Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov wrote a lot and simply about the life of peasants. He did not ignore the village children, he wrote for them and about them. Little heroes appear in Nekrasov’s works as fully formed personalities: brave, inquisitive, dexterous. At the same time, they are simple and open.

The writer knew the life of serfs well: at any time of the year hard work from morning to evening, lordly showdowns and punishments, oppression and humiliation. Carefree childhood passed very quickly.

The poem “Peasant Children” is special. In this work, the author managed to reflect reality and naturalness. I used one of my favorite techniques - time travel. To get acquainted with a bright character, little Vlas, the writer takes the reader from the summer to the winter cold, and then returns him to the summer village.

Poem idea

The poet was prompted to write this poem by chance. This work is biographical, there is no fiction in it.

Just starting work, the writer had the idea to call his work “Children’s Comedy”. But during the work, when the verse turned from a humorous story into a lyric-epic poem, the name had to be changed.

It all happened in the summer of 1861, when a successful writer came to his village of Greshnevo to relax and go hunting. Hunting was Nikolai Alekseevich’s real passion, inherited from his father.

On their estate, where little Kolya grew up, there was a huge kennel. So on this trip the writer was accompanied by the dog Fingal. The hunter and his dog wandered through the swamps for a long time and, tired, most likely went to the house of Gavril Yakovlevich Zakharov, which stood on the Chaudet. The hunter took a break in the barn and fell asleep on the hay.

The hunter's presence was discovered by the village children, who were afraid to come close, but out of curiosity could not pass by.

This meeting brought back memories of Nikolai Alekseevich’s own childhood. Indeed, despite his noble origins, and his father’s prohibitions not to hang out with village children, he was very friendly with the peasants. I went with them to the forest, swam in the river, and took part in fist fights.

And even now, the grown-up Nekrasov was very attached to his native land and its people. In his thoughts about destinies ordinary people, he often thought about the future and about the children who would live in this future.

After this meeting with the village tomboys, he was inspired to write a poem, which turned into a whole poem, calling his work simply “Peasant Children.”

The work on creating the poem lasted only two days. Afterwards the author made only a few small additions.

✔ This is one of the writer’s works where human grief does not overflow.

✔ On the contrary, the poem is imbued with peace and happiness, albeit short-lived.

✔ The poet does not paint illusions about the future of the children, but also does not burden the verse with too sad predictions.

Storyline

The acquaintance of the main characters occurs by chance, at a time when the awakened hunter enjoys unity with nature, its polyphony, in the form of bird calls.

I'm in the village again. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp,
I wandered into the barn and fell asleep deeply.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
The rays of the sun look cheerful.
The dove coos; flew over the roof,
The young rooks are calling;
Some other bird is also flying -
I recognized the crow just by the shadow;
Chu! some kind of whisper... but here’s a line
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed together like flowers in a field.
There is so much peace, freedom and affection in them,
There is so much holy kindness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched my soul...
Chu! whisper again!

The poet is touched with trepidation and love by meeting the little ones, does not want to scare them away and quietly listens to their babble.
Meanwhile, the guys begin to discuss the hunter. They have big doubts: is this the master? After all, bars don't wear beards, but this one has a beard. Yes, someone noticed that:

And it’s clear that it’s not the master: how he rode from the swamp,
So next to Gavrila...

That's right, not a master! Although he has a watch, a gold chain, a gun, and a big dog. Probably a master after all!

While the little one is looking at and discussing the master, the poet himself breaks away from storyline and is transferred first to his memories and friendships with the same uneducated, but open and honest peasants in his childhood. He remembers all kinds of pranks that they did together.

He remembers the road that passed under his house. Who hasn't walked along it?

We had a long road:
People of working class scurried about
There are no numbers on it.
Vologda ditch digger,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller goes to the monastery
On the eve of the holiday he is ready to pray.

Here the walkers sat down to rest. And curious children could get their first lessons. The peasants had no other training, and this communication became for them a natural school of life.

Under our thick old elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Some people will play around, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok and will reach Kazan"
Chukhna will imitate, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse you with a fairy tale, and tell you a parable.

Here the children received their first labor skills.

The worker will arrange, lay out the shells -
Planes, files, chisels, knives:
“Look, little devils!” And the children are happy
How you saw, how you fooled - show them everything.
A passerby will fall asleep to his jokes,
Guys get to work - sawing and planing!
If they use a saw, you can’t sharpen it in a day!
They break the drill and run away in fear.
It happened that whole days flew by here, -
Like a new passerby, there's a new story...

The poet is so immersed in memories that the reader understands how pleasant and close everything he talks about is to the narrator.

What the hunter doesn’t remember. He floats through the memories of his childhood, like a stormy river. Here you can go mushroom picking, swim in the river, and interesting finds in the form of a hedgehog or a snake.

Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the laundry,
Who is babysitting his sister, two-year-old Glashka,
Who carries a bucket of kvass to reap,
And he, tying his shirt under his throat,
Mysteriously draws something in the sand;
That one got stuck in a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath,
Everything is white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket -
She caught it, jumped up and rode it.
And is it her, born under the sunny heat
And brought home from the field in an apron,
Afraid of your humble horse?..

The poet gradually introduces the reader to the worries and anxieties of the life of village workers. But being moved by a beautiful summer picture shows its attractive, so to speak, elegant side. In this part of the work, Nikolai Alekseevich describes in detail the process of growing bread.

- Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot,
It's time to get to work, dear! -
But even labor will turn out first
To Vanyusha with his elegant side:
He sees his father fertilizing the field,
Like throwing grain into loose ground,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain;
The ready harvest will be cut with sickles,
They will tie them up in sheaves and take them to Riga,
They dry it out, they beat and beat with flails,
At the mill they grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he runs more willingly after his father.
Will they wind up the hay: “Climb up, little shooter!”

The most striking character

Many readers who are unfamiliar with Nekrasov’s work consider an excerpt from the poem “Frost, Red Nose” by a small peasant to be a separate work.

Of course, this is no coincidence. After all, this part of the poem has its own introduction, main part and ending, in the form of the author’s reasoning.

One day, in the cold winter season,
I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold.
I see it's slowly going uphill
A horse carrying a cart of brushwood.
And, walking importantly, in decorous calm,
A man leads a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a short sheepskin coat,
In big mittens... and he's as small as a fingernail!
- Great, lad! - “Go past!”
- You’re too formidable, as I can see!
Where did the firewood come from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, chops, and I take it away.”
(A woodcutter’s ax was heard in the forest.)
- What, does your father have a big family?
“The family is big, but two people
Just men: my father and I...”
- So there it is! What is your name? - “Vlas”.
- How old are you? - “The sixth year has passed...
Well, dead! - the little one shouted in a deep voice,
He pulled the reins and walked faster.
The sun was shining on this picture so much,
The child was so hilariously small
It was as if it was all cardboard,
As if in children's theater I got it!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And wood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow lying up to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian...

The narrator was surprised and discouraged by what he saw. The boy was so tiny to perform a completely adult, and male work, that it was etched in his memory and eventually found its reflection in his work.

To the reader’s surprise, he does not lament or shed tears over the child’s difficult childhood. The poet admires the little man and tries to show him from all sides.

The tiny assistant, realizing his importance, immediately declares that he has no time to stop and start conversations, he is fulfilling an important mission - together with his father, he supplies the family with firewood. He proudly places himself next to his father - men: my father and me. A smart child knows how old he is, can handle a horse, and most importantly, he is not afraid of work.

Return to storyline

Returning from his memories, Nekrasov turns his attention to the urchins who continue to secretly attack his hideout. He mentally wishes for them to see their land always as attractive as it is now.

Play, children! Grow in freedom!
That's why you were given a wonderful childhood,
To love this meager field forever,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your centuries-old inheritance,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the depths of your native land!..

The narrator decided to please and entertain the little one. He begins to give various commands to his dog. The dog eagerly follows all the orders of its owner. The children are no longer hiding, they happily perceive the performance that the master has given them.

All participants like this kind of communication: the hunter, the children, the dog. There is no longer any mistrust and tension described at the beginning of the acquaintance.

But then the summer rain came. The barefoot little girl ran into the village. And the poet can only admire this living picture once again.

The meaning of the poem "Peasant Children"

It must be said that the poem was written in the year of the abolition of serfdom. At this time, the issue of educating peasant children was very animatedly discussed at the government level. There was active talk about organizing schools in rural areas.

Writers also did not stand aside. One after another, publications were published about life, way of life and education, or rather, the lack of education among the people. Some authors did not have information about rural life, but also actively offered their views on the problem. Nekrasov easily stopped such limited ideas about the peasant way of life.

It is not surprising that on this wave “Peasant Children” became very popular. The poem was published in the fall of 1861.

The educational process in the villages progressed very poorly. Often the progressive intelligentsia took a region into their own hands and supervised it at their own expense.

Nikolai Alekseevich was such an innovator. He built a school with his own money, purchased textbooks, and hired teachers. He was helped in many ways by the priest Ivan Grigorievich Zykov. Thus, the children received the opportunity for primary education. True, at first education was optional. Parents themselves decided how much their child should study and how much they should help around the house. Considering this circumstance, the educational process in Tsarist Russia progressed very slowly.

Nekrasov is a true people's servant. His life is an example of selfless devotion to ordinary Russian people.

I'm in the village again. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp,
I wandered into the barn and fell asleep deeply.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
The rays of the sun look cheerful.
The dove coos; flying over the roof,
The young rooks are screaming,
Some other bird is also flying -
I recognized the crow just by the shadow;
Chu! some kind of whisper... but here’s a line
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed together like flowers in a field.
There is so much peace, freedom and affection in them,
There is so much holy kindness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched my soul...
Chu! whisper again!

Second

And the master, they said!..

Third

Be quiet, you devils!

Second

A bar doesn't have a beard - it's a mustache.

First

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And look, there’s a watch on the hat!

Fifth

Hey, important thing!

Sixth

And the gold chain...

Seventh

Is tea expensive?

Eighth

How the sun burns!

Ninth

And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs from the tongue.

Fifth

Gun! look at this: the trunk is double,
Carved locks...

Third
with fear

Fourth

Shut up, nothing! Let's wait a little longer, Grisha!

Third

Will kill...

My spies got scared
And they rushed away: when they heard the man,
So sparrows fly from the chaff in a flock.
I fell silent, squinted - they appeared again,
Little eyes flicker in the cracks.
What happened to me - they marveled at everything
And my verdict was pronounced:
“What kind of hunting is this goose doing?
I would lie on the stove!
And it’s clear that he’s not a master: as he rode from the swamp,
So next to Gavrila...” - “If he hears, be silent!”

O dear rogues! Who has seen them often?
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a “low kind of people,” -
I still have to confess openly,
That I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
God bless your spoiled children.
Happy people! No science, no bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I made mushroom raids with them:
I dug up leaves, rummaged through stumps,
I tried to spot a mushroom place,
And in the morning I couldn’t find it for anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down and grabbed it at once
Snake! I jumped: the sting hurt!
Savosya laughs: “I just got caught!”
But then we destroyed them quite a lot
And they laid them in a row on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for exploits of glory,
We had a long road:
People of working class scurried about
There are no numbers on it.
Vologda ditch digger,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller goes to the monastery
On the eve of the holiday he is ready to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Some people play around, they just keep it up -
It will start from Volochok and will reach Kazan!
Chukhna will imitate, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse you with a fairy tale, and tell you a parable:
"Goodbye, guys! Try your best
To please the Lord God in everything:
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone else,
Yes, I once decided to murmur against God, -
Since then, Vavilo has become seedy and bankrupt,
No honey from the bees, no harvest from the earth,
And there was only one happiness for him,
That there was a lot of hair growing out of my nose..."
The worker will arrange, lay out the shells -
Planes, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you fooled - show them everything.
A passerby will fall asleep to his jokes,
Guys get to work - sawing and planing!
If they use a saw, you can’t sharpen it in a day!
They break the drill and run away in fear.
It happened that whole days flew by here -
Like a new passerby, there's a new story...

Wow, it’s hot!.. We were picking mushrooms until noon.
They came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river: they jumped off in a crowd,
And brown heads above a deserted river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with both laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game...
And the sun beats down on them with the midday heat.
Home, kids! it's time for lunch.
We're back. Everyone has a basket full,
And how many stories! Got caught with a scythe
We caught a hedgehog and got a little lost
And they saw a wolf... oh, what a scary one!
The hedgehog is offered flies and boogers,
I gave him my root milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...

Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the laundry,
Who is babysitting his two-year-old sister Glashka,
Who carries a bucket of kvass to reap,
And he, tying his shirt under his throat,
Mysteriously draws something in the sand;
That one got stuck in a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath, -
Everything is white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket:
She caught it, jumped up and rode it.
And is it her, born under the sunny heat
And brought home from the field in an apron,
Afraid of your humble horse?..

The mushroom time has not yet left,
Look - everyone’s lips are so black,
They filled the ears: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, and nuts!
A childish cry echoed
From morning until night it thunders through the forests.
Scared by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the black grouse take off, cooing to her chicks?
If the little hare jumps up - sodomy, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a faded wing
I was messing around in the bush... well, the poor guy feels bad!
The living one is dragged to the village in triumph...

“That’s enough, Vanyusha! You’ve been walking a lot,
It's time to get to work, dear!"
But even labor will turn out first
To Vanyusha with his elegant side:
He sees his father fertilizing the field,
Like throwing grain into loose soil.
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain.
The ready harvest will be cut with sickles,
They will tie them up in sheaves and take them to Riga,
They dry it out, they beat and beat with flails,
At the mill they grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he runs more willingly after his father.
Will they wind up the sensa: “Climb up, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king...

However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
So, we have to wrap it up by the way
The other side is the medal.
Let's say peasant child free
Growing up without learning anything
But he will grow up, if God wants,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows the forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But the midges eat it mercilessly,
But he is familiar with the work early...

One day, in the cold winter season
I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold.
I see it's slowly going uphill
A horse carrying a cart of brushwood.
And walking importantly, in decorous calm,
A man leads a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a short sheepskin coat,
In big mittens... and he's as small as a fingernail!
“Great guy!” - “Go past!”
- “You’re so formidable, as I can see!
Where did the firewood come from?" - "From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, chops, and I take it away."
(A woodcutter’s ax was heard in the forest.)
“What, does your father have a big family?”
- “The family is big, two people
Just men: my father and I..."
- “So that’s it! What’s your name?” - "Vlas."
- “What year are you?” - “The sixth year has passed...
Well, she’s dead!” the little one shouted in a deep voice,
He pulled the reins and walked faster.
The sun was shining on this picture so much,
The child was so hilariously small
As if it was all cardboard,
It was as if I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And wood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow lying up to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadening winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
For which there is no death - don’t push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!

Play, children! Grow in freedom!
That's why you were given a wonderful childhood,
To love this meager field forever,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your centuries-old inheritance,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the depths of your native land!..

Now it's time for us to go back to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys had become bolder,
“Hey, the thieves are coming!” I shouted to Fingal.
They will steal, they will steal! Well, hide it quickly!”
Shiner made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
I hid the game with special care,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
The vast field of canine science
She was perfectly familiar to him;
He started doing things like this,
That the audience couldn't leave their seats,
They marvel and laugh! There's no time for fear here!
They command themselves! "Fingalka, die!"
- “Don’t freeze, Sergei! Don’t push, Kuzyakha!”
- “Look - he’s dying - look!”
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark
In the barn: the stage gets dark so quickly,
When the storm is destined to break out.
And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn,
A river of rain poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave the go-ahead!
The wide door opened, creaked,
It hit the wall and locked itself again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Just above our theater.
The kids ran in the heavy rain
Barefoot to their village...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for snipes.

I'm in the village again. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp,
I wandered into the barn and fell asleep deeply.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
The rays of the sun look cheerful.
The dove coos; flying over the roof,
The young rooks are screaming,
Some other bird is also flying -
I recognized the crow just by the shadow:
Chu! some kind of whisper... but here’s a line
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed together like flowers in a field.
There is so much peace, freedom and affection in them,
There is so much holy kindness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched my soul...
Chu! whisper again!

First voice

"Beard!

Second

And the master, they said!..

Third

Be quiet, you devils!

Second

A bar doesn't have a beard - it's a mustache.

First

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And there on the hat, look, there’s a watch!

Fifth

Ah, important thing!

Sixth

And a gold chain...

Seventh

Is tea expensive?

Eighth

How the sun burns!

Ninth

And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs from the tongue.

Fifth

Gun! take a look: the trunk is double,
Carved locks…

Third (with fear)

Look!

Fourth

Shut up, nothing! Let's wait a little longer, Grisha!

Third

He'll kill..."

* * *

My spies got scared
And they rushed away: when they heard the man,
So sparrows fly from the chaff in a flock.
I fell silent, squinted - they appeared again,
Little eyes flicker in the cracks.
What happened to me - they marveled at everything
And my verdict was pronounced: -
Such and such a goose really cares!
I would lie on the stove!
And it’s clear that it’s not the master: he was driving from the swamp.
So next to Gavrila... “He will hear,
be silent!

* * *

Oh, dear rogues! Who has seen them often?
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a “low kind of people,” -
I still have to confess openly,
That I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
God bless your spoiled children.
Happy people! No science, no bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I made mushroom raids with them:
I dug up leaves, rummaged through stumps,
I tried to spot a mushroom place,
And in the morning I couldn’t find it for anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down and grabbed it at once
Snake! I jumped: the sting hurt!
Savosya laughs: “I got caught by accident!”
That's why we destroyed them quite a lot later
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge,
We must have expected glory for our exploits.
We had a long road:
People of working class scurried about
There are no numbers on it.
Vologda ditch digger,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller goes to the monastery
On the eve of the holiday he is ready to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Some people will play around, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok and will reach Kazan!
Chukhna will imitate, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse you with a fairy tale, and tell you a parable:
“Goodbye, guys! Try your best
To please the Lord God in everything
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone else,
Yes, I once decided to murmur against God, -
Since then, Vavilo has become seedy and bankrupt,
No honey from the bees, no harvest from the earth,
And there was only one happiness for him,
That nose hair grew a lot..."
The worker will arrange, lay out the shells -
Planes, files, chisels, knives:
“Look, little devils!” And the children are happy
How you saw, how you fooled - show them everything.
A passerby will fall asleep to his jokes,
Guys get to work - sawing and planing!
If they use a saw, you can’t sharpen it in a day!
They break the drill and run away in fear.
It happened that whole days flew by here,
Like a new passerby, there’s a new story...
Wow, it’s hot!.. We were picking mushrooms until noon.
They came out of the forest - just in time for a meeting
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river: they jumped off in a crowd,
And brown heads above a deserted river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game...
And the sun beats down on them with the midday heat.
Home, kids, it's time for lunch.
We're back. Everyone has a basket full,
And how many stories! Got caught with a scythe
We caught a hedgehog and got a little lost
And they saw a wolf... oh, what a scary one!
The hedgehog is offered flies and boogers,
I gave him my root milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...
Who catches leeches

On the lava, where the uterus beats the laundry,
Who is babysitting his two-year-old sister Glashka,
Who carries a bucket of kvass to reap,
And he, tying his shirt under his throat,
Mysteriously draws something in the sand;
That one got stuck in a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath,
Everything is white, yellow,
lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket:
She caught it, jumped up and rode it.
And is it her, born under the sunny heat
And brought home from the field in an apron,
Afraid of your humble horse?..

The mushroom time has not yet left,
Look - everyone’s lips are so black,
They filled the ears: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, and nuts!
A childish cry echoed
From morning until night it thunders through the forests.
Scared by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the black grouse take off, cooing to her chicks?
Will the little hare jump up - sodomy, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a faded wing
I was messing around in the bush... well, the poor guy feels bad!
The living one is dragged to the village in triumph...

- Enough, Vanyusha! you walked quite a bit,
It's time to get to work, dear!
- But even labor will turn out at first
To Vanyusha with his elegant side:
He sees his father fertilizing the field,
Like throwing grain into loose ground,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain:
The ready harvest will be cut with sickles,
They will tie them up in sheaves and take them to Riga,
They dry it out, they beat and beat with flails,
At the mill they grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he runs more willingly after his father.
Will they wind up the hay: “Climb up, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king...
However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
And so, we have to wrap it up by the way
The other side is a medal.
Suppose a peasant child is free
Growing up without learning anything
But he will grow up, if God wants,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows the forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But the midges eat it mercilessly,
But he is familiar with the works early...

One day, in the cold winter season
I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold.
I see it's slowly going uphill
A horse carrying a cart of brushwood.
And walking importantly, in decorous calm,
A man leads a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a short sheepskin coat,
In big mittens... and he's as small as a fingernail!
- Great, lad! - “Go past!”
– You’re so formidable, as I can see!
Where do the firewood come from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, chops, and I take it away.”
(A woodcutter’s ax was heard in the forest.)
What, does your father have a big family? -
“The family is big, but two people
Just men: my father and I..."
So there it is! What's your name? -
"Vlas."
- How old are you? - “The sixth has passed...
Well, dead! - the little one shouted in a deep voice,
He pulled the reins and walked faster.
The sun was shining on this picture so much,
The child was so hilariously small
It was as if it was all cardboard,
It's like going to a children's theater
I got it!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And wood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow lies up to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadening winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
For those who do not die - don’t push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!
Play, children! Grow in freedom!
That's why you were given a wonderful childhood,
To love this meager field forever,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your centuries-old inheritance,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the depths of your native land!..

* * *

Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys had become bolder,
- Hey! thieves are coming! I shouted to Fingal:
- They will steal, they will steal! Well, hide it quickly! -
Shiner made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
I hid the game with special care,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
The vast field of canine science
She was perfectly familiar to him;
He started doing things like this,
That the audience couldn't leave their seats,
They marvel and laugh! There's no time for fear here!
They command themselves! - “Fingalka, die!”
– Don’t freeze, Sergei! Don't push, Kuzyakha! -
“Look - he’s dying - look!”
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark
In the barn: the stage gets dark so quickly,
When the storm is destined to break out.
And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn,
A river of rain poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave the go-ahead!
The wide door opened and creaked.
It hit the wall and locked itself again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Just above our theater.
The kids ran in the heavy rain
Barefoot to their village...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for snipes.

I'm in the village again. I go hunting, I write my verses - life is easy. Yesterday, tired from walking through the swamp, I wandered into the barn and fell asleep deeply. I woke up: the rays of the cheerful sun were peeping through the wide cracks of the barn. The dove coos; Flying over the roof, Young rooks are screaming, Some other bird is also flying - I recognized the crow from the shadow; Chu! some kind of whisper... but here is a line along the crack of attentive eyes! All gray, brown, blue eyes - Mixed together like flowers in a field. There is so much peace, freedom and affection in them, There is so much holy kindness in them! I love the expression of a child’s eye, I always recognize it. I froze: tenderness touched my soul... Chu! whisper again! > Beard! > And master, they said!... > Be quiet, you devils! > A bar doesn't have a beard - it's a mustache. > And the legs are long, like poles. > And look, there’s a watch on the hat! > Ay, important thing! > And a gold chain... > Is tea expensive? >Like the sun is burning! > And there is a dog - big, big! Water runs from the tongue. > Gun! look at this: the double stem, the carved locks... > he looks with fear! > Be quiet, nothing! Let's wait a little longer, Grisha! > He will kill... – My spies were frightened and rushed away: when they heard a man, So sparrows fly in a flock from the chaff. I calmed down, squinted - they appeared again, Little eyes flickering through the cracks. What happened to me - they marveled at everything. And they pronounced my verdict: “What kind of hunting is such and such a goose! I would lie on the stove! And it’s clear that he’s not a master: as he rode from the swamp, So next to Gavrila...” - “If he hears, be silent!” – Oh dear rogues! Whoever has seen them often, I believe, loves peasant children; But even if you hated them, Reader, as “a low kind of people,” I still must admit openly, That I often envy them: So much poetry has been poured into their lives, As God forbid your spoiled children. Happy people! They know neither science nor bliss in childhood. I made mushroom forays with them: I dug up leaves, rummaged through stumps, tried to spot a mushroom spot, but in the morning I couldn’t find it for anything. “Look, Savosya, what a ring!” We both bent down and grabbed the Snake at the same time! I jumped: the sting hurt! Savosya laughs: “I just got caught!” But then we destroyed them quite a lot and laid them in a row on the railing of the bridge. We must have expected glory for our deeds, but we had a long road: People of working rank scurried along it without number. A Vologda ditch digger, a tinker, a tailor, a wool-beater, and then a city dweller goes to the monastery to pray on holiday. Under our thick, ancient elms, tired people were drawn to rest. The guys will surround you: stories will begin about Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals. Some people will play around and just hang on - He’ll start from Volochok and reach Kazan! He will imitate Chukhna, Mordovians, Cheremis, and amuse him with a fairy tale, and spin a parable: “Goodbye, guys! Try to please the Lord God in everything: We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone else, but one day he decided to grumble at God, - Since then Vavilo has become seedy, gone bankrupt, There is no honey from the bees, no harvest from the land, And only one thing was his happiness “That the hair grew out of my nose so much...” The worker will arrange, lay out the shells - Planes, files, chisels, knives: “Look, little devils!” And the children are happy, How you saw, how you fooled - show them everything. A passerby will fall asleep to his jokes, The guys get to work - sawing and planing! If they use a saw, you can’t sharpen it in a day! They break the drill and run away in fear. It happened that entire days would fly by - With a new passer-by, a new story... Wow, it's hot!.. They were picking mushrooms until noon. Here they came out of the forest - just towards a blue ribbon, winding, long, a meadow river: they jumped off in a crowd, And brown heads over the desert river Like porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing! The river resounded with both laughter and howling: Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game... And the sun scorches them with the midday heat. Home, kids! it's time for lunch. We're back. Everyone has a basket full, And so many stories! Got caught with a scythe, caught a hedgehog, got a little lost and saw a wolf... wow, what a scary one! They offer the hedgehog flies and boogers, I gave him my Root milk - He doesn’t drink! retreated... Who catches leeches On the lava, where the queen beats the laundry, Who nurses his two-year-old sister Glashka, Who drags a bucket of kvass for reaping, And he, tying his shirt under his throat, Mysteriously draws something in the sand; That one huddled in a puddle, and this one with a new one: She wove herself a glorious wreath, - Everything is white, yellow, lavender, and occasionally a red flower. Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting. Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket: She caught it, jumped up and rode it. And is she, born under the sunny heat and brought home from the field in an apron, to be afraid of her humble horse?.. The mushroom time has not yet had time to depart, Look - everyone’s lips are so black, They’ve filled their lips: the blueberry is ripe! And there are raspberries, lingonberries, and nuts! A childish cry, echoed, thunders through the forests from morning to night. Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter, Will the grouse take off, squawking at the chicks, Will the little hare jump up - soda, turmoil! Here is an old capercaillie with a faded wing, busy in the bush... well, the poor thing feels bad! The living one is dragged to the village in triumph... “That’s enough, Vanyusha! You’ve been walking a lot, it’s time to get to work, dear!” But even work will first turn out to Vanyusha with its elegant side: He sees how his father fertilizes the field, How he throws grain into the loose soil. As the field then begins to turn green, as the ear grows, it fills with grain. The finished harvest will be cut with sickles, tied into sheaves, taken to the barn, dried, pounded and pounded with flails, ground in a mill and baked. The child tastes the fresh bread and runs more willingly into the field after his father. Will they wind up the hay: “Climb up, little shooter!” Vanyusha enters the village as a king... However, it would be a pity for us to sow envy in a noble child. So, by the way, we must wrap the medal with the other side. Suppose a peasant child grows up freely without learning anything, but he will grow up if God wishes, and nothing prevents him from bending. Let's say he knows the forest paths, prances on horseback, is not afraid of water, but the midges eat him mercilessly, but he knows the work early... Once, in the cold winter season, I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold. I see a horse slowly ascending the mountain, carrying a cart of brushwood. And walking importantly, in decorous calm, the horse is led by the bridle by a peasant in large boots, in a short sheepskin coat, in large mittens... and he himself is as tall as a fingernail! “Great guy!” - “Go past!” - “You’re so formidable, as I can see! Where did the firewood come from?” - “From the forest, obviously; Father, you hear, is chopping, and I’m taking it away.” (A woodcutter’s ax was heard in the forest.) “What, does Father have a big family?” - “It’s a big family, but two people. Just men: my father and I...” - “So that’s it! What’s your name?” - “Vlas.” - “What year are you?” - “The sixth has passed... Well, she’s dead!” - the little one shouted in a deep voice, pulled the reins and walked faster. The sun was shining so much on this picture, The child was so hilariously small, As if it was all cardboard, As if I was in a children's theater! But the boy was a living boy, a real one, And the firewood, and the brushwood, and the piebald horse, And the snow that lay up to the windows of the village, And the cold fire of the winter sun - Everything, everything was real Russian, With the stigma of an unsociable, deadening winter, Which is so true for the Russian soul It’s painfully sweet, That Russian thoughts instill in the minds, Those honest thoughts that have no will, For which there is no death - don’t push, In which there is so much anger and pain, In which there is so much love! Play, children! Grow in freedom! That's why you were given a red childhood, So that you can forever love this meager field, So that it always seems sweet to you. Keep your centuries-old inheritance, Love your labor bread - And let the charm of childhood poetry Guide you into the depths of your native land!.. - Now it’s time for us to return to the beginning. Noticing that the guys had become bolder, “Hey, thieves are coming!” I shouted to Fingal. “They’ll steal, they’ll steal!” Well, hide it quickly! “Fingalushka made a serious face, buried my belongings under the hay, hid the game with special care, lay down at my feet and growled angrily. The vast field of canine science was perfectly familiar to Him; He started doing such things that the audience couldn’t leave their seats, they were amazed and laughing! There's no time for fear here! They command themselves! “Fingalka, die!” - “Don’t freeze, Sergei! Don’t push, Kuzyakha!” - "Look - he's dying - look!" I myself enjoyed, lying in the hay, their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark in the barn: it darkens so quickly on the stage, When a thunderstorm is destined to break out. And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn, a river of rain poured into the barn, the actor burst into a deafening bark, and the audience gave a shout! The wide door unlocked, creaked, hit the wall, and locked again. I looked out: a dark cloud was hanging just above our theater. In the heavy rain, the children ran barefoot to their village... My faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm and went out to look for great snipes. 1861

I'm in the village again. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy,
Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp,
I wandered into the barn and fell asleep deeply.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
The rays of the sun look cheerful.
The dove coos; flying over the roof,
The young rooks are screaming,
Some other bird is also flying -
I recognized the crow just by the shadow;
Chu! some kind of whisper... but here’s a line
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed together like flowers in a field.
There is so much peace, freedom and affection in them,
There is so much holy kindness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched my soul...
Chu! whisper again!
Beard!
And the master, they said!..
Be quiet, you devils!
A bar doesn't have a beard - it's a mustache.
And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And look, there’s a watch on the hat!
Hey, important thing!
And the gold chain...
Is tea expensive?
How the sun burns!
And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs from the tongue.
Gun! look at this: the trunk is double,
Carved locks...

(with fear)

Look!

Fourth

Shut up, nothing! Let's wait a little longer, Grisha!
Will kill...
My spies got scared
And they rushed away: when they heard the man,
So sparrows fly from the chaff in a flock.
I fell silent, squinted - they appeared again,
Little eyes flicker in the cracks.
What happened to me - they marveled at everything
And my verdict was pronounced:
“What kind of hunting is such and such a goose doing?
I would lie on the stove!
And, apparently, not a master: as he rode from the swamp,
So next to Gavrila...” - If he hears, be silent! —
O dear rogues! Who has seen them often?
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a “low kind of people,” -
I still have to confess openly,
That I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
God bless your spoiled children.
Happy people! No science, no bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I made mushroom raids with them:
I dug up leaves, rummaged through stumps,
I tried to spot a mushroom place,
And in the morning I couldn’t find it for anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down and grabbed it at once
Snake! I jumped: the sting hurt!
Savosya laughs: “I just got caught!”
But then we destroyed them quite a lot
And they laid them in a row on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for exploits of glory,
We had a long road:
People of working class scurried about
There are no numbers on it.
Ditch digger - Vologda resident,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller goes to the monastery
On the eve of the holiday he is ready to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Some people will play around, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok and will reach Kazan!
Chukhna will imitate, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse you with a fairy tale, and tell you a parable:
“Goodbye, guys! Try your best
Please God for everything.
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone else,
Yes, I once decided to murmur against God, -
Since then, Vavilo has become seedy and bankrupt,
No honey from the bees, no harvest from the earth,
And there was only one happiness for him,
That nose hair grew a lot..."
The worker will arrange, lay out the shells -
Planes, files, chisels, knives:
“Look, little devils!” And the children are happy
How you saw, how you fooled - show them everything.
A passerby will fall asleep to his jokes,
Guys get to work - sawing and planing!
If they use a saw, you can’t sharpen it in a day!
They break the drill and run away in fear.
It happened that whole days flew by here -
Like a new passerby, there's a new story...
Wow, it’s hot!.. We were picking mushrooms until noon.
They came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river: they jumped off in a crowd,
And brown heads above a deserted river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game...
And the sun beats down on them with the midday heat.
Home, kids! it's time for lunch.
We're back. Everyone has a basket full,
And how many stories! Got caught with a scythe
We caught a hedgehog and got a little lost
And they saw a wolf... oh, what a scary one!
The hedgehog is offered flies and boogers,
I gave him my root milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...
Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the laundry,
Who is babysitting his two-year-old sister Glashka,
Who carries a bucket of kvass to reap,
And he, tying his shirt under his throat,
Mysteriously draws something in the sand;
That one got stuck in a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath, -
Everything is white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket:
She caught it, jumped up and rode it.
And is it her, born under the sunny heat
And brought home from the field in an apron,
Afraid of your humble horse?..
The mushroom time has not yet left,
Look, everyone’s lips are so black,
They filled the ears: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, and nuts!
A childish cry echoed
From morning until night it thunders through the forests.
Scared by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the black grouse take off, cooing to her chicks?
If the little hare jumps up - sodomy, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a faded wing
I was messing around in the bush... well, the poor guy feels bad!
The living one is dragged to the village in triumph...
“That’s enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot,
It’s time to get to work, dear!”
But even labor will turn out first
To Vanyusha with his elegant side:
He sees his father fertilizing the field,
Like throwing grain into loose ground,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain.
The ready harvest will be cut with sickles,
They will tie them up in sheaves and take them to Riga,
They dry it out, they beat and beat with flails,
At the mill they grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he runs more willingly after his father.
Will they wind up the hay: “Climb up, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king...
However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
So, we have to wrap it up by the way
The other side is the medal.
Suppose a peasant child is free
Growing up without learning anything
But he will grow up, if God wants,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows the forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But the midges eat it mercilessly,
But he is familiar with the work early...
One day, in the cold winter season
I came out of the forest; it was bitterly cold.
I see it's slowly going uphill
A horse carrying a cart of brushwood.
And walking importantly, in decorous calm,
A man leads a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a short sheepskin coat,
In big mittens... and he's as small as a fingernail!
“Great, lad!” - Move past! —
“You’re so formidable, as I can see!
Where do the firewood come from? - From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, chops, and I take it away.
(A woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.) -
“What, does your father have a big family?”
— The family is big, two people
Just men: my father and I... -
“So there it is! What’s your name?”
- Vlas. —
“How old are you?” — The sixth has passed...
Well, dead! - the little one shouted in a deep voice,
He pulled the reins and walked faster.
The sun was shining on this picture so much,
The child was so hilariously small
As if it was all cardboard,
It was as if I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And wood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow lying up to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadening winter.
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
For which there is no death - don’t push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!
Play, children! Grow in freedom!
That's why you were given a wonderful childhood,
To love this meager field forever,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your centuries-old inheritance,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the depths of your native land!..

Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys had become bolder,
“Hey, thieves are coming! - I shouted to Fingal. —
They will steal, they will steal! Well, hide it quickly!”
Shiner made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
I hid the game with special care,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
The vast field of canine science
She was perfectly familiar to him;
He started doing things like this,
That the audience couldn't leave their seats,
They marvel and laugh! There's no time for fear here!
They command themselves! “Fingalka, die!” —
“Don’t freeze, Sergei! Don’t push, Kuzyakha!”
“Look - he’s dying - look!”
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark
In the barn: the stage gets dark so quickly,
When the storm is destined to break out.
And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn,
A river of rain poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave the go-ahead!
The wide door opened, creaked,
It hit the wall and locked itself again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Just above our theater.
The kids ran in the heavy rain
Barefoot to their village...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for snipes.