Author of sweet stories about animals. Nikolay Sweet Forest Tales

N.I. Sladkov (1920 - 1996) was not a writer by profession. He was engaged in topography, that is, he created maps and plans of various localities. And if so, I spent a lot of time in nature. Knowing how to observe, N. Sladkov comes to the conclusion that everything interesting should be written down. This is how a writer appeared who created stories and fairy tales that were interesting for both children and adults.

The life of a traveler and writer

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was born in the capital, and lived in Leningrad all his life. He became interested in natural life early. AT primary school already kept a diary. In it, the boy wrote down the most interesting observations. He became a junior. V.V. Bianchi, a remarkable naturalist, became his teacher and later his friend. When N. Sladkov became older, he became interested in hunting. But he quickly realized that he could not kill animals and birds. Then he picked up a camera and wandered through the fields and forests, looking for interesting shots. The profession helped Nikolai Ivanovich to see our vast world. When he discovered the Caucasus and the Tien Shan, he fell in love with them forever. The mountains attracted him, despite the dangers that lay in wait for him. In the Caucasus, he was looking for a snow leopard.

This rare animal lives in hard-to-reach places. N. Sladkov climbed a small flat area of ​​the mountain and accidentally brought down a stone block on it. He ended up in a tiny closed area where there was only a nest of golden eagles. For more than a week he lived there, thinking how to get out of there, and eating the food that adult birds brought to their chicks. Then, from the branches of the nest, he wove something like a rope and climbed down. Nikolai Ivanovich visited both the cold White Sea and ancient india, and in hot Africa, he was engaged, as they say now, in diving, admiring underwater world. From everywhere he brought notebooks and photographs. They meant a lot to him. Rereading them, he again plunged into the world of wanderings, when age no longer allowed him to go far. "Silver Tail" - that was the name of the first book, which was compiled by Sladkov's stories. It came out in 1953. After that, there will be many more books about which the story will go below.

The history of the fox with the silver tail

Suddenly winter came to the mountains at night. She descended from the heights, and the heart of the hunter and naturalist trembled. He did not sit at home and went on his way. All the trails were covered with snow so that you could not recognize familiar places. And suddenly - a miracle: a white butterfly flutters over the snow. I noticed an attentive look and light traces of affection. She, falling through, walked under the snow, occasionally sticking out her chocolate nose. Made a great move. And here is a frog, brown, but alive, sitting in the snow, basking in the sun. And suddenly, in the sun through the snow, where it is impossible to look from the bright light, someone runs. The hunter took a closer look, but this is a mountain fox.

Only her tail is completely unprecedented - silver. Runs far away, and the shot was made at random. Past! And the fox leaves, only the tail sparkles in the sun. So she went around the bend of the river, while the gun was reloading, and carried away her incredible silver tail. These are the stories Sladkov began printing. It seems simple, but full of observations of all living things that live in the mountains, forests, fields.

About mushrooms

Anyone who did not grow up in mushroom lands does not know mushrooms, and if he goes into the forest alone, without an experienced person, he can pick up grebes instead of good mushrooms. The story for an inexperienced mushroom picker is called "Fedot, but not the one!". It lists all the differences. white fungus from gall or And what distinguishes the bearer of certain death from delicious champignon. Sladkov's stories about mushrooms are both useful and amusing. Here is the story of the forest strongmen. After the rain competed boletus, boletus and mossiness. The boletus raised a birch leaf and a snail on its hat. The boletus pulled himself up and picked up 3 aspen leaves and a frog. And the flywheel crawled out from under the moss and decided to pick up a whole knot. He just didn't get anything. The hat fell apart. And who became the champion? Of course, the boletus - he and a bright hat of the champion!

Who eats what

The naturalist asked a riddle of a forest animal. Offered to guess who he is if he tells what he eats. And it turned out that he loves beetles, ants, wasps, bumblebees, mice, lizards, chicks, tree buds, nuts, berries, mushrooms. The naturalist did not guess who was asking him such tricky riddles.

Turned out to be white. These are the unusual stories of Sladkov that the reader solves with him.

A little about forest life

The forest is beautiful at any time of the year. And in winter, and in spring, and in summer, and in autumn, it goes quiet and secret life. But it is open to scrutiny. But not everyone knows how to look at it. Sladkov teaches this. Stories about the life of the forest during each month of the year make it possible to find out why, for example, a bear turns over in its lair. Every forest animal, every bird knows that if the bear turns on the other side, then winter will turn into summer. Severe frosts will leave, the day will lengthen, and the sun will begin to warm. And the bear is fast asleep. And all the forest animals went to wake up the bear, ask him to roll over. Only the bear refuses to everyone. He warmed up on his side, he sleeps sweetly, and he is not going to roll over, even though everyone asks. And what did N. Sladkov see? The stories say that a tiny mouse leaned out from under the snow and squeaked that it would quickly turn the couch potato. She ran over his furry skin, tickled him, bit him lightly with her sharp teeth. The bear could not stand it and turned over, and after him the sun turned to warmth and summer.

Summer in the gorge

In the sun and in the shade there is stuffiness. Even lizards are looking for a tight corner where they can hide from the scorching sun. There is silence. Suddenly, around the corner, a sonorous squeak is heard by Nikolai Sladkov. The stories, if you read them in a breakdown, brought us back to the mountains again. The naturalist defeated the hunter in man, who looked closely at the mountain goat. The goat will wait. And why is the nuthatch bird crying so desperately? It turned out that on a completely sheer rock, where there was nothing to catch on, a thick viper, in the hand of a man, was crawling to the nest. She leans on her tail, and with her head gropes for an invisible ledge, clings to it and, shimmering like mercury, rises higher and higher. In the nest, the chicks are alarmed and squeak plaintively.

The snake is about to get to them. She has already raised her head and aims. But a small brave nuthatch pecked the villainess in the head. He shook her paws and hit her with the whole body. And the snake did not stay on the rock. It only took her a weak blow to fall to the bottom of the gorge. And the goat, for which the man was hunting, rode away a long time ago. But it is not important. The main thing is what the naturalist saw.

In the woods

How much knowledge is needed to understand the behavior of bears! Sladkov possesses them. Stories about animals are proof of this. Who would have known, bears are very strict with their babies. And cubs are curious and naughty. While mom is dozing, they will take it and wander into the thicket. It's interesting there. The bear cub already knows that delicious insects are hiding under the stone. It just needs to be turned over. And the teddy bear turned the stone over, and the stone crushed his paw - it hurt, and the insects fled. The bear sees a mushroom and wants to eat it, but by the smell he understands that it is impossible, poisonous. The kid got angry at him and hit him with his paw. The mushroom burst, and yellow dust flew into the bear's nose, the bear cub sneezed. He sighed, looked around and saw a frog. He was delighted: here it is - a delicacy. I caught it and started throwing it up and catching it. Played and lost.

And then my mother is watching from behind a bush. What a pleasure to meet your mother! She will caress him now and catch him a tasty frog. And how mother will give him such a slap in the face that the baby rolled. He got angry at his mother to the point of impossibility and barked menacingly at her. And again rolled from a slap in the face. The bear got up and ran through the bushes, and his mother followed him. Only blows were heard. “This is how caution is taught,” thought the naturalist, who sat quietly by the stream and watched the relationship in the bear family. Sladkov's stories about nature teach the reader to carefully look at everything that surrounds him. Do not miss the flight of a bird, or the whirling of a butterfly, or the play of fish in the water.

The bug that can sing

Yes, yes, some people can sing. Be surprised if you didn't know about it. It is called a rower and swims on its stomach, and not like other bedbugs - on its back. And he can sing even underwater! It chirps almost like a grasshopper when it rubs its nose with its paws. This is where the gentle mellow comes in.

Why tails are needed

Not for beauty at all. It can be a steering wheel - for fish, an oar - for cancer, for a woodpecker - a support, for a fox - a snag. Why does a newt need a tail? But for everything that has already been said, and in addition, he absorbs air from the water with his tail. Therefore, it can sit under it without rising to the surface for almost four days. Sladkov Nikolai Ivanovich knows a lot. His stories never cease to amaze.

Boar bath

Everyone loves to bathe, but the wood pig does it in a special way. He will find a dirty puddle in the summer, in which a thick slurry lies at the bottom, and lie down. And let's ride in it and smear this mud. Until the boar collects all the dirt on itself, it will never come out of the puddle. And when he came out, he was handsome, handsome - all sticky, black-brown from dirt. In the sun and the breeze, it will crust on it, and then he is not afraid of either midges or horseflies. It is he who is saved from them by such an original bathhouse. His coat is sparse in summer, and harmful bloodsuckers bite through his skin. And no one will bite him through the mud crust.

Why wrote Nikolai Sladkov

Most of all, he wanted to protect her from us, people mindlessly picking flowers that would wither on the way home.

Instead, nettles will grow later. Every frog and butterfly feel pain, and it is impossible to catch and offend them. All living things, be it a fungus, a flower, a bird, can and should be watched with love. And you should be afraid to spoil something. Destroy an anthill, for example. It is better to take a closer look at his life and see with your own eyes how cunningly it is arranged. Our Earth is very small, and all of it must be protected. And it seems to the writer that the main task of nature is to make our life more interesting and happier.

Nikolai Sladkov's stories about the life of animals in the forest. Stories about a she-bear with cubs, about a fox, about a hare. Informative stories for reading in elementary school

Nikolay Sladkov. Bear Hill

To see the beast unafraid, doing his household chores, is a rare success.

I had to.

I was looking for mountain turkeys in the mountains - snowcocks. Until noon crawled in vain. Snowcocks are the most sensitive birds of the mountains. And you have to climb after them along the steep slopes near the glaciers.

Tired. Sat down to rest.

The silence is ringing in my ears. Flies are buzzing in the heat. Around mountains, mountains and mountains. Their peaks, like islands, rose from the sea of ​​clouds.

In some places, the cloudy veil moved away from the slopes, and a ray of sunshine into the gap; underwater shadows and glare swayed through the cloudy forests. A bird will fall into the sunbeam - it will sparkle like a goldfish.

I got pissed off. And fell asleep. Slept for a long time. I woke up - the sun was already evening, with a golden rim. Narrow black shadows stretched down from the rocks.

It became even quieter in the mountains.

Suddenly I hear: nearby, behind the hillock, like a bull in an undertone: “Moo! Moooo!" And claws on the stones - shark, shark! That's the bull! With claws...

I look out carefully: on the ledge of the slope there is a bear and two bear cubs.

The bear just woke up. She threw her head up, yawns. He yawns and scratches his belly with his paw. And the belly is thick, furry.

The cubs are also awake. Funny, big-mouthed, big-headed. With sleepy eyes, loop-loop, shifting from paw to paw, shaking their plush heads. They blinked their eyes, shook their heads, and started to fight. Lazily waking up they fight. Reluctantly. Then they got angry and grappled seriously.

They grunt. Resist. Grumble.

And the she-bear with all five of her fingers is on the belly, then on the sides: fleas bite! ..

I licked my finger, raised it - the wind pulls on me. He intercepted the gun more polovchee. Look.

From the ledge, on which the bears were, to another ledge, lower, there was still dense, unmelted snow.

The bear cubs pushed to the edge - and suddenly they rolled down through the snow to the lower ledge.

The bear stopped scratching her belly, leaned over the edge, looks.

Then she called quietly: “rrrmuuu!”

The cubs climbed up. Yes, on half a hill they could not resist and grabbed to fight again. Grabbed - and again rolled down.

They liked it. One will get out, lie down on the belly, pull himself up to the edge - once! - and below. Behind him is the second. On the side, on the back, over the head.

They squeal: both sweet and scary.

I forgot about the gun. Who would even think of shooting at these non-rumors that they wipe their pants on a hill!

The bear cubs got the hang of it: they grab and roll down together. And the bear was napping again.

I looked at the bear game for a long time. Then he climbed out from behind the stone.

The bear cubs saw me - they quieted down, staring with all their eyes.

And then the bear noticed me. She jumped up, snorted, reared up.

I'm for the gun. We look eye to eye.

Her lip drooped, and two fangs stick out. Fangs are wet and green from the grass.

I threw the gun to my shoulder.

The she-bear grabbed her head with both paws, barked - yes down the hill, yes over her head!

Bear cubs behind her - a whirlwind of snow! I wave my gun after, I shout:

“Ah, you old bungler, you will sleep!”

The she-bear jumps along the slope so that her hind legs are behind her ears. The cubs are running behind, shaking their fat tails, looking around. And the withers are humpbacked - like those of mischievous boys, whom their mothers wrap in scarves in winter: the ends under the armpits, and a humpbacked knot on the back.

The bears ran away.

"Oh, - I think - was not!"

I sat down on the snow and - time! - down the rolled bear hill. I looked around - did anyone see it? - and the cheerful one went to the tent.

Nikolay Sladkov. invited guest

I saw the Magpie Hare - gasped:

- Didn't you visit the Fox in the teeth, oblique? Wet, tattered, intimidated!

- If only Lisa had! the Hare whimpered. - And then he was a guest, but he was not an ordinary guest, but an invited one ...

Magpie went like this:

- Tell me quickly, my dear! I love the fear of squabbles! They invited you to visit, but they themselves ...

“They invited me to a birthday party,” said the Hare. - Now in the forest, you yourself know that every day is a birthday. I am a quiet man, everyone invites me. Just the other day, the neighbor Zaichikha called. I jumped up to her. I didn’t eat on purpose, I hoped for a treat.

And instead of treats, she puts her under her nose under my nose: she boasts.

Eka unseen - hares! But I’m a meek man, I say politely: “Look what big-eared koloboks!” What started here! “Are you,” he screams, “stupid? Do you call my slender and graceful bunnies koloboks? So invite such churoans to visit - you won’t hear a clever word!”

As soon as I got away from the Hare, the Badger is calling. I come running - everyone is lying at the hole with their stomachs up, warming themselves. What are your pigs: mattresses mattresses! The badger asks: “Well, how are my kids, do they like it?” I opened my mouth to tell the truth, but I remembered the Hare and muttered. "Slender, - I say, - how graceful they are with you!" - “What, what? Badger bristled. “You yourself, Koschey, are slender and graceful!” And your father and mother are slender, and your grandmother and grandfather are graceful! Your whole filthy hare race is bony! He is invited to visit, and he scoffs! Yes, for this I will not treat you, I will eat you yourself! Don't listen to him, my pretty boys, my blind-sighted mattresses..."

Barely took his legs away from the Badger. I hear - Squirrel from the Christmas tree shouts: “Have you seen my beloved darlings?”

“Then somehow! - I answer. “I, Belka, already see something double in my eyes ...”

And Squirrel does not lag behind: “Maybe you, Hare, don’t want to look at them? So say it!”

“What are you,” I reassure, “Squirrel! And I would be glad, but from below I can’t see them in the nest-gain! And you can’t climb on the tree to them. ”

“So what are you, unfaithful Thomas, do not believe my word? Squirrel fluffed out her tail. “Well, tell me, what are my squirrels?”

“All sorts,” I answer, “such and such!”

The squirrel is more angry than ever:

“You oblique, not Julia! You tell everything in truth, otherwise I’ll start tearing my ears!”

“Smart they are with you and reasonable!”

"I know".

“The most beautiful in the forest, beautiful!”

"Everyone knows".

"Obediant-disobedient!"

"Oh well?!" - Belka does not let up.

"The most-any, such-and-such..."

“So-so-so-so? .. Well, hold on, oblique!”

Yes, how it will rush! Get wet here. Spirit, Magpie, I still can't translate. A little alive from hunger. And offended and beaten.

- Poor, poor you, Hare! Soroka regretted. - What freaks did you have to look at: hares, badgers, squirrels - pah! You should come to visit me right away - if only you could admire my shirts-darlings! Maybe turn around on the way? It's very close here.

The Hare shuddered from words such as the strekacha will give!

Later, moose, roe deer, otters, foxes called him to visit, but the Hare didn’t go to them!

Nikolay Sladkov. Why does the fox have a long tail

Out of curiosity! Not from the same, in fact, that she seems to cover her tracks with her tail. The long fox tail becomes out of curiosity.

It all starts from the moment when they cut through

fox eyes. Their tails are still quite small and short at this time. But then the eyes erupted - and the tails immediately begin to stretch! Getting longer and longer. And how can they not grow longer if the cubs are reaching out with all their might to a bright spot - to the exit from the hole. Still: something unseen is moving there, something unheard of is making noise and it smells of the unknown!

It's just scary. It's scary to suddenly break away from the inhabited hole. And therefore, the cubs protrude from it only to the length of their short tail. As if they stick with the tip of the tail to the birth threshold. A little bit - chur-chura - I'm at home!

And the white light beckons. The flowers nod: smell us! The stones are shining: touch us! Beetles creak: catch us!

Nikolay Sladkov. Topic and Katya

The wild shirt was named Katya, and the domestic rabbit was named Topik. Planted home Topeka and wild Katya together.

Katya immediately pecked Topeka in the eye, and he hit her with his paw. But soon they became friends and lived soul to soul: the soul of a bird and the soul of an animal. Two orphans began to learn from each other.

The topic cuts the blades of grass, and Katya, looking at him, begins to pluck the blades of grass. He rests with his legs, shakes his head - pulls with all his chick strength. The topic is digging a hole - Katya is spinning nearby, poking her nose into the ground, helping to dig.

But when Katya climbs onto the bed with a thick wet lettuce and starts swimming, fluttering and jumping in it, Topik hobbles to her for training. But he is a lazy student: he does not like dampness, he does not like to swim, and therefore he simply begins to nibble on the salad.

Katya taught Topeka to steal strawberries from the beds. Looking at her, he began to eat ripe berries. But then we took a broom and drove them both away.

Katya and Topik were very fond of playing catch-up. To begin with, Katya climbed onto Topeka's back and began to peck at the top of her head and pinch her ears. When Topeka's patience failed, he jumped up and tried to get away. With all her two legs, with a desperate cry, helping with her short wings, Katya set off in pursuit.

The running and the fuss began.

Once, chasing Topik, Katya suddenly took off. So Topik taught Katya to fly. And then he himself learned from her such jumps that no dogs became afraid of him.

This is how Katya and Top lived. They played during the day and slept in the garden at night. The topic is in dill, and Katya is in the garden with onions. And they smelled so much of dill and onions that even the dogs, looking at them, sneezed.

Nikolay Sladkov. naughty kids

The Bear sat in the clearing, crumbling the stump. The Hare jumped up and said:

— Riots, Bear, in the forest. The little ones don't listen to the old. Completely off the paws!

— How so? the Bear barked.

— Yes indeed! - Replies the Hare. - They rebel, they snarl. Everything is in their own way. They scatter in all directions.

"Maybe they've grown up?"

- Where there: bare-bellied, short-tailed, yellow-mouthed!

Maybe let them run?

- Forest mothers are offended. Zaichikha had seven - not a single one was left. He shouts: “Where are you, lop-eared, stomped - now the Fox will hear you!” And they answered: “And we ourselves have ears!”

"Y-yes," Bear muttered. - Well, Hare, let's go and see what's what.

The Bear and the Hare went through the forests, fields and swamps. Just entered the dense forest - they hear:

- I left my grandmother, I left my grandfather ...

- What kind of bun showed up? the Bear barked.

- And I'm not a bun at all! I am a solid, adult Squirrel.

“Then why do you have a curly tail?” Tell me, how old are you?

- Don't be angry, Uncle Bear. I don't have one more year. And with six months it will not be typed. Yes, only you, bears, live for sixty years, and we, squirrels, at most ten. And it turns out that I, half a year old, at your bearish expense - exactly three years! Remember, Bear, yourself at three years old. Probably, too, from the Bear, the strekacha asked?

- What's true is true! grumbled the Bear. - Another year, I remember, I went to nurses-nannies, and then ran away-a-al. Yes, to celebrate, I remember, the hive turned. Oh, and the bees rode on me then - now my sides itch!

- Of course, I'm smarter than everyone. I dig a house between the roots!

What is that piggy in the forest? roared the Bear. - Give me this movie hero!

- I, dear Bear, am not a piglet, I am almost an adult, independent Chipmunk. Don't be rude - I can bite!

- Answer, Chipmunk, why did you run away from your mother?

“That’s why I ran away, because it’s time!” Autumn is on the nose, it's time to think about the hole, about stocks for the winter. Here, you and the Hare dig a hole for me, fill the pantry with nuts, then my mother and I are ready to sit in an embrace until the very snow. You, Bear, have no worries in winter: you sleep and suck your paw!

“Even though I don’t suck my paw, it’s true!” I have few worries in winter, - muttered the Bear. - Let's go, Hare, further.

The Bear and the Hare came to the swamp, they hear:

- Though small, but daring, he swam across the channel. Settled with an aunt in a swamp.

Do you hear how he boasts? whispered the Hare. - He ran away from home and even sings songs!

The Bear growled:

- Why did you run away from home, why don't you live with your mother?

- Do not growl, Bear, first find out what's what! I am my mother's first-born: I cannot live with her.

- How is it impossible? - Bear does not let up. - First-born mothers are always the first favorites, they are the most shaking over them!

- Shake, but not all! - answers the Rat. - My mother, the old Water Rat, brought rats three times during the summer. There are two dozen of us already. If everyone lives together, then there will not be enough space or food. Like it or not, settle down. That's it, Bear!

The Bear scratched his cheek, looked at the Hare angrily:

- You tore me, Hare, from a serious matter! Aroused in an empty way. Everything in the forest goes on as it should: the old grow old, the young grow. Autumn, slanting, not far off, it's time for maturation and resettlement. And therefore be!

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov (1920-1996) - writer, author of over 60 books about nature. Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was born on January 5, 1920 in Moscow, but he lived all his life in Leningrad, in Tsarskoye Selo. Here, not far from his house, there were many old forest parks, where the future writer discovered the whole world, unusually rich in the mysteries of nature. From the second grade he began to keep a diary, where he entered his first impressions and observations. In his youth, he was fond of hunting, but later abandoned this activity, considering sport hunting barbaric. Instead, he began to engage in photo hunting, put forward the call "Do not take a gun into the forest, take a photo gun into the forest." During the war, he volunteered for the front, became a military topographer. In peacetime, he retained the same specialty.

The first stories were written by Sladkov in 1952, and in 1953 the first book, Silver Tail, was published. Together with Vitaly Bianchi, his friend and like-minded person, Nikolai Sladkov prepared radio programs "News from the Forest" for many years and answered numerous letters from his listeners. In total, during his life full of adventures, Nikolai Ivanovich wrote more than 60 books. Among the most famous are such publications as "The Out of the Eye", "Behind the Bluebird's Feather", "Invisible Aspen", "Underwater Newspaper", "Earth Above the Clouds", "Wild Wings Whistling" and many other wonderful books.. .

Nikolai Sladkov, a Muscovite by birth, has lived all his life in Leningrad. But he did not lead a settled way of life, but a business trip. His passion was photography. And the profession of a topographer, which he received even before the Great Patriotic War, allowed him to travel a lot.

Sladkov's routes ran through hot deserts Central Asia, along glaciers, stormy waters of the oceans, one had to climb into the sky-high heights of the mountains - in a word, to be a pioneer, sensitive to everything new, unknown.

Nature is not only wealth. Not only "sun, air and water". Not only "white, black and soft gold". Nature feeds us, waters and clothes, but it still pleases and surprises us. Each of us admires the beauty of nature native land. A Muscovite will tell you about the golden September forests, a Petersburger - about the June white nights, and a resident of Yakutsk - about the gray January frosts! But the Altaian will tell you about the May colors. Nikolay Sladkov visited Altai too! He noticed how different the spring month of May alone can be in these parts.

And how many more miracles lurk in other places!.. For example, in the forest and the field, ordinary watches are not needed at all, birds help out here, who live according to their own time and rarely make mistakes. Together with the writer, you can easily notice the most beautiful things. Even a forest clearing will seem like an open book: go and look around. It is a thousand times more interesting to go than on a normal road!

As soon as you turn, you will immediately feel the cobweb threads, similar to trapping nets and twisted sieves. And when only the spiders had time? The sun rose and illuminated the dewy cobweb with beads. So necklaces, beads and pendants shone. So that's what it is, a web, in fact!

While you are admiring the beads of dew on the cobwebs, you are collecting honey agarics in a box, you suddenly realize that you have lost your way. Only repeated "ow!" can save you from meaningless wanderings, only a reciprocal echo will lead you to a familiar forest path.

When you go, 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 an ordinary person has not seen, learn amazingly Interesting Facts. Sometimes you succumb to the delight of the narrator and smile at some particularly accurate comparison or conclusion.

I would like to visit those places that the writer tells so wonderfully. You flip through one miniature after another, like fairy tales of childhood. Everything seems familiar, and close, and native: a cowardly hare, a lone cuckoo, a sweet-voiced nightingale and a singing oriole. The fairy tale stories of Nikolai Sladkov are everywhere: above the head, on the sides, under the feet. Just take a look!

Nikolai Sladkov

blue may

Wherever you look - everywhere blue and blue! And cloudless blue skies. And on the slopes of the green mountains, as if someone had scattered blue curtains* of sleep-grass. The hairy flowers look like large yellow-bellied bumblebees with blue petaled wings. It seems that just touch - and the blue swarm will buzz! And on the gravelly bare slopes, it was as if a blue-blue veil had been spread to cover the bare ground. The blue veil is woven from myriads of borage flowers. In Altai, they are called borage for their cucumber smell. The flowers arched their neck-stalks 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 Mary's root. And before they bloom, among the openwork and spreading leaves, their green fist-buds are poured.

Like a precious stone, clenched in a fist, his thin hand of a stalk raised from the earth to the sun. And today the green palms unfolded unanimously. 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 fire to all the slopes of the mountains with a red flame. Red May has arrived!

White May

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

On a fine day, when the heated air is saturated 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 white clusters. Loaded with pollen and drunk with nectar, they screw into the air and scatter.

Petals fall from the white cherry trees. They fall on the broad leaves of hellebore*, whiten grass and earth.

One morning, at the end of May, I looked out of the window and gasped: the trees had turned white, the road was white, the snow was flickering in the air! Has winter returned? I went out into the street - I understood everything. White airy "snowflakes" of poplar fluff flew from the whitened poplars. A white blizzard is spinning in the wind! I was no less surprised, passing by a scattering of dandelions. Yesterday, flowers were sitting on their stems like yellow canaries, and today white fluffy “chickens” are fluffy in their place.

White underfoot, on the sides, overhead... White May!

Hellebore * - perennial meadow grass with a thick rhizome and panicles of flowers.

Silver May

The Altai feather grass steppe stretches to the horizon. Silky feather grasses play under the sun, and in May the steppe is like a silvery cloud that has descended to the ground. The steppe sparkles, as if winking with the sun. The breeze blew, swayed, she swam, splashing sunlight. Silvery waves of feather grass flow. One by one, the larks take off and ring like silver bells. So it seems that every lark praises silvery May.

Motley May

Spring comes to the tops of the Altai Mountains at the end of May. Every day the snow recedes higher and higher into the mountains - they become dark white - motley. You look - your eyes run up: dark - white, white - dark! Like a chessboard! And here, at the foot, hazel grouses bloomed together. Their motley heads have risen on thin stalks, peeking out of the grass everywhere. Their bells are brownish, as if the petals have darkened from sunburn. On the petals are light cells and specks. You look at the flowers - and it also ripples in your eyes, just like from a chessboard. It is not for nothing that these fragile flowers of botany are called “chess grouses”. Variegated mountains and variegated flowers of the variegated Altai May!

And what a time it is in Altai when bathing suits bloom! Wherever you look, bathing suits are everywhere. Darkness, darkening them in the meadows, in the glades, in the swamps. Mountain snowfields in orange rings. You look at the flowers - and it seems that one is brighter than the other. No wonder we call them lights. They burn with lights among the lush greenery of the May meadow.

Once, in a clearing orange from blooming bathing suits, 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 the precautions, they dug out a white bathing suit and planted it on a breeding plot in the Altai Botanical Garden.

Many times I have been in the forest and, each time admiring the diversity of the flowering meadow, I tried again to find a white bathing suit - and did not find it. It's very rare indeed. But let's hope that the flower will take root in the garden and there will be a lot of them.

This is how we have May in Altai: colorful, like a rainbow! And you?

bird watch

Not gold, not silver, not manual, not pocket, not sunny, not sandy, but... birdlike. In the forest, it turns out, there are such - and almost on every tree! Like our cuckoo clock.

Only there is still a clock with a robin, a clock with a finch, a clock with a thrush ...

Birds in the forest, it turns out, begin to sing not when anyone pleases, but when it is necessary.

Well, how much is now not on my silver ones, but on forest bird ones? We don't watch, we listen!

The snipe buzzed from above - it means it's already three o'clock. Woodcock held out, grunting and squealing, - the beginning of the fourth. And here the cuckoo cuckooed - the sun will rise soon.

And the morning hours will start working, and they will not only be heard, but also seen. The song thrush sits on the crown of the Christmas tree, whistles - about four. Tenkovka sings and spins on the aspen - the beginning of the fifth. The finch thundered on the pine - soon five.

There is no need to start, repair, or check this clock. Waterproof and shock resistant. True, sometimes they lie, but what clock is not in a hurry or does not lag behind ?! But always with you, you will not forget, you will not lose. A clock with a quail fight, with a cuckoo call, with a nightingale trill, with a ringing of oatmeal, with a lark's bell - a meadow spinning top. For every taste and ear!

clearing

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

It's like opening a book. There was a forest on the 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 it is also a thousand times more interesting!

Either mossy, gloomy spruce forests on the sides, then cheerful, bright pine forests. Alder thickets, unsteady moss swamps. Windblows and windbreaks, dead stands and fallen trees. And then the trees, scorched by lightning.

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

And a meeting with the sensitive inhabitants of the forest, who are frightened by well-traveled roads!

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

Unread half-open book: words, phrases, lines. Finds for all letters of the alphabet. Commas, dots, dots and dashes. Whatever step, the question marks and exclamation marks. Right in the legs are confused.

You walk along the clearing - and your eyes run wide!

Web

The morning turned out to be cold, dewy - and cobwebs shone everywhere! On the grass, on the bushes, on the Christmas trees ... Everywhere there are cobwebs, balls, hammocks and trapping nets. Sita, which is not the hands of the retinue. And when only the spiders had time?

And the spiders were in no hurry. The web hung everywhere before, but was invisible. And the dew covered the web with beads and put it on display. The undergrowth flared up with necklaces, beads, pendants, monists...

So that's what it is, a web, in fact! And we always wiped our face with annoyance when something invisible and sticky stretched over it. And these turned out to be constellations blazing in a dark forest universe. Milky forest paths, galaxies, forest comets, meteorites and asteroids. New and supernovae stars. Suddenly the invisible realm of forest spiders appeared. The universe of eight-legged and eight-eyed! And around - their shining antennas, locators and radars.

Here he sits alone, furry and eight-legged, paws the soundless cobweb strings, tuning the cobweb music inaudible to our ears. And looks into all eight eyes at what we do not see.

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

Honey agarics

Mushrooms, of course, grow on stumps. And, sometimes, it’s so thick that you can’t even see a stump under them. As if the stump fell asleep with autumn leaves. And then they revived and sprouted. And there are elegant stump-bouquets.

With a small basket, honey agaric is not collected. Collect so collect! Mushrooms can be taken in armfuls, as they say, raked with a rake or mowed obliquely. There will be enough for roasting and pickles, and it will also remain for drying.

Just collect them, and not just bring them home. For mushrooms, you definitely need a basket. You push it into a backpack or into cellophane bags - and you will bring home not mushrooms, but mushroom porridge. And then all this mess - in the trash.

In a hurry, instead of real mushrooms, you can break false ones. With this and from the basket there is only a place in the trash: they are not suitable for roasting or brewing.

Of course, real mushrooms are far from porcini and red mushrooms. But if there is a crop failure, I am happy with honey agaric. True, if the harvest is still happy. Every stump in the forest is an autumn bouquet! And by all the same you will not pass, you will stop. If not to collect, then at least look, admire.

Mushroom round dance

The mushroom picker does not take fly agaric, but he is happy with fly agaric: send fly agaric - white ones will go too! Yes, and fly agaric delights the eye, although inedible and poisonous. There is another, akimbo, on a white leg in lace knickers, in a red clown cap - you don’t want to, but you admire. Well, if you come across a fly agaric dance - just right to be dumbfounded! A dozen fellows stood in a circle and prepared to dance.

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

You stand and wait.

And fly agarics stand and wait. Waiting for you to finally guess and leave. In order to start dancing without interference and someone else's eyes, stamping their white legs, waving their red hats. 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-ho-ho-ho!”, For example, or: “A-ya-ya!”. But loudest of all is carried through the forest "ay!". You “ay!”, And in response to you from different sides: “Ay!”, “Ay!”.

Or echo...

This is already alarming if only an echo responds. It means you are lost. And you talk to yourself. Well, quickly figure out which side the house is in, otherwise it might spin ...

You walk, you walk, everything is straight and straight, and lo and behold - again the same place! Here is a conspicuous stump on which I sat recently. How so? You clearly remember that you went straight from the stump, did not turn anywhere - how did this stump get in your way again? Here is a candy wrapper from sour candy ...

Time after time you leave a conspicuous place, and it seems to you that you are going straight to the house, as if on a ruler. You walk, you walk, everything is straight and straight, and a noticeable stump is again on your way! And the same fan. And you can’t get away from them, they attract like a magnet. And nothing to understand, and the horror is already moving under the shirt.

For a long time you are no longer up to berries and mushrooms. In confusion and fear, you shout “ay!”, And in response, again and again, one distant echo ...

Cold, you look at a place that does not want to let you go. Nothing special in appearance - ordinary stumps and logs, bushes and trees, dead trees 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 aspens are whispering fearfully about something. And chill you to the pimples.

And suddenly, far away, at the very edge of hearing, but so welcome and joyful: “Au-u-u!”

“Aw! Aw!" - you shout in response, breaking your voice, and, not understanding the road, you fly to a distant call, throwing branches with your hands.

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

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

And you meet friends already as if nothing had happened: well, lagged behind, wandered a little - great trouble! And again general laughter, jokes, practical jokes. Praise, who found what, who collected more. But inside you are still trembling, and a chill is stirring under your shirt. Before our eyes, the same gloomy pines and spruces 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 pampering, but a call for salvation. You will never again shout “ay” just like that, just to frighten away the silence of the forest, but you will throw it into a wary silence, like throwing a lifebuoy into a dark ox. And for a long time you will remember that first day, when you rushed about in despair and screamed lostly, breaking your voice. And in response I heard only an echo and an indifferent rumble of tree tops.

Song of the wings

The forest dissolved into the dusk and swam. The color also disappeared: everything became gray and dull. Bushes and trees moved like clots of darkness in a viscous viscous haze. They shrank, then suddenly stretched, appeared and disappeared. Evening turned into night.

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

The pensive evening songs were over: song thrushes whistled on the spruce domes, the big-eyed robins had long since scattered their sonorous glass pieces over the knots.

I'm knee-deep in swamp slush. He leaned back against the tree; she moves a little, breathes ... I closed my eyes, they are now useless, now only ears are needed.

The night owl gurgled. You can't see yourself. Flies in the dark from tree to tree owl cry: hoo-hoo-hoo! I turn my ear to the flying cry. Right next to me, he completely gurgled: he probably saw me with yellow eyes and was surprised.

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

I love listening to the night. Silence, but you can still hear something. The mouse will rustle in dry leaves. Duck wings will whistle in the air. The cranes will suddenly scream frantically in a distant swamp, as if someone had frightened them. Solidly, slowly, a woodcock will fly by: horr, horr - in bass, zvirk, zvirk - in a thin voice.

Even at the deadest midnight, when living voices are not heard, the forest is not silent. Then the wind is brought in at the top. That tree creaks. Knocking on the knots, the bump will fall. At least a thousand times listen to the night - each time will be in a new way. As no two days are the same, so night is not like night.

But there is a time in every night when there is complete silence. In front of her, clots of darkness will stir and float in the viscous haze again; Now darkness is approaching to replace the night. The forest seems to sigh: a quiet breeze will fly over the peaks and whisper something in the ear of every tree. And if there were leaves on the trees, they would answer the wind in their own way: the aspens would hastily murmur, the birches would rustle affectionately. But it's April in the forest - and the trees are bare. Some spruces and pines 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. Drop the needle - and hear!

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

If he played along, then someone danced to the beat?

Darkness and silence. Ahead is still a very dark moss swamp, behind is a black spruce island. I'm standing on the side of it, and strange sounds are approaching. Closer, closer, here they are heard overhead, now they are moving away, further, further. And after a while they arise again, approach again and again rush past. Someone flies around the spruce island, beating time in silence with elastic wings. A clear rhythm, a dance beat, not just beats its wings on the fly, but sings! Sings to the motive: so-so, so, so, so! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

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

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

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

Giant

I'm walking through the woods, I'm not plotting anything bad, but everyone shy away from me! The guards almost scream. Who even silently yells.

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

But for many in the forest we are fabulous giants! You only lifted your foot to step, and over someone your sole hung like a thundercloud! We are walking in the forest on a living, sweeping 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 whooping. You are simply rejoicing, lying in the grass, kicking your legs and laughing, and under you everything alive is flattened, everything is broken, distorted, everything is in dust. Hurricane, storm, storm! Disaster! And your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes?

The chick was quiet, snuggled up. You extended your 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 hummock, and suddenly giant tentacles stretched out from the sky with twisted claws! And the voice rumbles like thunder. And eyes like flashing lightning. And an open red mouth, and teeth in it, like eggs in a basket. If you don't want to, roll your eyes...

And now I'm walking through the forest, I'm not plotting anything bad, but everyone is frightened, everyone shied away. And they even die.

Well, now why not go into the forest because of this? Can't even take a step? Or look under your feet through a magnifying glass? Or cover your mouth with a bandage so as not to inadvertently swallow a midge? What else would you like to do?

And nothing! And go to the forest, and wallow in the grass-ant. Sunbathe, swim, save chicks, pick berries and mushrooms. Just remember one thing.

Remember that you are a giant. Huge fabulous giant. And if you're big, don't forget the little ones. Once fabulous - if you please, be kind. A kind fairy-tale giant, whom Lilliputians always hope for in fairy tales. Just something and everything...

wonder beast

I'm walking through the forest, and towards the guys. They saw my swollen backpack, they ask:

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

I squint enigmatically.

Beast, - I answer, - caught! You have never seen such a thing!

The guys look at each other, not believing.

We, they say, know all the animals.

So guess! I tease the guys.

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

Please, I say, don't be sorry. The ear of the beast ... bear.

Thought. 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. Yes, and try to put it in a backpack.

And the eye of the beast ... a raven! - I give a hint. - And the paws ... goose.

Here everyone laughed and roared. They decided that I played them. And I still submit:

If you don't like goose, put on cat's paws. And a fox tail!

Offended, turned away. They are silent.

Well, how? - I ask. - Guess yourself or say?

Let's give up! - exhaled the guys.

Slowly I take off my backpack, untie the strings and shake out... an armful of forest grass! And in the grass and a raven's eye, and a bear's ear, goose and cat's paws, and a fox's tail, and a snapdragon. And other herbs: mousetail, frog, toad ...

I show each plant and tell: it’s for a cold, it’s for a cough. It's for bruises and scratches. It's beautiful, it's poisonous, it's fragrant. This is for mosquitoes and midges. This is so that the stomach does not hurt, and this is so that the head is fresh.

This is the "animal" in the backpack. Have you heard of this? They did not hear, but now they have presented. The miracle beast sprawled across the forest in its green skin, hid: it listens with a bear's ear, looks with a crow's eye, waves its fox's tail, moves its cat's paws. The mysterious beast lies and is silent. Waiting to be figured out.

Who is smarter?

I walk through the forest and rejoice: I'm the smartest here. I see right through everyone! The woodcock took off, pretended to be hit, either running, or flying - takes her away. Yes, it looks like a cunning fox and she would have followed her. But you can't fool me with these bird tricks! I know: since a cautious bird rushes about nearby, it’s not without reason. Her chicks hid here, and she takes away from them.

But it is not enough to know, you must still be able to see them. Woodcocks are the colors of dry leaves sprinkled with old needles. You can step over and not notice: they know how to hide. But it is all the more flattering to look out for such invisibles. And you will see - you can’t take your eyes off, so cute!

I trample carefully - I wouldn’t step on it! Aha - one lies! He fell to the ground and closed his eyes. Still hoping to get me through. No, my dear, you got caught, and there is no salvation for you!

I’m joking, of course, I won’t do anything bad to him - I’ll admire and let him go. But if a fox had been in my place ... then he would have been finished. After all, he has only two ways of salvation: hide or run. And there is no third.

Gotcha, gotcha, darling! If you can't hide, you won't be able to run away. One step, one more step...

Something darted over my head, I ducked 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 is already heavy, the mother dragged him with difficulty. It seemed that a clumsy heavy bird with two big-nosed heads was flying. To the side, the bird plopped down and split into two - the birds fled in different directions!

Here you are not given a third! I was left without "prey". They took her out from under her nose. Although I am cunning, there are more cunning in the forest!

Confidence

I walk through the forest, squelching through the swamp, I cross the field - there are birds everywhere. And they treat me in their own way: some trust me, others do not. And their trust can be measured... by steps!

Pliska * in the swamp allowed 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. That's understandable - and even visible! - a measure of their confidence. Pliska trusts four times more than a thrush, a thrush fifteen times more than a crane. Maybe because a person is fifteen times more dangerous for a crane than for a thrush?

There is something to think about here.

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

So everything depends on us. It's one thing we're in the forest with a gun, and another - with a piece. 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 how we get 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.

Persistent Dandelions

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

And narvali - what to do with such armfuls? Hands sticky, shirts stained with juice. Yes, and these are not the kind of flowers to put them in vases: they smell like grass, they look unprepossessing. And very ordinary! They grow everywhere, they become familiar to everyone.

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

You always feel uneasy when you see such devastation: feathers of a torn bird, peeled birches, scattered anthills ... Or abandoned flowers. What for? A bird pleased someone with songs, birch trees pleased with their whiteness, flowers with a 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 and interesting about them? But they made someone happy. And now...

Dandelions pleased even now! And they surprised.

A week later, I again found myself in the same clearing - the flowers piled up in a heap were alive! Bumblebees and bees, as always, collected pollen from flowers. And the plucked 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 to a 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, predicted the weather! And they predicted exactly as in their best flowering days!

When the storm died down and the sun flooded the glade, the flowers opened! And they were supposed to do this - the flowers did their duty.

But already from the last forces. The dandelions were dying. They lacked the strength to turn into fluffy balls to scatter on parachutes across the clearings and sprout in the grass as bright suns.

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

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

The unexpected is everywhere.

They cut down a birch in April, and in May it spread its leaves! Birch did not know that she had already been killed, and did what the birch was supposed to do.

A white water lily flower was thrown into a basin, and every evening it carefully folded its petals and dipped into the water, and in the morning it emerged and opened up, just like in a lake. At least check your watch! A water lily and a plucked "saw" distinguished day from night. Isn't that why the water lilies were called the "eyes of the lakes"?

Maybe they see us too?

The forest looks at us with colorful eyes of flowers. It's a shame to drop yourself in those eyes.

All for one

I walked along the seashore and habitually looked under my feet - what waves don’t throw ashore! He sat on the vertebra of a whale, as if on a stump. I found a "fish tooth" - a walrus tusk. Gathered handfuls of openwork skeletons sea ​​urchins. So I would go and go, but brought me out of the underhand contemplation ... a slap on the back of the head!

It turned out that I wandered into the nesting area of ​​Arctic terns, birds, smaller than a pigeon and very similar to gulls. Seemingly 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 aircraft riveted from metal, such a flight is not easy. And how “defenseless” they are, I found out now ... What started after the slap on the back of the head! A blizzard raged above me, thousands of white wings pierced by the sun fluttered, whirlwinds of white birds rushed about. Ears pawned from a thousand-voiced scream.

There were nests of terns everywhere on the ground under their feet. And I was confusedly stomping between them, afraid to crush them, and the terns swarmed ferociously, chirping and screeching, preparing for a new attack. And they attacked! The cuffs fell down like hail from a cloud - no hiding, no dodging. Nimble angry birds threw themselves from above and with their bodies, paws, and beaks beat in the back and head. My hat fell off. I crouched down, covering the back of my head with my hands - but where is it! White beasts began to pinch his hands, but it hurt, with a twist, to bruises. I got scared and ran. And the terns chased me with cuffs, pokes, pecks and hoots until they drove me over a distant cape. I hid in the fin, and the bird blizzard raged in the sky for a long time.

Rubbing bumps and bruises, I now - from afar! - admired them. What a picture! Bottomless sky and bottomless ocean. And between the sky and the ocean, a swarm of snow-white brave birds. It's a little annoying, though: after all, a man, the king of nature, and suddenly from some birds he jumps like a hare. But then the fishermen told me that it was the same way - like a hare! - runs away from terns even polar bear- Ruler of the Arctic. Now this is a different matter, now it’s not insulting at all! Both "kings" were hit on the neck. So they, the kings, and it is necessary - do not bother to live in peace!

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 apart by a predator - he was enlightened who was attacking whom. Finally, there were birds killed and abandoned by hunters: grebes, owls, divers, 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 check the gun, fire at the first birds that turn up.

At home, I laid out the pens on the table, spreading the paper, and slowly looked at them. And it was as interesting as shifting and looking at sea shells, beetles or butterflies. In the same way, you look and marvel at the perfection of the form, the beauty of the colors, the sophistication of the combination of colors that do not match at all in our everyday life: red and green, for example, or blue and yellow.

And overflows! Turn the pen like this - it's green, turn it that way - it's already blue. And then also lilac, and crimson! Masterovity is an artist - nature.

With such an examination - sometimes with a magnifying glass! - you involuntarily notice the smallest specks stuck to the feathers. Most of the time it's just grains of sand. It was worth shaking the feathers over the paper, and the sand fell off, forming a dusty speck on the paper. But some motes clung so firmly that they had to be removed with tweezers. What if it's some sort of seed?

Many birds - thrushes, bullfinches, waxwings - eating berries, involuntarily spread through the forest seeds of mountain ash, viburnum, buckthorn, bird cherry, juniper. They are scattered here and there. Why not scatter the "chicky" seeds on their feathers? How many different seeds stick to bird and animal paws! And we are all doing wild sowing without even realizing it.

I continued to pack, and soon I had piled up from a half-match box of various specks and trash. It remains to make sure that there are seeds there.

I knocked together a box, filled it with earth, and dropped everything I collected. And he began to wait patiently: will it sprout or not sprout?

Sprouted!

Many specks sprouted, sprouts popped out and unfolded, the earth turned green.

I recognized almost all the plants. Except for one thing: it didn’t succumb to me in any way, even though I leafed through all my reference guides.

This seed I plucked from a cuckoo feather. In the spring, a hunter shot her, wanted to make a scarecrow, but started spinning with business, there was no time for her, and he threw the cuckoo out of the refrigerator into the trash. She was lying next to the garbage can, so out of place here, so clean and fresh that I could not resist and tore out the cuckoo's tail.

The tail of the cuckoo is large, beautiful; when cuckooing, she moves it from side to side - as if she were conducting herself. I wanted to add this cuckoo's "conductor's baton" to my collection, which already had "whistling" feathers from the wing of a little bustard and duck-eye, 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, then at the base of one, at the very stem, I noticed a prickly fruit of some kind of weed, rolled into down. I just pulled it off with tweezers. And this seed sprouted, but I could not identify the sprout.

He showed it to connoisseurs 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 immediately! - rummaging about their scientific books, they recognized in it a weed from ... South America!

I was very surprised - where did I get it from? They advised to pull it out with a spine - so that it does not inadvertently take root on our land: we have enough of our own weeds. They were even more surprised when they learned that a cuckoo had brought him from over the seas and mountains.

I was also surprised: I did not know that our cuckoos hibernate even in South America. The weed seed has become like a ring for ringing: thousands of kilometers away, the cuckoo brought it home.

I imagined this cuckoo: how she wintered in the tropics, how she waited for spring to return to her homeland, how she hurried through storms and downpours to our northern forests- to bore us for many years ...

And they took her and shot her.

And they threw it away...

beaver lodge

A beaver built a hut on the bank of knots and logs. The cracks were caulked with earth and moss, smeared with silt and clay. He left a hole in the floor - the door directly into the water. In the water he has a reserve for the winter - a cubic meter of aspen firewood.

The beaver does not dry firewood, but wets it: he has them not for the stove, but for food. He is his own oven. It gnaws at the bark from aspen boughs - and warms up from the inside. That's how we are from hot porridge. Yes, it happens that it warms up that steam curls over the hut in the cold! As if he was drowning the hut in black, smoke comes through the roof.

So it hibernates in the hut from autumn to spring. He dives to the bottom for firewood, dries in the hut, gnaws at knots, sleeps under the whistle of a blizzard over the roof or the snapping of frost.

And along with it, beaver brownies winter in the hut. There is such a rule in the forest: 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 corners and crevices: right there is a hostel of brownies!

Hibernate, it happens, bumblebees and hornets, beetles and butterflies. 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. That frost, then a blizzard. Brought the hut along with the roof. And under the roof, the beaver dozes, warming itself with aspen firewood. His brownies sleep soundly. Only mice scratch in the corners. Yes, on a frosty day, the park above the hut curls like smoke.

hare heart

At the first powder, the hunter ran into the forest with a gun. I found a fresh hare trail, unraveled all its cunning loops and monograms, and set off in pursuit. Here is a “twice”, here is a “discount”, then the hare jumped off his trail and lay down not far. The hare, though cunning, confuses the trail, but always the same. And if you have picked up the key to it, then now quietly open it: somewhere it will be here.

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

From a run, from acceleration, a hare tumbled into an unfrozen swamp - he hooted up to his ears! Here is the crushed ice, here are splashes of brown slurry, here are its dirty traces further. On the hard snow, he let go 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 around! A little wings on the ears and on the nose do not whip. He swept obliquely, rolled over his head; the hunter can clearly see everything in the tracks. Yes, it will give you such a kick that the rear dads jump out ahead of the front ones! Yes, I ran into a fox with acceleration.

And the fox did not even think that the hare would jump to her; lingered, but still tsap on the side! It is good that the skin of hares is thin and fragile, get off with a piece of skin; two red drops on the snow.

Come on, imagine yourself this hare. Trouble - one worse than the other! If this happened to me, I would probably stutter.

And he fell into the swamp, and the feathered bombs exploded at the nose, the hunter fired from a gun, the predatory beast grabbed his side. Yes, in his place, the bear and that bear disease would have fallen ill! And then he would die. And at least he...

I was frightened, of course, not without it. But hares are not used to being scared. Yes, if every time they die of fright, so soon the whole hare family will be transferred. And he, the kind of hare, is flourishing! Because their hearts are strong and reliable, hardened and healthy. Bunny heart!

Hare round dance

There is also frost, but a special frost, spring. The ear that is in the shade freezes, and that in the sun burns. During the day, the snows melt and shine, and at night they are covered with infusion. It's time for hare songs and funny hare round dances!

From the tracks you can see how they gather in clearings, forest edges and circle here in loops and figure eights, carousel between bushes and hummocks. As if the heads of hares are spinning and they write out loops and pretzels in the snow. Yes, and they blow: "Gu-gu-gu-gu!"

Where did cowardice go: now they don’t care about foxes, or owls, or wolves, or lynxes. All winter they lived in fear, they were afraid to utter a word. Enough is enough! Spring in the forest, the sun overcomes the frost. It's time for hare songs and hare dances.

How did the bear scare himself?

A bear entered the forest - a dead tree crunched under a heavy paw. The squirrel on the Christmas tree shuddered - dropped the bump. A bump fell and hit the sleeping hare right on the forehead! The hare fell off its bed - and galloped without looking back.

He ran into a grouse brood - he scared everyone to death. The cubs scattered with a noise - they alerted the magpie: it rumbled throughout the forest. They heard moose - magpie chirps, got scared of someone. Is it not a wolf, not a hunter? They rushed ahead. Yes, in the swamp the cranes were alarmed: they began to purr with a trumpet. The curlews whistled, the snail* screamed.

Here the bear pricked up its ears! Something bad is going on in the forest: a squirrel is choking, a magpie is chirping, elks are breaking bushes, marsh birds are screaming. And someone seems to be stomping behind! Wouldn't it be better to get out of here before it's too late?

The bear barked, laid his ears - but how will the strekacha give!

If only he knew that a hare was stomping behind him, the same one that the squirrel had hit on the forehead with a bump. He gave a circle through the forest, alarmed everyone. And he frightened the bear, whom he himself had been afraid of before!

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

Snail * - a bird from the order of sandpipers.

forest gingerbread man

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

Good for a hare: legs are long, fast. Or a squirrel: a little something - and on a tree! And the hedgehog's legs are short, the claws are blunt: neither on the ground nor on the knots from the enemy will you ride.

And I want to live and eat. And he, the hedgehog, has all hope for his thorns: put out and hope!

And the hedgehog shrinks, shrinks, bristles - and hopes. The fox will roll him with his paw - and leave him. The wolf will push his nose, prick his nose, snort and run away. The bear hangs its lips, saturates its mouth with heat, sniffs displeasedly, and also stings. And I want to eat, but it pricks!

And the hedgehog will lie down with a margin, then turn around a little for a test, put out his nose and eye from under the thorns, look around, sniff - is there anyone? - and roll off into the thickets. That's why he's alive. How about fluffy and soft?

Of course, happiness is not great - all life in thorns from head to toe. But he can't do otherwise. Like it or don't like it, don't. They'll eat it!

dangerous game

Bones, feathers, and bits 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, shook her long tail. And let's run back and forth, clicking the beak. And the cubs from the hole are watching her, their eyes are rolling: right-left, right-left! Could not resist and jumped out - almost caught!

But a little bit does not count for fox cubs. Again they hid in a hole, hid. Now the heater has flown in: this one crouches and bows, crouches and bows. And she does not take her eyes off the flies. The wheatear aimed at the flies, and the cubs aimed at the stove. Who is smarter?

The cubs jumped out - the heater flew away. The fox cubs, out of annoyance, grappled with each other in a ball, started a game with themselves. But suddenly a shadow covered them, blocked the sun! The eagle hovered over the cubs, spreading wide wings. He already dangled his clawed paws, but the cubs managed to hide in the hole. It can be seen, still a young eagle, not experienced. Or maybe he was just playing. But simple, not simple, but these games are dangerous. Play, play, look! And flies, and birds, eagles and foxes. And then you'll play it.

Frost - red nose

In frost, only you and I have a red nose. And also blue. But in birds, their noses bloom when the spring heat comes and the winter cold ends. In spring, not only feathers become bright in birds - but also noses! In finches, the beak becomes blue, in sparrows - almost black. Starlings are yellow, blackbirds are orange, and grosbeaks are blue. In the river gull and garden bunting - red. How are we in the cold!

Someone at the birch ate the whole top of the head. There is a birch, and the top is as if trimmed. Who is so toothy could climb to the top? A squirrel could have climbed in, but squirrels don't gouge the bars in winter. Hares look around, but hares do not climb birch trees. The birch stands like a question mark, like a riddle. What kind of giant reached out to the top of his head?

And this is not a giant, but, nevertheless, a hare! Only he did not reach the dome, but the dome itself leaned towards him. Even at the beginning of winter, heavy snow stuck to the birch - and bent into an arc. The birch bent like a white barrier, buried its top in a snowdrift. And she froze. Yes, like an arc, she stood all winter.

It was then that the hare gnawed all the twigs at the top! No need to climb or jump: twigs at the very nose. And by spring, the top melted out of the snowdrift, the birch straightened up - and the eaten top turned out to be at an unattainable height! There is a birch, even, high - mysterious.

Spring affairs and worries

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

I turn back - the ants are warming themselves on the anthill, the hairy bumblebee is buzzing, the first bees are in a hurry for the first flowers. Everyone has spring affairs and worries!

Again I look at the forest - and there is already fresh news! The buzzards are circling over the forest, taking a fancy to the place of the day of the future nest.

I turn to the fields - and there is already a new one: the kestrel hovered over the arable land, looking out for voles from a height.

In the swamp, turukhtan sandpipers started spring dances.

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

So much around the news - just have time to turn your head. A dizzying spring - you wouldn't break your neck!

Bear measures height

Every spring, leaving the den, the bear comes to a long-cherished Christmas tree and measures his height: hasn't he grown up during the winter while he was sleeping? It stands at the Christmas tree on its hind legs, and with its front paws it furrows the bark on the Christmas tree so that the chips curl! And bright furrows become visible - like an iron rake. For fidelity, he also bites the bark with fangs. And then he rubs his back against the Christmas tree, leaving shreds of wool and a thick smell of the beast on it.

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

Marked trees like border posts. On each column there is also a short reference: gender, age, height. Do you think it's worth getting involved? Think well...

swamp herd

On the dark night, my shepherd Misha and I were already in the swamp. Temnozorka - the moment when morning conquers night - in the village only a rooster guesses. Darkness is still an eye, and a rooster stretches its neck, becomes alert, something there in the night will hear and scream.

And in the forest, an invisible bird announces the darkness: it will wake up and be brought in in the branches. Then the morning breeze will stir - and a rustle and whisper will roll through the forest.

And so, when a 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.

From a neighboring village, perhaps, a shepherd? - I ask quietly.

No, Misha smirks. - I'm not talking about a village shepherd, I'm talking about a swamp.

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

The swamp shepherd... - Misha whispers.

“Be-ee-ee-ee! Be-e-e-e-e! bleated plaintively a lamb in that direction. Are you bogged down in a failed swamp?

No, - Misha laughs, - this lamb will not get stuck. This is a swamp lamb.

The bull mumbled muffledly, - apparently, lagged behind the herd.

Oh, get lost in the quagmire!

No, this one will not disappear, - Misha the shepherd reassures, - this is a swamp bull.

It has already become clear: a gray fog is stirring over a black mound. The shepherd whistles somewhere in two fingers. The lamb is bleating. The bull is roaring. And no one is visible. Swamp herd...

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

The whistles are getting closer and closer. With all my eyes I look to where dark silhouettes of kugi - swamp grass move in a gray fog.

You're looking in the wrong direction, - Misha pushes to the side. - Down, look at the water.

And I see: a small bird, from a starling, on high legs, is walking on the colored water. Here she stopped at a bump, rose on her fingers - but how she whistles, whistles! Well, that's exactly how the shepherd whistles.

And this is the shepherd boy, - Misha grins. Everyone in the village calls him that.

Here I am happy.

It can be seen that the whole herd is marsh according to this shepherd?

According to the shepherd and there is, - Misha nods.

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

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

Here's a gun for you, - I laugh. - I would have shot down a bull and a ram at once!

No, Misha says. - I'm a shepherd, not a hunter. And what kind of shepherd would shoot at the flock? Though and on such, swamp.

Sly already

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 dead meat, go up to a puddle to rinse my hands, turn around, and the snake is dead ... it runs into the bushes! Resurrected and takes away the legs. Well, not legs, of course, what kind of legs do snakes have? But he crawls away quickly and hastily, and is tempted to say: with all his might!

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

Her head looks like a flower bud with two orange spots, she tossed back, her lower jaw fell off, a black flyer tongue hung from her red mouth. Lies relaxed - deader than dead! I touch it, it doesn't move. And again there was a whiff of 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 begins to slowly “resurrect”. Here 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 such - can and not to believe! Well, if a shy summer resident fainted when she met a snake. And that's a snake! The snake lost consciousness upon meeting a man. Look, they will say, here is the man, at a meeting with whom even snakes faint!

And yet I told. Do you know why? Because I'm not the only one who is terrible for the snakes. And you are no better than me. And if you also scare him, he will shudder, turn over and “sting”. It will lie deader than dead, and it will smell of carrion, and flies will flock to the smell. And go away - and it will rise again! And he will rush into the thicket with all legs. Even if you're legless...

Animal bath

And the animals go to the bath. More often than others go to the bath ... wild pigs! Their bath is simple: no steam, no soap, not even hot water. Just a bath - a hole in the ground. The water in the pit is swampy. Instead of soap suds - slurry. Instead of a washcloth - bunches of grass and moss. You would not be lured into such a bath with Snickers. And the boars are walking. That's how they love the bath!

But wild boars go to the bathhouse not at all for what we go to the bathhouse for. We go to wash, and the boars get dirty! We wash off the dirt with a washcloth, and the boars deliberately smear the dirt on themselves. They toss and turn in the mud, splash, and the dirtier they become, the more fun they grunt. And after the bath they are a hundred times dirtier than before. And they are happy, happy: now, through such a mud shell, no biters and bloodsuckers will get to the body! Their bristles are sparse in the summer - so they are smeared. Like we anti-mosquito. They roll out, they get smeared - and they don't itch!

Cuckoo worries

The cuckoo does not build a nest, does not bring out the cuckoo, does not teach them intelligence. She has no worries. But it only seems so to us. In fact, the cuckoo has many worries. And the first concern is to find a nest in which you can throw your testicle. And in which the cuckoo will then be comfortable.

The cuckoo sits secretly and listens to bird voices. In the birch grove the oriole whistled. Her nest is a feast for the eyes: a cradle-cradle in a fork in the branches. The wind shakes the cradle, cradles the chicks. Yes, try to get close to these desperate birds, they will begin to pounce, scream with nasty cat voices. Better not to mess with them.

By the river on dry land, a kingfisher sits thoughtfully. Like looking at his own reflection. And he looks at the fish. And guarding the nest. How can he plant an egg if his nest is in a deep hole, and you can’t squeeze into the hole? Another must be sought.

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

Flew along the river. On a stone in the middle of the water, a dipper - a water sparrow crouches and bows. He was not delighted with the cuckoo, but he had such a habit. Here, under the shore, is his nest: a dense moss ball with a hole-entrance on the side. It seems to be suitable, but some kind of damp, damp. And just below it, the water boils. Here the cuckoo will grow up, jump out - and drown. Even though the cuckoo does not grow cuckoos, it still takes care of them. Rushed further.

Further in the riverside uryom, the nightingale whistles. Yes, so loudly and bitingly that even the nearest leaves tremble! She looked out for his nest in the bushes, and already tried to put hers aside, as she sees - the testicles are cracked in it! This is where the chicks will hatch. The nightingale will not incubate her egg. Then you need to fly, look for another nest.

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

Maybe throw an egg to the bullfinches? The nest is suitable, the cuckoo's bullfinch testicles will be easy to throw away.

Hey, bullfinches, what do you feed the bullfinches?

Delicious porridge from different seeds! Nutritious and vitamin.

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

The sun is noon, and the testicle is still not attached. I wanted to give a warbler a blackhead, but in time I remembered that her testicles are brown, and hers are blue. The sharp-eyed warbler will immediately see it and throw it away. The cuckoo screamed in a voice that was not her own: “Cli-cli-cli-cli! I've been rushing about all day, I've waved all the wings - I can't pick up a cuckoo's nest! And everyone points a finger: carefree, heartless, she doesn’t care about her children. And I..."

He suddenly hears a very familiar whistle, I still remember it from childhood: “Fyut, tak-tik!” Why, so her foster mother screamed! And waving her red tail. Redstart coot! So I’ll throw my egg to her: since I myself survived and grew up in such a place, then nothing will happen to my foundling. And she will not notice anything: her testicles are the same blue as mine. And so she did. And she laughed merrily, as only female cuckoos can do: “Hee-hee-hee!” Finally!

She demolished her own - she swallowed the master's: so that the score would converge. But her worries did not end there - a dozen more must be thrown up! Run through the forest again, look again, fistula. And who will sympathize? Still called carefree and heartless.

And they will do it right!

Nightingale songs are fed

The nightingale sang in the bird cherry: loudly, bitingly. The tongue in the gaping beak beat like a bell. He sings and sings - when he has time. After all, you will not be full of songs alone.

He hung his wings, threw back his head and clicks out such ringing trills that the park flies out of the beak!

And mosquitoes flock to the park, to the living warmth. They curl over the gaping beak, ask for themselves in the mouth. And the nightingale clicks its songs and ... mosquitoes! Connects pleasant and useful. Does two things at once. And they say that the songs of the nightingale do not feed.

Hawk

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

Just now the ravine rattled with bird songs, but the sparrowhawk swept by, the birds screamed in fright 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 all the others will revive.

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

The sparrowhawk sat in the depths of a spreading willow and patiently waited for the sparrows to appear on the sunflowers. And as soon as they stuck around the sunny "baskets", he rushed at them, spreading his claws. But the sparrows turned out to be shot, experienced, rushed from the hawk straight into the wattle fence and pierced it like fish through a holey net. And the hawk from acceleration almost killed himself on this fence!

He glanced around with piercing eyes, sat on the wattle fence over the hidden sparrows: I didn’t take you from the summer - I’ll exhaust you like that!

There is already someone! The sparrow hawk is up on a stake, the sparrows rustle under the wattle with their mice under the wattle fence, they almost burrow into the ground with fear. A hawk jumped down to them - the sparrows slipped through the cracks on the other side. And the hawk can't get through. Then the hawk through the wattle fence - the sparrows are back in the crack! And he sees the eye, but the beak is numb.

But one young sparrow could not stand it and rushed from a terrible place. The sparrowhawk immediately behind him and already stretched out his paw in order to grab his tail on the fly, and the little sparrow head into the very thick willow in which the sparrowhawk had been hiding before. As if he dived into the water, pierced it like a wattle fence with holes in it. He wasn't that stupid after all. And the hawk got stuck, fluttering in the branches, as in a dense net.

Cunning sparrows led the hawk, flew away with nothing. He went into the fields - to catch quails. Since it's a sparrowhawk.

Pay

The owl robs 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 branches. And dozes without moving.

But not every day she manages to sit out. Either the rogue kinglets will see, then the big-eyed tits will notice - they will immediately raise a cry. And if you translate from bird language into human, you get swearing and insults. Everyone who hears flocks to the cry, everyone whom the owl has harmed. They flicker around, flutter around, strive to pinch. The owl only turns its head and snaps its beak. Small birdies are not afraid of her with pinches, but with their cry. Jays, magpies, and crows can fly to their fuss. And these can ask a real bashing - pay for her night raids.

The owl could not stand it, broke loose and flew, silently maneuvering between the branches. And all the little things are behind her! Okay, now I took yours - let's see what happens at night ...

Walking through a fairy tale

What is easier: a snail, a spider, a flower. Without looking to step over - and further.

Yes, only after all, you will step over a miracle!

The same snail at least. He wanders the earth and, on the move, lays a path under himself - silvery, mica. Wherever she goes - a tablecloth to her path! And the house on the back is like a tourist's backpack. Well, imagine: you go and carry the house! Wow! Tired, put the house next to it, climbed into it and sleep without worries. And it does not matter that there are no windows and no doors.

Stay at the spider too: this is not a simple spider, but an invisible spider. Touch it with a blade of grass, it will begin to sway with fright, faster and faster - until it turns into a slightly shining haze - as if it will dissolve in the air. Here he is, but not visible! And you thought that invisible people only exist in fairy tales.

Or this flower. He was blinded by nature, blind and unreasonable - illiterate! - from a lump of earth, a dewdrop and a drop of the sun. And you, literate, can you do this? And here it is, miraculous, in front of you - in all its glory. Watch and remember.

To visit the forest is like leafing through fairy tales. They are everywhere: above the head, on the sides, under the feet.

Don't step over - hold on!

Before you plunge into the fascinating world of forest nature, we will tell you about the author of these works.

Biography of Nikolai Sladkov

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was born in 1920 in Moscow, but his whole life was spent in Leningrad and in Tsarskoye Selo, famous for its magnificent parks. Here Nikolai discovered the beautiful and unique life of nature, which became the main theme of his work.

While still a schoolboy, he began to keep a diary, where he wrote down his impressions and observations. In addition, he began to study in the circle of young naturalists at the Leningrad Zoological Institute. Here he met the famous naturalist writer Vitaly Bianchi, who called this circle the "Columbian Club". In the summer, the guys came to Bianchi in Novgorod region explore the secrets of the forest and comprehend nature. Bianchi's books rendered on Nicholas big influence, a correspondence began between them, and it was Sladkov who considered him his teacher. Subsequently, Bianchi became a true friend of Sladkov.

When did the Great Patriotic War, Nikolai volunteered to go to the front and became a military topographer. In the same specialty, he worked in peacetime.

Sladkov wrote his first book "Silver Tail" in 1953 (and there are more than 60 of them). Together with Vitaly Bianchi, he prepared the radio program "News from the Forest", answered numerous letters from listeners. He traveled a lot, visited India and Africa. As in childhood, he recorded his impressions in notebooks, which later became the source of the plots of his books.

In 2010, Sladkov would have turned 90 years old.

Nikolay Sladkov. How crossbills made squirrels jump in the snow

Squirrels do not really like to jump on the ground. If you leave a trail, a hunter with a dog will find you! Trees are much safer. From the trunk - to the knot, from the knot - to the branch. From birch to pine, from pine to Christmas tree.

There the kidneys will gnaw, there are bumps. That's how they live.

A hunter with a dog walks through the forest, looks under his feet. There are no squirrel tracks in the snow! And on spruce paws you will not see traces! On spruce paws there are only cones and even crossbills.

These are beautiful crosses! Males are purple, females are yellow-green. And the great masters peel the cones! The crossbill will tear off the cone with its beak, press it with its paw and let's bend the scales with a crooked nose, peel the seeds. It will bend the scale, bend the second and throw the bump. There are a lot of bumps, why feel sorry for them! Crossbills will fly away - a whole pile of cones remains under the tree. Hunters call such cones crossbow carrion.

Time goes by. Crossbills pluck everything and pluck the cones from the Christmas trees. There are very few cones on the fir trees in the forest. Squirrels are hungry. Whether you like it or not, you have to go down to the ground and walk downstairs, dig out crossbill carrion from under the snow.

A squirrel walks below - leaves a trace. Followed by a dog. The hunter is after the dog.

“Thanks to the crossbills,” says the hunter, “they lowered the squirrel to the bottom!”

By spring, the last seeds will fall out of all the cones on the fir trees. Squirrels now have one salvation - carrion. In the carrion, all the seeds are intact. Throughout the hungry spring, squirrels pick up and peel carrion. Now they would like to say thanks to the crossbills, but the squirrels do not say. They cannot forget how crossbills made them jump in the snow in winter!

Nikolay Sladkov. How the bear was turned over

Birds and animals have suffered from the hard winter. Whatever the day - a blizzard, whatever the night - frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in the den. I forgot, probably, that it's time for him to roll over to the other side.

There is a forest sign: as the Bear rolls over to the other side - so the sun will turn to the summer.

The patience of birds and animals has burst.

Send the Bear to wake up:

- Hey, Bear, it's time! Winter is over for everyone!

We missed the sun. Roll over, roll over, bed sores, I suppose?

The bear does not hum in response: it doesn’t move, it doesn’t stir. Know snoring.

- Oh, to beat him in the back of the head! exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I think it would immediately move!

“No, no,” moaned the Elk, “you have to be respectful, respectful with him. Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and beg you - roll over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not nice. We, moose, are standing in an aspen forest, like cows in a stall - you can’t take a step to the side. The snow is deep in the forest! Trouble if the wolves sniff us out.

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:

- And what do I care about you, moose! The deep snow is only good for me: it’s warm and I sleep peacefully.

Here the White Partridge wailed:

- Aren't you ashamed, Bear? All the berries, all the bushes with buds were covered with snow - what do you order us to peck? Well, why should you roll over on the other side, hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!

And the Bear is his:

- Even funny! You are tired of winter, and I turn over from side to side! Well, what do I care about the kidneys and berries? I have a supply of fat under the skin.

The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:

- Oh, you, shaggy mattress, it's too lazy to roll over, you see! And you would have jumped on the branches with ice cream, you would have skinned your paws to the blood, like me! .. Roll over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!

- Four five six! Bear laughs. - That scared me! And well - shoo otsedova! You interfere with sleep.

The animals tucked their tails in, the birds hung their noses, and they began to disperse. And then out of the snow the Mouse suddenly leaned out and how it squeaked:

— So big, but scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, short-haired, like that? He doesn't understand well or badly. It is necessary with him in our way, in a mouse way. You ask me - I will turn it over in an instant!

Are you a Bear? the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! boasts the Mouse.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear. Runs on it, scratches with claws, bites with teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a piglet, kicked his legs.

— Oh, I can't! - howls. - Oh, I'll roll over, just don't tickle! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!

And the steam from the lair is like smoke from a chimney.

The mouse leaned out and squeaked:

- Turned over like a little one! I would have been told a long time ago.

Well, as the Bear turned over on the other side - so immediately the sun turned to the summer.

Every day - the sun is higher, every day - spring is closer. Every day - brighter, more fun in the forest!

Nikolay Sladkov. What is the length of the hare

What is the length of the hare? Well, this is for whom. For a man, a small beast - with a birch log. But for a fox, a hare two kilometers long? Because for a fox, a hare begins not when she grabs him, but when she smells him on the trail. A short trail - two or three jumps - and the hare is small.

And if the hare managed to inherit and wind up, then it becomes longer than the longest animal on earth. It is not easy for such a big man to bury himself in the forest.

The hare is very sad about this: live in eternal fear, do not work up extra fat.

And now the hare is trying with all his might to become shorter. He drowns his trace in the swamp, tears his trace in two - he shortens himself. He only thinks how to run away from his trace, hide, how to break it, shorten it or drown it.

A hare's dream is to finally become himself, with a birch log.

The life of a hare is special. There is little joy for everyone from rain and snowstorms, but they are good for the hare: the trail is washed off and swept up. And there is nothing worse when the weather is calm and warm: the trail is hot, the smell lasts for a long time. No matter how dense it is, there is no peace: maybe a fox is two kilometers behind - it is already holding you by the tail!

So it's hard to say what the length of the hare is. Which is more cunning - shorter, dumber - more authentic. In calm weather, the smart one stretches out, in a snowstorm and downpour - and the stupid one shortens.

Whatever the day, the length of the hare is different.

And very rarely, when he is really lucky, there is a hare of that length - with a birch log - as a person knows him.

Everyone knows about this, whose nose works better than the eyes. The wolves know. Foxes know. Know and you.

Nikolay Sladkov. Bureau of Forest Services

Cold February has come to the forest. He piled snowdrifts on the bushes, covered the trees with frost. And the sun, although it shines, does not warm.

Ferret says:

"Save yourself, as best you can!"

And Magpie chirps:

"Every man for himself again?" Alone again? No to us together against a common misfortune! And so everyone says about us that we only peck and squabble in the forest. It's even embarrassing...

Here the Hare got involved:

- That's right Magpie chirps. There is safety in numbers. I propose to create a Bureau of Forest Services. I, for example, can help partridges. Every day I break the snow on winter trees to the ground, let them peck seeds and greens after me - I don’t feel sorry. Write me, Soroka, to the Bureau at number one!

— There is clever mind and in our forest! Magpie rejoiced. - Who is next?

- We're next! cried the crossbills. - We peel the cones on the trees, drop half the cones whole down. Use it, voles and mice, it's not a pity!

“A hare is a digger, crossbills are throwers,” Magpie wrote.

- Who is next?

“Write us down,” grumbled the beavers from their hut. - We piled so many aspens in the fall - enough for everyone. Come to us, moose, roe deer, hares, juicy aspen bark and branches to gnaw!

And it's gone, and it's gone!

Woodpeckers offer their hollows for the night, crows invite to carrion, crows promise to show the landfill. Magpie barely manages to write down.

The wolf also choked on the noise. He spun his ears, looked up with his eyes and said:

"Sign me up for the Bureau!"

Magpie almost fell from the tree:

- You, Volka, in the Bureau of Services? What do you want to do in it?

“I will serve as a watchman,” Wolf replies.

Who can you guard?

I can take care of everyone! Hares, moose and roe deer near aspens, partridges on greenery, beavers in huts. I am an experienced caretaker. Sheep guarded in the sheepfold, chickens in the chicken coop ...

- You are a robber from the forest road, not a watchman! Magpie screamed. - Pass, rogue, by! We know you. It’s me, Magpie, I’ll guard everyone in the forest from you: as soon as I see it, I’ll raise a cry! I’ll write down not you, but myself as a watchman in the Bureau: “Magpie is a watchman.” What, I'm worse than others, or what?

So the bird-animals live in the forest. It happens, of course, that they live in such a way that only fluff and feathers fly. But sometimes they help each other out. Anything can happen in the forest.

Nikolay Sladkov. Resort "Icicle"

Soroka sat on a snow-covered Christmas tree and cried:

- All migratory birds flew away for the winter, I alone, settled, endure frosts and blizzards. Neither eat hearty, nor drink tasty, nor sleep sweetly. And in the winter, they say, a resort ... Palm trees, bananas, frying!

- It depends on what wintering, Magpie!

- On what, on what - on the ordinary!

- Ordinary wintering, Magpie, does not happen. There are hot winterings - in India, Africa, South America, and there are cold ones - like in your country. middle lane. Here we, for example, flew to you from the North to spend the winter. I am the White Owl, they are the Waxwing and the Bullfinch, Bunting and the White Partridge.

- Why did you have to fly from winter to winter? Soroka is surprised. - You have snow in the tundra - and we have snow, you have frost - and we have frost. What is this resort?

But the Whistler disagrees:

- You have less snow, and the frosts are lighter, and the blizzards are more gentle. But the main thing is the mountain ash! Mountain ash is dearer to us than any palms and bananas.

And the White Partridge disagrees:

- I’ll peck at delicious willow buds, I’ll bury my head in the snow. Nourishing, soft, not blowing - why not a resort?

And the white owl disagrees:

- Everything is hidden in the tundra now, and you have both mice and hares. Happy life!

And all the other winterers are nodding their heads and assenting.

- It turns out that I don’t need to cry, but have fun! It turns out that I live all winter at the resort, but I don’t even guess, Magpie is surprised. - Well, miracles!

“That’s right, Magpie!” everyone shouts. “And don’t be sorry about hot winters, you still won’t be able to fly so far on your short wings.” Live better with us!

Quiet in the forest again. Magpie calmed down.

Arriving winterers-resorts took up food. Well, those that are on hot winterings - so far not a word or a breath from them. Until the spring.

Nikolay Sladkov. Forest werewolves

The miraculous in the forest happens imperceptibly, without someone else's eye.

Today: I was waiting at dawn for a woodcock. Dawn was cold, quiet, clean. Tall firs rose at the edge of the forest like black fortress towers. And in the lowland, over the streams and the river, fog hung. Willows drowned in it, like dark pitfalls.

I watched the drowned willows for a long time.

It all felt like something was about to happen!

But nothing happened; fog from the streams slowly flowed down to the river.

"It's strange," I thought, "the fog doesn't rise, as always, but flows down..."

But then a woodcock was heard. A black bird, flapping its wings like a bat, stretched across the green sky. I threw up my photo gun and forgot about the fog.

And when he came to his senses, the fog had already turned into frost! He covered the meadow with white. And how it happened - I overlooked. Woodcock averted his eyes!

Finished pulling woodcocks. The sun appeared. And all the forest dwellers were so happy with him, as if they had not seen him for a long time. And I stared at the sun: it is interesting to watch how a new day is born.

But then I remembered the frost; look, he is no longer in the clearing! The white frost turned into a blue haze; it trembles and flows over the fluffy golden willows. Overlooked again!

And he overlooked how the day was born in the forest.

It's always like this in the forest: let something divert your eyes! And the most wonderful and amazing will happen imperceptibly, without someone else's eyes.