick does not touch them; it feeds only on the bud juice. But tick bites cause kidney disease. The young shoot begins to grow six times faster. The diseased bud develops into a short shoot, which immediately produces lateral branches. The mite children move onto them and settle in the young buds. And so the branching goes on and on. And in place of the bud, a shaggy, ugly witch’s broom grows.

The same thing happens when fungal spores enter the kidney.

Witches' brooms are found on birch, alder, beech, hornbeam, maple, pine, spruce, fir and other trees and shrubs.

N. Sladkov

The hare asks a riddle

In winter, every hare writes a diary. He writes with his paws in the snow: where he was, what he did, where he went. All the snow is in bunny lines - read and translate. Translating from hare to human is interesting and simple. Here by the road it is written: “I sat on the side of the road and listened: is anyone coming?” Near the fallen aspen it is written: “I gnawed the bitter twigs in winter and I’m glad about it!” In the low place it is written: “He circled in small things, confused his tracks before lying down.” Both deeds and words are familiar and familiar.

But here is a recording that is also easy to translate, but difficult to understand. “I dug a hole in the snow all the way to the ground.” That's right: it's snowing, there's a hole in the snow all the way to the ground. And not small - deeper than a meter. At the bottom the frozen moss is torn, the cattail “bump” is disheveled. Maybe the hare was yearning for greenery? No, it doesn’t look like it: neither the moss nor the pine cone has been touched - only disheveled and thrown away. Why then did the hare dig a hole? The hare does not go to sleep in a hole and does not hide in holes from the wind. And you can see from the footprints: he dug a hole, ruffled the cattail “bump,” and hobbled on.

Here's a riddle for you: why do hares dig holes in winter? And here is the second one: how does the hare know that under the thick snow this is where the cattail “bump” lies? And here’s the third: why does a hare need moss and cattails if he doesn’t eat either? And this is how it is always in the forest: one riddle leads to a second, a second to a third - endlessly!

N. Sladkov

Consider. Find out. Write.

What do you think is shown in our mysterious photo? Are they confectionery or living objects? As a hint, let's say that the image is greatly enlarged. If you guessed it, then

Sladkov's stories about forest life. Stories about nature for junior schoolchildren. Stories for primary school students. Extracurricular reading in grades 1-4. Educational stories about the natural world for schoolchildren.

Nikolai Sladkov. Sly dandelion

They say, cunning than a fox and there is no beast. There may not be an animal, but a dandelion is more cunning than a fox! Looks like a simpleton. But in reality it’s on your own mind. Passion is cunning!

It's cold in the spring, hungry. All the flowers sit in the ground, waiting for their warm hour. And the dandelion has already bloomed! It shines like a clear sun. Since autumn he has stored food in the roots; outdid everyone. Insects rush to his flowers. That’s fine with him: let them pollinate.

The seeds will set, the dandelion will close the bud and, like a cradle with twins, quietly lower the bud down. After all, babies need peace and warmth: let them gain strength by lying quietly on the ground in a warm cradle.

And when the kids grow up, their flying wings grow - it’s time to hit the road, to new lands, to green distances. Now they need height, they need space and wind. And the dandelion again raises its stem, straightens it like an arrow, above all anemones, cat's paws, woodlice and weeds. Scatter and sprout!

What about a fox: she has four legs, sharp teeth. And the foxes are only five heels old. She would try to raise a hundred children, when instead of legs there is only a root, and instead of teeth there is a stem and a leaf. Neither run away, nor hide, nor dodge. The bug is threatening too. So the dandelion is cunning, without leaving its place. And nothing - it flourishes.

Nikolai Sladkov. Forest hiding places

The forest is thick, green and full of rustles, squeaks, and songs.

But then the hunter entered it - and instantly everything hid and became wary. Like a wave from a stone thrown into the water, anxiety rolled from tree to tree. All for a bush, for a twig - and silence.

Now if you want to see, become invisible yourself; if you want to hear, become inaudible; If you want to understand, freeze.

I know it. I know that from all the forest hiding places quick eyes are watching me, wet noses are catching the streams of wind running from me. There are many animals and birds around. Try to find it!

I came here to see the Scops Owl - a tiny owl, similar to a starling.

All night long she, as if wound up, shouts her: “I’m sleeping! I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping! - as if a forest clock is ticking: “Tick! Teak! Teak! Teak!.."

By dawn the forest clock will begin: the Scops Owl will fall silent and hide. Yes, she hides so cleverly, as if she had never been in the forest.

Who hasn't heard the voice of the Scops Owl - the night hours - but what does it look like? I only knew her from the picture. And I wanted to see her alive so much that I wandered through the forest all day, examining every tree, every branch, looking into every bush. Tired. I'm hungry. But I never found her.

He sat down on an old stump. I'm silent, I'm sitting.

And lo and behold, out of nowhere - a snake! Gray. A flat head on a thin neck, like a bud on a stalk. She crawled out from somewhere and looked into my eyes, as if she was expecting something from me.

The snake is a creeper, it must know everything.

I tell her, like in a fairy tale:

- Snake, snake, tell me where the scops owl hid - the forest clock?

The snake teased me with its tongue and dashed into the grass!

And suddenly, as in a fairy tale, forest hiding places opened up before me.

The snake rustled for a long time in the grass, appeared again at another stump - and wiggled under its mossy roots. She dove, and a large green lizard with a blue head turned out from under them. It was as if someone had pushed her out of there. She rustled on a dry leaf and snuck into someone’s hole.

There is another hiding place in the hole. The owner there is a stupid-faced mouse-vole.

She was frightened by the blue-headed lizard, jumped out of the hole - from the darkness into the light - she rushed and rushed about - and walked under a lying log!

Another squeak and fuss rose under the deck. There was also a hiding place there. And all day long two animals slept in it - dormouse. Two animals that look like squirrels.

Dormouses jumped out from under the log and were stunned with fear. Ruffed tails. They climbed up the trunk. They clicked, but suddenly they became scared again, and they rushed even higher up the trunk with a screw.

And higher up in the trunk there is a hollow.

The little sleepyheads wanted to enter it - and bumped heads at the entrance. They squeaked in pain, both rushed again at once - and then they fell into the hollow together.

And from there - poof! - little hollow devil! The ears on the top of the head are like horns. The eyes are round and yellow. He sat down on a branch, with his back to me, and turned his head so that he was looking straight at me.

Of course, this is not a devil, but a Scops Owl - night hours!

I didn’t have time to blink, she - one! - willow foliage. And there was a fuss and a squeaking sound: someone was also hiding.

So from hollow to hollow, from hole to hole, from log to log, from bush to bush, from crevice to crevice, the forest small fry shy away in fear, revealing to me their secret hiding places. From tree to tree, from bush to bush, like a wave from a stone, anxiety rolls through the forest. And everyone hides: hop-hop behind a bush, behind a twig - and silence.

If you want to see, become invisible. If you want to hear, become inaudible. If you want to find out, hide.

Nikolai Sladkov. Mysterious beast

A cat catches mice, a seagull eats fish, a flycatcher eats flies. Tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are.

- Guess who am I? I eat bugs and ants!

I thought and said firmly:

- I didn’t guess! I also eat wasps and bumblebees!

- Yeah! You're a buzzard!

- Don't be a buzzard! I also eat caterpillars and larvae.

— Blackbirds love caterpillars and larvae.

- And I’m not a blackbird! I also gnaw on the antlers shed by moose.

“Then you must be a wood mouse.”

- And not a mouse at all. Sometimes I even eat mice myself!

- Mice? Then, of course, you are a cat.

- Either a mouse or a cat! And you didn't guess right at all.

- Show yourself! - I shouted. And he began to peer into the dark spruce, where the voice was heard.

- I’ll show myself. Just admit yourself defeated.

- It's early! - I answered.

— Sometimes I eat lizards. And occasionally fish.

- Maybe you are a heron?

- Not a heron. I catch chicks and steal eggs from bird nests.

- It looks like you are a marten.

- Don't tell me about the marten. The marten is my old enemy. And I also eat kidneys, nuts, seeds of fir trees and pine trees, berries and mushrooms.

I got angry and shouted:

- Most likely, you are a pig! You eat everything. You are a feral pig who stupidly climbed onto the tree!

The branches swayed, parted, and I saw... a squirrel!

- Remember! - she said. — Cats eat not only mice, seagulls catch not only fish, flycatchers swallow not only flies. And squirrels gnaw not only nuts.

Nikolai Sladkov. Forest time

Forest time is not rushed...

Blue rays broke through the cracks of the green ceiling. They create purple halos on the dark ground. These are sunbeams.

One bunny lies next to me, he slightly moves his ears. There is a quiet matte glow above him. There is darkness all around, and where the bunny is, every spruce needle on the ground is visible, every vein on a fallen leaf. Under the bunny is a gray log with black cracks. And on the log there is a snake. It was as if someone had squeezed thick brown paint out of a thick tube without sparing it; the paint lay down in tight curls and froze. On top is a tiny head with clenched lips and two prickly sparkles - eyes.

Everything here below is motionless and quiet. It seems that time has stopped.

And above, above the green forest ceiling, blue waves of wind roll; there is the sky, clouds, sun. The sun slowly floats to the west, and the sunbeam creeps across the earth to the east. I see this by how the leaves and specks that look closer sink into the shadows and how new blades of grass and sticks protrude from the other side of the shadow.

The ray of the sun is like the hand of a forest clock, and the earth with sticks and specks is the forest dial.

But why doesn’t the snake sink into the shadows, how is it that it is always in the center of the shining oval?

Forest time trembled and stopped. I intensely peer into the twists of the elastic snake’s body: they are moving! They move slightly noticeably, towards each other; I notice this by the jagged stripe on the snake's back. The snake’s body pulsates slightly: it expands and then collapses. The snake moves invisibly exactly as much as the sunspot moves, and therefore is constantly in its center. Her body is like living mercury.

The sun is moving in the sky, tiny spots of the sun are moving throughout the vast forest land. And along with them sleepy snakes move in all the forests. They move slowly, imperceptibly, just as lazy forest time moves slowly and imperceptibly. They move as if in a dream...

Nikolai Sladkov. On an unknown path

I had to walk on different paths: bear, boar, wolf. I walked along rabbit paths and even bird paths. But this was the first time I had walked such a path. This path was cleared and trampled by ants.

On animal trails I unraveled animal secrets. Will I see anything on this trail?

I did not walk along the path itself, but nearby. The path is too narrow - like a ribbon. But for the ants it was, of course, not a ribbon, but a wide highway. And many, many Muravyov ran along the highway. They dragged flies, mosquitoes, horseflies. The transparent wings of the insects glittered. It seemed as if a trickle of water was pouring between the blades of grass along the slope.

I walk along the ant trail and count my steps: sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five steps... Wow! These are my big ones, but how many ants are there?! Only at the seventieth step did the trickle disappear under the stone. Serious trail.

I sat down on a stone to rest. I sit and watch the living vein beat under my feet. The wind blows - ripples along a living stream. The sun will shine and the stream will sparkle.

Suddenly, it was as if a wave rushed along the ant road. The snake swerved along it and - dive! - under the stone on which I was sitting. I even pulled my leg back - it was probably a harmful viper. Well, rightly so - now the ants will neutralize it.

I knew that ants boldly attack snakes. They will stick around the snake and all that will remain is scales and bones. I even decided to take the skeleton of this snake and show it to the guys.

I'm sitting, waiting. A living stream beats and beats underfoot. Well, now it's time! I carefully lift the stone so as not to damage the snake skeleton. There is a snake under the stone. But not dead, but alive and not at all like a skeleton! On the contrary, she became even thicker! The snake, which was supposed to be eaten by the ants, calmly and slowly ate the Ants itself. She pressed them with her muzzle and pulled them into her mouth with her tongue. This snake was not a viper. I have never seen such snakes before. The scales are like sandpaper, fine, the top and bottom are the same. Looks more like a worm than a snake.

An amazing snake: it lifted its blunt tail up, moved it from side to side like its head, and suddenly crawled forward with its tail! But the eyes are not visible. Either a snake with two heads, or without a head at all! And it eats something - ants!

The skeleton didn't come out, so I took the snake. At home I looked at it in detail and determined the name. I found her eyes: small, about the size of a pinhead, under the scales. That’s why they call it the blind snake. She lives in burrows underground. She doesn't need eyes there. But crawling either with your head or your tail forward is convenient. And she can dig the ground.

This is the unprecedented beast that the unknown path led me to.

What can I say! Every path leads somewhere. Just don’t be lazy to go.

Nikolai Ivanovich SLADKOV
Forest hiding places
Stories and fairy tales
The books of the famous naturalist writer Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov, a friend and like-minded person of Vitaly Bianki, are well known to readers. His stories and tales about animals are included in the school curriculum. In them he writes about how beautiful and unique the life of nature is, about the riddles it asks people, about the endless diversity of the world around us.
CONTENT:
Dmitrichenko E. "I'M WALKING THROUGH THE FOREST..."
IN FORESTS
January
How the bear was turned over
A piece of bread
Your own song
Great titmouse
Crow signal
Forest rustles
February
Bureau of Forest Services
Songs under the ice
Song price
Spruce porridge
Without words
House butterfly
Forest rustles
March
Winter debts
Hare round dance
Spring streams
Polite jackdaw
First
Winged songs
Grouse notes
Warm trickle
Oatmeal tips
Bear and Sun
Mind blowing shower
What was the magpie singing about?
Desperate traveler
Glass rain
Arithmetic titmice
April
Two on one log
Footprints and Sun
Spring bath
Thawed Incidents
Early bird
Forest werewolves
Inhuman steps
Singer
Vacuum cleaner
Uninvited guests
Swans
Whole life
Thrush and Owl
Dancers
Philip and Fedya
Cheerful old ladies
Flags in the swamp
Woodpecker ring
Drummer
Willow Feast
Five grouse
Whispering traces
Everybody wants to sing
forest comb
May
Invited guest
Birds brought spring
Lost copses
flower lover
Hot time
Nest
Hoarse cuckoo
Chizhik
Woodpecker
New voice
Sparrow's spring
Trees
The nightingale sings
Happy birthday
Extra nail
Why does a fox have a long tail?
Angry dummies
Night cuckoo
June
Who should I help?
Forest hiding places
Cunning chicks
Fun game
Pishchukhin waltz
Why is a finch a finch?
singing path
Singing tree
Adopted
How the bear scared itself
lying stone
Cormorant
Pink swamp
The Nightingale and the Frog
Cuckoo years
Crow's eye
Nest mushroom
Topik and Katya
Third
Thin dish
Thieving Magpie
July
Naughty kids
Forest time
Shadow
Foster children
Toadstools
Serious bird
Three testicles
Starling healers
Night hunters
Mint
Knock Knock!
A hedgehog was running along the path
Cool measures
Karlukha
Self-assembled tablecloth
Berry Knowledge
Honey Rain
First flight
August
Fedot, but not the same one!
Forest strongmen
Mysterious lake
Mysterious beast
Butterflies
Pensive woodpecker
Nightjar
Bird posts
Oak and Wind
Magpie treasure
Duty
gray heron
Toad King
Animal bath
At the end of the mysterious trail
Eaten egg
Butterfly and sun
Nettle happiness
September
Autumn is on the doorstep
On the great path
Spider
Time
Birds
Belkin fly agaric
Winged Shadow
The owl that was forgotten
Sly dandelion
Friends and comrades
Forest rustles
October
Sewing
Scary invisible man
Pheasant bouquet
The trees are creaking
The Mystery of the Birdhouse
old friend
Magpie train
Autumn Christmas tree
Stubborn finch
Forest rustles
November
Why is November piebald?
Resort "Icicle"
Magic shelf
Porosha
Wagtail letters
Desperate hare
Tit stock
The starlings have arrived
Forest rustles
December
December trial
Purr
How long is the hare?
The Mystery of the Black Woodpecker
Greedy Jay
Owl
lisping bird
Forest rustles Without hesitation
IN THE MOUNTAINS
Life in the clouds
Flight of flowers
Dried stones
Tetyorka
Bear slide
Night on Karadag
Robbers
Arrogant
In the Bozdaga gorge
Night of Lights
Buzzed
Stands and is silent
Giant horse
King Bird
Campfire
At the fox hole
Beggar
Dancer
Under the snow
Silver tail
Unhearing
In a rut
Bear character
Karabash
Disservice
Scream
Sly little bunny
UNDER THE WATER
Under the water
Underwater urchins
Singing bug
Why does a newt need a tail?
Fifth name
Castle in the Air
Tench
gold fish
Emptiness
Knight
Fish kids
blue crayfish
Underwater sunset
Dying Lake
underwater bird
blue beam
Mischief makers
Hut on legs
Orderly
Fish dances
On the moonlit path
Guests of the underwater clearing
Whispering fish
Spinning
Autumn underwater
Sleeping Beauties
Sladkov N. Why do I write about nature
________________________________________________________________
"I D U I P O L E S U"
The wonderful Russian writer Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov devoted all his work to nature. Like every talented writer, he discovered something of his own in it and wrote about it in his own way, unlike others. “Every clearing in the forest,” he said, “every lowland and every hillock is not just a clearing, lowland and hillock, but a place of harmony. The plants and animals inherent in them live in harmony, influencing each other favorably...”
Nikolai Ivanovich was born in 1920 in Moscow, but lived all his life in Leningrad. Since childhood, he loved and was interested in nature. From the second grade I began to keep diaries, where I wrote down my first impressions and observations. He met Vitaly Valentinovich Bianki, a wonderful writer who became his teacher, friend and like-minded person, as a young student. Together with Bianchi, he prepared the radio program “News from the Forest” for many years and answered numerous letters from listeners.
The profession of a military topographer helped Nikolai Ivanovich in his work on books. He discovered the Caucasus and Tien Shan mountains, which he fell in love with all his life. Nikolai Ivanovich traveled a lot, visited the Karakum Desert, the White Sea, India and Africa. With a photo gun, he wandered through the forests, climbed high into the mountains, snorkeled in lakes, admiring the underwater world. He brought from everywhere notebooks, which became the source of the plots of his stories. “What do old records mean to me? This is an opportunity to still travel through mountains and deserts, steppes and forests, to retrace old paths with a head wise over the years,” wrote Nikolai Sladkov. He used numerous photographs taken during his travels in his books.
His first book was published in 1953. It was called "Silver Tail". Then there were others: “The Nameless Path”, “Ten Spent Cartridges”, “Wagtail Letters”, “In the Woods of Happy Hunting”, “I Walk Through the Woods”, “Planet of Wonders”, “Under the Invisible Cap”...
In total, Nikolai Sladkov wrote more than sixty books. In them, he talked about how beautiful and unique the life of nature is, about the riddles it asks us, about the endless diversity of the world around us. Nikolai Sladkov wrote about what he knew best, what he loved most and what he was most surprised by. For the book "Underwater Newspaper" he received the State Prize named after N.K. Krupskaya.
All his life, Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was a defender of nature, with all his creativity helping to appreciate and love its beauty, to see the extraordinary in nature with his own eyes.
Evgeniya Dmitrichenko
IN FORESTS
The green forest country is inhabited by amazing inhabitants:
feathers, wool, scales. And amazing things happen there
events. Only there you can get caught in honey rain or
mushroom snow, see the toad king, hear the grasshopper snake.
Meetings there are always unexpected, acquaintances are unexpected, and riddles
there - at every step. Hunting for them is a joyful hunt.
Happy hunting in green native forests.
You have everything for the journey to the land of forests: legs,
to walk, ears to hear, eyes to see. AND
head - to understand everything.
Every year we travel around the sun. We fly on our
The earth is like on a huge rocket. On the way we cross twelve
months are like twelve different countries. Are rushing by
green summer, Golden autumn, white winter and azure spring. We
we fly around the sun.
January
January is a month of big silent snows. They always arrive suddenly. Suddenly at night the trees begin to whisper, something is happening in the forest. By morning it will be clear: she has arrived real winter! The forest drowned in dense snowdrifts. Under the cold vault of the sky, mournful white trees froze, their heavy heads submissively bowed.
Along with the snow, strange, unprecedented creatures came and ran into the forest. They settled on the stumps and twigs, climbed up the fir trees and pines, strange white figures, motionless, unfamiliar, but very similar to something...
Then a forest man in a huge white hat crawled out of a snowdrift. There, on a stump, sits either a squirrel or a bunny. He folded his white paws onto his white little belly, remained silent and looked at white forest. On a stone by the river, white Alyonushka: bowed her head on her shoulder, rested her white cheek on her white palm. The sun caressed the saddened Alyonushka, and tears dripped from her shaggy pine eyelashes...
And here is a werewolf animal. Take a step to the side, look a little from the side - and the animal will turn into a simple twig covered with snow. A bird is not a bird, a beast is not a beast: touch it with your finger and it will crumble to dust.
Polar bears and white owls. Hares, partridges, squirrels. They sit, lie and hang.
The forest is full of strange birds and animals. If you want to see them, hurry up. Otherwise the wind will blow - remember the name!
HOW THE BEAR WAS TURNED OVER
The birds and animals have suffered through a hard winter. Every day there is a snowstorm, every night there is frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in his den. He probably forgot that it was time for him to turn over to the other side.
There is a forest sign: when the Bear turns over on its other side, the sun will turn towards summer.
The birds and animals have run out of patience.
Let's go wake up the Bear:
- Hey, Bear, it's time! Everyone is tired of winter! We miss the sun. Roll over, roll over, maybe you'll get bed sores?
The bear didn’t answer at all: he didn’t move, he didn’t move. Know he's snoring.
- Eh, I should hit him in the back of the head! - exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I suppose he would move right away!
“No,” mumbled Elk, “you have to be respectful and respectful with him.” Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and implore you - turn over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not sweet. We, elk, are standing in the aspen forest, like cows in a stall - we cannot take a step to the side. There's a lot of snow in the forest! It's a disaster if the wolves sniff us out.
The bear moved his ear and grumbled through his teeth:
- What do I care about you moose! Deep snow is only good for me: it’s warm and I can sleep peacefully.
Here the White Partridge began to lament:
- Aren’t you ashamed, Bear? The snow covered all the berries, all the bushes with buds - what do you want us to peck? Well, why should you turn over on the other side and hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!
And the Bear has his:
- Even funny! You're tired of winter, but I'm turning over from side to side! Well, what do I care about buds and berries? I have a reserve of lard under my skin.
The squirrel endured and endured, but could not bear it:
- Oh, you shaggy mattress, he’s too lazy to turn over, you see! But you would jump on the branches with ice cream, and skin your paws until they bleed, like me!.. Turn over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!
- Four five six! - the Bear taunts. - That scared me! Well, shoot off! You're preventing me from sleeping.
The animals tucked their tails, the birds hung their noses, and began to disperse. And then the Mouse suddenly stuck out of the snow and squeaked:
- They’re so big, but you’re scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, the bobtail, like that? He doesn’t understand either for good or for bad. You have to deal with him like us, like a mouse. You ask me - I will turn it over in an instant!
- You? A bear?! - the animals gasped.
- With one left paw! - the Mouse boasts.
The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear. Runs all over it, scratches it with its claws, bites it with its teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a pig, and kicked his legs.
- Oh, I can’t! - howls. - Oh, I’ll roll over, just don’t tickle me! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!
And the steam from the den is like smoke from a chimney.
The mouse stuck out and squeaked:
- He turned over like a little darling! They would have told me a long time ago.
Well, as soon as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to summer. Every day the sun is higher, every day spring is closer. Every day is brighter and more fun in the forest!
A PIECE OF BREAD
Only the well-fed do not fly to the garbage heap in winter. But there are few well-fed people in winter. Hungry bird eyes see everything. Sensitive ears hear everything. Do you think that since bird ears are not noticeable, they are not sensitive? No matter how it is! The door creaks quietly - and the birds hear. The hostess will throw out the slop from the bucket - they will immediately see it. If he leaves, they will be right there. They are crows, jackdaws, magpies and jays. Birds are smart, careful, cunning. They know a person and know when to be afraid of him. Most of all they love those who do not pay attention to them. But it’s hard not to pay attention to them.
The crows fly in, rustling with damp wings, and blinking funny, flickering their white eyelids. It's like they're rolling their eyes with pleasure.
Magpies have snowflakes sparkling on their black velvet backs. And the tails and wings seem to be painted with oil: they are cast in green, purple and yellow.
Black jackdaws wear gray collars, their eyes are white and surprised.
The jay is the most elegant of all: a red crest, blue on the wing - like ripples on the water. Okay, clever. It will fill your mouth full, even your throat will swell. And quickly into the forest: put them in the corners. It disperses and flies again. It's scary, but it flies. Out of fear, even his mouth opens and the little crest stands on end. He even mutters something under his breath. But hunger is even worse.
Hunger drove the disabled jackdaw. Some hunter shot off the lower half of its beak. Neither peck, nor take, nor clean the feathers.
She sat down, strangely thin-nosed, disheveled, emaciated, with icicle feathers on her belly. Come what may.
She put her head on the snow and grabbed the piece sideways. A piece is a day of life. Will it be there tomorrow too?
Birds are visible and invisible around the home.
The door knocked: friend or foe? With a bucket or with a gun?
It would be better to hide, but we have to fly. Only the well-fed one does not fly to the garbage heap in winter. And there are few well-fed people in winter.
OWN SONG
All birds are good, but starlings have a special twist; Each of them is unique, one is not like the other.
Feather and sprout are the same - starlings and starlings! - Yes, everyone has their own talent. One of them suddenly shouts lentils, and the neighbor shouts Easter cake. Some liked the sparrow, some liked the lark. And for another - a rooster, or even a cat! And from this the starling is not just a “starling”, but a “starling with a lentil”, “a starling with an oriole”, “a starling with a sandpiper”. And there are those who are well done for many voices.
Once they gathered in my cages in the winter different birds: morningbird, goldfinch, tit, siskin, crossbill and bullfinch. There are many birds, but all are different, different languages They say they don't understand each other. And talking to yourself isn't much fun. The birds ruffled their feathers.
But there was a starling among them. It used to be that the dawn bird would squeal sadly - the starling would answer her in a dawn voice: “Tee-ik!” Zoryanochka will be wary and whistle something. And the starling will whistle in response. Zoryanochka whistles a cheerful note - the starling will answer. Then the starling whistles - the dawn will respond.
And so with every bird: with the goldfinch, siskin, tit, bullfinch. The birds rejoice: who doesn’t like to whistle in their native language! So they lived happily all winter.
And everything is a starling! I found a common language with everyone, got everyone moving. And he didn’t forget himself: he filled his song with new sounds. The song has become good: for everyone and for everyone!
Titmouse
Our loud-voiced and white-cheeked tit is called the great or common tit. That it is big, I agree with this: it is larger than other plum tits, tits, and blue tits. But I cannot agree with that that she is ordinary!
She amazed me from the very first meeting. And that was a long time ago. She fell into my trap. I took her in my hand, and she... died! Just now she was alive and playful, pinching her fingers with twists and turns - and then she died. I unclenched my hand in confusion. The titmouse lay motionless on the open palm with its paws up, and its eyes were filled with white. I held it, held it, and put it on a tree stump. And as soon as he pulled his hand away, the titmouse screamed and flew away!
How ordinary she is if she is such an extraordinary deceiver! If he wants, he will die, if he wants, he will be resurrected.
Then I learned that many birds fall into some kind of strange stupor if they are placed with their backs down. But the titmouse does it better than anyone and often saves it from captivity.
CROW SIGNAL
What do crows care about fish?
What do fish care about crows?
And the fishermen care about everything. The fishermen appointed crows to watch over the fish as watchmen. It has long been noted that you cannot trust a goat with cabbage, or a cat with sour cream. But the fishermen entrusted the fish to the crows. These fishermen are dead.
In the under-ice world it is now dark - black winter there. It's cold and stuffy. Sleepy fish move lazily and open their mouths. They can't breathe. The oxygen supply is running low; fresh air don't get under the ice. Just look, a fish death will begin. Look... who will look?
Should a fisherman be placed at every ice hole?
But we need to plant. If you miss the beginning of the death, you will be left without fish in the summer.
Crows help fishermen out. When the fish begin to choke, they gather at the ice holes and stick their lips out of the water. The crows immediately notice everything, raise a cry and flock to the ice holes from all sides. Fishermen know: if a crow circles over an ice hole, it means trouble has come. They grab crowbars, axes, picks and rush to save the fish. They cut large ice holes so that fresh and fresh air. At the first signal of the crow, everyone rushes as one.
Crow's eye. The watchmen are reliable and free. You can trust them with fish.
They won't miss it!
FOREST RUSHERS
Fox and Hare
- Why, Zainka, do you have such long ears? Why, little gray one, do you have such fast legs?
- And all because, Fox, your steps are very quiet and your teeth are very sharp!
Hawk and Dipper
- Well, Olyapka, get caught: now I’ll grab you!
- And I, Hawk, will dive into the wormwood from you.
- And I’ll watch for you at the wormwood!
- And I’ll jump out into the second wormwood.
- And I’ll keep watch at the second one!
- And then I’ll jump out first.
- And I... How long will you run from hole to hole like this?
- Until you get tired of chasing me!
Magpie and Wolf
- Hey, Wolf, why are you so gloomy?
- From hunger.
- And the ribs stick out, stick out?
- From hunger.
- Why are you howling?
- From hunger.
- So talk to you! He got along like a magpie: from hunger, from hunger, from hunger! Why are you so taciturn these days?
- From hunger.
Sparrow and Tit
- Guess, Titmouse, what is the most terrible weapon people have?
- A gun?
- Uh, I didn’t guess!
- A gun?
- I didn’t guess correctly again!
- What then, Sparrow?
- Slingshot. They don’t shoot at sparrows from a cannon, but from a slingshot - just have time to jump away! I already know, I’m a shot sparrow!
Magpie and Hare
- If only you had some fox teeth, Hare!
- Uh, Soroka, it’s still bad...
- If only you had wolf legs, gray one!
- Uh, Soroka, not much happiness...
- I wish you had lynx claws, scythe!
- Uh, Soroka, what do I need fangs and claws? My soul is still like a hare...
Wolf and Owl
- We, Owl, are the same in everything: you are gray, and I am gray, you have claws, and I am a predator. Why do people greet us differently? They praise and praise you, they curse and curse me.
- And you, Wolf, what are you eating?
- Yes, there are more and more fat lambs, and kids, and calves...
- You see now! And I'm all about harmful mice. You and I are similar in clothes, but different in business!
Weasel, Squirrel and Bear
- I, Lasochka, became white by winter - like a birch tree!
- And I, little squirrel, am gray - like an aspen tree!
- Well, I, Bear, are like Christmas trees: one color in winter and summer!
Woodpecker and Black Grouse
- Hello, Teterev! Haven't seen each other since yesterday. Where did you fly, where did you sleep?
- I flew “above”, slept “under”.
- What kind of rebus is this: now “above”, now “under”?
- This is not a rebus, but snow. Flew over the snow, spent the night under the snow.
- Look, what a fun life you have. And I, poor fellow, am still “in” and “in”. I fly in the forest, jump in the trees, spend the night in a hollow tree. Boring!
February
A slanting snowstorm whistles - a white broom sweeps the roads. The snowdrifts and roofs are smoking. White waterfalls are falling from the pines. A furious drifting snow glides over the sastrugi. February is flying in full sail!
Whirlwinds are chasing sleighs and cars, dancing around houses, sweeping up roads.
Fences are drowning in white waves. Behind each pillar there is a snowstorm. There are white flags above each spruce.
It blows, circles, skids. Whistles, whines, howls. It gets in your eyes, pushes you in your back, doesn’t let you breathe.
Snow clouds pour snow from above. Snowdrifts blow snow from below. The sun is entangled in whirlwinds, like golden fish on the white network.
Whirlwind from earth to sky!
BUREAU OF FOREST SERVICES
Cold February arrived in the forest. He made snowdrifts on the bushes and covered the trees with frost. And although the sun is shining, it is not warming.
Birds and animals became sad: how to continue to live?
Ferret says:
- Save yourself as best you can!
And Magpie chirps:
-Everyone for himself again? Alone again? There is no way for us to unite against a common misfortune! And that’s what everyone says about us, that we only peck and squabble in the forest. It's even a shame...
Here the Hare got involved:
- That's right, the Magpie is chirping. There is safety in numbers. I propose to create a Bureau of Forest Services. For example, I can help partridges. Every day I tear the snow on the winter fields to the ground, let them peck the seeds and greens there after me - I don’t mind. Write me, Soroka, to the Bureau as number one!
- There is still a smart head in our forest! - Soroka was happy. - Who is next?
- We're next! - the crossbills shouted. - We peel the cones on the trees and drop half of the cones whole. Use it, voles and mice, don’t mind!
“The hare is a digger, the crossbills are throwers,” wrote Magpie.
- Who is next?
“Sign us up,” the beavers grumbled from their hut. “We piled so many aspen trees in the fall—there’s enough for everyone.” Come to us, moose, roe deer, hares, gnaw on the juicy aspen bark and branches!
And it went, and it went!
Woodpeckers offer their hollows for the night, crows invite them to carrion, crows promise to show them their dumps. Soroka barely has time to write down.
The Wolf also trotted out at the noise. He straightened his ears, looked up with his eyes and said:
- Sign me up for the Bureau too!
- Are you, Volka, at the Service Bureau? What do you want to do in it?
“I will serve as a watchman,” answers the Wolf.
-Who can you guard?
- I can guard everyone! Hares, moose and roe deer near the aspen trees, partridges in the greens, beavers in the huts. I'm an experienced watchman. He guarded the sheep in the sheepfold, the chickens in the chicken coop...
- You are a robber from a forest road, not a watchman! - Magpie shouted. Pass by, you rascal! We know you. It’s me, Soroka, who will guard everyone in the forest from you: when I see you, I’ll raise a cry! I will write down not you, but myself as a watchman in the Bureau: “Magpie is a watchman.” Am I worse than others, or what?
This is how bird-animals live in the forest. It happens, of course, that they live in such a way that only fluff and feathers fly. But it happens, and they help each other out.
Anything can happen in the forest.
SONGS UNDER THE ICE
It happened in winter: my skis started singing! I was skiing across the lake, and the skis were singing. They sang well, like birds.
And there is snow and frost all around. Nostrils stick together and teeth freeze.
The forest is silent, the lake is silent. The roosters in the village are silent. And the skis sing!
And their song is like a stream, it flows and rings. But it’s not the skis that really sing, even the wooden ones. Someone is singing under the ice, right under my feet.
If I had left 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.
Over 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 curled up from the dark holes. But it’s not the fish that sing there with bird voices, is it? Maybe there really is a stream there? Or maybe icicles born from steam are ringing?
And the song rings. It is alive and clean, something neither a stream, nor fish, nor icicles can sing like. Only one creature in the world can sing such a bird...
I hit the ice with my ski and the song stopped. I stood quietly - the song rang again.
Then I hit the ice with my ski as hard as I could. And now a miracle bird flew out of the dark hole. She sat down on the edge of the hole and bowed to me three times.
- Hello, ice songster!
The bird nodded again and sang an under-ice song in plain sight.
- But I know you! - I said. - You dipper - a water sparrow!
Dipper did not answer: he only knew how to bow and nod. Again he slipped under the ice, and his song thundered from there. So what if it's winter? Under the ice there is no wind, no frost, no hawk. Under the ice there is black water and a mysterious green twilight. There, if you whistle louder, everything will ring: the echo will rush, hitting the icy ceiling, hung with ringing icicles. Why shouldn't the dipper sing?
Why shouldn't we listen to him?
PRICE OF THE SONG
I bought the siskin for a ruble. The seller put it in a paper bag and handed it to me.
I put the siskin in a cage and began to look at it. Greenish, nimble, with a sly black eye. In a word, siskin-fawn!
I fed the siskin with ripe birch catkins and occasionally slipped fresh willow branches into the cage. It was winter, but in the warmth of the house, “lambs” appeared on willow twigs standing in a jar of water. Like white bunny tails.
Siskin loved to ruffle these hare's tails with his beak. It flutters, it flutters, and when it flutters, it starts to sing. It’s winter silence outside, it’s cold, but at home the bird is singing! It's buzzing on its perch, and it's splashing out of its beak, and cheerful whistles are splashing out!

That's what they call her - the blue bird. Ancient homeland hers is India. But now she lives with us, in the gorges of the Tien Shan.

I have been looking for a meeting with her for a long time. And today I have joy. Well, isn't it a joy to see with your own eyes Living being that you've never seen before?

Near the river I squeezed myself between huge cold stones. The heavy water roar drowns out everything. I see stones falling into the river, but I don’t hear any splashes. I see how the mountain buntings and lentils open their beaks wide, but I don’t hear their songs. I scream myself as a test, but I can’t hear myself! In the ferocious roar of water there are storms and the rumble of thunder.

But suddenly a special sound, sharp as a knife, easily and simply penetrated this roar and roar. Neither a scream, nor a roar, nor a howl could overcome the roar of the river: a whistle, similar to a squeal, blocked everything. In this frantic roar, it can be heard as easily as the flute of an oriole on a quiet morning.

She is the blue bird. Dark blue - it can be seen from a distance. She sings, and her song cannot be drowned out. Sits on a stone in the middle of the river. Like two green wings, two elastic streams of water rise and flutter on the sides of the stone. And a rainbow shimmers in the water dust. And she herself is covered in sparkles of water, like pearls. She bowed and spread her tail like a fan: the tail blazed with blue fire.

My back is numb, there are sharp stones at my side, and black slugs are crawling along my legs, squeezed into the gap. I was deaf from the roar and wet from the splashes. But I don’t take my eyes off her: will I ever meet a blue bird again...

Nikolay Sladkov “Arrogant”

On a bare branch, just above the green burdocks that look like donkey ears, sits an owlet. It sits very important, although from the outside it looks like a tuft of simple sheep’s wool. Only with eyes. Huge, shiny, orange. And very stupid. And he blinks his eyes in such a way that everyone can immediately see: you’re a fool! But he tries to look like an adult. He probably also thinks to himself: “The claws on my paws are bent - I can climb branches. The wings have already fledged - I want to and I’ll fly. The beak is ossified, as soon as I click, I’ll scare everyone. You can’t take me with your bare hands!”

And I so arrogantly wanted to take it with my bare hands! I thought and thought and came up with an idea. He sits here alone all day long. And he’s probably bored alone. And there is no one to brag to, and no one to gawk at...

I squat down and make an owlet face. I wink and stick my tongue out. I shake my head: look how big the owlet is! My respect, wisest of the wise!

The owlet is flattered, he is very happy about the entertainment. He crouches and bows. Shifts from paw to paw, as if dancing. He even rolls his eyes.

So we’re having fun with him, and a friend quietly comes in from behind. He walked in, extended his hand and took the owlet by the collar! Don't be arrogant!..

The owlet clicks its beak, twists angrily, and tugs at the sleeve with its claws. It's a shame for him, of course. I thought: I’m so big and cunning, and he, like a little one, was grabbed by the collar with my bare hand. And he didn’t have time to blink an eye and didn’t move his wing!

- Don't be arrogant! — I clicked the owlet on the nose. And he let go.

Nikolai Sladkov “On an unknown path”

We had to walk on different paths: bear, boar, wolf. I even walked like a bird. But this was my first time walking along such a path.

Will I see something on it?

He did not walk along the path itself, but nearby. The path is too narrow - like a ribbon. This path was cleared and trampled... by ants. For them, it was, of course, not a ribbon, but a wide highway. And there were many, many ants running along it. They dragged flies, mosquitoes, horseflies. The mica wings of the insects glistened. It seemed as if a trickle of water was pouring between the blades of grass along the slope.

I walk along the ant trail and count my steps: sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five steps... Wow! These are my big ones, but how many ants are there?! Serious trail. Only at the seventieth step did the trickle disappear under the stone. I sat down on it. I sit and watch the living vein beat under my feet. The wind will blow and ripples will run through the living stream. The sun will shine and everything will sparkle.

Suddenly, it was as if a wave rushed along the ant road. The snake swerved along it and - dive! - under the stone on which I was sitting. I pulled my leg back - was it really a viper?.. And it served her right - the ants will now neutralize it. Ants boldly attack snakes, surround the snake, and only bones remain. I will take the skeleton of this snake into my collection.

I'm sitting waiting. A living stream beats and beats underfoot. Now it's time - I've been sitting there for over an hour. I carefully lift the stone so as not to damage the snake skeleton. The first thing I saw under the stone was a snake. But not dead, but alive and not at all like a skeleton! On the contrary, it became even thicker! The snake, which was supposed to be eaten by the ants, calmly and slowly... ate the ants itself! She pressed them with her muzzle and sent them into her mouth with her tongue.

It was not a viper. I have never seen such snakes before. The scales are like sandpaper, fine, the same on top and bottom. Looks more like a worm than a snake.

An amazing snake: it lifted its blunt tail up, moved it from side to side like its head, and suddenly crawled forward with its tail! And the eyes are not visible at all. Either with two heads of a snake, or without a head at all! Does it eat ants?

The skeleton didn't come out, so I took the snake. At home I decided on the name. I found her eyes, small, about the size of a pinhead. That’s why they call it the blind snake. She lives in burrows underground. She doesn't need eyes there. But crawling either with your head or your tail forward is convenient. And she can dig the ground with her nose.

This is the unprecedented “beast” that the unknown path led me to. What can I say? Every path leads somewhere. Just don't be lazy to go.

Nikolay Sladkov “Not Hearing”

Bears are strict mothers. And bear cubs are not hearing. While they are still sucking, they run behind them and get tangled in their legs.

And when they grow up, it’s a disaster!

Yes, and bears have a soft spot: they like to take a nap in the cold. Is it fun for the cubs to listen to their sleepy sniffles when there are so many tempting rustles, squeaks, and songs all around!

From flower to bush, from bush to tree, and they wander...

I once met such a fool, who ran away from his mother, in the forest.

I sat by the stream and dipped a cracker into the water. I was hungry, and the cracker was hard, so I worked on it for a very long time. So long that the forest inhabitants got tired of waiting for me to leave, and they began to crawl out of their hiding places.

Two small animals crawled out onto the stump. Mice squealed in the stones, apparently they had gotten into a fight. And suddenly a bear cub jumped out into the clearing. The bear cub is like a bear cub: big-headed, big-lipped, awkward.

The bear cub saw a tree stump, bucked its tail - and jumped sideways right towards it. Polchki - in a mink, but what a problem! The little bear remembered well what tasty things his mother treated him to at each such stump. Just have time to lick your lips!

The bear walked around the stump on the left - no one was there. I looked to the right - no one. I stuck my nose into the crack - it smells like shelves! He climbed out onto the stump and scratched the stump with his paw. Stump like a stump.

The bear was confused and became quiet. I looked around. And all around is forest. Thick. Dark. There are rustling sounds in the forest. The bear got off the stump and trotted on. There is a stone on the way. The bear cheered up: this is a familiar thing! He put his paw under the stone, rested, and pressed his shoulder. The stone gave way, and the frightened little mice squeaked under it.

The bear threw a stone - with both paws under it. He hurried: the stone fell and crushed the bear’s paw. The bear howled and shook his sore paw. Then he licked it, licked it and limped on. He trudges along, no longer looks around, looks at his feet.

And he sees: a mushroom. The bear became shy. I walked around the mushroom. With his eyes he sees: a mushroom, you can eat it. And with his nose he smells: bad mushroom, you can't eat! And I’m hungry... and scared!

The bear got angry - how could he hit the mushroom with his healthy paw! The mushroom burst. The dust from it is a fountain, yellow, acrid - right in the bear’s nose.

It was a puffing mushroom. The bear sneezed and coughed. Then he rubbed his eyes, sat on his backside and howled quietly.

And who will hear? There is forest all around. Thick. Dark. There are rustling sounds in the forest.

And suddenly - plop! Frog! Teddy bear with the right paw - frog to the left. Teddy bear with left paw - frog to the right.

The bear took aim, rushed forward - and crushed the frog under itself. He grabbed it with his paw and pulled it out from under his belly. Here he would eat the frog with gusto - his first prey. And he, the fool, just wants to play.

He fell on his back, rolled around with a frog, sniffled, squealed as if he was being tickled under the arms.

Then he will throw a frog. It will pass from paw to paw. He played and played, and lost his frog.

I sniffed the grass around - no frog. So the bear fell onto his backside, opened his mouth to scream, and was left with his mouth open: the old bear was looking at him from behind the bushes.

The little bear was very happy with his furry mother; she will caress him and find him a frog.

Whining pitifully and limping, he trotted towards her. Yes, suddenly he received such a slap on the wrist that he immediately stuck his nose into the ground.

That's how I caressed you!

The bear got angry, reared up, and barked at his mother. He barked and rolled into the grass again from the slap in the face.

He sees: things are bad. He jumped up and ran into the bushes.

The bear is behind him.

For a long time I heard the branches cracking and the little bear barking from his mother’s slaps.

“Look, how he teaches him intelligence and caution!” - I thought.

The bears ran away without noticing me. But who knows?

There is forest all around. Thick. Dark. There are rustling sounds in the forest.

It’s better to leave quickly: I don’t have a gun.

Nikolai Sladkov “What did the magpie sing about?”

The magpie warmed up in the March sun, closed its eyes, became soft, and even lowered its wings.

The magpie sat and thought. Just what was she thinking about? Guess if she's a bird and you're a man!

If I were in her bird's place, this is what I would be thinking about right now. I would doze in the sun and remember the past winter. I remembered snowstorms, frosts. I would remember how the wind threw me, a magpie, over the forest, how it blew under a feather and twisted my wings. How on icy nights the frost shot, how the legs froze and how the steam from the breath covered the black feather with gray hair.

How I, a magpie, jumped along the fences, looked out the window with fear and hope: would they throw a herring head or a crust of bread out the window?

I would remember and rejoice: winter is over and I, a magpie, am alive! I’m alive and now I’m sitting on the Christmas tree, basking in the sun! I've finished winter, I'm looking forward to spring. Long, well-fed days and short, warm nights. Everything dark and heavy is behind, everything joyful and light is ahead. There is no better time than spring! Is now the time to doze off and nod off? If I were a magpie, I would sing!

But shh! The magpie is singing on the tree!

Mumbling, chirping, screaming, squeaking. Well, miracles! For the first time in my life I hear the song of a magpie. It turns out that the magpie bird was thinking about the same thing as I, a man, was thinking about! She also wanted to sing. That's great!

Or maybe I didn’t think about it: you don’t necessarily need to think to sing. Spring has come - how can you not sing! The sun shines on everyone, the sun warms everyone.

Nikolay Sladkov “Vacuum Cleaner”

An old story: a sparrow, before the starlings arrived, decided to occupy the birdhouse. He puffed himself up, chirped for courage and dived into the entrance.

I took out the old litter in bunches. It will jump out, and there will be a whole sheaf in its beak. It opens its beak and watches the dry blades of grass fall down.

I pulled out the large feathers one at a time. He will pull it out and let it go to the wind. And he also watches: will the feather float or spin like a corkscrew downward?

Everything old needs to be thrown out completely: not a speck, not a speck of dust!

It's easy to say - not a speck of dust. And you can’t hold a speck of dust in your claws or grab it with your beak.

Here he carried out the last straw in his beak, now he threw away the last feather. There was only one rubbish left at the bottom. Specks of dust, specks, hairs. Peel from larvae, dandruff from feathers - the most rubbish!

The sparrow sat on the roof and scratched the back of its head with its paw. And off to the summer!

I'm standing, waiting.

A fuss began in the birdhouse, buzzing and snorting was heard. And from the birdhouse - from all the cracks! - the dust swirled. Sparrow jumped out, caught his breath and dived again. And again I heard a snort, and again dust flew. The birdhouse was smoking!

What does he have there - a fan or a vacuum cleaner? Neither this nor that. He fluttered at the bottom, beat his wings, blew the wind, swirled the dust - his own vacuum cleaner, his own fan!

The birdhouse is as clean as glass.

It's time to wear fresh bedding. Yes, hurry up before the starlings arrive.

Nikolai Sladkov “Woodpecker Ring”

The woodpecker is a master of many things.

It can hollow out a hollow. Smooth, round, like a snout. Maybe make a machine for pine cones. He squeezes the cone into it and knocks out the seeds.

The woodpecker also has a drum - a ringing, elastic twig.

If he gets drunk, gets drunk, he gets thirsty.

For this case, the woodpecker has a drinking ring. He also makes it himself.

The woodpecker does not like to go down to the ground: he has short legs - he feels awkward on the ground. He doesn’t fly to a watering hole either - to a river or stream. Drinks as needed. In winter he will grab a snowball, in summer he will lick a drop of dew, in autumn he will lick a drop of rain. The woodpecker needs a little. And only in spring is it a special thing. In spring the woodpecker likes to drink Birch juice. This is why the woodpecker makes a drinking ring.

Everyone probably saw the ring. Even on birch logs. Hole to hole on birch bark - a ring around the trunk. But few people know how the woodpecker makes this ring. And why is it not made in some way, but always with a ring... I started watching and realized that the woodpecker... doesn’t even think about making rings!

He will simply punch a hole in the birch tree and lick off a drop of sap.

A little later it will fly again: after all, the juice is swelling on the hole. It will sit in such a way that it is convenient to lick it off, it will lick off the swollen drop - it’s delicious. It’s a pity, the juice from the old beak flows quietly. The woodpecker moves its head slightly to the side and punches a new hole.

When it arrives again, it sits under the new hole, the old one has swollen. He drinks juice from a new one and drills a fresh hole nearby. And again, neither higher nor lower, but on the side, where, without moving from its place, it is convenient to reach with your beak.

There is a lot to do in the spring: a hollow, a drum, a machine. I want to scream: everything is dry in my throat! That’s why every now and then it flies onto the birch tree to wet the neck. He will sit, lick, and add a beak to the row. This is how you get a ring on a birch tree. And nothing else can happen.

It's a hot spring.

A woodpecker rings a birch tree. Lowers ring to ring.

Master woodpecker on things.

Nikolai Sladkov “Why does the fox have a long tail?”

Out of curiosity! It’s not, in fact, because she seems to cover her tracks with her tail. The fox’s tail becomes long out of curiosity.

It all starts from the moment the foxes' eyes appear. Their tails at this time are still very small and short. But when the eyes appear, the tails immediately begin to stretch out! They get longer and longer. And how can they not grow longer if the fox cubs are reaching with all their might towards the bright spot - towards the exit from the hole. Of course: something unprecedented is moving there, something unheard of is making noise and there is an unexpected smell!

It's just scary. It’s scary to suddenly tear yourself away from your habitual hole. And therefore the fox cubs stick out of it only to the length of their short tail. It’s as if they’re holding onto their birthmark with the tip of their tail. Just a moment - all of a sudden - I'm home!

And the white light beckons. The flowers nod: smell us! The stones shine: touch us! Beetles are squeaking: catch us! The foxes are stretching, stretching further and further. Their tails stretch and stretch. And they get longer and longer. Out of curiosity, of course. Why else?

Nikolai Sladkov “Why is a chaffinch a chaffinch?”

I've been wondering for a long time: why are finches called finches?

Well, the Black-headed Warbler is understandable: the male has a black beret on his head.

The robin is also clear: it always sings at dawn and its bib is the color of dawn.

Oatmeal too: oats are picked up on the roads all winter.

But why is a finch a finch?

Finches are not finches at all. In the spring they arrive as soon as the snow melts; in the fall they often linger until there is new snow. And sometimes they spend the winter in some places if there is food.

And yet they called the finch a finch!

This summer, it seems, I solved this riddle.

I was walking along a forest path, I heard a finch thundering! He sings great: his head is thrown back, his beak is open, the feathers on his neck are trembling - as if he is gargling with water. And the song splashes from the beak: “witt-ti-ti-ti, vi-chu!” Even the tail is shaking!

And then suddenly a cloud floated into the sun: a shadow covered the forest. And the finch immediately wilted. He got ruffled, frowned, and hung his nose. He sits dissatisfied and sadly says: “tr-rr-r-ryu, tr-r-r-ryu!” It’s as if the cold is making him lose his teeth, in a sort of trembling voice: “T-r-ry-yu!”

Anyone who sees this will immediately think: “What a finch! The sun was barely behind the cloud, and he was already ruffled and trembling!”

That's why the finch became a finch!

They all have this habit: the sun for the cloud - the finches for their “true”.

And it’s not because of the cold: in winter it can get colder.

There are different guesses on this matter. Whoever speaks is worried at the nest, whoever screams before the rain. And, in my opinion, he is unhappy that the sun is hidden. He's bored without the sun. Can't sing! So he's grumbling.

However, maybe I’m wrong. Better find out for yourself. You can’t put everything ready-made in your mouth!

Nikolay Sladkov “Animal Bath”

Wild animals also go to the bathhouse. And most of all people like to run to the bathhouse... wild pigs! Their bathhouse is simple: no heat, no soap, not even hot water. Just one bath - a hole in the ground. There is swamp water in the hole. Instead of soap suds - slurry. Instead of a washcloth, use bunches of old grass and moss. It would be impossible to lure you into such a “bathhouse”. And the wild boars keep climbing. That's how much they love the bathhouse!

But wild boars don’t go to the bathhouse for the same reason we go. Why do we go to the bathhouse? Wash. And the wild boars go... to get dirty! We wash off dirt from ourselves with a washcloth, but wild boars deliberately smear dirt on themselves. And the more they get dirty, the more merrily they grunt. And after their pig bath they are a hundred times dirtier than before. And you’re welcome! Now, through the mud shell, no biters can get to their skin: neither mosquitoes, nor mosquitoes, nor horseflies. In summer they have sparse stubble, so they smear themselves. They'll roll out, get dirty - and won't itch!

Nikolay Sladkov “House Butterfly”

At night, the box suddenly rustled. And something mustachioed and furry crawled out of their boxes. And on the back there is a folded fan of yellow paper.

But how happy I was about this freak!

I sat him on the lampshade, and he hung motionless with his back down. The fan folded like an accordion began to sag and straighten.

Before my eyes, an ugly furry worm was turning into a beautiful butterfly. This is probably how the frog turned into a princess!

All winter the pupae lay dead and motionless, like pebbles. They waited patiently for spring, just as the seeds wait in the ground. But the room heat deceived: “the seeds have sprouted” ahead of schedule. And then a butterfly crawls across the window. And it's winter outside. And there are ice flowers on the window. A living butterfly crawls on dead flowers.

She flutters around the room. He sits down on a print with poppies.

Unfolding the spiral of its thin proboscis, it drinks sweet water from a spoon. He sits on the lampshade again, exposing his wings to the hot “sun”.

I look at her and think: why not keep butterflies at home, like we keep songbirds? They will delight you with color. And if these are not harmful butterflies, in the spring they can be released into the field like birds.

There are also singing insects: crickets and cicadas. Cicadas sing in a matchbox and even in a loosely clenched fist. And the desert crickets sing just like birds.

I would like to bring home beautiful beetles: bronze beetles, ground beetles, deer and rhinoceroses. And how many wild plants can be tamed!

And a wolf's bast, a bear's ear, a raven's eye! Why not grow beautiful fly agaric mushrooms, huge umbrella mushrooms or clusters of honey mushrooms in pots?

It will be winter outside, and summer on your windowsill. The ferns will stick out their green fists from the ground. Lilies of the valley will hang out wax bells. The miracle flower of the white water lily will open. And the first butterfly flutters. And the first cricket will sing.

And what can you come up with when looking at a butterfly drinking tea with jam from a spoon!

Nikolai Sladkov, a Muscovite by birth, lived his entire life in Leningrad. But he didn't lead sedentary image life, but a business trip. His passion was photography. And the profession of topographer, acquired before the Great Patriotic War, allowed him to travel a lot.

Sladkov’s routes ran through the sultry deserts of Central Asia, across glaciers, stormy waters of the oceans, he had to climb to the sky-high heights of the mountains - in a word, to be a pioneer, sensitive to everything new and unknown.

Nature is not only wealth. Not just “sun, air and water”. Not just “white, black and soft gold”. Nature feeds, waters and clothes us, but it also pleases and surprises us. Each of us admires the beauty of the nature of our native land. A Muscovite will tell you about the golden September forests, a St. Petersburg resident will tell you about the white nights of June, and a resident of Yakutsk will tell you about the gray January frosts! But the Altai will tell you about the May colors. Nikolai Sladkov has also been to Altai! He noticed how different the spring month of May alone could be in these parts.

And how many more miracles are hidden in other places!.. For example, in the forest and field there is no need at all regular watch, here the birds come to the rescue, they live according to their time and rarely make mistakes. Together with a writer, you easily notice the most beautiful things. Even a forest clearing will seem like an open book: go and look around. It’s a thousand times more interesting to walk than on an ordinary road!

As soon as you roll it up, you will immediately feel the cobweb threads, similar to fishing nets and twisted sieves. And when did the spiders have time? The sun rose and illuminated the dewy web with beads. So the necklaces, beads and pendants sparkled. So this is what a web is really like!

While you are admiring the beads of dew on the cobwebs, collecting honey mushrooms in a box, you suddenly realize that you have lost your way. Just multiple “ay!” can save you from senseless wanderings, only a response will lead you to a familiar forest path.

When you walk, you notice a lot of things. Sladkov’s stories begin like this: “Here I am walking along...” You can walk through a forest clearing, through a swamp, through a field, through a meadow, along the seashore and, together with the writer, notice what you did not see a common person, learn amazingly interesting facts. Sometimes you succumb to the narrator’s delight and smile at some particularly accurate comparison or conclusion.

I would like to visit those places that the writer talks about so wonderfully. You flip through one miniature after another, like childhood fairy tales. Everything seems familiar, close and dear: a cowardly hare, a solitary cuckoo, a sweet-voiced nightingale and a singing oriole. Fairy tales Nikolai Sladkov is everywhere: above his head, on the sides, under his feet. Just take a look!

Nikolay Sladkov

Blue May

Everywhere you look there is blue and blue! And cloudless blue sky. And along the slopes of the green mountains, it was as if someone had scattered blue curtains* of dream grass. The furry flowers resemble large yellow-bellied bumblebees with blue petal wings. It seems that just touch it and the blue swarm will buzz! And on the bare, gravelly slopes, it was as if a blue-blue blanket had been spread to cover the bare ground. The blue blanket is woven from a myriad of borage flowers. In Altai they are called borage for their cucumber smell. The flowers bent their stems and bowed their heads, like blue bells. And it even seems that they are quietly ringing in the wind, giving birth to the melody of blue May.

Jackets* - (obsolete) flower meadow.

Red May

In mid-May, peonies begin to bloom in the sun; we call them marina root. And before they bloom, their green fist-buds appear among the openwork and spreading leaves.

How gem, clenched in his fist, his thin hand raised the stem from the ground to the sun. And today the green palms opened in unison. And the red flame of the flower flared up!

One by one, the buds open, and red sparks flare up on the mountain slopes. They flare up and smolder until they set all the mountain slopes on fire with a red flame. Red May has arrived!

White May

The grasses rose to the knee. And only now the meadowsweet and bird cherry blossomed. In one or two days, their dark branches put on a white outfit and the bushes become like brides. And from a distance, the bird cherry copses resemble the foam of the surf of a restless green sea.

On a fine day, when the heated air is filled with the aroma of flowering herbs, it is pleasant to relax under the bird cherry trees, buzzing with insects. Bumblebees, flower flies, butterflies and beetles swarm on the white bunches. Loaded with pollen and drinking nectar, they spin into the air and fly away.

Petals are falling from white bird cherry trees. They fall on the wide leaves of hellebores*, whitening the grass and ground.

One morning, at the end of May, I looked out of the window and gasped: the trees were white, the road was white, snow was flickering in the air! Is winter really back? I went outside and understood everything. White airy “snowflakes” of poplar fluff flew from the whitened poplars. A white snowstorm is spinning in the wind! I was no less surprised when passing by a scattering of dandelions. Yesterday there were flowers sitting on their stems like yellow canaries, and today in their place there were white fluffy “chicks”.

White underfoot, on the sides, above your head... White May!

Hellebore* is a perennial meadow grass with a thick rhizome and flower panicles.

Silver May

The Altai feather grass steppe stretches to the horizon. Silky feather grasses play in the sun, and the steppe in May resembles a silver cloud that has descended to the ground. The steppe sparkles, as if winking with the sun. The breeze blew, it swayed, it floated, splashing the sunlight. Silvery waves of feather grass flow. One after another, the larks fly up from them and ring like silver bells. It seems that every lark praises the silvery May.

Motley May

To the heights Altai mountains spring comes at the end of May. Every day the snow retreats higher and higher into the mountains - they become dark white - motley. If you look, your eyes will run wild: dark - white, white - dark! Like a chessboard! And then the hazel grouse bloomed in unison at the foot. Their colorful heads rose on thin stems and peeked out of the grass everywhere. Their bells are brownish, as if the petals have darkened from sunburn. The petals have light cells and spots. If you look at the flowers, your eyes will also dazzle, just like a chessboard. It’s not for nothing that botanists call these fragile flowers “chess grouse.” Variegated mountains and variegated flowers of the variegated Altai May!

And what a time it is in Altai when the swimsuits bloom! Everywhere you look there are swimsuits. There is darkness and darkness in the meadows, in the clearings, in the swamps. There are mountain snowfields in orange rings. You look at the flowers and it seems that one is brighter than the other. It’s not for nothing that we also call them lights. They burn like lights among the lush greenery of the May meadow.

One day, in a clearing orange with blooming swimsuits, I noticed a pure white flower. Anything unusual attracts attention. That’s why I noticed this flower from afar. A pearl in a golden meadow! With all precautions, they dug up a white swimsuit and planted it in a selection plot in the Altai Botanical Garden.

I have been in the forest many times and, each time admiring the diversity of the flowering meadow, I tried to find the white swimsuit again - and I did not find it. This is very rare. But let’s hope that the flower will take root in the garden and there will be many of them.

This is what May is like here in Altai: colorful, like a rainbow! And you?

Bird clock

Not gold, not silver, not handmade, not pocket, not solar, not sand, but... bird. It turns out that there are such things in the forest - and on almost every tree! Like our cuckoo clock.

Only there is also a clock with a robin, a clock with a chaffinch, a clock with a thrush...

Birds in the forest, it turns out, begin to sing not when anyone pleases, but when they are supposed to.

Come on, how much is it now, not on my silver ones, but on the forest birds? And let's not just look, but listen!

The snipe buzzed from above, which means it’s already three o’clock. Woodcock drawled, grunting and squealing, “it’s the beginning of four.” And here the cuckoo crowed - the sun will rise soon.

And the morning clock will start working, and it will become not only audible, but also visible. A song thrush sits on the top of the tree, whistling at about four o'clock. A chiffchaff sings and spins on an aspen tree - it’s just after five. The finch thundered on the pine tree - it was almost five.

There is no need to wind, repair or check this watch. Waterproof and shockproof. True, sometimes they lie, but what kind of clock does not hurry or lag behind?! But you always have it with you, you won’t forget it, you won’t lose it. A clock with the sound of a quail, with the cuckoo crowing, with the trills of a nightingale, with the ringing of oatmeal, with the bell of a lark - a meadow top. For every taste and ear!

Clearing

The forest road twists and turns, bypasses swamps, choosing where it is easier and drier. And the clearing directly cuts the forest: once - and in half!

It was like opening a book. The forest stood on both sides like unread pages. Go and read.

Walking along a neglected clearing is a hundred times more difficult than walking along a crowded road, but also a thousand times more interesting!

Either mossy, gloomy spruce forests on the sides, or cheerful, light pine forests. Alder thickets, shifting moss swamps. Windfalls and windfalls, dead wood and fallen trees. Or even trees scorched by lightning.

You can't see half of it from the road!

And meeting the sensitive inhabitants of the forest, who are afraid of well-trodden roads!

The shuffling of someone's wings in the thickets, the patter of someone's feet. Suddenly the grass moves, suddenly a branch sways. And your ears are on top of your head, and your eyes are alert.

An unread half-open book: words, phrases, lines. Finds for all letters of the alphabet. Commas, periods, ellipses and dashes. Every step there are question marks and exclamation marks. They're getting tangled in their legs.

You walk along the clearing and your eyes widen!

Web

The morning turned out to be cold, dewy - and cobwebs glittered everywhere! On the grass, on the bushes, on the Christmas trees... There are spider threads, balls, hammocks and catching nets everywhere. Sita, which is not the hands of her retinue. And when did the spiders have time?

But the spiders were in no hurry. The web was hanging everywhere before, but it was invisible. And the dew covered the web with beads and put it on display. The undergrowth burst into flames with necklaces, beads, pendants, monists...

So this is what a web is really like! But we always wiped our faces with frustration when something invisible and sticky ran across it. And these turned out to be constellations blazing in the dark forest universe. Milky forest ways, galaxies, forest comets, meteorites and asteroids. New and supernova stars. Suddenly the invisible kingdom of forest spiders appeared. A universe of eight-legged and eight-eyed people! And all around are their shining antennas, locators and radars.

Here he sits alone, furry and eight-legged, plucking the soundless web strings with his paws, tuning the web music inaudible to our ears. And he looks with all eight eyes at what we cannot see.

But the sun will dry the dew, and the strange world of forest spiders will again disappear without a trace - until the next dew. And again we will begin to wipe our face with annoyance when something invisible and sticky stretches across it. As a reminder of the spider forest universe.

Honey fungus

Honey mushrooms, of course, grow on stumps. And sometimes it’s so thick that you can’t even see a stump underneath them. Like a stump autumn leaves I fell asleep with my head. And then they came to life and sprouted. And there are elegant stump bouquets.

With a small basket, honey mushrooms are not collected. Collecting is just like collecting! Honey mushrooms can be taken in armfuls, as they say, raked or mowed with a scythe. There will be enough for roasting and pickling, and there will also be left for drying.

It’s easy to collect them, but not easy to bring them home. For honey mushrooms you definitely need a basket. You stuff them into a backpack or into plastic bags - and you bring home not mushrooms, but mushroom porridge. And then all this mess is in the trash.

You can hastily make false honey mushrooms instead of real ones. This and the basket only belong in the trash: they are not suitable for roasting or brewing.

Of course, real honey mushrooms are far from white and red mushrooms. But if the harvest fails, I’m glad for the honey mushrooms. True, even if there is a harvest, I’m still happy. Every stump in the forest is an autumn bouquet! And you still can’t pass by, you’ll stop. If you don’t collect it, at least look at it and admire it.

Mushroom round dance

The mushroom picker does not take fly agarics, but he is happy with fly agarics: if fly agarics go, so will white ones! And fly agarics are a delight to the eye, even though they are inedible and poisonous. Another one stands with his arms akimbo, on a white leg in lace pantaloons, in a red clown cap - you won’t want to, but you’ll fall in love. Well, if you come across a fly agaric round dance, you’ll be stupefied! A dozen young men stood in a circle and prepared to dance.

There was a belief: a fly agaric ring marks a circle in which witches dance at night. This is what the ring of mushrooms was called - “the witch’s circle.” And even though no one believes in witches now, there are no witches in the forest, it’s still interesting to look at the “witch’s circle”... The witch’s circle is good even without witches: the mushrooms are ready to dance! A dozen young men in red hats stood in a circle, one-two! - opened, three or four! - got ready. Now it’s five or six! - someone will clap their hands and a round dance will begin. Faster and faster, like a colorful festive carousel. White legs flash, stale leaves rustle.

You stand and wait.

And the fly agarics stand and wait. They are waiting for you to finally figure it out and leave. To start dancing in a circle without interference or prying eyes, stamping your white feet and waving your red hats. Just like in the old days...

AU

Lost in the forest - shout “ay!” Until they respond. You can, of course, shout in a different way: “I-go-go-go!”, For example, or: “A-ya-yaya!” But the loudest sound that echoes through the forest is “ay!” You “aye!”, and in response to you from different sides: “aye!”, “aye!”.

Or an echo...

This is already alarming if only an echo responds. It means you're lost. And you call back to yourself. Well, quickly figure out which way the house is, otherwise you might end up spinning...

You walk and walk, everything is straight and straight, and lo and behold - the same place again! Here is a noticeable stump on which I was sitting recently. How so? You clearly remember that you walked straight from the stump, did not turn anywhere - how did this stump end up on your path again? Here's a candy wrapper for the sour candy...

Time after time you walk away from a noticeable place, and it seems to you that you are walking straight to the house, as if on a ruler. You walk and walk, everything is straight and straight, and a noticeable stump is again on your way! And the same candy wrapper. And you can’t get away from them, they attract you like a magnet. And you can’t understand anything, and the horror is already moving under your shirt.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had time for berries or mushrooms. In confusion and fear you shout “aye!”, and in response again and again there is one distant echo...

As you get colder, you look at a place that doesn’t want to let you go. It looks like nothing special - ordinary stumps and logs, bushes and trees, dead wood and fallen trees, but it already seems to you that the pines here are somehow wary, and the fir trees are painfully gloomy, and the aspen trees are fearfully whispering about something. And it will freeze you to the blisters.

And suddenly, distant, on the very edge of hearing, but so desired and joyful: “Aww!”

“Aww! Aww!” - you shout in response, losing your voice, and, not understanding the road, you fly towards a distant call, scattering branches with your hands.

Here comes the “ay!” again, a little more audibly, and you clutch at it like a drowning man clutching at a straw.

Closer, more audible, and you are no longer running, but simply walking quickly, breathing in relief and noisily, shaking off the forest obsession: you are saved!

And you meet your friends as if nothing had happened: well, if you fell behind, got lost a little - it’s a big disaster! And again there was general laughter, jokes, practical jokes. Boast about who found what, who collected more. But everything inside you is still trembling, and a chill is stirring under your shirt. Before your eyes, the same gloomy pines and spruce trees that did not want to let you go.

And from that day on, the forest “ay!” stays with you forever. And this is no longer just a cry for the sake of noise and self-indulgence, but a call for salvation. You will never again shout “ay” just like that, just to scare away the silence of the forest, but you will throw it into the wary silence, like throwing a life preserver into a dark ox. And you will remember for a long time that first day, when you rushed about in despair and screamed lost, losing your voice. And in response I heard only an echo and the indifferent hum of the tree tops.

Song of wings

The forest disappeared into the darkness and floated. The color also disappeared: everything became gray and dull. The bushes and trees moved like clots of darkness in the viscous viscous turbidity. They shrank, then suddenly stretched, appeared and disappeared. Evening gave way to night.

It's time for thick twilight and shadows, time for night forest incidents.

The thoughtful evening songs are over: the song thrushes whistle on the spruce tops, the bright-eyed robins have long scattered their ringing pieces of glass among the branches.

I'm standing knee-deep in swamp slush. He leaned his back against the tree; she moves a little, breathes... I closed my eyes, they are of no use now, now I only need my ears.

The night owl hooted. You can't see it yourself. An owl's cry flies in the darkness from tree to tree: oo-gu-gu-gu! I turn my ear behind the flying scream. Right next to me he started hooting: he probably saw me with his yellow eyes and was surprised.

The night cuckoo also crowed for a long time in the dark; a distant echo beyond the swamp answered her.

I love listening at night. Silence, but you still hear something. The mouse rustles in the dry leaves. Duck wings will whistle in the heights. The cranes in the distant swamp suddenly begin to cry hecticly, as if someone had frightened them. Solidly, slowly, a woodcock will fly by: horr, horr - in a bass voice, tsvirk, tsvirk - in a thin voice.

Even in the dead of midnight, when no living voices are heard, the forest is not silent. Then the wind blows at the top. That tree will creak. Hitting the branches, the cone will fall. Listen to the night at least a thousand times - each time it will be different. Just as no two days are the same, no two nights are the same.

But there is a time in every night when there is complete silence. In front of her, clots of darkness will stir again and float in the viscous haze; Now dark dawn is approaching to replace night. The forest seems to sigh: a quiet breeze flies over the peaks and whispers something in each tree’s ear. And if there were leaves on the trees, they would respond to the wind in their own way: the aspen trees would hastily mutter, the birch trees would rustle affectionately. But it’s April in the forest and the trees are bare. Some spruce and pine trees will hiss in response to the wind, and the viscous rumble of coniferous peaks will float over the forest, like the echo of distant bells.

And at this moment, when the forest has not yet truly woken up, suddenly there comes a time of complete night silence. A needle falls and you hear it!

In such silence I heard something that I had never heard before in my life: the song of wings! The early morning rustle of the peaks subsided, and in the stagnant, melting silence a strange sound was heard, as if someone were playing along with their lips, beating out a dance beat: brryn-brryn, brrn, brrn, brrynn! Brryn-brryn, brryn, brryn, brryn!

If he played along, that means someone was dancing to the beat?

Darkness and silence. Ahead is still a completely dark moss swamp, behind is a black spruce island. I'm standing on the side of it, and strange sounds are approaching. Closer, closer, now heard overhead, now moving away, further, further. And then they appear again, approach again, and rush past again. Someone flies around the spruce island, beating time in the silence with elastic wings. A clear rhythm, a dance beat, not only beats its wings in flight, but sings! Sings to the tune: tak-tak, tak, tak, tak! Well, well, well, well, well!

The bird is small, with wings and big bird Don't sing loudly. So the singer chose the time for his strange songs when everything in the forest is silent. Everyone woke up, but did not raise their voices, they listened and were silent. Only this a short time change of night and morning and you can hear such a quiet song. And the blackbirds will sing and drown out everything with their sonorous whistles. Someone small, voiceless, who can sing only with his wings, has chosen this time of night silence, is in a hurry to make himself known.

I spent many spring nights in the forest, but never heard such a song again. And I didn’t find anything about her in the books. The riddle remained a riddle - a tiny, exciting mystery.

But I keep hoping: what if I hear again? And now I look at the black spruce islands in the remote moss swamps in a very special way: there lives one who can sing with his wings... In short moments of silence, he hurriedly rushes around the black island and beats the beat with his wings: so, so, so, so, So! And someone, of course, listens to his strange song. But who?

Giant

I’m walking through the forest, not planning anything bad, but everyone is shying away from me! The guards almost shout. Who even screams silently.

Our ear only hears well what we need. And what is not necessary, what is not dangerous, goes in one ear and comes out the other. And to whom we ourselves are dangerous, for those our ears are completely deaf. And now various small fry are screaming at the top of their lungs around on their squeaky ultrasound - guard, help, save! - and we know we are breaking through. Do not insert an ear tube into the ear specifically for such small fry. What more!

But for many in the forest we are fairy-tale giants! You just raised your foot to take a step, and your sole hung over someone like a thundercloud! We are walking through the living things in the forest, rushing by like a cyclone, like a typhoon.

If you look at us from below, we are like a rock to the sky! And suddenly this rock collapses and begins to roll with a roar and whoop. You’re just happy, you’re lying in the grass, you’re kicking your legs and laughing, and underneath you everything that’s alive is in shambles, everything is broken, distorted, everything’s in dust. Hurricane, storm, storm! Disaster! And your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes?

The chick became quiet and snuggled. You extended kind hands to him from the bottom of your heart, you want to help him. And his eyes roll back in fear! I was sitting quietly on a mound, and suddenly giant tentacles with twisted claws reached out from the sky! And the voice booms, like thunder. And eyes like flashing lightning. And an open red mouth, and in it teeth, like eggs in a basket. If you don't want to, you'll roll your eyes...

And here I am walking through the forest, not planning anything bad, but everyone is scared, everyone is shying away. And they even die.

Well, now you shouldn’t go to the forest because of this? You can’t even take a step? Or look at your feet through a magnifying glass? Or cover your mouth with a bandage so that you don’t accidentally swallow a midge? What else do you want me to do?

Nothing! And go into the forest and lie in the grass. Sunbathe, swim, save chicks, pick berries and mushrooms. Just remember one thing.

Remember that you are a giant. A huge fairytale giant. And since you are huge, don’t forget about the little ones. Since it’s fabulous, please be kind. A kind fairytale giant, whom the Lilliputians always hope for in fairy tales. That's all...

Wonder Beast

I’m walking through the forest, and I’m met by guys. They saw my bloated backpack and asked:

There are no mushrooms, the berries are not ripe, what have you picked?

I narrow my eyes mysteriously.

“I caught the beast,” I answer! You've never seen anything like this!

The guys look at each other and don’t believe it.

We, they say, know all the animals.

So guess! - I tease the guys.

And let's guess! Just tell me some sign, even the smallest one.

Please, I say, don’t be sorry. The animal's ear is... a bear's.

We thought about it. What animal has a bear's ear? The bear, of course. But I didn’t put a bear in my backpack! The bear won't fit. And try putting it in your backpack.

And the beast's eye... is a raven's! - I suggest. - And the paws... are goose paws.

Then everyone laughed and started shouting. They decided that I was pranking them. And I also give:

If you don't like crow's feet, use cat's feet. And a fox tail!

They were offended and turned away. They are silent.

So how? - I ask. “Will you guess it yourself or tell me?”

Let's give up! - the guys exhaled.

I slowly take off my backpack, untie the ties and shake out... an armful of forest grass! And in the grass there is a raven's eye, and a bear's ear, crow's and cat's feet, and a fox's tail, and a snapdragon. And other herbs: mousetail, froggrass, toadgrass...

I show each plant and tell you: this is for a runny nose, this is for a cough. This is for bruises and scratches. This is beautiful, this is poisonous, this is fragrant. This is for mosquitoes and midges. This is to keep your stomach from hurting, and this is to keep your head fresh.

This is the “beast” in the backpack. Have you heard of this? We haven’t heard of it, but now we’ve imagined it. The miracle beast spread out through the forest in its green skin, hiding: listening with a bear’s ear, looking with a raven’s eye, waving its fox’s tail, moving its cat’s paws. lies mysterious beast and remains silent. Waiting to be solved.

Who is more cunning?

I walk through the forest and rejoice: I am the most cunning here of all. I see right through everyone! The woodcock took off, pretended to be shot down, either running or flying - he took it away. Yes it looks like it sly Fox and she would have followed her. But you won’t fool me with these bird tricks! I know: since a cautious bird is rushing around nearby, it’s for a reason. Her chicks are hiding here, and she takes them away from them.

But it’s not enough to know, you also need to be able to see them. Woodcocks are the color of dry leaves sprinkled with old pine needles. You can step over and not notice: they know how to hide. But it’s even more flattering to spot such invisible people. And when you see them, you won’t be able to take your eyes off them, they’re so cute!

I'm treading carefully - I wouldn't step on it! Yeah - there's one lying down! He fell to the ground and closed his eyes. Still hoping to trick me. No, my dear, you’re caught, and there’s no escape for you!

Just kidding, of course, I won’t do anything bad to him - I’ll admire him and let him go. But if a fox were in my place... that would be the end of him. After all, he has only two ways of salvation: to hide or to run. And there is no third option.

Gotcha, gotcha, darling! If you failed to hide, you won’t be able to escape. One step, one more step...

Something darted overhead, I ducked down and... the chick disappeared. What happened? And the fact that the mother woodcock sat astride the chick, squeezed it from the side with her legs, lifted it into the air and carried it away!

The woodcock was already heavy, and the mother had difficulty dragging it. It seemed like a clumsy, overweight bird with two nosed heads was flying. To the side, a bird plopped down and split into two - the birds ran in different directions!

So you are not given a third! I was left without “prey”. They took her away from under her nose. Although I am cunning, there are cunning ones in the forest!

Confidence

I walk through the forest, squelching through the swamp, crossing a field - there are birds everywhere. And they treat me differently: some trust me, others don’t. And their trust can be measured... in steps!

The pliska* in the swamp advanced five steps, the lark in the field - fifteen, the thrush in the forest - twenty. Lapwing - forty, cuckoo - sixty, buzzard - one hundred, curlew - one hundred and fifty, and crane - three hundred. So it’s clear - and even visible! - a measure of their trust. The pliska trusts four times more than the blackbird, the thrush fifteen times more than the crane. Maybe because a person is fifteen times more dangerous to a crane than to a blackbird?

There is something to think about here.

A crow in the forest trusts a hunter only for a hundred steps. But the tractor driver in the field is already fifteen. And she almost takes pieces out of the hands of the townspeople in the park who feed her. He understands!

So, everything depends on us. It’s one thing for us to go into the forest with a gun, and another thing for us to go into the forest with a piece of meat. Yes, even without a piece, but at least without a stick.

Have you seen wild ducks on city ponds? Blackbirds and squirrels living in parks? This is you and me becoming better. And that’s why they trust us more. In the forest and in the field. In the swamp and in the park. Everywhere.

Pliska* is a yellow wagtail.

Stubborn dandelions

Once I go out into the clearing - the whole clearing is covered with dandelions! Someone stumbled upon these gold placers, their eyes ran wild, their hands itched - let's tear and throw.

And the narwhals - where to put these armfuls? Hands are sticky, shirts are stained with juice. And these are not the right flowers to put in vases: they smell like grass and are unsightly in appearance. And very ordinary ones! They grow everywhere and are familiar to everyone.

They raked the wreaths and bouquets into a pile and threw them away.

It’s always somehow uneasy when you see such devastation: the feathers of a torn bird, stripped birch trees, scattered anthills... Or abandoned flowers. For what? The bird pleased someone with its songs, the birch trees pleased with their whiteness, the flowers with their smell. And now everything is ruined and ruined.

But they will say: just think, dandelions! These are not orchids. They are considered weeds.

Maybe there really is nothing special or interesting about them? But they made someone happy. And now...

Dandelions are still a joy! And they surprised.

A week later I found myself in the same clearing again - the flowers piled up in a heap were alive! Bumblebees and bees, as always, collected pollen from flowers. And the picked flowers diligently, as they did during life, opened in the morning and closed in the evening. Dandelions woke up and fell asleep as if nothing had happened!

A month later, I went out into the clearing before a thunderstorm - the dandelions were closed. The yellow corollas clenched into green fists, but did not wither: they closed before the rain. Doomed, half-dead, they, as they should be, predicted the weather! And they predicted exactly as in their best blooming days!

When the storm died down and the sun flooded the clearing, the flowers opened! And this was what they were supposed to do - the flowers fulfilled their duty.

But already with the last of his strength. The dandelions were dying. They did not have enough strength to turn into fluffy balls to fly on parachutes across the clearings and sprout in the grass like bright suns.

But it's not their fault, they did what they could.

But we consider the dandelion to be the most ordinary flower and do not expect anything unexpected from it!

The unexpected is everywhere.

We cut down a birch tree in April, and in May it opened its leaves! The birch did not know that it had already been killed, and did what the birch was supposed to do.

A white water lily flower was thrown into a basin, and it carefully, as in the lake, folded its petals every evening and plunged under the water, and in the morning it emerged and opened. At least check your watch with it! The water lily and the plucked one “saw”, distinguished day from night. Is this why they called water lilies “the eyes of lakes”?

Maybe they see you and me too?

The forest looks at us with the colorful eyes of flowers. It's a shame to lose yourself in these eyes.

All for one

I walked along the seashore and habitually looked at my feet - what were the waves throwing ashore! I sat on a whale vertebra as if on a tree stump. I found a “fish tooth” - a walrus tusk. Collected handfuls of openwork skeletons sea ​​urchins. So he would have walked and walked, and brought me out of my deep contemplation... a slap on the head!

It turned out that I had wandered into a nesting area of ​​Arctic terns, birds smaller than a pigeon and very similar to seagulls. They look very weak and defenseless. But these “weak ones” - I knew for a long time - fly from the Arctic to Antarctica twice a year! Even for an airplane made of metal, such a flight is not easy. And how “defenseless” they are, I found out now... What started here after the slap on the head! A blizzard raged above me, thousands of white wings, penetrated by the sun, fluttered, whirlwinds of white birds rushed about. My ears were blocked by a thousand-voiced scream.

There were tern nests everywhere on the ground underfoot. And I stomped between them in confusion, afraid of being crushed, while the terns swarmed fiercely, chirped and squealed, preparing for a new attack. And they attacked! Slaps on the back of the head rained down like hail from a cloud - you couldn’t hide, you couldn’t dodge. Nimble, angry birds attacked from above and hit me in the back and head with their bodies, paws, and beaks. My hat flew off. I bent down, covering the back of my head with my hands - but where was it! The white beasts began to pinch my hands, but it hurt, with twisting, to the point of bruises. I got scared and ran. And the terns chased me with slaps, pokes, pecking and hooting until they drove me beyond the distant cape. I hid in the driftwood, and the bird blizzard raged in the sky for a long time.

Rubbing bumps and bruises, I am now - from afar! - admired them. What a picture! Bottomless sky and bottomless ocean. And between the sky and the ocean there is a swarm of snow-white brave birds. It’s a little annoying, though: after all, he’s a man, the king of nature, and suddenly some little birds make him jump like a hare. But then the fishermen told me that it’s the same way - like a hare! - Even the polar bear, the ruler of the Arctic, runs away from the terns. This is a different matter, now it’s not at all offensive! Both “kings” were hit in the neck. That’s what they, the kings, need - don’t interfere with their peaceful lives!

And they threw it away...

I have a collection of bird feathers. I collected them in different ways: I picked up dropped feathers in the forest - I found out which birds molt and when; he took two or three feathers from a bird torn by a predator - he learned who was attacking whom. Finally, we came across birds killed and abandoned by hunters: grebes, owls, pochards, loons. Here I didn’t learn anything new for myself - everyone knows that many hunters, some out of ignorance, some by mistake, and some just to test their guns, shoot at the first birds that come along.

At home, I laid out the feathers on the table, spreading paper, and slowly looked at them. And it was as interesting as rearranging and examining sea shells, beetles or butterflies. You also look and are amazed at the perfection of the form, the beauty of the colors, the sophistication of the combination of colors that in our everyday life are completely incompatible: red and green, for example, or blue and yellow.

And the overflows! If you turn the pen this way, it’s green; if you turn it this way, it’s already blue. And even purple and crimson! A skilled artist is nature.

When you look at it like that, sometimes even through a magnifying glass! - you involuntarily notice the smallest specks stuck to the feathers. Most often these are just grains of sand. As soon as the feathers were shaken over the paper, the sand fell off, forming a dusty speck on the paper. But some specks clung so tightly that they had to be removed with tweezers. What if these are some kind of seeds?

Many birds - blackbirds, bullfinches, waxwings - eating berries, unwittingly spread the seeds of rowan, viburnum, buckthorn, bird cherry, and juniper throughout the forest. They are planted here and there. Why not carry “scratchy” seeds on their feathers? How many different seeds stick to the paws of birds and animals! And we are all doing wild sowing without even realizing it.

I continued collecting, and soon I had about half a matchbox of various pieces of debris and debris. All that remains is to make sure that there are seeds there.

I made a box, filled it with soil and planted everything I collected. And he began to wait patiently: will it germinate or not?

It has sprouted!

Many specks sprouted, sprouts poked out and unfurled, and the earth turned green.

I identified almost all the plants. Except for one thing: it just didn’t give in to me, even though I leafed through all my reference books.

I plucked this seed from a cuckoo feather. In the spring, a hunter shot it; he wanted to make a stuffed animal, but he got busy with things and had no time for it, and he threw the cuckoo out of the refrigerator in the trash. She was lying next to the trash can, so out of place, so clean and fresh, that I couldn’t resist and tore out the cuckoo’s tail.

The cuckoo's tail is large and beautiful; when it crows, it moves it from side to side - as if it were conducting itself. It was this cuckoo’s “conductor’s baton” that I wanted to add to my collection, which already included “whistle” feathers from the wings of little bustards and goldeneye ducks, and a “singing” feather from the tail of a snipe. And now the cuckoo’s “conductor’s baton”.

When I looked at the colorful tail feathers, at the base of one, right at the stem, I noticed a prickly fruit of some weed, rolled into fluff. I barely tore it off with tweezers. And this seed sprouted, but I could not identify the sprout.

He showed it to the experts from the botanical garden, they looked at it for a long time and intently, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. And only then - not right away! - having delved into their scientific books, they recognized it as a weed from... South America!

We were very surprised - where did I get it from? They advised us to pull it out with the root so that it wouldn’t accidentally take root on our land: we have enough of our own weeds. They were even more surprised when they learned that the cuckoo had brought it from across the seas and mountains.

I was also surprised: I didn’t even know that our cuckoos hibernate even in South America. The weed seed became like a ring for ringing: a cuckoo brought it to its homeland thousands of kilometers away.

I imagined this cuckoo: how it spent the winter in the tropics, how it waited for spring to return to its homeland, how it hurried through storms and downpours to our northern forests- to keep us busy for many years...

And they took her and shot her.

And they threw it away...

Beaver lodge

The beaver built a hut on the shore out of twigs and logs. The cracks were caulked with earth and moss, coated with silt and clay. He left a hole in the floor - the door went straight into the water. In the water he has a supply for the winter - a cubic meter of aspen firewood.

The beaver does not dry firewood, but wets it: he uses it not for the stove, but for food. He is his own stove. It gnaws the bark from aspen branches - and warms up from the inside. That's how we get away from hot porridge. Yes, sometimes it gets so warm that steam curls up over the hut in the cold! It’s as if he’s drowning the house in a black way, with smoke coming through the roof.

So it winters in the hut from autumn to spring. He dives to the bottom of the floor for firewood, dries out in the hut, gnaws on twigs, sleeps to the sound of a snowstorm whistling over the roof or the clicking of frost.

And together with him, beaver brownies spend the winter in the hut. In the forest there is such a rule: where there is a house, there are brownies. Whether in a hollow, in a hole or in a hut. And the beaver has a big house - that’s why there are a lot of brownies. They sit in all the corners and crevices: it’s like a brownie hostel!

Bumblebees and hornets, beetles and butterflies sometimes hibernate. Mosquitoes, spiders and flies. Voles and mice. Toads, frogs, lizards. Even snakes! Not a beaver hut, but a living corner of young naturalists. Noah's Ark!

Winter is long. Day after day, night after night. Either frost or snowstorm. The hut and the roof were swept away. And under the roof the beaver sleeps, warming himself with aspen firewood. His brownies sleep soundly. Only the mice scratch in the corners. Yes, on a frosty day the park above the hut curls like smoke.

hare heart

At the first drop of powder, the hunter ran out into the forest with a gun. He found a fresh hare trail, untangled all its cunning loops and monograms and set off in pursuit. Here’s a “double”, here’s a “discount”, then the hare jumped off his trail and lay down not far away. Although the hare is cunning and confuses the trail, it is always the same. And if you have found the key to it, now quietly open it: it will be here somewhere.

No matter how ready the hunter was, the hare jumped out unexpectedly - like he took off! Bang-bang! - and by. The hare is on the run, the hunter is after him.

With a running start, the hare fell into an unfrozen swamp - he gasped up to his ears! Here is the crushed ice, here are the splashes of brown slurry, here are its dirty traces further down. I ran on the hard snow even more than before.

He rolled out into the clearing and... landed on the scythe holes. As the scythes began to take off from under the snow - there were snow fountains and explosions all around! The wings almost hit your ears and nose. He lashed out with his scythe and rolled over his head; the hunter can clearly see everything from the tracks. Yes, it’s so bad that the rear dads jump out in front of the front ones! Yes, I ran into a fox while accelerating.

But the fox didn’t even think that the hare would gallop to her; I hesitated, but still grabbed my side! It’s good that hares have thin and fragile skin; you can get away with a scrap of skin; two red droplets on the snow.

Come on, imagine yourself as this hare. Troubles - one worse than the other! If this had happened to me, I probably would have started to stutter.

And he fell into the swamp, and the feathered bombs exploded near his nose, the hunter fired his gun, and the predatory beast grabbed him in the side. Yes, in his place the bear would have contracted bear disease! Otherwise he would have died. At least he needs something...

I was scared, of course, for good reason. But hares are no stranger to being scared. Yes, if they die of fright every time, then soon the entire hare race will be wiped out. And he, the hare race, is thriving! Because their heart is strong and reliable, hardened and healthy. Bunny heart!

Hare round dance

There is also frost, but a special kind of frost, spring frost. The ear that is in the shade freezes, and the ear that is in the sun burns. During the day the snow melts and shines, and at night it becomes covered with crust. It's time for bunny songs and funny bunny round dances!

The tracks show how they gather in clearings and forest edges and circle around in loops and figures of eight, carouseling between bushes and hummocks. It’s as if the hares’ heads are spinning and they are making loops and pretzels in the snow. And they also play the horn: “Gu-gu-gu-gu!”

Where has cowardice gone: now they don’t care about foxes, eagle owls, wolves, or lynxes. We lived in fear all winter, we were afraid to make a sound. Enough is enough! Spring in the forest, the sun overcomes the frost. It's time for hare songs and hare round dances.

How the bear scared itself

A bear entered the forest and a dead tree crunched under its heavy paw. The squirrel on the tree shuddered and dropped a pine cone. A cone fell and hit the sleeping hare right on the forehead! The hare jumped out of his bed and galloped away without looking back.

He ran into a brood of grouse and scared everyone to death. The grouse scattered noisily - the magpie was alerted: it began to rattle throughout the forest. The moose heard it - a magpie was chirping, scared of someone. Is it not a wolf, or a hunter? They rushed forward. Yes, the cranes in the swamp were alarmed: they started blaring trumpets. The curlews whistled, and Ulit* screamed.

Now the bear's ears are pricked up! Something bad is happening in the forest: a squirrel is clucking, a magpie is chattering, moose are breaking bushes, wading birds are screaming. And someone seems to be stomping behind! Shouldn't I leave here as soon as possible before it's too late?

The bear barked, covered his ears - and how he would run!

If only he had known that there was a hare stomping behind him, the same one who had been hit on the forehead by a squirrel. He made a circle through the forest and alarmed everyone. And he scared the bear, which he himself had been scared of before!

So the bear scared itself, drove itself out of the dark forest. Only footprints remained in the dirt.

Ulit* is a bird from the order of shorebirds.

Forest bun

And the hedgehog would like to be fluffy - but they will eat it!

Good for the hare: his legs are long and fast. Or a squirrel: just a little - and it’s up a tree! But the hedgehog has short legs and blunt claws: you can’t escape from your enemy either on the ground or over twigs.

And even a hedgehog wants to live. And he, the hedgehog, has all his hope in his thorns: put them up and hope!

And the hedgehog shrinks, shrinks, bristles - and hopes. The fox will roll him with her paw and throw him away. The wolf will nudge you with his nose, prick his nose, snort and run away. The bear's lips will hang down, its mouth will be filled with heat, it will sniffle displeasedly and will also squint. And I want to eat it, but it stings!

And the hedgehog will lie down with reserve, then turn around a little for a test, stick its nose and eye out from under the thorns, look around, sniff - is there anyone? - and rolls off into the thicket. That's why he's alive. Would it be fluffy and soft?

Of course, happiness is not great - your whole life is covered in thorns from head to toe. But he can’t do it any other way. Like it or not, but you can't. They'll eat it!

Dangerous game

Bones, feathers, and stubs have accumulated near the fox hole. Of course, flies flocked to them. And where there are flies, there are fly-eating birds. The first to fly to the hole was a thin wagtail. She sat down, squeaked, and shook her long tail. And let's run back and forth, clicking our beaks. And the fox cubs are watching her from the hole, their eyes are rolling: right-left, right-left! They couldn’t resist and jumped out - they almost caught him!

But a little bit doesn’t even count for fox cubs. They hid in the hole again and hid. Now a wheatear has arrived: this one crouches and bows, crouches and bows. And she doesn’t take her eyes off the flies. The wheatear targeted the flies, and the fox cubs targeted the wheatear. Who's the catcher?

The fox cubs jumped out and the wheatear flew away. Out of frustration, the little foxes clung to each other in a ball and started a game with themselves. But suddenly a shadow covered them and blocked the sun! The eagle hovered over the fox cubs and opened its wide wings. He had already dangled his clawed paws, but the fox cubs managed to hide in the hole. Apparently, the eagle is still young, not experienced. Or maybe he was just playing too. But it’s simple, not simple, but these games are dangerous. Play, play, and watch! And flies, and birds, eagles and foxes. Otherwise you'll finish the game.

Frost - red nose

In cold weather, only you and I have a red nose. Or even blue. But birds' noses become colored when the warmth of spring arrives and the winter cold ends. In the spring, not only do birds' feathers become bright - but so do their noses! In finches the beak becomes blue, in sparrows it becomes almost black. In starlings it is yellow, in blackbirds it is orange, in grosbeaks it is blue. The gull and the garden bunting have a red color. How cold it is here!

Someone ate the entire top of the birch tree. There is a birch tree, and the top seems to be trimmed. Who's so toothy could climb to the top? The squirrel could have climbed up, but squirrels don’t gnaw at the twigs in winter. Hares eat, but hares do not climb birch trees. The birch stands like a question mark, like a riddle. What kind of giant reached the top of his head?

And this is not a giant, but still a hare! Only he didn’t reach out to the crown, but the crown itself leaned towards him. Even at the beginning of winter, heavy snow stuck to the birch tree and bent it into an arc. The birch tree bent over like a white barrier and buried its top in a snowdrift. And froze. Yes, it stood like that all winter.

It was then that the hare gnawed all the twigs on the top! There is no need to climb or jump: the twigs are right next to your nose. And by spring, the top melted from the snowdrift, the birch straightened up - and the eaten top was at an unattainable height! The birch tree stands straight, tall and mysterious.

Spring affairs and worries

I look to the left - the blue woodlands are blooming, the wolf's bast has turned pink, the coltsfoot has turned yellow. Spring primroses have opened and bloomed!

I turn around - the ants are warming themselves on the anthill, the furry bumblebee is buzzing, the first bees are hurrying to the first flowers. Everyone has spring things to do and worries!

I look at the forest again - and there is already fresh news! Buzzards circle over the forest, choosing the site of the future nest.

I turn to the fields - and there’s something new there: a kestrel is hovering over the arable land, looking out for voles from above.

In the swamp, sandpipers started their spring dances.

And in the sky the geese fly and fly: in chains, wedges, strings.

There is so much news around - you just have time to turn your head. A dizzying spring - it would be hard to break your neck!

Bear measuring height

Every spring, leaving the den, the bear approaches the long-loved Christmas tree and measures its height: has it grown over the winter while it was sleeping? Stands by the Christmas tree hind legs, and the front furrows the bark on the tree so that the shavings curl! And light furrows become visible - as if they were being dug with an iron rake. To be sure, it also bites the bark with its fangs. And then he rubs his back against the tree, leaving scraps of fur and the thick smell of the animal on it.

If no one scares the bear and he lives in the same forest for a long time, then from these marks you can actually see how he is growing. But the bear himself does not measure his height, but puts his bear mark, stakes out his area. So that other bears know that the place is occupied and that they have nothing to do here. If they don’t listen, they will deal with him. And you can see for yourself what it is like, you just have to look at its marks. You can try it on - whose mark will be higher?

Marked trees are like boundary posts. On each pillar there is also a short information: gender, age, height. Think about it, is it worth getting involved? Think well...

swamp herd

At Temnozorka, my assistant shepherd Misha and I were already in the swamp. Temnozorka - the moment when morning conquers night - in the village only the rooster guesses. It’s still dark, but the rooster will crane his neck, become alert, hear something in the night and crow.

And in the forest, the invisible bird announces the dark-eyed bird: it will wake up and fuss in the branches. Then the morning breeze will stir - and a rustle and whisper will roll through the forest.

And so, when the rooster crowed in the village and the first bird woke up in the forest, Misha whispered:

Now the shepherd will lead his flock to the swamp, to the blooming water.

Is he a shepherd from a neighboring village? - I ask quietly.

“No,” Misha grins. - I'm not talking about a village shepherd, I'm talking about a swamp shepherd.

And then a sharp and strong whistle was heard in the thick sedge! The shepherd whistled, putting two fingers in his mouth, invigorating the flock with his whistle. But where he whistles, the swamp is terrible, the ground is unsteady. There is no way for the herd...

Swamp shepherd... - Misha whispers.

“Ba-e-e-e! Ba-e-e-e!” - the lamb bleated pitifully in that direction. Have you gotten stuck in a sinkhole?

No,” Misha laughs, “this lamb won’t get stuck.” This is a swamp lamb.

The bull mumbled muffledly, apparently falling behind the herd.

Oh, he will disappear in the quagmire!

Nope, this one won’t go to waste,” reassures Misha the shepherd, “it’s a swamp bull.”

It was already visible: a gray fog was moving over the black bush. A shepherd whistles with about two fingers. The lamb bleats. The bull roars. But no one is visible. Swamp herd...

Be patient,” Misha whispers. - We'll see later.

The whistles are getting closer and closer. I look with all my eyes at where the dark silhouettes of kugi - swamp grass - are moving in the gray fog.

“You’re not looking in the right direction,” Misha pushes him in the side. - Look down at the water.

And I see: a small bird, like a starling, walking on the colorful water, on high legs. So she stopped at a hummock, rose up on her toes - and how it whistled, whistled! Well, that’s exactly how a shepherd whistles.

And this is the shepherd-cradle,” Misha grins. - In our village everyone calls him that.

This made me happy.

Apparently, the whole swamp herd is after this shepherd?

According to the shepherd, nods Misha.

We hear someone else splashing on the water. We see: a large, clumsy bird emerges from the kuga: red, with a wedge-shaped nose. She stopped and... roared like a bull! So this is a bittern - a swamp bull!

At this point I realized about the lamb - weevil snipe! The one that sings with its tail. It falls from a height, and the feathers in its tail rattle - like a lamb bleating. Hunters call it that - swamp lamb. I knew it myself, but Misha confused me and his herd.

If only you had a gun,” I laugh. - I could knock down a bull and a ram at once!

No, says Misha. - I'm a shepherd, not a hunter. What kind of shepherd would shoot at his flock? Even in this swampy way.

Sly too

I almost stepped on a snake in the swamp! Well, I managed to pull my leg back in time. However, the snake seems to be dead. Someone killed her and abandoned her. And for a long time already: it smells, and the flies are circling.

I step over the dead meat, go up to the puddle to rinse my hands, turn around, and the dead snake... runs away into the bushes! Resurrected and blowing away. Well, not legs, of course, what kind of legs does a snake have? But he crawls away quickly and hastily, and is tempted to say: as fast as he can!

In three leaps I caught up with the revived snake and lightly pressed the tail with my foot. The snake froze, curled itself into a ring, then trembled somehow strangely, arched, turned over with its spotted belly up and... died a second time!

Her head looked like a flower bud with two orange spots, it was thrown back, her lower jaw had fallen off, and her black flyer tongue was hanging out of her red mouth. Lies relaxed - deader than dead! I touch it and it doesn’t move. And again it smelled like dead meat and the flies were already starting to flock.

Don't believe your eyes! The snake pretended to be dead, the snake lost consciousness!

I watch her out of the corner of my eye. And I see how, and this is him, he is slowly beginning to “resurrect.” Now he closed his mouth, now he turned over on his belly, raised his big-eyed head, waved his tongue, tasting the wind. There seems to be no danger - you can run away.

To tell this, they may not believe it! Well, if the timid summer resident fainted when she met a snake. And that's a snake! The snake lost consciousness when meeting a man. Look, they will say, this is the man who makes even snakes faint when they meet him!

And yet I told. Do you know why? Because I’m not the only one who’s scary to snakes. And you are no better than me. And if you also scare the snake, it will shudder, roll over and “die.” It will lie dead and dead, and it will smell like carrion, and flies will flock to the smell. And if you step away, he will be resurrected! And he will rush into the thickets as fast as he can. Although legless...

Animal bath

And the animals go to the bathhouse. Wild pigs go to the bathhouse more often than others! Their bathhouse is simple: no steam, no soap, not even hot water. It's just a bathtub - a hole in the ground. The water in the hole is swampy. Instead of soap suds - slurry. Instead of a washcloth - tufts of grass and moss. It would be impossible to lure you into such a bath with Snickers. And the wild boars go on their own. That's how much they love the bathhouse!

But wild boars don’t go to the bathhouse for what we go to the bathhouse for. We go to wash, and the wild boars go to get dirty! We wash off dirt from ourselves with a washcloth, but wild boars deliberately smear dirt on themselves. They toss and turn in the slurry, splash around, and the dirtier they become, the more merrily they grunt. And after the bath they are a hundred times dirtier than before. And we’re glad: now no biters or bloodsuckers can get to the body through such a mud shell! Their stubble is sparse in the summer - so they smear it on. Like we are anti-mosquitoes. They'll roll out, get dirty - and won't itch!

Cuckoo's worries

The cuckoo does not build a nest, does not breed cuckoo chicks, and does not teach them wisdom. She has no worries. But it only seems so to us. In fact, the cuckoo has a lot of worries. And the first concern is to find a nest in which to throw your egg. And in which the cuckoo will be comfortable later.

The cuckoo sits secretly and listens to bird voices. In the birch grove an oriole whistled. Her nest is a sight to behold: a shaky cradle in a fork in the branches. The wind rocks the cradle and lulls the chicks to sleep. Just try to get close to these desperate birds, they will start attacking and screaming in nasty cat voices. It's better not to mess with people like that.

A kingfisher sits on dry land by the river, thoughtfully. It's like he's looking at his own reflection. And he himself looks out for the fish. And guards the nest. How can you give him an egg if his nest is in a deep hole, and you can’t squeeze into the hole? We need to look for something else.

In a dark spruce forest someone is grumbling in a scary voice. But the cuckoo knows that it is a harmless wood pigeon cooing. There he has a nest on the tree, and it’s easy to throw an egg into it. But the wood pigeon’s nest is so loose that it’s even translucent. And a small cuckoo egg can fall out through the gap. Yes, the pigeon itself will throw it out or trample it: it is very small, very different from its testicles. It's not worth the risk.

She flew along the river. On a stone in the middle of the water, a dipper - a water sparrow crouches and bows. It wasn’t the cuckoo that made him happy, but that’s his habit. Here, under the bank, is his nest: a dense ball of moss with an entrance hole on the side. It seems suitable, but somehow damp and moist. And immediately below it the water boils. A little cuckoo grows up, jumps out, and drowns. Even though the cuckoo doesn’t raise the cuckoos, it still takes care of them. She rushed on.

Further on, in the riverine area, a nightingale whistles. Yes, so loud and biting that even the nearby leaves tremble! I spotted his nest in the bushes, and was about to lay my own, when he saw that the testicles were cracked in it! The chicks are about to hatch. The nightingale will not incubate her egg. We need to fly further and look for another nest.

Where to fly? On an aspen tree, a pied flycatcher whistles: “Twist, turn, turn, turn!” But she has a nest in a deep hollow - how can you lay an egg in it? And then how will the big cuckoo get out of it, such a narrow one?

Maybe we should throw an egg to the bullfinches? The nest is suitable, the bullfinch eggs will be easy for the cuckoo to throw away.

Hey bullfinches, what do you feed the bullfinches?

Delicious porridge made from different seeds! Nutritious and vitamin.

Again, it’s not the same, the cuckoo is upset, the cuckoo needs meat dishes: spider beetles, caterpillar larvae. He will wither away from your filthy porridge, get sick and die!

The sun is noon, but the egg is still not attached. I wanted to throw it at the black-headed warbler, but I remembered in time that that one’s testicles were brown, and hers were blue. The sharp-eyed warbler will immediately see it and throw it away. The cuckoo screamed in a voice that was not its own: “Kli-kli-kli-kli! I've been rushing around all day, I've flapped all my wings - I can't find a nest for the cuckoo! And everyone points a finger: she’s carefree, heartless, doesn’t care about her children. And I..."

Suddenly he hears a very familiar whistle, I remember it from childhood: “Tock, tick, tick!” Why, that’s what her adoptive mother screamed! And she waved her red tail. Coot Redstart! So I’ll throw my egg to her: since I myself survived and grew up in this, then nothing will happen to my foundling. And she won’t notice anything: her testicles are the same blue as mine. So I did. And she laughed cheerfully, as only female cuckoos can do: “Hee-hee-hee!” Finally!

She demolished hers and swallowed her owner’s: so that the score would be equal. But her worries didn’t end there - she still had to throw a dozen more! Roam around the forest again, look for fistulas again. And who will sympathize? They will still call you carefree and heartless.

And they will do the right thing!

Nightingale songs feed

A nightingale sang in the bird cherry tree: loudly, bitingly. The tongue in the gaping beak beat like a bell. He sings and sings - whenever he has time. After all, you won’t be satisfied with songs alone.

He hung his wings, threw back his head and made such ringing trills that steam flew out of his beak!

And mosquitoes flock to the park, to the living warmth. They hover over the gaping beak and ask to be taken into the mouth. And the nightingale clicks her songs and... mosquitoes! Combines the pleasant and the useful. Does two things at once. They also say that songs do not feed the nightingale.

Hawk

The sparrowhawk lives in a forest where there are no quails in sight. And there he grabs everyone who comes under his paw: blackbirds, finches, tits, pipits. And how there is enough: from the ground, from a bush, from a tree - and even in the air! And the small birds are afraid of him almost to the point of fainting.

Just now the ravine was thundering with bird songs, but a sparrowhawk flew by, the birds screamed in fear at once - and it was as if the ravine had died out! And fear will hang over him for a long, long time. Until the bravest finch comes to his senses and gives a voice. Then everyone else will be revived.

By autumn, sparrowhawks fly out of the forest and circle over villages and fields. Now soaring, now flickering with their pockmarked wings, they now don’t even think about hiding. And they, so noticeable now, are not really afraid. They won't be taken by surprise now. And swifts, wagtails and swallows even chase them, trying to pinch them. And the sparrowhawk either runs away from them or pounces on them. And this no longer looks like hunting, but like a game: a game from youth, from excess strength! But beware if he rushes from ambush!

Sparrowhawk sat in the depths of a spreading willow and patiently waited for the sparrows to come to the sunflowers. And as soon as they clung to the sun “baskets”, he rushed at them, spreading his claws. But the sparrows turned out to be shot, experienced, they rushed from the hawk straight into the fence and pierced it, like fish through a holey net. And the hawk almost got killed on this fence!

He glanced around with piercing eyes, sat down on the fence above the hidden sparrows: I didn’t take you from the flight - I’ll starve you out!

There's already someone who's winning here! A sparrowhawk is above on a stake, the sparrows below are rustling with their mice under the fence, almost burying themselves in the ground out of fear. A hawk jumped down to them - the sparrows slipped through the cracks to the other side. But the hawk can't get through. Then the hawk through the fence - the sparrows are back in the cracks! And the eye sees, but the beak is numb.

But one young sparrow could not stand it and rushed away from the terrible place. The sparrowhawk was immediately behind him and had already stretched out his paw to grab his tail in flight, and the sparrow headed into the same thick willow in which the sparrowhawk had previously been hiding. As if he dived into the water, he cut through it like a fence with holes in it. He turned out to be not so stupid. And the hawk got stuck, fluttering in the branches, as if in a thick net.

The cunning sparrows deceived the hawk and flew away with nothing. He went into the fields to catch quails. Since it's a sparrowhawk.

Pay

The owl robbers at night when nothing is visible. And maybe she even thinks that no one will recognize her, the robber. But still, just in case, he hides for a day in the thick of the branches. And he dozes without moving.

But it’s not every day that she manages to sit it out. Either the sneaky kinglets will see it, or the big-eyed tits will notice it and immediately raise a cry. And if you translate it from bird language into human language, you get swearing and insults. Everyone who hears the cry, everyone who was harmed by the owl, flocks to the cry. They flutter around, flutter around, and try to pinch. The owl just turns its head and clicks its beak. The small birds are scary to her not because of their pinching, but because of their screaming. Jays, magpies, and crows can fly to their bustle. And these can give a real beating - pay for her night raids.

The owl couldn’t stand it, broke loose and flew, silently maneuvering between the branches. And all the small fry are behind her! Okay, I've got yours now - let's see what happens at night...

Walking through a fairy tale

What could be simpler: a snail, a spider, a flower. Step over without looking - and further.

But only after all you will step over a miracle!

At least the same snail. It wanders along the ground and, as it goes, makes a path for itself - silvery, mica. Wherever she goes, good riddance to her! And the house on your back is like a tourist’s backpack. Come on, imagine: you’re walking and carrying a house! Wow! I was tired, put the house next to it, climbed into it and slept without worries. And it doesn’t matter that there are no windows and no doors.

Stop by the spider too: this is not a simple spider, but an invisible spider. Touch him with a blade of grass, he will begin to sway in fear, faster and faster - until he turns into a slightly shining haze - as if he has dissolved in the air. He’s here, but you can’t see him! And you thought that invisible people only exist in fairy tales.

Or this flower. Nature, blind and unreasonable - illiterate! - blinded him from a lump of earth, a dewdrop and a drop of sun. Can you, literate person, do this? And here it is, not made by hands, in front of you - in all its glory. Look and remember.

Being in the forest is like flipping through a fairy tale. They are everywhere: above your head, on the sides, under your feet.

Don't overstep - stay!