What stories did Mikhail Prishvin write? Fairy tales and stories about nature. Mikhail Prishvin “Gadgets”

Many parents take the choice of children's books quite seriously. Books for children must awaken good feelings in tender children's heads. Therefore, many people choose short stories about nature, its splendor and beauty. Who else, if not M. M. Prishvin, our children love to read, who else could create such wonderful works. Among the huge number of writers, although he doesn’t have many, he did come up with some stories for little children.

He was a man of extraordinary imagination, his children's stories are truly a storehouse of kindness and love. M. Prishvin, like his fairy tales, has long remained an inaccessible author for many modern writers, since he has practically no equal in children's stories.

A naturalist, an expert on the forest, and a remarkable observer of the life of nature is the Russian writer Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin (1873 - 1954). His stories and stories, even the smallest ones, are simple and immediately understandable. The author's skill and ability to convey the immensity of the surrounding nature is truly admirable! Thanks to stories about the nature of Prishvin, children become imbued with a sincere interest in it, cultivating respect for it and its inhabitants.

Small, but filled with extraordinary colors, the stories of Mikhail Prishvin wonderfully convey to us what we so rarely encounter in our time. The beauty of nature, remote forgotten places - all this today is so far from dusty megacities. It’s quite possible that many of us are happy to go hiking in the forest right now, but not everyone will be able to. In this case, let’s open the book of Prishvin’s favorite stories and be transported to beautiful, distant and dear places.

M. Prishvin's stories are intended to be read by both children and adults. Even preschoolers can safely start reading a huge number of fairy tales, stories and short stories. You can read other stories by Prishvin starting from school. And even for the most adults, Mikhail Prishvin left his legacy: his memoirs are distinguished by a very meticulous narration and description of the surrounding atmosphere in the unusually difficult twenties and thirties. They will be of interest to teachers, lovers of memories, historians and even hunters. On our website you can view an online list of Prishvin’s stories and enjoy reading them absolutely free.

Has anyone seen a white rainbow? This happens in the swamps at the most good days. To do this, it is necessary that the fogs rise in the morning, and the sun, when it appears, pierces them with its rays. Then all the fogs gather into one very dense arc, very white, sometimes with a pink tint, sometimes creamy. I love the white rainbow. A white rainbow this morning with one end...

Many admire nature, but few take it to heart, and even those who take it to heart do not often manage to become so close to nature as to feel their own soul in it. January SPRING ROAD Yesterday was a sunny day. The spring of light has begun on the road. The sun's ray warmed, warmed the road, passed...

Lada got sick. A cup of milk stood near her nose, she turned away. They called me. “Lada,” I said, “we need to eat.” She raised her head and beat with the rod. I stroked her. From the affection, life began to sparkle in her eyes. “Eat, Lada,” I repeated and moved the saucer closer. She stretched out her nose to the milk and began to cry. So, through my...

Many parents take the choice of children's books very seriously and carefully. Publications for children should awaken the warmest feelings in the tender souls of children. Therefore, it is best to choose short stories about nature, its greatness and beauty.

A true naturalist, connoisseur of swamps and forests, an excellent observer of the living life of nature is famous writer Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin (1873 – 1954). His stories, even the smallest ones, are simple and understandable. The author’s skill, his manner of conveying all the unsurpassed nature of the surrounding nature is admirable! He describes the sound of the wind, the smells of the forest, the habits of animals and their behavior, the rustling of leaves with such accuracy and authenticity that when reading, you involuntarily find yourself in this environment, experiencing everything along with the writer.

One day I walked through the forest all day and in the evening I returned home with rich booty. I took the heavy bag off my shoulders and began to lay out my belongings on the table. Read...

In one swamp, on a hummock under a willow, wild mallard ducklings hatched. Soon after, their mother led them to the lake along a cow path. I noticed them from a distance, hid behind a tree, and the ducklings came right to my feet. Read...

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

We wandered in the forest in the spring and observed the life of hollow birds: woodpeckers, owls. Suddenly, in the direction where we had previously identified an interesting tree, we heard the sound of a saw. Read...

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

My brother and I always had fun with them when dandelions ripened. It used to be that we were going somewhere on our business, he was in front, I was at the heel. Read...

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

I’ll tell you an incident that happened to me during the hungry year. A young yellow-throated rook got into the habit of flying onto my windowsill. Apparently he was an orphan. Read...

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

My dog puppy is called Romulus, but I prefer to call him Roma or just Romka, and occasionally I call him Roman Vasilich. Read...

All hunters know how difficult it is to teach a dog not to chase animals, cats and hares, but to look only for birds. Read...

A dog, just like a fox and a cat, approaches its prey. And suddenly it freezes. Hunters call this a stance. Read...

Three years ago I was in Zavidovo, the farm of the Military Hunting Society. Gamekeeper Nikolai Kamolov invited me to look at his nephew’s one-year-old pointer dog, Lada, at the forest lodge. Read...

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

I heard in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, from one citizen about a bear and, I admit, I didn’t believe it. But he assured me that in the old days this case was even published in a Siberian magazine under the title: “A man with a bear against wolves.”

Hunting foxes with flags is fun! They will go around the fox, recognize its bed, and by the bushes a mile or two around the sleeping one they will hang a rope with red flags. The fox is very afraid of colored flags and the smell of red, frightened, looking for a way out of the terrible circle. Read...

I got a speck of dust in my eye. While I was taking it out, another speck got into my other eye. Read...

The hazel grouse has two salvations in the snow: the first is to sleep warmly under the snow, and the second is that the snow drags with it to the ground from the trees various seeds for the hazel grouse to eat. Under the snow, the hazel grouse looks for seeds, makes passages there and opens upward for air.

Mikhail Prishvin's short but very meaningful stories vividly convey to us what we so rarely encounter today. The beauty and life of nature, remote unfamiliar places - all this today is so far from dusty and noisy megacities. Maybe many of us would be happy to immediately go on a short trip through the forest, but it won’t work out. Then we’ll open Prishvin’s book of stories and be transported to places far away and desired by our hearts.

Mikhail Prishvin “The Forest Master”

That was on a sunny day, otherwise I’ll tell you what it was like in the forest just before the rain. There was such silence, there was such tension in anticipation of the first drops that it seemed that every leaf, every needle was trying to be the first and catch the first drop of rain. And so it became in the forest, as if each smallest essence received its own, separate expression.

So I come to them at this time, and it seems to me: they all, like people, turned their faces to me and, out of their stupidity, ask me, like God, for rain.

“Come on, old man,” I ordered the rain, “you will make us all tired, go, go, start!”

But this time the rain did not listen to me, and I remembered my new straw hat: it would rain and my hat would disappear. But then, thinking about the hat, I saw an extraordinary tree. It grew, of course, in the shade, and that is why its branches were once down. Now, after selective felling, it found itself in the light, and each of its branches began to grow upward. Probably, the lower branches would have risen over time, but these branches, having come into contact with the ground, sent out roots and clung to them... So under the tree with the branches raised up, a good hut was made at the bottom. Having chopped spruce branches, I sealed it, made an entrance, and laid a seat underneath. And just as I sat down to start a new conversation with the rain, I saw a large tree burning very close to me. I quickly grabbed a spruce branch from the hut, collected it in a broom and, lashing it at the burning place, little by little extinguished the fire before the flames burned through the bark of the tree all around and thereby made it impossible for the movement of sap.

The area around the tree was not burned by a fire, no cows were grazed here, and there could not have been shepherds on whom everyone blames for the fires. Remembering my childhood robber years, I realized that the resin on the tree was most likely set on fire by some boy out of mischief, out of curiosity to see how the resin would burn. Going back to my childhood years, I imagined how pleasant it would be to strike a match and set fire to a tree.

It became clear to me that the pest, when the resin caught fire, suddenly saw me and immediately disappeared somewhere in the nearby bushes. Then, pretending that I was continuing on my way, whistling, I left the place of the fire and, having taken several dozen steps along the clearing, jumped into the bushes and returned to the old place and also hid.

I didn't have to wait long for the robber. A blond boy of about seven or eight years old, with a reddish sunny complexion, bold, open eyes, half naked and with an excellent build, came out of the bush. He looked hostilely in the direction of the clearing where I had gone, picked up a fir cone and, wanting to throw it at me, swung it so much that he even turned around himself.

This didn't bother him; on the contrary, he is like real owner forests, put both hands in his pockets, began to look at the place of the fire and said:

- Come out, Zina, he’s gone!

A girl came out, a little older, a little taller and with a large basket in her hand.

“Zina,” said the boy, “you know what?”

Zina looked at him with large, calm eyes and answered simply:

- No, Vasya, I don’t know.

- Where are you! - said the owner of the forests. “I want to tell you: if that man hadn’t come and put out the fire, then, perhaps, the whole forest would have burned from this tree.” If only we could have seen it then!

- You are a fool! - said Zina.

“It’s true, Zina,” I said, “I thought of something to brag about, a real fool!”

And as soon as I said these words, the perky owner of the forests suddenly, as they say, “fled away.”

And Zina, apparently, did not even think about answering for the robber; she looked at me calmly, only her eyebrows rose a little in surprise.

Seeing such an intelligent girl, I wanted to turn this whole story into a joke, win her over, and then work on the owner of the forests together.

Just at this time, the tension of all living beings waiting for rain reached its extreme.

“Zina,” I said, “look how all the leaves, all the blades of grass are waiting for the rain.” There the hare cabbage even climbed onto the stump to capture the first drops.

The girl liked my joke and smiled graciously at me.

“Well, old man,” I said to the rain, “you will torment us all, start, let’s go!”

And this time the rain obeyed and began to fall. And the girl seriously, thoughtfully focused on me and pursed her lips, as if she wanted to say: “Jokes aside, but still it started to rain.”

“Zina,” I said hastily, “tell me what you have in this big basket?”

She showed: there were two porcini mushrooms. We put my new hat in the basket, covered it with ferns and headed out of the rain to my hut. Having broken some more spruce branches, we covered it well and climbed in.

“Vasya,” the girl shouted. - He’ll be fooling around, come out!

And the owner of the forests, driven by the pouring rain, was not slow to appear.

As soon as the boy sat down next to us and wanted to say something, I raised my index finger and ordered the owner:

- No goo-goo!

And all three of us froze.

It is impossible to convey the delights of being in the forest under a Christmas tree during a warm summer rain. A tufted hazel grouse, driven by the rain, burst into the middle of our dense fir tree and sat down right above the hut. A finch nestled in full view under a branch. The hedgehog has arrived. A hare hobbled past. And for a long time the rain whispered and whispered something to our Christmas tree. And we sat for a long time, and it was as if the real owner of the forests was whispering, whispering, whispering to each of us separately...

Mikhail Prishvin “Dead tree”

When the rain stopped and everything around sparkled, we followed a path made by the feet of passers-by and emerged from the forest. Right at the exit there stood a huge and once mighty tree that had seen more than one generation of people. Now it stood completely dead; it was, as the foresters say, “dead.”

Having looked at this tree, I said to the children:

“Perhaps a passerby, wanting to rest here, stuck an ax into this tree and hung his heavy bag on the ax.” The tree then became ill and began to heal the wound with resin. Or maybe, fleeing from a hunter, a squirrel hid in the dense crown of this tree, and the hunter, in order to drive it out of its shelter, began to bang on the trunk with a heavy log. Sometimes just one blow is enough for a tree to get sick.

And many, many things can happen to a tree, as well as to a person and to any living creature, that can cause illness. Or maybe lightning struck?

Now look around the tree at the traces of fires and understand: people walk along this path, stop here to rest and, despite the ban on lighting fires in the forest, collect wood and set it on fire. To make it ignite faster, they scrape off the resinous crust from the tree. So, little by little, a white ring formed around the tree from the chipping, the upward movement of sap stopped, and the tree withered. Now tell me, who is to blame for the death of a beautiful tree that stood in place for at least two centuries: disease, lightning, bark, woodpeckers?

- Zakorysh! - Vasya said quickly.

And, looking at Zina, he corrected himself:

The children were probably very friendly, and the quick Vasya was used to reading the truth from the face of the calm, smart Zina. So, he probably would have licked the truth from her face this time, but I asked her:

- And you, Zinochka, how do you think, my dear daughter?

The girl put her hand around her mouth, looked at me with intelligent eyes, like at a teacher at school, and answered:

- People are probably to blame.

“People, people are to blame,” I picked up after her.

And, like a real teacher, he told them everything, as I think for myself: that the woodpeckers and the bark are not to blame, because they have neither the human mind nor the conscience that illuminates the guilt in man; that each of us is born a master of nature, but we just have to learn a lot to understand the forest in order to gain the right to manage it and become a real master of the forest.

I didn’t forget to tell you about myself that I still study constantly and without any plan or idea, I don’t interfere with anything in the forest.

Here I did not forget to tell you about my recent discovery of fiery arrows, and how I spared even one cobweb.

After that we left the forest, and this is what happens to me now all the time: in the forest I behave like a student, but I come out of the forest like a teacher.

Mikhail Prishvin “Floors of the Forest”

Birds and animals in the forest have their own floors: mice live in the roots - at the very bottom; various birds, like the nightingale, build their nests right on the ground; blackbirds - even higher, on the bushes; hollow birds - woodpeckers, titmice, owls - even higher; At different heights along the tree trunk and at the very top, predators settle: hawks and eagles.

I once had the opportunity to observe in the forest that they, animals and birds, have floors that are not like our skyscrapers: with us you can always change with someone, with them each breed certainly lives in its own floor.

One day while hunting we came to a clearing with dead birches. It often happens that birch trees grow to a certain age and dry out.

Another tree, having dried out, drops its bark to the ground, and therefore the uncovered wood soon rots and the whole tree falls, but the bark of a birch does not fall; This resinous bark, white on the outside - birch bark - is an impenetrable case for a tree, and a dead tree stands for a long time as if it were alive.

Even when the tree rots and the wood turns into dust, weighed down with moisture, the white birch appears to stand as if alive. But as soon as you give such a tree a good push, it suddenly breaks into heavy pieces and falls. Cutting down such trees is a very fun activity, but also dangerous: a piece of wood, if you don’t dodge it, can hit you hard on the head. But still, we hunters are not very afraid, and when we get to such birches, we begin to destroy them in front of each other.

So we came to a clearing with such birches and brought down a rather tall birch. Falling, in the air it broke into several pieces, and in one of them there was a hollow with a nut nest. The little chicks were not injured when the tree fell; they only fell out of the hollow together with their nest. Naked chicks, covered with feathers, opened their wide red mouths and, mistaking us for their parents, squeaked and asked us for a worm. We dug up the ground, found worms, gave them a snack, they ate, swallowed and squeaked again.

Very soon the parents arrived, little chickadees, with white, plump cheeks and worms in their mouths, and sat down on nearby trees.

“Hello, dears,” we told them, “a misfortune has happened; we didn't want this.

The Gadgets couldn’t answer us, but, most importantly, they couldn’t understand what had happened, where the tree had gone, where their children had disappeared. They were not at all afraid of us, they fluttered from branch to branch in great anxiety.

- Yes, here they are! — we showed them the nest on the ground. - Here they are, listen to how they squeak, how they call you!

The Gadgets didn’t listen to anything, they fussed, worried, and didn’t want to go down and go beyond their floor.

“Or maybe,” we said to each other, “they are afraid of us.” Let's hide! - And they hid.

No! The chicks squealed, the parents squeaked, fluttered, but did not go down.

We guessed then that the birds, unlike ours in skyscrapers, cannot change floors: now it just seems to them that the entire floor with their chicks has disappeared.

“Oh-oh-oh,” said my companion, “what fools you are!”

It became pitiful and funny: so nice and with wings, but they don’t want to understand anything.

Then we took that large piece in which the nest was located, broke the top of a neighboring birch tree and placed our piece with the nest on it exactly at the same height as the destroyed floor.

We didn't have to wait long in ambush: a few minutes later the happy parents met their chicks.

Mikhail Prishvin "Old Starling"

The starlings hatched and flew away, and their place in the birdhouse has long been taken by sparrows. But still, on a nice dewy morning, an old starling flies to the same apple tree and sings.

That's strange!

It would seem that everything is already over, the female hatched the chicks long ago, the cubs grew up and flew away...

Why does the old starling fly every morning to the apple tree where he spent his spring and sing?

Mikhail Prishvin “Spiderweb”

Suddenly I noticed: from side to side across the clearing, from left to right, some small fiery arrows were constantly flying here and there. As always in such cases, I focused my attention on the arrows and soon noticed that the arrows were moving with the wind, from left to right.

I also noticed that on the trees, their usual shoots-legs came out of their orange shirts and the wind blew away these no longer needed shirts from each tree in a great multitude: each new paw on the tree was born in an orange shirt, and now as many paws, as many shirts flew off - thousands, millions...

I saw how one of these flying shirts met one of the flying arrows and suddenly hung in the air, and the arrow disappeared.

I realized then that the shirt was hanging on a cobweb that was invisible to me, and this gave me the opportunity to approach the cobweb point-blank and fully understand the phenomenon of the arrows: the wind blows the cobweb towards a sunbeam, the shiny cobweb flashes from the light, and this makes it seem as if the arrow is flying.

At the same time, I realized that there were a great many of these cobwebs stretched across the clearing, and, therefore, if I walked, I tore them apart, without knowing it, by the thousands.

It seemed to me that I had such an important goal - to learn in the forest to be its real master - that I had the right to tear all the cobwebs and force all the forest spiders to work for my goal. But for some reason I spared this cobweb that I noticed: after all, it was she who, thanks to the shirt hanging on it, helped me unravel the phenomenon of the arrows.

Was I cruel, tearing apart thousands of webs?

Not at all: I didn’t see them - my cruelty was a consequence of my physical strength.

Was I merciful, bending my weary back to save the web? I don’t think so: in the forest I behave like a student, and if I could, I wouldn’t touch anything.

I attribute the salvation of this web to the action of my concentrated attention.

Mikhail Prishvin “My Motherland” (From childhood memories)

My mother got up early, before the sun. One day I also got up before the sun to set a snare for quails at dawn. My mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in a clay pot and always covered with a ruddy foam on top, and under this foam it was incredibly tasty, and it made the tea wonderful.

This treat changed my life for the better: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning getting up that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then in the city I got up early, and now I always write early, when I’m all animal and flora awakens and also begins to work in its own way. And often, often I think: what if we rose with the sun for our work! How much health, joy, life and happiness would then come to people!

After tea I went hunting for quails, starlings, nightingales, grasshoppers, turtle doves, and butterflies. I didn’t have a gun then, and even now a gun is not necessary in my hunting.

My hunt was then and now - in finds. It was necessary to find something in nature that I had not yet seen, and perhaps no one had ever encountered this in their life...

My farm was large, there were countless paths.

My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is a storehouse of the sun with great treasures of life. Not only do these treasures need to be protected, they must be opened and shown.

Fish need clean water - we will protect our reservoirs.

There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, and mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, and mountains.

For fish - water, for birds - air, for animals - forest, steppe, mountains. But a person needs a homeland. And protecting nature means protecting the homeland.

Mikhail Prishvin “Hot Hour”

It is melting in the fields, but in the forest the snow still lies untouched in dense pillows on the ground and on the branches of trees, and the trees stand in captivity in the snow. Thin trunks bent to the ground, frozen and waiting from hour to hour for release. Finally this hot hour comes, the happiest for motionless trees and terrible for animals and birds.

The hot hour has come, the snow is melting imperceptibly, and in the complete silence of the forest, a spruce branch seems to move and sway by itself. And just under this tree, covered with its wide branches, a hare sleeps. In fear, he gets up and listens: the twig cannot move by itself. The hare is scared, and then before his eyes another, third branch moved and, freed from the snow, jumped. The hare darted, ran, sat down again and listened: where is the trouble, where should he run?

And as soon as he stood on his hind legs, he just looked around, how he would jump up in front of his very nose, how he would straighten up, how a whole birch tree would sway, how a Christmas tree branch would wave nearby!

And it went and went: branches were jumping everywhere, breaking out of the snow captivity, the whole forest was moving around, the whole forest was moving. And the maddened hare rushes about, and every animal gets up, and the bird flies away from the forest.

Mikhail Prishvin “Conversation of trees”

The buds open, chocolate, with green tails, and on each green beak hangs a large transparent drop. You take one bud, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.

You sniff a bird cherry bud and immediately remember how you used to climb up a tree for berries, shiny, black-varnished. I ate handfuls of them right with the seeds, but nothing but good came from it.

The evening is warm, and there is such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And then the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a white birch with another white birch echoes from afar; a young aspen came out into the clearing, like a green candle, and called the same green aspen candle to itself, waving a twig; The bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds. If you compare with us, we echo sounds, but they have aroma.

Mikhail Prishvin “The Forest Master”

So I come to them at this time, and it seems to me: they all, like people, turned their faces to me and, out of their stupidity, ask me, like God, for rain.

“Come on, old man,” I ordered the rain, “you will make us all tired, go, go, start!”

- Come out, Zina, he’s gone!

A girl came out, a little older, a little taller and with a large basket in her hand.

“Zina,” said the boy, “you know what?”

Zina looked at him with large, calm eyes and answered simply:

- No, Vasya, I don’t know.

- You are a fool! - said Zina.

“It’s true, Zina,” I said, “I thought of something to brag about, a real fool!”

And as soon as I said these words, the perky owner of the forests suddenly, as they say, “fled away.”

And Zina, apparently, did not even think about answering for the robber; she looked at me calmly, only her eyebrows rose a little in surprise.

Seeing such an intelligent girl, I wanted to turn this whole story into a joke, win her over, and then work on the owner of the forests together.

Just at this time, the tension of all living beings waiting for rain reached its extreme.

“Zina,” I said, “look how all the leaves, all the blades of grass are waiting for the rain.” There the hare cabbage even climbed onto the stump to capture the first drops.

The girl liked my joke and smiled graciously at me.

“Well, old man,” I said to the rain, “you will torment us all, start, let’s go!”

And this time the rain obeyed and began to fall. And the girl seriously, thoughtfully focused on me and pursed her lips, as if she wanted to say: “Jokes aside, but still it started to rain.”

“Zina,” I said hastily, “tell me what you have in this big basket?”

“Vasya,” the girl shouted. - He’ll be fooling around, come out!

And the owner of the forests, driven by the pouring rain, was not slow to appear.

As soon as the boy sat down next to us and wanted to say something, I raised my index finger and ordered the owner:

- No goo-goo!

And all three of us froze.

Mikhail Prishvin “Dead tree”

Having looked at this tree, I said to the children:

And many, many things can happen to a tree, as well as to a person and to any living creature, that can cause illness. Or maybe lightning struck?

Something started, and the tree began to fill its wound with resin. When the tree began to get sick, the worm, of course, found out about it. Zakorysh climbed under the bark and began to sharpen there. In his own way, the woodpecker somehow found out about the worm and, in search of a thorn, began to chisel a tree here and there. Will you find it soon? Otherwise, it may be that while the woodpecker is chiseling and chiseling so that he could grab it, the bark will advance at this time, and the forest carpenter must chisel again. And not just one bark, and not just one woodpecker either. This is how woodpeckers peck at a tree, and the tree, weakening, fills everything with resin. Now look around the tree at the traces of fires and understand: people walk along this path, stop here to rest and, despite the ban on lighting fires in the forest, collect wood and set it on fire. To make it ignite faster, they scrape off the resinous crust from the tree. So, little by little, a white ring formed around the tree from the chipping, the upward movement of sap stopped, and the tree withered. Now tell me, who is to blame for the death of a beautiful tree that stood in place for at least two centuries: disease, lightning, bark, woodpeckers?

- Zakorysh! - Vasya said quickly.

And, looking at Zina, he corrected himself:

- And you, Zinochka, how do you think, my dear daughter?

The girl put her hand around her mouth, looked at me with intelligent eyes, like at a teacher at school, and answered:

- People are probably to blame.

“People, people are to blame,” I picked up after her.

I didn’t forget to tell you about myself that I still study constantly and without any plan or idea, I don’t interfere with anything in the forest.

Here I did not forget to tell you about my recent discovery of fiery arrows, and how I spared even one cobweb. After that we left the forest, and this is what happens to me now all the time: in the forest I behave like a student, but I come out of the forest like a teacher.

Mikhail Prishvin “Floors of the Forest”

One day while hunting we came to a clearing with dead birches. It often happens that birch trees grow to a certain age and dry out.

Even when the tree rots and the wood turns into dust, weighed down with moisture, the white birch looks as if it were alive.

But as soon as you give such a tree a good push, it suddenly breaks into heavy pieces and falls. Cutting down such trees is a very fun activity, but also dangerous: a piece of wood, if you don’t dodge it, can hit you hard on the head.

But still, we hunters are not very afraid, and when we get to such birches, we begin to destroy them in front of each other.

Naked chicks, covered with feathers, opened their wide red mouths and, mistaking us for their parents, squeaked and asked us for a worm. We dug up the ground, found worms, gave them a snack, they ate, swallowed and squeaked again.

Very soon the parents arrived, titmouse chickadees with white, plump cheeks and worms in their mouths, and sat down on nearby trees.

“Hello, dears,” we told them, “a misfortune has happened; we didn't want this.

- Yes, here they are! — we showed them the nest on the ground. - Here they are, listen to how they squeak, how they call you!

The Gadgets didn’t listen to anything, they fussed, worried, and didn’t want to go down and go beyond their floor.

“Or maybe,” we said to each other, “they are afraid of us.” Let's hide! - And they hid.

No! The chicks squealed, the parents squeaked, fluttered, but did not go down.

We guessed then that the birds, unlike ours in skyscrapers, cannot change floors: now it just seems to them that the entire floor with their chicks has disappeared.

“Oh-oh-oh,” said my companion, “what fools you are!”

It became pitiful and funny: so nice and with wings, but they don’t want to understand anything.

Then we took that large piece in which the nest was located, broke the top of a neighboring birch tree and placed our piece with the nest on it exactly at the same height as the destroyed floor.

We didn't have to wait long in ambush: a few minutes later the happy parents met their chicks.

Mikhail Prishvin "Old Starling"

The starlings hatched and flew away, and their place in the birdhouse has long been taken by sparrows. But still, on a nice dewy morning, an old starling flies to the same apple tree and sings.

That's strange! It would seem that everything is already over, the female hatched the chicks long ago, the cubs grew up and flew away... Why does the old starling fly every morning to the apple tree where he spent his spring and sing?

Mikhail Prishvin “Spiderweb”

It was a sunny day, so bright that the rays penetrated even the darkest forest. I walked forward along such a narrow clearing that some trees on one side bent over to the other, and this tree whispered something with its leaves to another tree on the other side. The wind was very weak, but it was still there: the aspens were babbling above, and below, as always, the ferns were swaying importantly. Suddenly I noticed: from side to side across the clearing, from left to right, some small fiery arrows were constantly flying here and there. As always in such cases, I focused my attention on the arrows and soon noticed that the arrows were moving with the wind, from left to right.

I saw how one of these flying shirts met one of the flying arrows and suddenly hung in the air, and the arrow disappeared. I realized then that the shirt was hanging on a cobweb that was invisible to me, and this gave me the opportunity to approach the cobweb point-blank and fully understand the phenomenon of the arrows: the wind blows the cobweb towards a sunbeam, the shiny cobweb flashes from the light, and this makes it seem as if the arrow is flying. At the same time, I realized that there were a great many of these cobwebs stretched across the clearing, and, therefore, if I walked, I tore them apart, without knowing it, by the thousands.

Was I cruel, tearing apart thousands of webs? Not at all: I didn’t see them - my cruelty was a consequence of my physical strength.

Was I merciful, bending my weary back to save the web? I don’t think so: in the forest I behave like a student, and if I could, I wouldn’t touch anything.

I attribute the salvation of this web to the action of my concentrated attention.

Mikhail Prishvin “Flappers”

The green pipes are growing, growing; heavy mallards come and go from the swamps here, waddling, and behind them, whistling, are black ducklings with yellow paws between the hummocks behind the queen, as if between mountains.

We are sailing on a boat across the lake into the reeds to check how many ducks there will be this year and how they, young ones, are growing: how do they fly now, or are they still just diving, or running away through the water, flapping their short wings. These flappers are a very entertaining crowd. To the right of us, in the reeds, there is a green wall and to the left a green one, but we are driving along a narrow strip free of aquatic plants. Ahead of us, two of the smallest teals covered in black fluff swim out onto the water from the reeds and, when they see us, they begin to run away as fast as they can. But, pressing our oar hard into the bottom, we gave our boat a very fast move and began to overtake them. I was about to reach out my hand to grab one, but suddenly both little teals disappeared under the water. We waited a long time for them to emerge, when suddenly we noticed them in the reeds. They hid there, sticking their noses out between the reeds. Their mother, the teal, flew around us all the time, and very quietly - sort of like what happens when a duck, deciding to go down to the water, at the very last moment before contacting the water, seems to stand in the air on its legs.

After this incident with the little chiryats, a mallard duckling appeared in front, on the nearest reach, very large, almost as big as the womb. We were sure that such a big one could fly perfectly, so we hit it with an oar to make it fly. But, it’s true, he hasn’t tried to fly yet and took off from us like a clapper.

We also set off after him and began to quickly overtake him. His situation was much worse than those little ones, because the place here was so shallow that he had nowhere to dive. Several times, in final despair, he tried to peck his nose at the water, but land appeared there, and he was only wasting time. During one of these attempts, our boat caught up with him, I extended my hand...

At this moment of final danger, the duckling gathered his strength and suddenly flew. But this was his first flight, he did not yet know how to control it. He flew in exactly the same way as we, having learned to sit on a bicycle, let it go with the movement of our legs, but are still afraid to turn the steering wheel, and therefore the first ride is all straight, straight until we bump into something - and crash on its side. So the duckling kept flying straight, and in front of him was a wall of reeds. He did not yet know how to soar over the reeds, he caught his paws and fell down.

This is exactly what happened to me when I was jumping, jumping on a bicycle, falling, falling and suddenly sat down and with great speed rushed straight towards the cow...

Mikhail Prishvin “Golden Meadow”

My brother and I always had fun with them when dandelions ripened. It used to be that we were going somewhere to do our fishing - he was in front, I was in the heel.

“Seryozha!” - I’ll call him in a businesslike manner. He will look back, and I will blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, like a gape, he also makes a fuss. And so we picked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery. We lived in a village, in front of our window there was a meadow, all golden with many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: “Very beautiful! Golden meadow." One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if our fingers on the side of the palm were yellow and, clenching into a fist, we would close the yellow one. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw the dandelions opening their palms, and this made the meadow turn golden again.

Since then, dandelion has become one of the most interesting colors, because dandelions went to bed with us children, and got up with us.

My young friends!

We are the masters of our nature, and for us she is a storehouse of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only to protect these treasures - they need to be opened and shown. Fish need clean water - We will protect our water bodies.

In the forests, steppes, mountains there are various valuable animals - We will protect our forests, steppes, mountains. For fish - water, for birds - air, for animals - forest, steppe, mountains. And protecting nature means protecting the homeland.

Mikhail Prishvin

The entire life of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was devoted to nature and connected with it. He loved the forest and all living things so much that even in ordinary hare cabbage he saw something interesting: under the hot sun it closed, but when it rained it opened up so that it would receive more rain. It's like she's a sentient being.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was born on February 4, 1873 on the Khrushchevo estate in the Oryol province into a merchant family.

Mikhail Dmitrievich Prishvin, the writer's father, inherited a rich inheritance, which he lost at cards. Prishvin's mother, Maria Ivanovna, was left alone with five children and a mortgaged estate. Despite everything, she managed to improve the situation and give her children a decent education.

Mikhail received his first education at a village school. Then he studied at the Yeletsk boys' gymnasium, from where he was expelled “for free-thinking” and a conflict with a geography teacher. Only 10 years later, having passed the exams for the seventh grade of a real school as an external student, Prishvin continued his education at the Riga Polytechnic.

In 1897, he was arrested for participating in a revolutionary student circle of Marxists, and was imprisoned for a year. After leaving prison in 1900, he went abroad, where he studied at the University of Leipzig. There he received a diploma in agronomist. Returning to his homeland, Mikhail worked as an agronomist. But he soon left this profession and became interested in folklore and ethnography, becoming a correspondent for the newspapers Den, Russkie Vedomosti, and Morning of Russia.

Prishvin spent most of his life traveling and hunting. He traveled and walked around almost the entire country, observing and studying nature. The writer has repeatedly visited the Far North, the Far East, the steppes of Kazakhstan, the mountains of Crimea, the dense Trans-Volga forests and old oak groves on the free Oka. All the travel impressions he recorded then formed the basis of his books.

“The singer of Russian nature,” is how writer K. Paustovsky briefly described Prishvin. Indeed, all of Mikhail Prishvin’s works are imbued with the writer’s special attitude towards the nature around him, and they are presented in a very beautiful linguistic form. How poetic is his first book - “In the Land of Unfrightened Birds” (1907).

The pristine beauty of nature became his theme for many years. He set off “For the Magic Kolobok” (1908), making “a journey to a country without a name, without territory, where we all run in childhood,” where he lives untouched ancient Rus' with its eternal fairy-tale heroes.

Mikhail Mikhailovich was married twice - from his first marriage to the peasant woman Efrosinya he had three sons. In 1940, he married Valeria Liorko, who became Prishvin’s faithful companion until the end of his life. After his death, Liorko worked with her husband's archives.

I would like to note thatnamed after the writer:

– peak2782 m high in the spurs of the Main Caucasus Range and the nearbymountain lake;

– capeon the eastern tip of Iturup Island in the Kuril ridge;

– streetsin Moscow, Donetsk, Lipetsk, Yelets and Orel.

Monuments were erected to the writer in the city of Yelets (author - N. Kravchenko) (photo5), in the village of Palna-Mikhailovka (sculptor - Yu.D. Grishko)

in Sergiev Posad (sculptor - Yu. Khmelevsky)

All the writer’s work is permeated with love for nature and admiration for it. When you read Prishvin's stories, it seems that the writer took you by the hand and led you along; you see, as if with your own eyes, everything that is written in them, you learn to love and understand your native nature even better.

Do you want to know what makes a meadow golden? Readstory« Golden luG".

Golden meadow.

My brother and I always had fun with them when dandelions ripened. It used to be that we would go somewhere on our business - he was ahead, I was at the heel.

Seryozha! - I’ll call him in a businesslike manner. He will look back, and I will blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, like a gape, he also makes a fuss. And so we picked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.

We lived in a village, in front of our window there was a meadow, all golden with many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.

One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers on the side of your palm were yellow and, clenching into a fist, we would close the yellow one. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw the dandelions opening their palms, and this made the meadow turn golden again.

Since then, dandelion has become one of the most interesting flowers for us, because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.

And from the story “The Hedgehog” you will learn about the habits of the hedgehog and how it settled in a human home.

Hedgehog.

R I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He noticed me too, curled up and started tapping: knock-knock-knock. It was very similar, as if a car was walking in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and pushed his needles into the boot.

Oh, you're like that with me! - I said and pushed him into the stream with the tip of my boot.

Instantly, the hedgehog turned around in the water and swam to the shore, like a small pig, only instead of bristles there were needles on its back. I took a stick, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and took it home.

I had a lot of mice. I heard that the hedgehog catches them, and I decided: let him live with me and catch mice.

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

When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! - the hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that the moon had risen in the forest: when there is a moon, hedgehogs love to run through forest clearings.

And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.

I took the pipe, lit a cigarette and blew a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: both the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked: he darted between them, sniffing and scratching the backs of my boots with needles.

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

I always sleep very lightly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit the candle and only noticed how the hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and I myself did not sleep, thinking:

“Why did the hedgehog need a newspaper?” Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; he spun around near it, made noise, made noise, and finally managed to: somehow put a corner of the newspaper on his thorns and dragged it, huge, into corner.

I light a candle, and what do you think? A hedgehog is running around the room, and there is an apple on its thorns. He ran to the nest, put it there and ran to the corner after another, and in the corner there was a bag of apples and it fell over. So the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and ran again, dragging another apple on the thorns into the nest.

So the hedgehog settled down to live with me. And now, when drinking tea, I will certainly bring it to my table and either pour milk into a saucer for him to drink, or give him some buns for him to eat.

These and many other secrets of nature and animals will be revealed by reading the wonderful works of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin.

A in library No. 16 “Mayak” on Kerchenskaya street, 6 you can look into the “Literary Chest” - a series of exhibitions and events dedicated to writers and book celebrants of 2018.

In this “Literary Chest” you will find an exhibition of books “Singer of Russian Nature - Mikhail Prishvin”. It invites readers to get acquainted with the works of M.M. Prishvin and discover the beauty of nature and the treasures of the forest, feel the warmth and love with which the author talks about simple things. These books teach careful attitude to all living things and will be of interest not only to children, but also to adults.

Tatiana Volodkina,