The heavy door opened, and a wonderful world appeared before the eyes of the amazed boy.
Right in front of him, two brown bear cubs hugged each other. Their older brother-nanny did not take his eyes off the mischief-makers, and the mother bear lounged on a hillock and dozed.
Here, high in the air, an eagle froze motionless. Now the duck has taken off and froze over the nest; there are eggs in the nest. The boy quickly extended his hand behind them - and his fingers hit something hard and cold...
Glass. All the animals and birds are behind glass!
Are they really not alive? Then, probably, they are enchanted, like in a fairy tale. I wish I could find out such a magic word to revive everyone at once. Who will teach him this word?
The boy ended up in the Zoological Museum of the Academy of Sciences. His father, a Russian naturalist, worked here. In the house opposite, a boy was born in 1894 - the future writer Vitaly Valentinovich Bianki.
His father introduced him to nature. He took his son with him hunting and for walks. I named him every grass, every bird and animal. He taught him to recognize birds by their flight, animals by their tracks, and - most importantly - taught his son to write down his observations.
By the age of twenty-seven, Vitaly Valentinovich Bianchi had accumulated entire volumes of diaries. And again, as in childhood, he wanted to find that magic word that would make all these birds and animals come to life.
This word became the artistic word of the storyteller-writer.
The first V.V. Bianki for children - “Forest Houses” - was published in 1923. Over the twenty-five years of his literary work, Bianchi wrote about two hundred fairy tales, short stories, and stories. Young readers are well aware of his collections: “Fairy Tales”, “Forest Newspaper”, “Following the Footsteps”, “Where Crayfish Winter”, “Hunting Stories”, “The Last Shot” and many others.
His works were published in twenty-eight languages of the peoples of our Motherland. His books have been translated into many foreign languages.
Knowing very well and passionately loving his native nature, Bianchi spends most of his life in the forest with a gun, binoculars, and a notebook. And his stories, fairy tales, tales reveal pictures of living nature to young readers. In the most ordinary things, he knows how to show something new that we have not noticed.
Bianchi leads the young reader along the hunting trails of Altai, climbs with him without roads through the Caucasus Mountains, wanders through the taiga, tundra, steppe...
But most of all, Bianchi loves to talk about those animals and plants that anyone can meet in their garden, on the banks of a neighboring river, in the forests and fields of the northern and central Russian strip of our Motherland.
The writer opens his young reader’s eyes to the world around him and answers his questions.
Many mysteries of nature have already been revealed by our scientists. Even more needs to be studied, unraveled, understood.
And Bianchi’s books invite the young reader to observe, compare, think, to be a good tracker, researcher. Bianchi not only shows, he teaches the young reader to reveal the secrets of the forest, to solve small and large mysteries from the life of animals and birds.
After all, only those who know nature well can manage it, turning its wealth to the benefit of the Motherland.
The Soviet man is the master of his forests, fields, rivers, lakes, and he must know his economy well.
The young reader will learn a lot by reading Bianchi's stories and fairy tales. He will learn to observe, he will become a thrifty owner of the riches of his native nature, he will love it.
The writer's artistic word will help him with this.
Gr. Grodensky
FAIRY TALES
First hunt
The puppy is tired of chasing chickens around the yard.
“I’ll go,” he thinks, “to hunt for wild animals and birds.”
He slipped into the gateway and ran across the meadow.
Wild animals, birds and insects saw it and each thought to himself.
The bittern thinks: “I’ll deceive him!”
The hoopoe thinks: “I’ll surprise him!”
The spinner thinks: “I’ll scare him!”
The lizard thinks: “I’ll get away from him!”
Caterpillars, butterflies, grasshoppers think: “We will hide from him!”
“And I’ll drive him away!” - thinks the Bombardier Beetle.
“We all know how to stand up for ourselves, each in our own way!” - they think to themselves.
And the Puppy has already run to the lake and sees: a bittern standing by the reeds on one leg, knee-deep in water.
“I’ll catch her now!” - the Puppy thinks, and is completely ready to jump on her back.
And Bittern glanced at him and stepped into the reeds.
The wind runs across the lake, the reeds sway. The reeds sway
back and forth,
back and forth.
The puppy has yellow and brown stripes swaying in front of his eyes
back and forth,
back and forth.
And the Bittern stands in the reeds, stretched out - thin, thin, and all painted with yellow and brown stripes. Standing, swaying
back and forth,
back and forth.
The puppy's eyes bulged, looked, looked, but did not see the Bittern in the reeds.
“Well,” he thinks, “Bittern deceived me. I shouldn’t jump into empty reeds! I’ll go catch another bird.”
He ran out onto the hill and looked: Hoopoe was sitting on the ground, playing with his crest, and then he would unfold it, then he would fold it.
“Now I’ll jump on him from the hill!” - thinks the Puppy.
And the Hoopoe fell to the ground, spread its wings, spread its tail, and raised its beak up.
The Puppy looks: there is no bird, but a motley rag lies on the ground, and a crooked needle sticks out of it.
The Puppy was surprised: where did the Hoopoe go? “Did I really mistake this motley rag for him? I’ll go quickly and catch the little bird.”
He ran up to the tree and saw: a small bird, Vertishika, sitting on a branch.
He rushed towards her, and Vertishika dashed into the hollow.
“Yeah! - thinks the Puppy. - Gotcha!
He rose to his hind legs, looked into the hollow, and in the black hollow the snake wriggled and hissed terribly.
The Puppy recoiled, raised its fur on end, and ran away.
And Whirlwind hisses after him from the hollow, twists her head, and a stripe of black feathers wriggles along her back.
“Ugh! How scared! I barely carried my legs away. I won't hunt birds anymore. I’d better go catch the Lizard.”
The lizard was sitting on a stone, closed its eyes, basking in the sun.
A puppy quietly crept up to her - jump! - and grabbed him by the tail.
And the Lizard dodged, left its tail in its teeth, and went under the stone itself!
The Puppy's tail wriggles in his teeth,
The Puppy snorted, threw his tail - and followed her. Yes where there! The lizard has been sitting under a stone for a long time, growing a new tail.
“Well,” the Puppy thinks, “if the Lizard got away from me, then at least I’ll catch some insects.”
I looked around, and there were beetles running on the ground, grasshoppers jumping in the grass, caterpillars crawling along the branches, butterflies flying through the air.
The Puppy rushed to catch them, and suddenly it became all around, like in a mysterious picture: everyone was here, but no one was visible - everyone was hiding.
Green grasshoppers are hiding in the green grass.
The caterpillars on the branches stretched out and froze: you couldn’t tell them apart from the twigs.
The butterflies sat on the trees, folded their wings - you couldn’t tell where the bark was, where the leaves were, where the butterflies were.
One tiny Bombardier Beetle walks along the ground, not hiding anywhere.
Vitaly Bianchi is a magician. Each of his stories is filled with magic. Do you want to look into the world of the forest, spy on the secrets of nature, see miracles in simple things? Follow the writer. Vitaly Bianchi's stories are written in an easy and colorful language - you can easily imagine the situation. But behind the vivid description is the knowledge of a biologist and naturalist. Gently and carefully, Bianchi encourages you to explore the world around you.
Read Bianchi's stories
For kids of all ages
Bianchi gave people about three hundred stories. He knew how to observe the world through the eyes of children. Thanks to this gift, young readers easily use their imagination while listening to his tales. Among his readers are the youngest children. For them - miniature humorous stories. At the core are curious, educational adventures. A whole series of stories is united under the general title “My cunning son.” At the center of the stories is a restless boy who discovers the secrets of nature while walking through the forest with his father.
Older children are interested in Bianchi's stories about animals. All of them are based on forest “travels”. As a child, Vitaly’s parents took him to the village of Lebyazhye, where there was a forest nearby. Having taken his first steps in this country, he became its devoted fan for life. My father taught me to take notes - to save observations. Over the years, they became forest stories. “Mouse Peak”, “Who sings about what” - in each there are thoughts about the importance of knowledge about nature.
Although it is believed that Bianchi's stories were written for children, the writer did not forget about adults. In the preface to one of the publications, he addressed them specifically. “I tried to write in such a way that fairy tales would be interesting to adults as well. But now I realized that I was creating for adults who kept a child in their souls.” An experienced eye will discern apt descriptions and facts in Bianchi's stories. He often went on scientific expeditions to Central Russia and the North - so he had something to say.
Non-fairy tales
Bianchi has works that he called unusually: non-fairy tales. There are no fairies, self-assembled tablecloths or sorceresses in them. But there are even more miracles in them. The writer introduces the ordinary badass sparrow in such a way that readers are only surprised: the bird is not easy. These stories by Bianchi are a pleasure to read. He reinterprets fairy tales. Instead of a bun, he has a hedgehog rolling along the path - a prickly barrel.
Bianchi wrote short and long stories. But they are all united by a love of nature. This animal writer created a whole movement in literature that continues to develop. Readers responded in kind - they created the natural landscape “Bianki Glade” on the coastal strip of the Gulf of Finland.
Vitaly Bianchi
Stories and fairy tales
In this book we have collected for you children's stories and fairy tales about animals by Vitaly Bianchi.
Vitaly Bianchi
Stories and fairy tales
Snow book
They wandered around and were followed by animals in the snow. You won’t immediately understand what happened here.
To the left, under a bush, a hare trail begins. The trail from the hind legs is elongated and long; from the front - round, small. A hare trail followed across the field. On one side of it there is another footprint, a larger one; There are holes in the snow from claws - a fox track. And on the other side of the hare’s trail there is another trail: also a fox’s, only it leads back.
The hare circled the field; fox too. The hare to the side - the fox behind him. Both tracks end in the middle of a field.
But to the side - again a hare trail. It disappears and goes on...
It goes, goes, goes - and suddenly it stops - as if it went underground! And where it disappeared, the snow was crushed there, and it was as if someone had smeared it with their fingers.
Where did the fox go?
Where did the hare go?
Let's sort it by warehouse.
There is a bush. The bark has been torn off. It’s trampled under the bush, followed. Rabbit tracks. Here the hare was fattening: he was gnawing bark from a bush. He will stand on his hind legs, tear off a piece with his teeth, chew it, step on his paws, and tear off another piece nearby. I was full and wanted to sleep. I went looking for somewhere to hide.
And here is a fox trail, next to a hare one. It was like this: the hare went to sleep. An hour passes, then another. A fox is walking through the field. Look, a hare's footprint in the snow! Fox nose to the ground.
I sniffed - the trail was fresh!
She ran along the trail.
The fox is cunning, and the hare is not simple: he knew how to confuse his trail. He galloped and galloped across the field, turned, turned a large loop, crossed his own trail - and to the side.
The trail is still smooth, unhurried: the hare walked calmly, without sensing trouble.
The fox ran and ran and saw: there was a fresh trail across the trail. I didn’t realize that the hare had made a noose.
She turned sideways - following a fresh trail; runs, runs - and stops: the trail is broken! Where to now?
And the point is simple: this is a new bunny trick - deuce.
The hare made a loop, crossed its trail, walked a little forward, and then turned around and back along its trail.
He walked carefully, foot to foot.
The fox stood, stood, and then went back.
I came to the crossroads again.
I tracked down the whole loop.
She walks, walks, sees that the hare has deceived her, the trail leads nowhere!
She snorted and went into the forest about her business.
And it was like this: the hare did a deuce - he followed his trail back.
I didn’t reach the loop - and waved through the snowdrift - to the side.
He jumped over a bush and lay down under a pile of brushwood.
He lay there while the fox followed his trail.
And when the fox left, he jumped out from under the brushwood and into the thicket!
Jumps wide - paws to paws: racing trail.
He rushes without looking back. Stump on the road. The hare is passing by. And on the stump... And on the stump sat a big eagle owl.
I saw a hare, took off, and followed him. He caught up and hit me in the back with all his claws!
The hare poked into the snow, and the eagle owl settled in, beat the snow with its wings, and lifted it off the ground.
Where the hare fell, the snow was crushed there. Where the eagle owl flapped its wings, there were marks in the snow from feathers, as if from fingers.
First hunt
The puppy is tired of chasing chickens around the yard.
“I’ll go,” he thinks, “to hunt for wild animals and birds.”
He slipped into the gateway and ran across the meadow.
Wild animals, birds and insects saw it and each thought to himself.
The bittern thinks: “I’ll deceive him!”
The hoopoe thinks: “I’ll surprise him!”
The spinner thinks: “I’ll scare him!”
The lizard thinks: “I’ll get away from him!”
Caterpillars, butterflies, grasshoppers think: “We will hide from him!”
“And I’ll drive him away!” - thinks the Bombardier Beetle.
“We all know how to stand up for ourselves, each in our own way!” - they think to themselves.
And the Puppy has already run to the lake and sees: a bittern standing by the reeds on one leg, knee-deep in water.
“I’ll catch her now!” - the Puppy thinks, and is completely ready to jump on her back.
And Bittern glanced at him and stepped into the reeds.
The wind runs across the lake, the reeds sway. The reeds sway
back and forth,
back and forth.
The puppy has yellow and brown stripes swaying in front of his eyes
back and forth,
back and forth.
And the Bittern stands in the reeds, stretched out - thin, thin, and all painted with yellow and brown stripes. Standing, swaying
back and forth,
back and forth.
The puppy's eyes bulged, looked, looked, but did not see the Bittern in the reeds.
“Well,” he thinks, “Bittern deceived me. I shouldn’t jump into empty reeds! I’ll go catch another bird.”
He ran out onto the hill and looked: Hoopoe was sitting on the ground, playing with his crest, and then he would unfold it, then he would fold it.
“Now I’ll jump on him from the hill!” - thinks the Puppy.
And the Hoopoe fell to the ground, spread its wings, spread its tail, and raised its beak up.
The Puppy looks: there is no bird, but a motley rag lies on the ground, and a crooked needle sticks out of it.
The Puppy was surprised: where did the Hoopoe go? “Did I really mistake this motley rag for him? I’ll go quickly and catch the little bird.”
He ran up to the tree and saw: a small bird, Vertishika, sitting on a branch.
He rushed towards her, and Vertishika dashed into the hollow.
“Yeah! - thinks the Puppy. - Gotcha!
He rose to his hind legs, looked into the hollow, and in the black hollow the snake wriggled and hissed terribly.
The Puppy recoiled, raised its fur on end, and ran away.
And Whirlwind hisses after him from the hollow, twists her head, and a stripe of black feathers wriggles along her back.
“Ugh! How scared! I barely carried my legs away. I won't hunt birds anymore. I’d better go catch the Lizard.”
The lizard was sitting on a stone, closed its eyes, basking in the sun.
A puppy quietly crept up to her - jump! - and grabbed him by the tail.
And the Lizard dodged, left its tail in its teeth, and went under the stone itself!
The Puppy's tail wriggles in his teeth,
The Puppy snorted, threw his tail - and followed her. Yes where there! The lizard has been sitting under a stone for a long time, growing a new tail.
“Well,” the Puppy thinks, “if the Lizard got away from me, then at least I’ll catch some insects.”
I looked around, and there were beetles running on the ground, grasshoppers jumping in the grass, caterpillars crawling along the branches, butterflies flying through the air.
The Puppy rushed to catch them, and suddenly it became all around, like in a mysterious picture: everyone was here, but no one was visible - everyone was hiding.
Green grasshoppers are hiding in the green grass.
The caterpillars on the branches stretched out and froze: you couldn’t tell them apart from the twigs.
The butterflies sat on the trees, folded their wings - you couldn’t tell where the bark was, where the leaves were, where the butterflies were.
One tiny Bombardier Beetle walks along the ground, not hiding anywhere.
The Puppy caught up with him and wanted to grab him, but the Bombardier Beetle stopped, and when a flying, caustic stream shot at him, it hit him right in the nose.
The Puppy squealed, tucked his tail, turned - across the meadow, and into the gateway.
He's huddled in a kennel and is afraid to stick his nose out.
And the animals, birds and insects all went back to their business.
Who sings what?
Do you hear the music booming in the forest?
Listening to it, you might think that all animals, birds and insects were born singers and musicians.
Maybe this is so: after all, everyone loves music, and everyone wants to sing. But not everyone has a voice.
The frogs on the lake started early in the night.
They inflated bubbles behind their ears, stuck their heads out of the water, and opened their mouths slightly.
“Kwa-a-a-a-a!..” - the air came out of them in one breath.
The Stork from the village heard them.
I was happy:
A whole choir! There will be something for me to profit from!
And he flew to the lake for breakfast. He flew in and sat down on the shore.
He sat down and thought:
“Am I really worse than a frog? They sing without a voice. Let me try.”
He raised his long beak, knocked, and rattled one half of it against the other - now quieter, now louder, now less often, now more often: the rattle is a wooden rattle, and that’s all! I was so excited that I forgot about my breakfast.
And Bittern stood in the reeds on one leg, listened and thought:
And I came up with:
“Let me play on the water.”
She put her beak into the lake, took it full of water and how it blew into her beak! A loud roar echoed across the lake:
“Prumb-bu-bu-bumm!..” - roared like a bull.
“That’s the song!” thought the Woodpecker, hearing a bittern from the forest. “I have an instrument: why is a tree not a drum, and why is my nose not a stick?”
He rested his tail, leaned back, swung his head - like he was hitting a branch with his nose!
Exactly - drum roll.
A beetle with a long, very long mustache crawled out from under the bark.
He twisted it, twisted his head, his stiff neck creaked - a thin, thin squeak was heard.
The barbel squeaks, but all in vain; no one hears his squeak. He strained his neck, but he was pleased with his song.
And below, under the tree, a Bumblebee crawled out of its nest and flew to the meadow to sing.
It circles around the flower in the meadow, buzzing with its veiny, hard wings, like a string humming.
The bumblebee song woke up the green Locust in the grass.
Locust began to tune the violins. She has violins on her wings, and instead of bows she has long hind legs with her knees back. They have notches on their wings and hooks on their legs.
The Locust rubs itself on the sides with its legs, touches the hooks with its jagged edges, and chirps.
There are a lot of locusts in the meadow: a whole string orchestra.
“Eh,” the long-nosed Snipe thinks under a hummock, “I need to sing too! But with what? My throat is no good, my nose is no good, my neck is no good, my wings are no good, my paws are no good... Eh! I wasn’t, I’ll fly.” “I won’t keep silent, I’ll shout something!”
He jumped out from under a hummock, soared, and flew right under the clouds.
The tail spread like a fan, straightened its wings, turned over with its nose to the ground and rushed down, turning from side to side, like a plank thrown from a height.
Its head cuts through the air, and in its tail the thin, narrow feathers are blown about by the wind.
And you could hear it from the ground: as if in the heights a lamb began to sing and bleat.
And this is Bekas.
Guess what he sings with?
Forest houses
High above the river, over a steep cliff, young bank swallows were flying. They chased each other with squeals and squeaks: they played tag.
There was one little Beregovushka in their flock, so agile: there was no way to catch up with her - she dodged everyone.
A tag will chase after her, and she will rush here, here, down, up, to the side, and as soon as she starts to fly, her wings will just flicker.
Suddenly - out of nowhere - Cheglok-Falcon rushes. The sharp curved wings just whistle.
The swallows were alarmed: they all scattered, in all directions, and instantly the whole flock scattered.
And the nimble Beregovushka leaves him without looking back across the river, above the forest, and across the lake!
A very scary little tag Cheglok-Falcon.
Beregovushka flew and flew and was exhausted.
I turned around and there was no one behind me. I looked around, and the place was completely unfamiliar. I looked down - the river was flowing below. Only not our own - some kind of someone else's.
Beregovushka was scared.
She didn’t remember the way home: where could she remember when she was running unconscious from fear?
And it was already evening - night was soon. How can we be here?
Little Beregovushka felt terrible.
She flew down, sat down on the shore and cried bitterly.
Suddenly she sees a yellow bird with a black tie around its neck running past her on the sand.
Beregovushka was delighted and asked the yellow bird:
- Tell me, please, how can I get home?
-Whose are you? - the yellow bird asks Beregovushka.
“I don’t know,” Beregovushka answers.
- It will be difficult for you to find your home! - says the yellow bird. - Soon the sun will set, it will become dark. It's better to stay overnight with me. My name is Zuyok. And my house is right here, nearby.
The plovers ran a few steps and pointed at the sand with its beak. Then he bowed, swayed on his thin legs and said:
This is my home. Come in!
Beregovushka looked - there was sand and pebbles all around, but there was no house.
Can't you see? - Zuyok was surprised. - Look here, where the eggs lie between the stones.
With great effort Beregovushka saw: four eggs with brown specks lying side by side right on the sand among the pebbles.
Well, what are you doing? - asks Zuyok. - Don't you like my house?
Beregovushka doesn’t know what to say: if you say that he doesn’t have a home, the owner will be offended. So she says to him:
I’m not used to sleeping in the fresh air, on bare sand, without a bedding.
- It's a pity that I'm not used to it! - says Zuyok. - Then fly to that spruce forest over there. Ask the pigeon there, named Vityuten. His house has a floor. Spend the night with him.
- Well, thank you! - Beregovushka was delighted.
And flew into the spruce forest.
There she soon found the forest pigeon Vityutny and asked to spend the night with him.
Stay the night if you like my house,” says Vityuten.
What kind of house is Vityutnya's? One floor, and even that one is like a sieve, full of holes. The twigs were just thrown haphazardly onto the branches. White pigeon eggs lie on the twigs.
You can see them from below: they shine through the holey floor.
Beregovushka was surprised.
“Your house,” she tells Vityutny, “has only one floor, not even walls.” How can you sleep in it?
“Well,” says Vityuten, “if you need a house with walls, fly and find Oriole.” You'll like her.
And Vityuten told Beregovushka the address of Oriole: in the grove, on the most beautiful birch tree.
Beregovushka flew into the grove.
And in the grove of birches, each one is more beautiful than the other. I searched and searched for Ivolgin’s house and finally saw it: a tiny, light house hanging on a birch branch. Such a cozy house, and looks like a rose made from thin sheets of gray paper.
“What a small house Oriole has!” thought Beregovushka. “Even I can’t fit in it.”
Just as she was about to knock, wasps suddenly flew out of the gray house.
They whirled, buzzed - now they will sting!
Beregovushka got scared and quickly flew away.
Rushing among the green foliage.
Something gold and black flashed before her eyes.
She flew closer and saw: a golden bird with black wings was sitting on a branch.
Where are you going, little one? - the golden bird shouts to Beregovushka.
“I’m looking for Ivolgin’s house,” Beregovushka answers.
“The Oriole is me,” says the golden bird. - And my home is here, on this beautiful birch tree.
Beregovushka stopped and looked where Oriole was pointing to her.
At first she could not distinguish anything: everything was only green leaves and white birch branches. And when I looked closely, I gasped.
A light wicker basket is suspended from a branch high above the ground.
And Beregovushka sees that this is indeed a house. It is intricately made from hemp and stems, hairs and hairs and thin birch peel.
Wow! - says Beregovushka to Oriole. - There is no way I will stay in this shaky building! She sways, and everything is spinning and spinning before my eyes... Just look, the wind will blow her to the ground. And you don't have a roof.
Go to Penochka! - the golden Oriole tells her offendedly. - If you are afraid to sleep in the open air, then you will probably like it in her hut under the roof.
Beregovushka flew to Little Penchka.
A little yellow warbler lived in the grass just under the very birch tree where Ivolgin’s airy cradle hung.
Beregovushka really liked her hut made of dry grass and moss.
“That’s nice!” she rejoiced. “There’s a floor, walls, a roof, and a bed made of soft feathers! Just like at home!”
Affectionate Warbler began to put Beregovushka to bed. Suddenly the ground beneath them began to tremble and hum.
Beregovushka perked up, listened, and Penochka said to her:
These are horses galloping into the grove.
“Will your roof survive,” asks Beregovushka, “if a horse steps on it?”
The little foam just shook her head sadly and didn’t answer her anything.
Oh, how scary it is here! - Beregovushka said and instantly fluttered out of the hut. “I won’t close my eyes here all night: I’ll keep thinking that I’ll be crushed.” It’s calm at home: no one will step on you or throw you to the ground.
“So, that’s right, you have a house like Great Grebe,” Penochka guessed. - Her house is not on a tree - the wind will not blow it away, and it is not on the ground - no one will crush it. Would you like me to take you there?
“I want to,” says Beregovushka.
They flew to the Great Grebe.
They flew to the lake and saw: a large-headed bird sitting in the middle of the water on a reed island. On the bird's head the feathers stand up like horns.
Then Little Penchka said goodbye to Beregovushka and told her to ask this horned bird to spend the night.
Beregovushka flew and sat down on the island. He sits and is surprised: the island, it turns out, is floating. A pile of dry reeds floats on the lake. There is a hole in the middle of the heap, and the bottom of the hole is covered with soft marsh grass. Chomga's eggs lie on the grass, covered with light dry reeds.
And the Horned Great Grebe herself sits on the edge of the island, riding around in her little boat all over the lake.
Beregovushka told Chomga how she had been looking for and could not find a place to stay for the night, and asked to spend the night.
Aren't you afraid to sleep on the waves? - Grebe asks her.
- Isn’t your house moored to the shore for the night?
“My house is not a steamship,” says Great Grebe. “Wherever the wind blows it, that’s where it floats.” So we'll be rocking on the waves all night.
“I’m afraid...” Beregovushka whispered. - I want to go home, to my mother...
The great grebe got angry.
“Here,” he says, “she’s so picky!” There's no way to please you! Fly and find a home for yourself that you like.
The Great Grebe chased away Beregovushka, and she flew away.
It flies and cries without tears: birds cannot cry with tears.
And the night is coming: the sun has set, it’s getting dark.
Beregovushka flew into a dense forest and looked: a house was built on a tall spruce tree, on a thick branch.
It’s all made of branches, sticks, round, and warm, soft moss sticks out from the inside.
“This is a good house,” she thinks, “strong and with a roof.”
Little Beregovushka flew up to the big house, knocked on the wall with her beak and asked in a plaintive voice:
Please let me in, hostess, to spend the night!
And suddenly a red animal face with protruding mustaches and yellow teeth pokes out of the house. How the monster roars:
Since when do birds knock at night and ask to sleep in squirrels' houses?
Beregovushka died and her heart sank like a stone. She recoiled, soared over the forest and ran headlong, without looking back!
She flew and flew and was exhausted. I turned around and there was no one behind me. I looked around, and the place was familiar. I looked down - the river was flowing below. Your own river, dear!
Like an arrow, she rushed down to the river, and from there - up, to the very cliff of the steep bank.
And disappeared.
And in the cliff there are holes, holes, holes. These are all swallow holes. Beregovushka slipped into one of them. She ducked and ran along a long, long, narrow, narrow corridor.
She ran to the end of it and fluttered into a spacious round room.
Her mother had been waiting here for a long time.
Tired little Beregovushka slept sweetly that night on her soft, warm bed made of blades of grass, horsehair and feathers...
Good night!
Whose legs are these?
The Lark flew high above the ground, under the very clouds. He looks down - he can see far from above - and sings:
I'm running under the clouds
Over the fields and meadows,
I see everyone above me
Everyone under the sun and moon.
Tired of singing, he went down and sat down on a mound to rest.
Medyanka crawled out from under the tree and said to him:
You see everything from above, it’s true. But you won’t recognize anyone from below.
- How can it be? - Lark was surprised. - I’ll definitely find out.
- But come and lie down next to me. I’ll show you everyone from below, and you guess who’s coming.
- Look what! - says Lark. - I’ll go to you, and you’ll sting me. I'm afraid of snakes.
“It’s clear that you don’t know anything earthly,” said Medyanka. - First, I’m not a snake, but just a lizard; and secondly, snakes do not sting, but bite. I’m also afraid of snakes: their teeth are so long, and there’s poison in their teeth. And look, I have tiny teeth. Not only can I fight off a snake with them, but I can’t fight you off either.
- Where are your legs if you are a lizard?
- Why do I need legs if I crawl on the ground no worse than a snake?
“Well, if you really are a legless lizard,” said the Lark, “then I have nothing to fear.”
He jumped off the hummock, tucked his paws under himself and lay down next to Medyanka.
Here they are lying side by side. The copperhead asks:
Come on, you, superlative, find out who is coming and why did he come here?
The Lark looked in front of him and froze: his tall legs were walking on the ground, walking over large hummocks as if through small lumps of earth, pressing a footprint into the ground with his fingers.
They stepped over the Lark and disappeared: never to be seen again.
The copperhead looked at the Lark and smiled from ear to ear.
She licked her dry lips with a thin tongue and said:
Well, friend, apparently you haven’t solved my riddle. If you knew who stepped through us, you wouldn’t be so scared. I’m lying there and realizing: two tall legs, three big toes on each, one small. And I already know: the bird is big, tall, loves to walk on the ground - stilts are good for walking. So it is: the Crane got through it.
Here the Lark perked up with joy: the Crane was familiar to him. A calm, kind bird - it won’t offend you.
Lie down, don't dance! - Medyanka hissed at him. - Look: the legs are moving again.
And that’s right: bare legs are hobbling along the ground, no one knows whose.
The fingers look like they are covered with flaps of oilcloth.
Guess! - says Medyanka.
The lark thought and thought, but he couldn’t remember having seen such legs before.
- Oh you! - Medyanka laughed. - Yes, it’s quite easy to guess. You see: the toes are wide, the legs are flat, they walk on the ground and stumble. It’s comfortable with them in the water: if you turn your leg sideways, it cuts the water like a knife; Spread your fingers and the paddle is ready. This is the Great Grebe - a water bird - that came out of the lake.
Suddenly a black ball of fur fell from a tree, rose from the ground and crawled on its elbows.
The Lark took a closer look, and these were not elbows at all, but folded wings.
The lump turned sideways - behind it were tenacious animal paws and a tail, and the skin was stretched between the tail and paws.
What miracles! - said the Lark. “It seems like a winged creature, just like me, but I can’t recognize it on earth.”
- Yeah! - Medyanka was delighted, - you can’t find out. He boasted that he knew everyone under the sun, but he didn’t even recognize the Bat.
Then the Bat climbed onto a hummock, spread its wings and flew away to its tree.
And other legs are crawling out of the ground.
Terrible paws: short, hairy, blunt claws on the fingers, hard palms turned in different directions.
The Lark trembled, and the Medyanka said:
I lie there, look and realize: the paws are covered in fur, which means they are from an animal. They are short, like stumps, and their palms are apart, and the thick fingers have healthy claws. It is difficult to walk on the ground on such legs. But living underground, digging the earth with your paws and throwing it back behind you, is very convenient. This is what I came up with: an underground beast.
It's called a mole. Look, look, otherwise he’ll go underground again.
The Mole buried himself in the ground - and again there was no one.
Before the Lark had time to come to his senses, he saw hands running along the ground.
What kind of acrobat is this? - Lark was surprised. - Why does he need four arms?
“And jump on branches in the forest,” said Medyanka. - After all, this is Belka-Veksha.
“Well,” says the Lark, “you took it: I didn’t recognize anyone on earth.” Now let me tell you a riddle.
“Make a wish,” says Medyanka.
- Do you see a dark dot in the sky?
“I see,” says Medyanka.
- Guess what kind of legs she has?
- You're kidding! - says Medyanka. - Where can I see my legs so high?
- What jokes are there! - Lark got angry. - Get away with your tail as quickly as possible, before these clawed paws grab you.
He nodded goodbye to Medyanka, jumped up on his paws and flew away.
Whose nose is better?
Mukholov-Tonkonos sat on a branch and looked around. As soon as a fly or butterfly flies past, he will immediately chase it, catch it and swallow it. Then he sits on a branch again and again waits and looks out. I saw Grosbeak nearby and began to complain to him about my bitter life.
“It’s very tiring for me,” he says, “to get food for myself.” You work and work all day, you know neither rest nor rest, but you live from hand to mouth. Think for yourself: how many midges you need to catch in order to be full. But I can’t peck the grains: my nose is too thin.
Yes, your nose is no good,” said Grosbeak. - It’s my business! I bite through the cherry pit like a shell. You sit still and peck berries. I wish you had a nose like that.
Klest the Crusader heard him and said:
You, Grosbeak, have a very simple nose, like a Sparrow, only thicker. Look how intricate my nose is! I husk seeds from cones for them all year round. Like this.
The crossbill deftly picked up the scales of a fir cone with its crooked nose and took out a seed.
That’s right,” said Mukholov, “your nose is more cunning!”
- You don’t understand anything about noses! - Snipe Weevil wheezed from the swamp. - A good nose should be straight and long, so that it is convenient for them to get boogers out of the mud. Look at mine!
The birds looked down, and there a nose sticking out of the reeds, long, like a pencil, and thin, like a match.
“Oh,” said Mukholov, “I wish I had a nose like that!”
- Wait! - two sandpiper brothers squealed in one voice - Shilonos and Curlew-Serponos. -You haven’t seen our noses yet!
Mukholov looked and saw two wonderful noses in front of him: one looked up, the other looked down, and both were thin as a needle.
“My nose looks up,” said Shilonos, “so that it can snag any small living creatures in the water.”
“And that’s why my nose looks down,” said Curlew the Serponos, “so that they can drag worms and bugs out of the grass.”
“Well,” said Mukholov, “you couldn’t imagine better noses!”
- Yes, apparently you haven’t even seen real noses! - Shirokonos grunted from the puddle. - Look what real noses there are: wow!
All the birds burst out laughing, right in Broadnose’s nose: “What a shovel!”
But it’s so convenient for them to lye water! - Shirokonos said annoyedly and quickly tumbled his head into the puddle again.
- Pay attention to my nose! - whispered from the tree the modest gray Net-Nast Nightjar. - Mine is tiny, but it serves me as both a net and a throat.
Midges, mosquitoes, butterflies in droves fall into my mesh throat when I fly above the ground at night.
How is this possible? - Mukholov was surprised. - I grab one midge at a time, and he catches hundreds of them at once!
- That's how! - said the Net-billed Nightjar, and when his mouth opened, all the birds shied away from him.
- What a lucky guy! - said Mukholov. - I grab one midge at a time, and he catches hundreds of them at once!
“Yes,” the birds agreed, “you won’t get lost with such a mouth!”
- Hey you, small fry! - Pelican-Bag-Bag shouted to them from the lake. - We caught a midge - and we’re glad. And there is no one to put something aside for himself. I’ll catch a fish and put it in my bag, I’ll catch it again and put it away again.
The fat Pelican raised his nose, and under his nose there was a bag full of fish.
That’s the nose,” exclaimed Mukholov, “a whole pantry!” It couldn't be more convenient!
“You probably haven’t seen my nose yet,” said the Woodpecker. - Look at it!
- Why admire him? - asked Mukholov. - The most ordinary nose: straight, not very long, without a mesh and without a bag. It takes a long time to get food for lunch with this nose, and don’t even think about supplies.
“You can’t just think about food,” said the Woodpecker. - We, forest workers, need to have tools with us for carpentry and carpentry work.
We not only get food for ourselves, but also hollow out trees: we arrange a home for ourselves and for other birds. What a chisel I have!
- Miracles! - said Mukholov. “I’ve seen so many noses today, but I can’t decide which one is better.” That's it, brothers, you stand next to me. I will look at you and choose the best nose.
Lined up in front of the Thin-nosed Flycatcher were Grosbeak, Crusader, Weevil, Shilonos, Broad-nosed, Net-nosed, Sack-nosed and Dolbonos.
But then a gray Hook-Hawk fell from above, grabbed Mukholov and took him away for lunch.
And the rest of the birds scattered in fright.
Eyes and ears
Inkvoy the Beaver lived on a winding forest river. Beaver's house is good: he cut down the trees himself, dragged them into the water himself, built the walls and roof himself.
The Beaver has a good fur coat: it’s warm in winter, the water is warm, and the wind doesn’t blow through.
The Beaver has good ears: a fish splashes its tail in a river, a leaf falls in the forest - they hear everything.
But Beaver’s eyes were bad: weak eyes. The Beaver is blind and cannot see a hundred short beaver steps.
And among Beaver’s neighbors, on a bright forest lake, lived Hottyn-Swan. He was handsome and proud, he didn’t want to be friends with anyone, he even said hello reluctantly. He will raise his white neck, look at his neighbor from above - they bow to him, he will slightly nod in response.
It happened once, Inkvoy-Beaver is working on the bank of the river, working: sawing aspen trees with his teeth. It will cut down halfway around, the wind will blow and knock down the aspen. Inquay-Beaver will cut it into logs and drag it log after log to the river. He puts it on his back and holds the log with one paw - just like a person walks, only there is no pipe in his teeth.
Suddenly he sees the Khotyn-Swan swimming along the river, very close. Inquay Beaver stopped, threw the log off his shoulder and said politely:
Oooh-ooh!
Hello, that is.
The swan raised its proud neck, slightly nodded its head in response and said:
You saw me close! I noticed you from the very turn of the river. You'll get lost with eyes like that.
And he began to mock Inqua the Beaver:
Hunters will catch you, mole rat, with their bare hands and put you in their pocket.
Inquay Beaver listened, listened and said:
No doubt, you see better than me. But do you hear the quiet splashing over there, around the third bend of the river?
Hottyn-Swan listened and said:
You're making it up, there's no splashing. Quiet in the forest.
Inquay Beaver waited, waited, and asked again:
Can you hear the splashing now?
- Where? - asks Khotyn-Swan.
- And behind the second bend of the river, on the second there is an empty forest.
“No,” says Hottyn-Swan, “I don’t hear anything.” Everything is quiet in the forest.
Inquay Beaver waited some more. He asks again:
Do you hear?
- Where?
- And behind the cape, on the nearby deserted forest!
“No,” says Hottyn-Swan, “I don’t hear anything.” Quiet in the forest. You're making things up on purpose.
“Then,” says Inquoi-Beaver, “farewell.” And may your eyes serve you as well as my ears serve me.
He dived into the water and disappeared.
And Khotyn-Swan raised his white neck and looked around proudly: he thought that his keen eyes would always notice danger in time - and he was not afraid of anything.
Then a light boat jumped out from behind the forest - an Aikhoy. The Hunter was sitting in it.
The hunter raised his gun - and before Khotyn-Swan had time to flap his wings, a shot rang out.
And the proud head of Khotyn-Swan fell into the water.
So the Khanty, the forest people, say: “In the forest, the ears are the first thing, the eyes are second.”
Tails
The Fly flew to the Man and said:
You are the master over all animals, you can do anything. Give me a tail.
- Why do you need a tail? - says the Man.
“And then I want a tail,” says the Fly, “why do all animals have it - for beauty.”
- I don’t know any animals that have a tail for beauty. And you live well even without a tail.
The Fly got angry and started to bother the Man: it would sit on the sweet dish, then it would fly over his nose, then it would buzz at one ear, then at the other. I'm tired, I have no strength! The man says to her:
OK! Fly, Fly, to the forest, to the river, to the field. If you find an animal, bird or reptile there whose tail is just for beauty, you can take its tail for yourself. I allow.
The Fly was delighted and flew out the window.
She flies through the garden and sees a slug crawling along a leaf. The Fly flew up to the Slug and shouted:
Give me your tail, Slug! You have it for beauty.
- What are you, what are you! - says Slime. - I don’t even have a tail: it’s my belly. I squeeze it and unclench it, and that’s all I can do to crawl. I am a gastropod.
She flew to the river, and in the river there were Fish and Cancer - both with tails. Fly to Fish:
Give me your tail! You have it for beauty.
“Not at all for beauty,” answers Fish. - My tail is my rudder. You see: I need to turn right - I turn my tail to the right. If you go to the left, I put my tail to the left. I can't give you my tail.
Fly to Cancer:
Give me your tail, Cancer!
“I can’t give it away,” answers Cancer. - My legs are weak, thin, I can’t row with them. And my tail is wide and strong. As soon as I slap my tail on the water, it will throw me up. Slap, splash - and I float where I need to. I have a tail instead of an oar.
Give me your tail, Woodpecker! You have it only for beauty.
- What an eccentric! - says Woodpecker. - How am I going to cut down trees, look for food for myself, and make nests for children?
“And your nose,” says Mukha.
“It’s a nose,” answers the Woodpecker, “but you can’t do without a tail.” Look how I hammer.
The Woodpecker rested his strong, stiff tail against the bark, swung his whole body, and when he hit the branch with his nose, only the chips flew!
The fly sees: it’s true that the Woodpecker sits on the tail when he chisels - he can’t live without a tail. The tail serves as a support for him. She flew on.
He sees: A deer in the bushes with her fawns. And Deer has a tail - a small, fluffy, white tail. The fly buzzes:
Give me your tail, Deer!
The deer got scared.
What are you, what are you! - speaks. - If I give you my tail, my fawns will disappear.
- Why do fawns need your tail? - Mukha was surprised.
“But of course,” says Olenukha. - The Wolf will chase us. I'll rush into the forest to hide. And the fawns are behind me. Only they can’t see me between the trees. And I wave my white tail at them like a handkerchief: run here, here! They see a little white thing flashing ahead, and they run after me. So we will all run away from the Wolf.
Give me your tail!
- What you. Fly! - answers the Fox. - Yes, without a tail I will be lost. The dogs will chase me, they will quickly catch me, tailless. And with my tail I will deceive them.
“How can you,” asks the Fly, “deceive them with your tail?”
- And when the dogs start to overtake me, I’ll start wagging my tail! - tail to the right, herself to the left.
The dogs will see that my tail is darting to the right, and they will rush to the right. By the time they figure out that they made a mistake, I’m too far away.
The Fly sees: all animals have a tail for business, there are no extra tails either in the forest or in the river. There is nothing to do, the Fly flew home. She thinks:
“I’ll pester the Man, I’ll bother him until he makes a tail for me.”
The man was sitting at the window, looking at the yard.
A fly landed on his nose. The man hit himself in the nose, and the Fly already sat on his forehead. The man hits the forehead, and the Fly is already on his nose again.
Leave me alone, Fly! - the Man begged.
“I won’t leave you alone,” buzzes the Fly. - Why did you laugh at me and send me to look for free tails? I asked all the animals - all animals have a tail for business.
The man sees: he can’t get rid of the fly - how annoying it is! He thought and said:
Fly, Fly, and there’s a Cow in the yard. Ask her why she has a tail.
“Well, okay,” says the Fly, “I’ll ask the Cow.” And if the Cow doesn’t give me her tail, I will kill you, Man, from the light.
A Fly flew out the window, sat on the Cow’s back and started buzzing and asking:
Cow, Cow, why do you need a tail? Cow, Cow, why do you need a tail?
The cow was silent, silent, and then she slapped herself on the back with her tail - and slapped the Fly.
The Fly fell to the ground - the spirit was out, and the legs were up. And the Man says from the window:
That’s what you need, Fly, don’t pester people, don’t pester animals. Bored.
Fox and mouse
Little mouse, little mouse, why is your nose dirty?
- I was digging the earth.
- Why did you dig the ground?
- I made a mink.
- Why did you make the mink?
- Hide from you, fox.
- Little mouse, little mouse, I’ll lie in wait for you!
- And I have a bedroom in my hole.
- If you want to eat, you’ll come out!
- And I have a storage room in my hole.
- Little mouse, little mouse, I’ll dig up your hole!
- And I’m a stranger to you - and I always was!
Owl
The Old Man is sitting, drinking tea. He doesn't drink empty - he whitens it with milk. An owl flies past.
“Great,” he says, “friend!”
And the Old Man told her:
You, Owl, are a desperate head, erect ears, hooked nose. You hide from the sun, avoid people - what a friend I am to you!
The Owl got angry.
Okay, he says, he’s old! I won’t fly into your meadow at night to catch mice, catch it yourself.
And the Old Man:
Look, what did you want to scare me with? Leak away while you're still alive.
The Owl flew away, climbed into the oak tree, and did not fly anywhere from the hollow.
Night has come. In the old meadow, mice in their holes whistle and call out to each other:
Look, godfather, isn’t the Owl flying - a desperate head, ears erect, nose hooked?
Mouse Mouse in response:
Can't see the Owl, can't hear the Owl. Today we have freedom in the meadow, now we have freedom in the meadow.
The mice jumped out of their holes, the mice ran across the meadow.
And the Owl from the hollow:
Ho-ho-ho, Old Man! Look, no matter how bad things turn out: the mice, they say, have gone hunting.
“Let them go,” says the Old Man. - Tea, mice are not wolves, chicks will not be killed.
Mice roam the meadow, look for bumblebee nests, dig the ground, catch bumblebees. And the Owl from the hollow:
Ho-ho-ho, Old Man! Look, no matter how much worse it turns out: all your bumblebees have flown away.
“Let them fly,” says the Old Man. - What's the use of them: no honey, no wax, just blisters.
There is a foraging clover in the meadow, hanging with its head to the ground, and the bumblebees are buzzing, flying away from the meadow, not looking at the clover, and not carrying pollen from flower to flower.
And the Owl from the hollow:
Ho-ho-ho, Old Man! Look, it wouldn’t have turned out worse: you wouldn’t have to carry the pollen from flower to flower yourself.
“And the wind will blow it away,” says the Old Man, and he scratches the back of his head.
The wind is blowing through the meadow, pollen is falling to the ground. If pollen does not fall from flower to flower, clover will not be born in the meadow; The Old Man doesn't like it.
And the Owl from the hollow:
Ho-ho-ho, Old Man! Your cow moos and asks for clover; grass, you hear, without clover is like porridge without butter.
The Old Man is silent, says nothing.
The Clover Cow was healthy, the Cow began to grow thin, and began to lose milk; The swill is licking, and the milk is getting thinner and thinner.
And the Owl from the hollow:
Ho-ho-ho, Old Man! I told you: you will come to me to bow.
The old man scolds, but things don’t go well. The owl sits in an oak tree and does not catch mice. Mice are prowling the meadow, looking for bumblebee nests. Bumblebees walk in other people's meadows, but don't even look at the old people's meadow. Clover will not be born in the meadow. A cow without clover grows thin. The cow has little milk. So the Old Man had nothing to whiten his tea with.
The Old Man had nothing to whiten his tea with, so the Old Man went to bow to the Owl:
You, Owl-Widow, help me out of trouble: I, the old one, have nothing with which to whiten tea.
And Soza from the hollow with his eyes lup-lup, and his knives thu-tap.
That's it, he says, he's old. Being together is not burdensome, but apart at least throw it away. Do you think it’s easy for me without your mice?
The Owl forgave the Old Man, crawled out of the hollow, and flew to the meadow to scare the mice.
The owl flew off to catch mice.
The mice hid in their holes in fear.
The bumblebees buzzed over the meadow and began to fly from flower to flower.
The red clover began to swell in the meadow.
The cow went to the meadow to chew clover.
The cow has a lot of milk.
The Old Man began to whiten the tea with milk, whiten the tea - praise the Owl, invite him to visit him and respect him.
Masters without an ax
They gave me a riddle: “The hut was built without hands, without an axe.” What's happened?
It turns out it's a bird's nest.
I looked - right! Here is a magpie’s nest, as if made of logs, all made of branches; the floor is smeared with clay and covered with straw; in the middle is the entrance; roof made of branches. Why not a hut? But Soroka never even held an ax in her paws.
Here I deeply felt sorry for the bird: it is difficult, oh how difficult it is, for them, the unfortunate ones, to build their homes without hands, without an axe! I began to think: what can I do here, how can I help them?
You can't help them.
But an axe... You can get an ax for them.
I took out a hatchet and ran into the garden.
Lo and behold, the Midnight Nightjar is sitting on the ground between the hummocks. Me to him:
Nightjar, Nightjar, is it difficult for you to make nests without hands, without an axe?
- And I don’t even make nests! - says Nightjar. - Look where I hatch the eggs.
Nightjar fluttered up, and under him there was a hole between the hummocks. And in the hole lie two beautiful marble eggs.
“Well,” I think to myself, “this doesn’t need either hands or an axe. I managed to get along without them.”
He ran out to the river. Lo and behold, Remez-Sinichka is jumping along the branches and bushes, collecting fluff from the willow with her thin nose.
What do you need fluff for, Remez? - I ask.
“I’m making a nest out of it,” he says. “My nest is downy, soft, like your mitten.”
“Well,” I think to myself, “this little hatchet doesn’t need anything either - collecting fluff...”
He ran to the house. Lo and behold, the Orca Swallow is fussing over the skate, making a nest. He crushes clay with his nose, chops it in the river with his nose, carries it with his nose.
“Well,” I think, “and my little hatchet has nothing to do with it. And it’s not worth showing it.”
He ran into the grove. Lo and behold, there’s a Song Thrush’s nest on the Christmas tree. What a sight to behold, what a nest! The outside is decorated with green moss, the inside is smooth as a cup.
How did you make this nest for yourself? - I ask. - How did you decorate it so well inside?
“I made it with my paws and nose,” answers the Song Thrush. - I covered everything inside with cement - from wood dust with my own saliva.
“Well,” I think, “I ended up in the wrong place again. We need to look for birds that do carpentry.”
And I hear: “Knock-knock-knock-knock!” Knock-knock-knock-knock!” - from the forest.
I'm going there. And there is Woodpecker.
He sits on a birch tree and does carpentry, makes a hollow for himself - to take the children out.
Woodpecker, Woodpecker, stop poking! Guess I've had a headache for a long time. Look what kind of instrument I brought you: a real axe!
The Woodpecker looked at the hatchet and said:
Thank you, but your tool is of no use to me. I’m fine with carpentry anyway: I hold myself up with my paws, I lean on my tail, I bend in half, I swing my head - I hit my nose! Only splinters and dust fly!
The Woodpecker confused me: apparently birds are all masters without an axe.
Then I saw an Eagle's nest. A huge pile of thick branches on the tallest pine tree in the forest.
“Here,” I think, “someone needs an ax to chop branches!”
I ran up to that pine tree and shouted:
Eagle, Eagle! And I brought you an axe!
The eagle spreads its wings and screams:
Thank you, boy! Throw your ax into the pile. I’ll pile more branches on it - it will be a strong building, a good nest.
Teremok
There was an oak tree in the forest. Fat, very fat, old, old.
A spotted woodpecker has arrived, with a red hat and a sharp nose.
Jump-jump along the trunk, tap-tap with your nose - tap, listen, and let’s dig a hole. Hollowed and hollowed, hollowed and hollowed - he hollowed out a deep hollow. He lived in it for the summer, took the children out and flew away.
Winter has passed, summer has come again.
Starling found out about that hollow. Arrived. He sees an oak tree, and there is a hole in the oak tree. Why is Starling not a mansion?
Asks:
No one from the hollow answers; the tower stands empty.
The Starling brought hay and straw into the hollow, began to live in the hollow, and took out the children.
One year lives, another lives - the old oak dries and crumbles; The bigger the hollow, the wider the hole.
In the third year, the yellow-eyed Owl found out about that hollow.
Arrived. He sees an oak tree, in the oak tree there is a hole with a cat's head. Asks:
Terem-teremok, who lives in the tower?
- Once upon a time there lived a Spotted Woodpecker with a sharp nose, now I live - a Starling, the first singer in the grove. And who are you?
- I'm Sych. If you fall into my claws, don't whine. I'll fly in at night - whoops! - and I’ll swallow it. Get out of the mansion while you're still alive!
The Starling Owl got scared and flew away.
Owl did not train anything, he began to live in the hollow: on his feathers.
In the third year, Belka found out about that hollow. I galloped up. He sees an oak tree, in the oak tree there is a hole with a dog's head. Asks:
Terem-teremok, who lives in the tower?
- There lived a Spotted Woodpecker with a sharp nose, there lived a Starling - the first singer in the grove, now I live - an Owl. If you fall into my claws, don't whine. And who are you?
- I am Belka - a rope jumper on branches, a nurse in hollows. My teeth are long and sharp as needles. Get out of the mansion while you're still alive!
Squirrel Owl got scared and flew away.
The squirrel brought moss and began to live in the hollow.
It lives for a year, it lives for another - the old oak crumbles, the hollow becomes wider.
In the third year, Marten found out about that hollow. She came running and saw an oak tree, in the oak tree there was a hole with a man’s head. Asks:
Terem-teremok, who lives in the tower?
- Once upon a time there lived a Spotted Woodpecker - a sharp nose, there lived a Starling - the first singer in the grove, there lived an Owl - if you fall into his claws - don’t whine, now I live - Squirrel - a jump rope on branches, a nurse in hollows. And who are you?
I am Marten - a killer of all small animals. I’m scarier than Khorya, don’t argue with me in vain. Get out of the mansion while you're still alive.
The Marten Squirrel got scared and galloped away.
Marten did not train anything, she began to live like this in the hollow: on her own fur.
It lives for a year, it lives for another - the old oak crumbles, the hollow becomes wider.
In the third year, the bees learned about that hollow. We've arrived. They see an oak tree, in the oak tree there is a hole the size of a horse's head. They circle, buzz, and ask:
Terem-teremok, who lives in the tower?
- Once upon a time there lived a Spotted Woodpecker - a sharp nose, there lived a Starling - the first singer in the grove, there lived an Owl - if you fall into his claws - don’t whine, there lived a Squirrel - a jump rope along the branches, a nurse in the hollows, now I live - the Marten - a killer of all small animals. And who are you?
- We are a swarm of bees - a mountain for each other. We circle, buzz, sting, threaten big and small. Get out of the mansion while you're still alive!
The Marten got scared of the bees and ran away.
The bees collected wax and began to live in the hollow. They live for a year, they live for another - the old oak crumbles, the hollow becomes wider.
In the third year, Bear found out about that hollow. I've arrived. He sees an oak tree, in the oak tree there are holes the size of a whole window. Asks:
Terem-teremok, who lives in the tower?
- Once upon a time there lived a Spotted Woodpecker - a sharp nose, there lived a Starling - the first singer in the grove, there lived an Owl - if you fall into his claws - don’t whine, there lived a Squirrel - a jump rope along the branches, a nurse in the hollows, there lived a Marten - a killer of all small animals, now we live - a swarm of bees - like a mountain for each other. And who are you?
- And I’m a Bear, Mishka, your mansion is finished! He climbed up the oak tree, stuck his head into the hollow, and how he pressed!
The oak fell in half, and from it - just count how many years it accumulated:
wool,
. yes hay,
. . yes to wax,
. . . yes to moss,
. . . . let him rest in peace
. . . . . yes feathers,
. . . . . . yes dust -
. . . . . . . yes ph-h-h!..
The tower is no longer there.
Cuckoo
The cuckoo was sitting on a birch tree in the middle of the grove.
Wings flickered around her every now and then. Birds busily scurried between the trees, looked for cozy corners, and carried feathers, moss, and grass.
Little chicks were soon to be born. The birds took care of them. They were in a hurry - they forged, built, sculpted.
And the Cuckoo had her own worries. She doesn’t know how to build nests or raise chicks. She sat and thought:
“I’ll sit here and look at the birds. Whoever builds the best nest for himself, I’ll throw my egg.”
And the Cuckoo watched the birds, hiding in the dense foliage. The birds did not notice her.
Wagtail, Pipit and Warbler built their nests on the ground. They hid them so well in the grass that even two steps away it was impossible to notice the nests.
The cuckoo thought:
“These nests are cleverly hidden! What if a Cow suddenly comes, accidentally steps on the nest and crushes my chick. I won’t throw my egg at Wagtail, Pipit, or Chiffchaff.”
And she began to look out for new nests.
The Nightingale and Warbler made nests in the bushes.
The cuckoo liked their nests. Yes, a thieving Jay with blue feathers on his wings flew in. All the birds rushed to her and tried to drive her away from their nests.
The cuckoo thought:
“The jay will find any nest, even the nests of the Nightingale and Warbler. And he will drag away my little bird. Where should I throw my egg?”
Then the little Pied Flycatcher caught the eye of the Cuckoo. She flew out of the hollow of the old linden tree and flew to help the birds drive away the Jay.
“This is a great nest for my chick! - thought the Cuckoo. - In the hollow, the Cow will not crush him and the Jay will not reach him. I’ll throw my egg to Pestrushka!”
While Spotted was chasing Jay, Cuckoo flew off the birch tree and laid an egg right on the ground. Then she grabbed it in her beak, flew up to the linden tree, stuck her head into the hollow and carefully lowered the egg into Pestrushkino’s nest.
The cuckoo was very glad that she had finally placed her chick in a safe place.
“That’s how clever I am! - she thought as she flew away. “Not every Cuckoo will think of throwing its egg into the hollow of the Pestrushka.”
The birds drove Jay out of the grove, and Spotted returned to her hollow. She didn’t even notice that there was one extra egg in the nest. The new egg was almost as small as any of her four eggs. She should have counted them, but little Pestrushka couldn’t even count to three. She calmly sat down to hatch the chicks.
I had to sit for a long time, two whole weeks. But Pestrushka was not bored.
She loved to sit in her hollow. The hollow was not wide, not deep, but very cozy. What Pestrushka liked most was that the entrance to it was very narrow. She had a hard time getting into it herself. But she was calm that no one would climb into her nest when she flew away to get food for her chicks.
When Pestrushka was hungry, she called her husband, the motley Flycatcher. Mukholov flew in and sat in her place. He waited patiently until Spotted had eaten his fill of butterflies, mosquitoes and flies. And when she returned, he flew up onto a branch, just opposite the hollow, and merrily sang:
Tch! Cool, cool! Cool, cool! - At the same time, he quickly twisted his straight black tail and shook his motley wings.
His song was short, but Pestrushka always listened to it with pleasure.
Finally, Pestrushka felt as if someone was moving under her! This was the first chick - naked, blind. He floundered among the egg shells. The pied bird immediately took the shells from the nest.
Soon three more chicks were born. Now Pestrushka and Mukholov have more troubles. There were four to feed and a fifth egg to hatch.
Several days passed like this. Four chicks have grown up and are covered with fluff.
Just then the fifth chick emerged from the egg. He had a very thick head, a huge mouth, and bulging, skin-covered eyes. And he was all sort of wiry and awkward.
Mukholov said:
I don't like this freak. Let's throw him out of the nest!
- What you! What you! - Pestrushka was scared. “It’s not his fault that he was born this way.”
From that moment on, Mukholov and Pestrushka had no rest. Until nightfall they carried food for the chicks and cleaned up after them in the nest. The fifth chick ate the most.
And on the third day a misfortune happened.
Flycatcher and Pestrushka flew off to get food. And when they arrived, they saw their two fluffy chicks on the ground under the linden tree. They hit their heads on a root and died.
But how could they fall out of the hollow?
Pestrushka and Mukholov had no time to grieve and think. The remaining chicks screamed loudly from hunger. The freak screamed loudest of all.
Pestrushka and Mukholov took turns putting the food they brought into his mouth. And they flew away again.
Now the freak dug under one of the brothers remaining in the hollow with his backside. The little brother floundered and nestled in the hole on the freak’s back.
Then the freak poked his head into the bottom of the hollow. As if with his hands, he rested his bare thin wings against the walls and began to stick out of the hollow backwards and forwards.
Now a fluffy chick, sitting in a hole on the freak’s back, appeared in the hole of the hollow. At this time, the pestle flew up to the linden tree with a butterfly in its beak. And she saw: suddenly something threw up her fluffy chick from below.
The chick flew out of the nest, turned over helplessly in the air and fell to the ground.
In horror, Pestrushka released the butterfly, screamed and rushed to the chick. He was already dead.
Even then the pied bird did not understand that it was a freak chick who was throwing her fluffy chicks out of the hollow. And who would have thought that he was such a villain? After all, he was only three days old. He was still completely naked and blind.
When Pestrushka flew away, he also placed the fourth and last brother on his back. And just like that, resting his head and wings, with an unexpected and strong push he pushed him out of the hollow.
Now he was left alone in the nest. Mukholov and Pestrushka grieved and grieved for their fluffy chicks, but there was nothing to do - they began to feed one freak. And he grew by leaps and bounds. His eyes opened.
Look how fat he has become,” said Flycatcher to Pestrushka when they met at the hollow, each with a fly in his beak. - And such a glutton: just an insatiable little devil!
But Pestrushka was no longer afraid for her son. She knew that good Mukholov was grumbling on purpose.
And the insatiable chick grew and grew. And his gluttony grew with him. No matter how much food they brought, it was still not enough for him.
He has already grown so much that he has filled the entire hollow. He was covered with spotted red feathers, but still squeaked like a little one and asked for food.
What should we do? - Mukholov asked Pestrushka anxiously. - He has already outgrown you and me. And he doesn't look anything like the young Flycatcher.
“I can see for myself,” answered Pestrushka sadly, “that he is not our own son.” This is Cuckoo. But now nothing can be done: we can’t leave him to starve.
He is our adopted child. We must feed him.
And they fed him from morning to night.
Summer is over. A strong autumn wind blew more and more often, the old linden tree trembled and creaked under its gusts. The birds in the grove gathered to the south.
Wagtail, Pipit, Warbler, Nightingale and Warbler set off on a journey with their chicks. They called Mukholov and Pestrushka with them.
And they just silently shook their heads and pointed to the old linden tree. A hungry squeak was heard from its hollow and the Cuckoo's wide-open beak protruded.
Every day the little bird begged him to get out of the nest.
Look,” she told him, “it’s already getting cold.” It's time for you and us to fly away from here. And it’s dangerous to stay in the nest: the wind is getting stronger every day, and the old linden tree is about to break!
But Little Cuckoo only turned his head and still remained in the hollow.
Cold autumn came, flies and butterflies began to disappear. Finally Mukholov said to Pestrushka:
We can't stay here any longer. We fly and fly until we ourselves die of hunger. Anyway, we have nothing to feed the Little Cuckoo. Without us, he will soon get hungry and crawl out of the hollow.
Pestrushka had to listen to her husband. For the last time they fed their adopted child. Then they flew out of the grove and rushed south. Little Cuckoo was left alone. Soon he became hungry and began to scream. Nobody came near him.
And at night a storm arose. The rain poured into the hollow.
The little cuckoo pulled his head into his shoulders and sat pressed against the wall. He was trembling all over from cold and fear.
The wind was so strong that the old linden tree swayed like a blade of grass and creaked loudly. It seemed like it was about to crack from the root to the very top.
By morning the storm had subsided. The little cuckoo was still sitting, pressed against the wall. He still could not come to his senses from fear.
When the sun rose high, its rays slipped into the hollow and warmed the wet Cuckoo.
During the day, a Boy and a Girl came to the grove.
The wind lifted yellow leaves from the ground and swirled in the air. Children ran and caught them. Then they started playing hide and seek. The boy hid behind the trunk of an old linden tree.
Suddenly he thought he heard a bird cry from the depths of the tree.
The boy raised his head, saw a hollow and climbed up the tree.
Here! - he shouted to his sister. - There is a cuckoo sitting in a hollow tree.
The girl came running and asked her brother to get her a bird.
I can't put my hand into the hollow! - said the Boy. - The hole is too narrow.
“Then I’ll scare the cuckoo away,” said the Girl, “and you catch it when it climbs out of the hollow.”
The girl began to hit the trunk with a stick.
A deafening roar arose in the hollow. The little cuckoo gathered his last strength, rested his feet and wings against the walls and began to escape from the hollow.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t squeeze through.
Look! - the Girl screamed. - The cuckoo can’t get out, it’s too fat.
“Wait,” said the Boy, “now I’ll pull her out.”
He took a penknife from his pocket and used it to widen the entrance to the hollow. They had to cut a wide hole in the tree before they managed to get Little Cuckoo out of it. He had long grown to the size of a great cuckoo and was three times thicker than his adoptive mother, Pestrushka.
But from sitting in the hollow for a long time, he was very clumsy and did not know how to fly.
“We’ll take him with us,” the children decided, “and we’ll feed him.”
Birds flew past the empty linden tree to the south. Among them was Cuckoo.
She saw the hollow where she had dropped her egg in the spring, and thought again:
“How clever I am! How well I arranged for my chick! Where is he now? That’s right, I’ll meet him in the south.”
Three tales
Why does a magpie have such a tail?
The first fairy tale,” said the father. - Once upon a time there was a bird. Which one, you ask? Yes, none. Just a bird and that's all. She didn’t have a name, only a bird. And do you know where she lived? In a person's head. Once the man opened his mouth and wanted to yawn. She is a flutter and flew out.
He looks - it’s a cheerful spring day. The sky is blue, blue, there is sun, white clouds. How much space!
Below there is a forest - curly, dense, shady. So cozy. And below the forest there is a river. The water runs and glistens, there are green bushes along the banks, the golden sand is burning.
"Oh! - the bird thinks. - That's so beautiful! How fun!"
It's fun, but you have to eat.
He sees flies and mosquitoes flying around.
She flapped her wings and chased after them. And her wings are neither long nor short, neither round nor sharp: average.
He flaps his wings, chases flies and mosquitoes, but cannot catch them.
Suddenly a swift rushes by. He rushed forward, circled, and back, down, up, right, left, and caught all the flies and mosquitoes.
“Here,” he says, “is how you need to fly in order to catch flies and mosquitoes.” Have you seen what kind of wings you need for this?
The bird looked - he had long, long wings. If he folds them up, he won’t even be able to see his tail underneath. Narrow wings, sharp as crooked scissors when spread out.
“Well, then I’ll fly into the forest,” the bird thinks. “I’ll find something for myself there.”
She flew into the forest, and there was a thicket. The wings touch the branches, the tail does not have time to turn.
And her tail is neither long nor short, neither wide nor narrow - just average.
A magpie jumped out of the thicket and laughed:
- Is it really possible to fly in the forest with such a tail?
What kind of tail do you need here, did you see?
And she raised her tail. And the magpie's tail is longer than the magpie itself.
- You should have smaller wings, more rounded, and add a tail so that you can twirl, and turn - twirl, and in the other direction. More often than not, everything is like that.
She twitched her tail and she was gone.
“Well,” the bird thinks, “that means I need to fly to the river. I’ll hunt there.”
And she flew away.
This is the end of the first fairy tale, and the answer is why the magpie has such a tail.
To whom the plover bows, and the plovers nods its tail
The second fairy tale, says the father. - A bird flew to the river.
She sat down on a cliff and saw a plover running along the sand, right next to the wave. He will run and run and become. And he will - now he will begin to bow. And he bows, and he bows.
And a thin pliska sits on a pebble in the water. And everything nods its tail, everything nods its tail.
The bird thinks:
“Who are they bowing to? Isn't it for me?
Suddenly - zhzhip! - a hobby falcon flew over her with a whistle. And disappeared.
Plovers and plovers shout to the bird:
- It’s your happiness that you sat quietly.
Otherwise the hobby falcon would have seen you and carried you away in its claws. I wouldn't have time to squeak.
The bird was surprised:
- Why would he have seen me if I had moved?
- Yes, because you are sitting on the ground, there are only stones around you, everything is quiet, not moving. And whoever moves is immediately noticeable.
- So why are you bowing, why are you nodding?
- And we live by the wave. The wave sways and we sway. We need it that way. Let us stand still, and everything moves around us, everything sways, and we are immediately noticeable.
Here the second fairy tale ends, and the answer is to whom the plover bows, and the plovers nods its tail. And the third tale...
Why are seagulls white?
The bird thinks:
“I can’t live in the air, I can’t live in the forest, and it turns out I can’t live on the river either: I don’t know how to hide. Who would protect me?
And he sees a white seagull flying and swimming over the river.
Suddenly the seagull folded its wings and fell into the water. She fell into the water, flapped her wings over her back and rose into the air again.
And in her mouth there is a fish.
Here more and more white seagulls swooped in from all sides. They began to circle over the river, fall, rise, and drag fish out of the water.
“That’s nice,” the bird thinks. - I’ll moor to the seagulls. And I will be full and safe: the seagulls are big, the seagulls are strong, they will protect me from the Hobby Falcon.”
Flew to the white seagulls:
- Take me into the artel!
White seagulls looked at her and said:
- You are not fit for our artel. How are you going to catch a fish with your nose? You see, we have strong, sharp noses. And your nose is neither strong, nor soft, nor dull, nor sharp, but average.
“Nothing, somehow,” says the bird.
“And you’re gray,” say the white seagulls. - You won’t even understand what color it is. And you see, we are green.
- Why are you white? - asks the bird.
“We can’t be different,” the white seagulls answer. - First of all, the fish out of the water shouldn’t catch us, otherwise you’ll never catch them.
The fish are watching from below - there is a white ceiling above them. River ceiling. And above him is the sky, with white clouds on it. We, white fish, are not visible above the white, under the white fish.
The second thing is that we, together with a friendly team, catch fish. We scatter in different directions, and each one looks out for the fish. Fish move in herds.
So we look at each other from afar, we don’t let each other out of our sight.
The friend folded her wings and fell on the water. Yeah, that means the fish are there!
And we all rush to our lucky friend, we begin to catch everything nearby.
From a distance we look at each other from the side. And it’s good for us to see each other: after all, we are white, visible on the water and above the shore.
- And you, little gray one, we can’t see: you fly over the shore - you can’t see, past the forest - you can’t see, and under the sky - you can’t see. Why, the Hobby Falcon has sharp eyes, and he didn’t notice you. And whoever is not visible is not there for us.
- And what about me? - asks the bird.
“You’re not there at all,” the white seagulls answer. - You're average all around. You are made up. There is no place under the sun for such people. Look at yourself in the water.
The bird looked down. There, in the quiet river, everything is like in a mirror: white seagulls are circling, and the plovers are bowing, and the plover is nodding its tail, and a magpie has flown in - sitting on a bush, and a swift is rushing in the sky. But her - the birds - are not.
“And fly,” say the seagulls, “back to where you came from!”
There is nothing to do - the bird flew back to its man.
The man was just sleeping - his mouth opened.
The bird flew into his head.
The man took a sip, sighed, woke up and said:
- What a dream I had! As if there lived a bird... - And then the third fairy tale ends, you have the answer - why seagulls are white.
Where do crayfish spend the winter?
In the kitchen there was a flat basket on a stool, a saucepan on the stove, and a large white dish on the table. There were crayfish in the basket, there was boiling water with dill and salt in the pan, but there was nothing on the dish.
The Mistress came in and began:
once - she lowered her hand into the basket and grabbed the crayfish across the back;
two - threw the crayfish into the pan, waited until it was cooked, and -
three - spooned the crayfish from the pan onto a dish.
And it went, and it went.
Once - a black crayfish, grabbed across the back, angrily moved its mustache, opened its claws and flicked its tail;
two - the crayfish was dipped in boiling water, stopped moving and turned red;
three - the red crayfish lay on the dish, lay motionless, and steam came from it.
One-two-three, one-two-three - there were fewer and fewer black crayfish left in the basket, the boiling water in the pan was boiling and gurgling, and a mountain of red crayfish was growing on a white dish.
And now there was only one, the last crayfish left in the basket.
Once - and the Mistress grabbed him with her fingers across his back.
At this time they shouted something to her from the dining room.
I carry it, I carry it! Last! - the hostess answered - and got confused: two - she threw the black crayfish onto the dish, waited a little, picked up the red crayfish from the dish with a spoon and - three - dropped it into boiling water.
The red crayfish didn’t care where to lie: in a hot pan or on a cool dish. The black crayfish didn’t want to go into the pan at all, and it didn’t want to lie on the plate either.
More than anything in the world, he wanted to go where the crayfish spend the winter.
And, without hesitation for a long time, he began his journey: back and forth, to the backyard.
He came across a mountain of motionless red crayfish and hid under them.
The hostess decorated the dish with dill and served it on the table.
The white dish with red crayfish and green dill was beautiful. The crayfish were delicious. The guests were hungry. The hostess was busy. And no one noticed how the black crayfish rolled from the dish onto the table and crawled backwards and forwards under the plate, backwards and backwards to the very edge of the table.
And under the table there was a kitten sitting and waiting to see if he would get something from the master’s table.
Suddenly - bam! - someone black and mustachioed cracked in front of him.
The kitten didn’t know it was a cancer, he thought it was a big black cockroach, and pushed it with his nose.
Cancer backed away.
The kitten touched him with his paw.
The cancer raised its claw.
The kitten decided that it was not worth dealing with him, turned around and smeared him with its tail.
And cancer - grab it! - and pinched the tip of his tail with his claw.
What happened to the kitten? "Meow! - He jumped onto the chair. - Meow! - from chair to table. - Meow! - from the table to the windowsill. - Meow! - and jumped out into the yard.
Hold it, hold it, you crazy one! - the guests shouted.
But the kitten rushed like a whirlwind across the yard, flew up onto the fence, and rushed across the garden. There was a pond in the garden, and the kitten would probably have fallen into the water if the cancer had not unclenched its claws and let go of its tail.
The kitten turned back and galloped home.
The pond was small, all overgrown with grass and mud. Lazy tailed newts, crucian carp, and snails lived in it. Their life was boring - everything was always the same.
Newts swam up and down, crucian carp swam back and forth, snails crawled on the grass: one day they crawl up, the next they go down.
Suddenly the water splashed, and someone’s black body, blowing bubbles, sank to the bottom.
Now everyone gathered to look at him: newts swam, crucians came running, snails crawled down.
And it’s true - there was something to look at: the black one was covered in armor - from the tip of the mustache to the tip of the tail. Smooth armor covered his chest and back. From under the hard visor, two motionless eyes protruded on thin stalks. Long straight mustaches stuck out forward like peaks. Four pairs of thin legs were like forks, two claws were like two toothy mouths.
None of the pond residents had ever seen a crayfish in their lives, and everyone climbed closer to it out of curiosity. The cancer moved - everyone got scared and moved away.
The cancer raised its front leg, grabbed its eye with a fork, pulled out the stem and started cleaning it.
It was so surprising that everyone again climbed onto the crayfish, and one crucian carp even stumbled upon his mustache. Raz! - The cancer grabbed it with its claw, and the stupid crucian carp flew in half.
The crucian carp became alarmed and ran away in all directions. And the hungry cancer calmly began to eat.
The cancer in the pond healed well. All day long he rested in the mud. He wandered around at night, felt the bottom and the bottom with his mustache, and grabbed slow-moving snails with his claws.
The newts and crucians were now afraid of him and would not let him get close to them. Yes, snails were enough for him: he ate them along with the houses, and his shell only became stronger from such food.
But the water in the pond was rotten and musty. And he was still drawn to where the crayfish spend the winter.
One evening it started to rain. It rained all night, and by morning the water in the pond rose and overflowed its banks. The stream picked up the crayfish and carried it away from the pond, poked it into some stump, picked it up again and threw it into the ditch.
The cancer was delighted, spread its wide tail, clapped it in the water and swam backwards and forwards, as if crawling.
But the rain stopped, the ditch became shallow - it became uncomfortable to swim. The cancer has crawled.
He crawled for a long time. He rested during the day and set off again at night. The first ditch turned into the second, the second - into the third, the third - into the fourth, and he kept backing and backing, crawling, crawling - and still could not crawl anywhere, get out of a hundred ditches.
On the tenth day of the journey, he climbed, hungry, under some snag and began to wait to see if a snail would crawl past, if a fish or frog would swim by.
So he sits under a snag and hears: “boom!” Something heavy fell from the bank into the ditch.
And he sees a cancer: a big-faced animal with a mustache, short legs, and the size of a kitten is swimming towards him.
At another time, the crayfish would have been scared and backed away from such a beast. But hunger is not a problem. You need something to fill your belly.
I let the beast's cancer pass me by and grab its thick, hairy tail with its claw! I thought it would cut it off like with scissors. But that was not the case. The animal - and it was a water rat - suddenly exploded, and the crayfish flew out from under the snag, lighter than a bird. The rat threw its tail in the other direction - crack! - and the crayfish claw broke in half.
I found some seaweed and ate it. Then I fell into the mud. Cancer stuck his fork-like paws into it and let’s fumble with them. The left hind paw felt and grabbed a worm in the mud. From paw to paw, from paw to paw, from paw to paw - he sent the cancer of the worm into his mouth.
The journey through the ditches had already lasted a whole month when the cancer suddenly felt bad, so bad that it could not crawl any further; and he began to stir up and dig in the sand on the shore with his tail. He had only just dug a hole in the sand when he began to writhe.
The cancer was molting. He fell on his back, his tail either unclenched or contracted, his whiskers twitched. Then he immediately stretched out - his shell burst on his stomach - and a pinkish-brownish body climbed out of him. Then the crayfish twitched its tail strongly and jumped out of itself. A dead mustachioed shell fell out of the cave. It was empty and light. A strong current dragged him along the bottom, lifted him, and carried him away.
And in the clay cave there remained a living crayfish - so soft and helpless now that even a snail could, it seemed, pierce it with its horns.
Day after day passed, he still lay motionless. Little by little his body began to harden, again becoming covered with a hard shell. Only now the shell was no longer black, but red-brown.
And then - a miracle: the claw torn off by the rat quickly began to grow back.
The crayfish crawled out of its hole and, with renewed vigor, set off on its journey to where crayfish spend the winter.
From ditch to ditch, from stream to stream, a patient crab crawled. His shell was turning black. The days became shorter, it rained, light golden shuttles floated on the water - leaves flying from the trees. At night the water twitched with fragile ice.
The stream flowed into the stream, the stream ran to the river.
The patient crayfish swam and swam along the streams - and finally found itself in a wide river with clay banks.
On the steep banks under the water there are caves several stories high, caves like swallows’ nests above the water, in a cliff. And from every cave the crayfish looks, moves its mustache, threatens with its claw. A whole crab city.
The traveler crab was delighted. I found a free place on the shore and dug myself a cozy, cozy hole-cave. He ate more and lay down to spend the winter, like a bear in a den.
It was about time: snow was falling and the water froze.
The crab has plugged the entrance to the cave with its big claw - go and poke your head into it!
And fell asleep.
This is how all crayfish spend the winter.
Teddy Bear
A thick animal head stuck out from the coastal bushes, green eyes flashed in its shaggy fur.
Bear! The bear is coming! - screamed the frightened bank swallows, rapidly sweeping over the river.
But they were mistaken: it was just a bear cub. Last summer he was running after his mother bear, and this spring he began to live on his own, with his own mind: he decided that he was already big.
But as soon as he came out of the bushes, it became clear to everyone that only his head was big - a real thick shaggy head, but he himself was still small - the size of a newborn calf, and so funny: on short clubbed paws, with a stubby tail.
On this sultry summer day, the forest was stuffy and steamy. He went out onto the bank: the fresh wind blew so pleasantly here.
The bear sat down on the grass, folded its front paws on its round belly. He sat like a little man and looked sedately around.
But he didn’t have enough sedateness for long: he saw a cheerful, fast river below him, somersaulted over his head and deftly slid down the steep bank on his own sled. There he got down on all fours and let’s lap up the cool water. He drank to his heart's content and waddled slowly along the shore. And the green little eyes sparkle from the wool: where can you do some mischief?
The further he moved, the higher and steeper the shore became. The swallows screamed louder and more alarmingly above him. Some of them rushed past his very nose with such speed that he did not have time to see who they were, and only heard the buzzing of their wings.
“Look, there are so many of them here! - Mishka thought, stopping and looking up, “that there are bees near the hollow.”
And he immediately remembered how last summer the mother bear led him and his sister to the bee Hollow.
The hollow was not very high, and the cubs smelled the wonderful smell of honey. They raced up the tree.
The bear was the first to climb up and put his paw into the hollow. And the bees will buzz and attack them! Little sister screamed and went head over heels. And he did taste the fragrant sweet honey. And again he stuck his paw into the hollow and licked it again.
But then one bee stung him painfully under the eye, and another - on the very nose. He, of course, did not roar, but very quickly rolled out of the tree.
The bees, although very tiny, are angry; I had to run further into the forest. And my sister whined for a long time: she never managed to taste the honey.
Now Mishka looked warily at the flock of shorebirds: he had seen them for the first time and was not entirely sure whether they were birds. What if they are such big bees?
Well, that’s right: there are their hollows - a lot of black holes right under the cliff! Every now and then new shorebirds fly out of them and join the flock with a cry. It is not clear what they are shouting.
Mishka did not know their language. I only understood that they were angry. Well, how will they hire you and start stinging?! Oh oh!
And there are so many holes in the shore! And each one probably contains a pound of honey. I wonder if it is as sweet as those little forest bees?
Beneath the very steep slope stood an alder stump, blackened with age. Without hesitation, Mishka climbed onto him. No, where can I get it from here?
The bear came down from the stump and climbed up the steep slope. The whole flock of swallows circled above him and almost deafened him with their cry. Well, yes, as long as they don’t sting!
None of them stung. And Mishka began to climb the mountain more bravely.
And the mountain is sandy. The bear tries, climbs, and the sand crumbles under him. The bear is grumbling and angry! Naddal with all his might. Look, what is it? Everything went crazy! And he rides with her, rides... And he arrived exactly at the place from where he climbed the mountain...
Mishka sat down and thought: “What should we do now? You won’t fit anywhere like this forever.”
Well, after all, Mishka is a brain: he quickly came up with a way to help me in grief. He jumped up and back along the river from where he came. There he easily climbed up the grass onto a low bank - and again here, to the cliff.
He lay down on his belly and looked down: there they were, swallow hollows, right under him! Just extend your paw! He extended his paw, - no, I can’t reach it!..
And the swallows are hovering over him, squeaking, buzzing! We need it soon. He carefully leaned forward, pulled both paws, was about to reach it, and somersaulted!
Oh, you stupid, fat, heavy bear head! Well, where does such a head belong to a one-year-old bear cub? After all, it outweighed...
Mishka flies downhill, somersaults over his head - only a column of dust!
He flies down, doesn’t remember himself, but everything gets faster and faster...
Suddenly - once! - someone hit him on the forehead.
And stop! Mishka rolled up. Is sitting.
He sits and sways: they hit him very hard on the forehead. He sits and sneezes; his nose is full of sand.
He rubs the bump with one paw: a huge bump on his forehead popped out!
He rubs his eyes with his other paw: his eyes are full of sand and dust.
He doesn’t really see anything in front of him. It’s just as if someone tall and black is looming in front of him...
Ah-ah-ah, so you hit me on the forehead! - Mishka roared. - I love you!
He reared up, paws above his head - yes! - with all his might, into the black man’s chest.
He's off his feet. And Mishka could not resist: following him. Yes, both, hugging each other, fell into the water!
And under the cliff there is a deep pool...
Mishka went into the water completely - and with his head.
Well, never mind, it surfaced after all.
He started working with his paws, pushed the black one away from him, and the black one also surfaced. The bear somehow frogs, frogs to the other shore.
He jumped ashore and, without looking back, headed into the forest at full speed!
The banks are rushing after him like a cloud. They shout: “Robber! Destroyer! Driven away, driven away!
Mishka has no time to look back: what if the black one is still chasing him?
And the black one is swimming in the pool: it’s a stump. A tall alder stump, blackened with age.
Nobody hit Mishka on the forehead: Mishka himself ran into a stump, cracked his forehead on it, as if he were flying off a cliff.
Mishka’s head is big and strong, but he himself is still small.
There is still a lot to learn without my mother.
How the Fox Outsmarted the Hedgehog
The Fox lived in the forest. The cunning, cunning one will trick and deceive everyone. Why is Hedgehog a master at defending himself? He’s wearing a sheepskin coat - so good, - You can’t even pick up a hedgehog with your hands. And the Fox cheated and took it.
Here the Hedgehog is walking through the forest, grunting, tapping the roots with his short legs.
Fox at him.
Hedgehog kick! - and became a ball. Go and poke your head towards him - there are thorns all around.
The fox walked around him, sighed and said:
- Well, since you are now a ball, we need to give you a ride.
And with his paw - carefully, with just his claws - he rolled him along the ground.
Hedgehog - knock-knock-knock-knock! - angry. But he can’t do anything: just turn around - the Fox will grab you with his teeth!
“Roll, roll, ball,” says the fox.
And he rolled him up the hill.
Hedgehog - knock-knock-knock-knock-knock! - gets angry, but can’t do anything.
“Roll, little ball, downhill,” the fox says.
And pushed him down.
And below the hill there was a hole. But there is water in the hole.
Hedgehog - knock-knock-knock, whack-fuck-fuck! - yes, bang into the hole!
At this point, like it or not, he had to turn around and swim to the shore.
And the Fox is right there - and grab him from under his little belly!
Only the Hedgehog was seen.
Sly Fox and Smart Duck
Autumn. The Sly Fox thinks:
“The ducks are ready to fly away. Let me go to the river and I’ll get some ducklings.”
He crept up from behind a bush and saw: indeed, a whole flock of ducks near the shore. One Duck is standing right under the bush, fingering the feathers in her wing with her paw.
Fox grab her by the wing!
The Ducky rushed with all her might. She left feathers in the Fox's teeth.
“Oh you!.. - The fox thinks. - It came out like...
The flock became alarmed, took to the wing and flew away.
But this Duck couldn’t help her: her wing was broken, her feathers were torn out. She hid in the reeds, away from the shore.
Lis left with nothing.
Winter. The Sly Fox thinks:
“The lake is frozen. Now my Duck will not get away from me: wherever she goes in the snow, she will follow her, and I will follow her trail.”
I came to the river - that’s right: webbed paws were left in the snow near the shore. And the Duck herself sits under the same bush, all fluffed up.
Here a spring comes out from under the ground, preventing the ice from freezing - a warm hole, and steam comes from it.
The Fox rushed at the Ducky, and the Ducky dived away from him! - and went under the ice.
“Oh you!.. - The fox thinks. - I drowned myself...”
Left with nothing.
Spring. The Sly Fox thinks: “The ice on the river is melting. I’ll go and eat some frozen duckling.”
I came, and the Ducky was swimming under the bush - alive and healthy!
She then dove under the ice and jumped out into the ice hole - under the other shore: there was also a key there.
I lived like that all winter.
“Oh you!.. - The fox thinks. - Stop, now I’ll throw myself into the water after you...”
- In vain, in vain, in vain! - the Duck quacked.
She fluttered from the water and flew away.
Over the winter, her wing healed and new feathers grew.
Blue animal
In the dense forest on the mountain it was as dark as under a roof. But then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and immediately the snowflakes sparkled and sparkled on the branches, on the spruce trees, on the pines, and the smooth trunk of the old aspen began to turn silver. At the top of it there was a black hole - a hollow.
Here, in the snow, with soft, silent jumps, a dark, long animal ran up to the aspen. He stopped, sniffed, and raised his sharp muzzle. The upper lip lifted, and sharp, predatory teeth flashed.
This marten is the killer of all small forest animals. And now she, slightly rustling her claws, runs up the aspen tree.
At the top, a round, mustachioed head poked out of the hollow. A moment later, the blue animal was already running along the branch, shedding snow as it went, and easily jumped onto the branch of a neighboring pine tree.
But no matter how easily the blue animal jumped, the branch swayed, and the marten noticed. She bent into an arc, like a drawn bow, then straightened up - and flew like an arrow onto a branch that was still swaying. The marten rushed up the pine tree to catch up with the animal.
There is no one in the forest more agile than a marten. Not even a squirrel can escape her.
The blue animal hears the chase, he has no time to look back: he must quickly, quickly escape. He jumped from a pine tree onto a spruce tree. In vain the animal is cunning, runs along the other side of the spruce, and the marten gallops on its heels. The animal ran to the very end of the spruce paw, and the marten was already nearby - grab it with its teeth! But the animal managed to jump.
A blue animal and a marten rushed from tree to tree, like two birds among thick branches.
The blue animal will jump, the branch will bend, and the marten will follow it - not giving a moment's respite.
And now the blue animal no longer has enough strength, its legs are already weakening; So he jumped and couldn’t resist - he fell down. No, he didn’t fall, he grabbed onto the lower branch along the way - and forward, forward with his last strength.
And the marten is already running above and looking from the upper branches for the best way to rush down and grab it.
And then for a moment the blue animal stopped: the forest was interrupted by an abyss. The marten, too, at full gallop, stopped over the animal. And suddenly she rushed down.
Her jump was precisely calculated. She fell with all four paws to the place where the blue animal had stopped, but he had already jumped straight into the air and flew - slowly, smoothly flew through the air over the abyss, as if in a dream. But everything was in reality, under the bright moon.
It was a flying squirrel, a flying squirrel: it had loose skin stretched between its front and hind legs, which held it in the air like a parachute.
The marten did not jump after him: she cannot fly, she would have fallen into the abyss.
The flying squirrel turned its tail and, having beautifully rounded its flight, descended onto the tree on the other side of the abyss.
The marten clicked her teeth in anger and began to descend from the tree.
The blue animal escaped.
Spider-pilot
Once upon a time there lived a little spider. He had a scary mother spider and many brothers and sisters.
And then, one fine autumn day, our spider slowly ran away from the spider, from all his brothers and sisters, climbed onto a high stem and began to weave a web: he decided to weave a snare, catch flies and mosquitoes - to live in his own house.
But as soon as he began to let go of the cobwebs, lo and behold, a furry monster was running: no neck, no tail - head and belly, eight legs, eight eyes - all at once on us! It was a spider - his mother.
The spider was terribly scared. It’s like this with spiders: a spider carries a bag full of children for a long time. Protects them from rain and cold, from predators. At the risk of his own life, he protects them from all enemies. And the spiders will grow up, run away in all directions, and that’s it: don’t catch your mother’s eye - they’ll eat you!
Our spider, as soon as he saw the spider, ran as fast as he could: from the stem to the leaf, from the leaf to the flower, to the dandelion. Autumn was quiet and sunny - the dandelions bloomed again at that time.
On a dandelion flower, a spider gathered all its eight legs to its head. He turned his belly towards the sky. . And below on the ground, ants gathered, bugs, the stag beetle itself came - and everyone was looking, - what is the spider going to do? And the spider is coming here...
The spider shot a web out of itself. Longer, longer releases. And the end of the web caught on the stem. Then a spider went from the flower to the stem. He walks quietly, barely moving his legs. And he himself keeps weaving, weaving, weaving... The cobweb has already curled into a long loop.
And the spider approached the dandelion and climbed onto the stem. The spider came down to her! Did he lose his head out of fear?!
He reached the place where his web caught on the stem - hit it! - I bit it off like a thread.
The breeze blew, threw a cobweb, and tore the spider from the blade of grass. The spider is light and fluffy! He flies on his own web.
The spider can’t do that: she’s heavy. She quickly got off the dandelion and ran to catch up with the spider: he’ll come down somewhere!
The web is short - the spider flies just above the grass.
It flew and flew and caught me on some blade of grass.
Lo and behold, it’s not a blade of grass, but a long mustache of a green jumping grasshopper!
The jump is angry - it shakes its whiskers! The web broke and the spider flew far into the grass.
But this is not salvation: the spider will find it here, alive and well!
Where is she? A spider climbed in to look at a blue chicory flower.
Out of nowhere, two scary wasps are attacking him! Striped like tigers, winged like a hawk, mandible jaws in front, deadly stings behind! They were in a hurry, buzzing, - both immediately rushed - and collided in the air - and fell to the ground. That's the only way he was saved.
And two more are flying behind.
Well, the spider didn’t wait: it fell down and hid in the grass.
He hid and saw: a large gray rose hanging on a bush - a wasp's nest.
The spider gathered the legs, the abdomen up, and weaved, weaved, weaved a web!.. The breeze blew, shook the web, tore off the spider - the spider rushed on.
He flew and flew - yes! - the cobweb hit something again!
The spider hung upside down and saw: on the ground below it was a soft-bodied slug with an ornate house on its back. I put out two long and two short soft pins.
The spider looked around - he immediately forgot about the pins!
There are huge red mice all around!..
But it seemed to him out of fear: they were just tiny mice. They are not even dangerous to spiders.
One tiny mouse climbs onto a stem, the other sits on the ground, holding a spikelet in its hands and opening its shepherd's mouth: it's funny to her how a spider on a thread swings upside down. And behind her on the grass is a wonderful nest of straws.
The spider felt ashamed that he was so afraid of the little mice. He asks the laughing woman:
Is this your house here on the grass?
“Ours,” the mouse answers. - We live in it as a family.
Tell me, please, what is this in your hands?
That's funny! Don't you see? Spikelet. I take it to the pantry - we are collecting supplies for the winter.
Tell me, please, what is “winter”?
Oh, you're so stupid! Didn't your mother tell you that it will rain soon, rain? . the winds will tear the dress from the bushes, it will become cold, cold! Snowflakes fly in - white ones, ice flies - and cover the whole earth. Then there will be nothing to chew on, nothing to stuff your belly with. And the winter is long, long, and whoever does not stock up on grain for the winter will die of hunger.
Horrible! - said the spider. - And what about me? I absolutely do not know how to collect supplies for the winter.
“Come to me,” someone’s crumpled voice mumbled from below. - I don’t save supplies for myself either.
This was whispered by a soft-bodied slug with its house on its back.
To hear better, the spider descended onto a chamomile leaf.
“You do as I do,” said the slug. - It starts to get colder, - I’ll pull myself into my little house, lock myself in it - and sleep! Clever?
“It’s clever, it’s clever,” said the spider. - What should I do if I don’t have a house?
“I don’t know,” the slug mumbled. - Go see the bumblebees. Bumblebees are not wasps, they won't hurt you. And they don’t know how to make houses out of themselves either.
The spider ran to the bumblebees.
The furry bumblebees said to the spider:
And you gather your whole family and make yourself a dugout like ours. First of all, call your mother. Our mother rules the whole house.
As soon as the spider heard about his mother, he ran sideways, sideways as fast as he could.
He ran up onto a blade of grass and saw that the black slow-moving beetle had been attacked by ants. The beetle stands on its head and shoots back at its enemies with a poisonous stream.
The spider was scared: what if a deadly stream hits it, or the ants see it and attack... It’s impossible to escape alive!
The slug - he all pulled himself into his house out of fear.
The spider ran, ran, and saw: a birch tree. There are bugs sitting on the leaves - indescribable beauty! Why do birch leaves have green - the bugs are even greener. The leaves are golden - the bugs are even more golden. And the shiny ones just blind your eyes! And each one has a proboscis: elephant beetles. The spider climbed onto a branch, came down on a cobweb, and asked:
Green elephants, what are you doing here?
Don’t you see: we roll the leaves into tubes. We are leaf makers. We lay our testicles in the tubes. There they will neither be soaked by rain nor affected by cold.
“I understand,” says the spider. - Since the larvae will emerge from the testicles, it means that you are preparing leaf houses for your larvae for the winter.
You do not understand anything! - the elephants got angry. - This is a summer house - a dacha. Our larvae will overwinter in the ground.
How so?
How so, how so! - the elephants mimicked. - Don’t bother us, don’t pester us, please!
One bug climbed onto a branch and chewed through the web.
The breeze blew, shook the cobweb, lifted it slightly, and carried the spider.
A spider is flying right over the grass, and lo and behold, the spider is running along the ground and catching up with it!
The spider will quickly weave a web and let it go longer. He rose higher, and the spider followed him, like a shadow on the ground - he couldn’t keep up!
The spider thinks:
“There’s a river ahead! Let me get her over. Mommy never steps foot in the water! There I will be saved."
The spider weaves and weaves a web as it flies. The web is longer - the breeze is more fun, - the spider was carried high above the shore, above the river...
Here is the other shore. The spider left it at that. It's time to go down.
The spider began to shorten the web, adjust it to suit itself, and wrap it around its legs. In short, a cobweb - below is a spider. Even shorter - even lower. . And the spider landed on a birch leaf. This leaf floated like a ship along the river near the shore.
A spider swims and sees: fast water striders scurrying along the river like dry land. And in the water, and at the bottom there are all sorts of monsters! There is a scorpion bug with a long spike at the back, and a predatory swimming beetle, and somersault smoothies,
and terrible dragonfly larvae,
and pond slug,
and something else that made the spider’s eyes pop out of his head:
a seemingly transparent pot made of air is pinned onto the algae, and in the pot a real spider lives, it’s all silver!
The silver spider jumped out of its bubble, floated out and said:
Come, little spider, and live under our water!
Oh, what a place to swim! - the spider was scared. - Winter is coming, it’s cold.
Eck scared! - the silver woman laughs. - Slug houses - ornate shells - as many empty ones as you want lying at the bottom. Climb into any one, drag balloons and bubbles into it with your furry paws, close the lid of the shell tightly - and sleep in peace until spring!
Oh, but I can’t swim or dive! - says the spider. - And I can’t carry air in my paws.
Then the breeze blew, pushed the leaf, and nailed it to the bank. The spider jumps onto the bank and thinks:
“The green elephants are still the best! For summer they have a summer cottage in the air, for winter they have a house underground. I’ll also look for a winter apartment.”
And there is no need to look for it: there is an empty acorn lying on the ground, with a hole in it - a door for the spider.
A spider climbed into an acorn. He lined it with a soft cobweb. I plugged the door with a cobweb plug. He gathered himself into a ball and fell asleep. Warm and cozy!
In the spring he will wake up - move to the dacha, weave a web on the grass - catch flies.
Is it not living?
Musician
The old safecracker was sitting on the rubble and playing the violin. He loved music very much and tried to learn to play himself. He did poorly, but the old man was pleased that he had his own music. A collective farmer I knew passed by and said to the old man:
Drop your violin and grab your gun. You're doing better with your gun. I just saw a bear in the forest.
The old man put down his violin and asked the collective farmer where he had seen the bear. He took the gun and went into the forest.
The old man searched for the bear for a long time in the forest, but did not even find a trace of it.
The old man got tired and sat down on a tree stump to rest.
It was quiet in the forest. Not a twig will crack anywhere, not a bird will give a voice. Suddenly the old man heard: “Zenn!..” Such a beautiful sound, like a string singing.
A little later again: “Zenn!..”
The old man was surprised:
“Who is that playing the string in the forest?”
And from the forest again: “Zenn!..” - so loudly, affectionately.
The old man stood up from the stump and carefully walked towards where the sound was heard. The sound was heard from the edge of the forest.
The old man crept up from behind the Christmas tree and saw: at the edge of the forest, a tree broken by a thunderstorm, with long splinters sticking out of it. And a bear sits under a tree, grabbing one sliver of wood with its paw. The bear pulled the sliver towards him and let it go. The sliver straightened up, trembled, and in the air there was a sound: “Zenn!..” - like a string singing.
The bear bowed his head and listens.
The old man listens too: the sliver sings well.
The sound stopped, and the bear did his thing again: he pulled back the sliver and let it go.
In the evening, a collective farmer I knew once again passed by the safecracker’s hut. The old man was again sitting on the rubble with the violin. He plucked one string with his finger, and the string quietly sang: “Dzinn!..”
The collective farmer asked the old man:
Well, did you kill the bear?
“No,” answered the old man.
- What’s so?
- How can we shoot at him when he is a musician like me?
And the old man told the collective farmer how the bear played on a tree split by a thunderstorm.
Vitaly Valentinovich Bianki(1894 - 1959) - Russian writer, author of numerous children's works.
It is best to begin a child’s first acquaintance with the natural world with the help of the works of Vitaly Bianchi. The author was able to describe in great detail and fascinatingly the inhabitants of forests, fields, rivers and lakes. After reading his stories, children will begin to recognize the birds and animals that can be found both in a city park and in a more natural habitat.
Thanks to the creativity of the talented author, kids will easily penetrate the dense canopy of trees, where tits, kinglets, woodpeckers, crows and many other feathered creatures live. Each work of the writer is filled with details of the daily life of all the inhabitants of the forest. After getting acquainted with the stories of V. Bianchi, the child will receive a large amount of entertaining information about the world around him.
Read stories by Vitaly Bianchi online
The author paid considerable attention to the habits of living creatures and their places of residence. Kids will learn how difficult it is for tiny creatures to survive if a formidable hunter has settled nearby. They will also understand that mutual assistance exists not only among people. Vitaly Bianki's fascinating stories can be read on our website; they are designed for children of all ages.
Vitaly Bianchi "Snow Book"
They wandered around and were followed by animals in the snow. You won’t immediately understand what happened here.
To the left, under a bush, a hare trail begins. The trail from the hind legs is elongated and long; from the front - round, small.
A hare trail followed across the field. On one side of it there is another footprint, a larger one; There are holes in the snow from claws - a fox track. And on the other side of the hare’s trail there is another trail: also a fox’s, only it leads back. The hare circled the field; fox too. The hare to the side - the fox behind him.
Both tracks end in the middle of a field.
But to the side there is another hare trail. It disappears, goes on... It goes, goes, goes - and suddenly it breaks off - as if it went underground! And where it disappeared, the snow was crushed there, and it was as if someone had smeared it with their fingers.
Where did the fox go? Where did the hare go? Let's sort it by warehouse. There is a bush. The bark has been torn off. It’s trampled under the bush, followed. Rabbit tracks. Here the hare was fattening: he was gnawing bark from a bush. He will stand on his hind legs, tear off a piece with his teeth, chew it, step on his paws, and tear off another piece nearby.
I was full and wanted to sleep. I went looking for somewhere to hide.
And here is a fox trail, next to a hare one. It was like this: the hare went to sleep. An hour passes, then another. A fox is walking through the field. Look, a hare's footprint in the snow! Fox nose to the ground. I sniffed - the trail was fresh!
She ran along the trail. The fox is cunning, and the hare is not simple: he knew how to confuse his trail. He galloped and galloped across the field, turned, turned a large loop, crossed his own trail - and to the side.
The trail is still smooth, unhurried: the hare walked calmly, without sensing trouble.
The fox ran and ran and saw: there was a fresh trail across the trail. I didn’t realize that the hare had made a noose.
She turned sideways - following a fresh trail; runs, runs - and stops: the trail is broken! Where to now?
And the point is simple: this is a new bunny trick - deuce.
The hare made a loop, crossed its trail, walked a little forward, and then turned around and back along its trail.
He walked carefully, foot to foot.
The fox stood, stood, and then went back. I came to the crossroads again. I tracked down the whole loop.
She walks, walks, sees that the hare has deceived her, the trail leads nowhere!
She snorted and went into the forest about her business.
And it was like this: the hare made a deuce - he walked back along his trail.
I didn’t reach the loop and waved through the snowdrift to the side.
He jumped over a bush and lay down under a pile of brushwood.
He lay there while the fox followed his trail.
And when the fox left, he burst out from under the brushwood and into the thicket!
Jumps wide - paws to paws: racing trail.
He rushes without looking back. Stump on the road. The hare is passing by. And on the stump... And on the stump sat a big eagle owl.
I saw a hare, took off, and followed him. He caught up and hit me in the back with all his claws!
The hare poked into the snow, and the eagle owl settled in, beat the snow with its wings, and lifted it off the ground.
Where the hare fell, the snow was crushed there. Where the eagle owl flapped its wings, there were marks in the snow from feathers, as if from fingers.
Vitaly Bianchi "Terenty-Teterev"
He lived in the forest Teterev, his name was Terenty.
In the summer he had a good time: he hid in the grass, in the thick foliage from evil eyes. And winter has come, the bushes and trees have fallen off - and there is nowhere to hide.
So the forest animals, angry, began to argue about who would get Terenty-Teterev for dinner now. The fox says - to her. The marten says - to her.
Fox says:
- Terenty will sit down to sleep on the ground, in the bush. In the summer you can’t see him in the bush, but now here he is. I earn a living from below, I will eat it.
And Kunica says:
- No, Terenty will sit down to sleep on a tree. I make a living at the top, I’ll eat it.
Terenty-Teterev heard their argument and got scared. He flew to the edge of the forest, sat on the top of his head, and let’s think about how to deceive the evil animals.
If you sit on a tree, the marten will catch you; if you fly to the ground, the fox will grab you. Where to spend the night?
I thought and thought and thought and thought, but came up with nothing and dozed off.
He dozed off and in his dream he saw that he was not sleeping on a tree, not on the ground, but in the air. A marten can’t reach it from a tree, and a fox can’t reach it from the ground: if you just tuck your legs under you, it won’t even be able to jump.
Terenty tucked his legs in his sleep and banged from a branch!
And the snow was deep, soft, like fluff. The Fox sneaks silently along it. He runs to the edge of the forest. And above, along the branches, the Marten is jumping and also to the edge. Both are in a hurry after Terenty-Teterev.
So Marten was the first to gallop up to the tree and look at all the trees, climb all the branches - no Terenty!
“Oh,” he thinks, “I’m late! Apparently he was sleeping on the ground in a bush. The fox probably got it."
And the Fox came running, looked around the entire edge of the forest, climbed all the bushes - no Terenty!
“Oh,” he thinks, “I’m late! Apparently he was sleeping in a tree. The marten apparently got it."
The Fox raised her head, and Marten - there she was: sitting on a branch, baring her teeth.
The fox got angry and shouted:
“You ate my Terenty, here I am for you!”
And Marten to her:
“You ate it yourself, and you’re talking about me.” Here I am for you!
And they started to fight. They fight hotly: the snow melts under them, shreds fly.
Suddenly - bang-ta-ta-tah! - Something black will come out from under the snow!
The Fox and the Marten are in their heels with fear. They rushed in different directions: Marten - into a tree, Fox - into the bushes.
And it was Terenty-Teterev who jumped out. He fell from a tree and fell asleep in the snow. Only the noise and the fight woke him up, otherwise he would probably be asleep right now.
Since then, all the black grouse sleep in the snow in the winter: they are warm and comfortable there and safe from evil eyes.
Vitaly Bianchi "Masters without an axe"
They gave me a riddle: “The hut was built without hands, without an axe.” What's happened?
It turns out it's a bird's nest.
I looked - right! Here is a magpie's nest: like a log, everything is made of branches, the floor is smeared with clay, covered with straw, in the middle is the entrance; roof made of branches. Why not a hut? And the magpie never held an ax in her paws.
Here I deeply felt sorry for the bird: it is difficult, oh how difficult it is, for them, the unfortunate ones, to build their homes without hands, without an axe! I began to think: what can I do here, how can I help them?
You can't help them.
But an ax... You can get an ax for them.
I took out a hatchet and ran into the garden.
Lo and behold, a nightjar is sitting on the ground between the hummocks. Me to him:
- Nightjar, nightjar, is it difficult for you to make nests without hands, without an axe?
- And I don’t even build nests! - says the nightjar. “Look where I’m hatching the eggs.”
A nightjar fluttered up, and under it there was a hole between the hummocks. And in the hole lie two beautiful marble eggs.
“Well,” I think to myself, “this doesn’t need either hands or an axe. I managed to get along without them.”
He ran out to the river. Look, there the titmouse is jumping along the branches and bushes, collecting fluff from the willow with its thin nose.
- What do you need fluff, remez? - I ask.
“I’m making a nest out of it,” he says. “My nest is downy, soft, like your mitten.”
“Well,” I think to myself, “this little hatchet doesn’t need anything either - collecting fluff...”
He ran to the house. Lo and behold, a killer whale swallow is busy under the ridge, making a nest. He crushes clay with his nose, chops it in the river with his nose, carries it with his nose.
“Well,” I think, “and my little hatchet has nothing to do with it. And it’s not worth showing it.”
What a lovely nest: the outside is decorated with green moss, the inside is smooth as a cup.
- How did you make such a nest for yourself? - I ask. - How did you decorate it so well inside?
“I made it with my paws and nose,” answers the song thrush. — I coated everything inside with cement made from wood dust and my own spittle.
“Well,” I think, “I ended up in the wrong place again. We need to look for birds that do carpentry.”
And I hear: “Knock-knock-knock! Knock-knock-knock-knock!” - from the forest.
I'm going there. And there's a woodpecker.
He sits on a birch tree and does carpentry, makes himself a hollow to take the children out.
- Woodpecker, woodpecker, stop poking your nose! Guess I've had a headache for a long time. Look what kind of instrument I brought you: a real axe!
The woodpecker looked at the ax and said:
“Thank you, but I don’t need your instrument.” I’m fine with carpentry anyway: I hold myself up with my paws, lean on my tail, bend in half, swing my head, and hit my nose! Only splinters and dust fly!
The woodpecker confused me: apparently all birds are masters without an axe.
Then I saw an eagle's nest. A huge pile of thick branches on the tallest pine tree in the forest.
“Here,” I think, someone needs an ax to chop branches!
I ran up to that pine tree and shouted:
- Eagle, eagle! And I brought you an axe!
Discord and the eagle wings and screams:
- Thank you, boy! Throw your ax into the pile. I’ll pile more branches on it - it will be a strong building, a good nest.
Vitaly Bianki “Kuzyar-Chipmunk and Inoyka-Bear”
Before, Kuzyar-Chipmunk was all yellow, like a pine nut without a shell. He lived - he was not afraid of anyone, he did not hide from anyone, he ran wherever he wanted. Yes, once at night I argued with Inoika the Bear. And the small ones with the big ones - you know how to argue: even if you argue, you lose.
They had a dispute: who will see the first ray of sunshine in the morning?
So they climbed onto the hillocks and sat down.
Monk-Bear sat down facing the direction where the sun would rise from behind the forest in the morning. And Kuzyar-Chipmunk sat down facing where the sun set behind the forest in the evening. They sat back to back and sat and waited.
A high mountain rises in front of Kuzyar-Chipmunk. In front of Inoyka-Bear lies a smooth valley.
Foreign Bear thinks:
“What a stupid Kuzyar! Where did you sit down? You won’t see the sun there until evening.”
They sit, remain silent, and do not close their eyes.
Now the night began to brighten and the sky became clear.
In front of the Inoyka-Bear a black valley lies, and the sky above it brightens, brightens, brightens...
The foreigner thinks:
“Now the first ray of light will fall on the valley, and I won. Right now..."
But no, there is still no ray. Inoika is waiting, waiting...
Suddenly Kuzyar-Chipmunk shouts behind him:
- I see, I see! I am the first!
The Inoyka-Bear was surprised: in front of him the valley was still dark.
He turned over his shoulder, and behind him the tops of the mountains were burning like the sun and shining like gold!
And Kuzyar-Chipmunk dances on his hind legs - he rejoices.
Oh, how annoying Inoika-Bear became! You bet on the kid!
He quietly extended his paw - whoop! - by the collar of Kuzyar-Chipmunk, so that he wouldn’t dance or tease him.
Yes, Kuzyar-Chipmunk rushed, and all five bear claws ran down his back. Five straps were torn out from head to tail.
Kuzyar-Chipmunk slipped into the hole. He healed and licked his wounds. But the marks from the bear claws remained.
From then on, Kuzyar-Chipmunk became timid. He runs away from everyone, through hollows, and hides in burrows. All you will see is: five black straps flash on the back - and it’s gone.
Vitaly Bianchi “Small, but mighty”
Genka walked through the swamp. Look, it's coming out of the reeds.
He grabbed the nose and pulled out the bird: the neck was long, the nose was long, the legs were long—it looked like a heron, but as tall as a jackdaw.
“Chick!” - thinks. I put it in my bosom and ran home.
At home, he let the heron fall on the floor and fell asleep himself.
“Tomorrow,” he thinks, “I’ll feed you.”
In the morning, I lowered my legs from the bed and began to pull on my pants. And the heron saw the finger and thought it was a frog. Yes bale with your nose!
- Oh oh! - Genka shouts. - You fight! Zhuchka, Zhuchka, here!
Bug on a heron, heron on a Bug. With his nose, like scissors, he cuts and stabs - only the wool flies.
The bug tucked its tail and tore. The heron behind her on straight legs, like on knitting needles, scratches and scratches - get out of the way, watch out!
Genka after the heron. Yes, where is it: a heron flap-flop its wings - and through the fence.
Genka opened his mouth:
- That's it, little bird! Small and smart...
And the heron was an adult, only of such a small breed.
She flew to her swamp - there the chicks in her nest were hungry for a long time, their mouths were open, asking for frogs.