They and we are sweet to read. Sweet stories for extracurricular reading. Nikolay Sladkov. Mysterious Beast

Nikolai Sladkov

forest tales

How the bear was turned over

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

There is a forest sign: as the Bear turns over on the other side, so the sun will turn to the summer.

The patience of birds and animals has burst. Send the Bear to wake up:

Hey Bear, it's time! Winter is over for everyone! We missed the sun. Roll over, roll over, bed sores, I suppose?

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

Oh, to beat him in the back of the head! - exclaimed the Woodpecker. - Probably would have moved immediately!

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

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:

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

Here White Partridge wailed:

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

And the Bear is his:

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

The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:

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

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

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

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

Are you a Bear?! the animals gasped.

With one left paw! - the Mouse boasts.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.

Runs on it, scratches with claws, bites with teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a piglet, kicked his legs.

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

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

The mouse leaned out and squeaked:

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

Well, as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to the summer. Every day - the sun is higher, every day - spring is closer. Every day - brighter, more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

H odes under the ice! All fish are sleepy - you alone, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's wrong with you, huh?

And the fact that for all fish in winter it is winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter it is summer! You, perches, doze, and we, burbots, play weddings, caviar with a sword, rejoice, have fun!

Ayda, perch brothers, to Burbot for the wedding! We will disperse our sleep, have fun, have a bite of burbot caviar ...

Otter and Raven

Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?

I did not expect, Otter, such a question from you. They got wet in the stream, froze, so they kindled a fire. They warm up by the fire.

Strange... And I always warm myself in the water in winter. There is never frost in the water!

Hare and Vole

Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, endure until spring. And where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas ...

Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring is not far off, but under your feet! Dig the snow to the ground - there is a green lingonberry, and a cuff, and a strawberry, and a dandelion. And sniff and eat.

Badger and Bear

What, Bear, are you still sleeping?

Sleep, Badger, sleep. So, brother, I accelerated - the fifth month without waking up. All sides lay down!

Or maybe, Bear, it's time for us to get up?

It's not time. Sleep some more.

Why don't we oversleep spring with you?

Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.

And what is she - will she knock on us, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels? I, Misha, fear is heavy on the rise!

Wow! You'll jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under the sides - I suppose you won’t lie down! Sleep while dry.

Magpie and Dipper

Oh-oh-oh, Olyapka, did you think of swimming in the polynya?!

And swim and dive!

Will you freeze?

My pen is warm!

Will you get wet?

I have a waterproof feather!

Will you drown?

I can swim!

A … A … Are you hungry after swimming?

Aya, for this I dive, to have a bite with a water bug!

winter debts

Sparrow chirped on a dunghill - and jumps! And the Crow croaks with its nasty voice:

What, Sparrow, rejoiced at, why chirped?

The wings itch, Crow, the nose itches, - Sparrow answers. - Passion to fight hunting! And don't croak here, don't spoil my spring mood!

And I'll ruin it! - Crow does not lag behind. - How can I ask a question?

In scared!

And I scare. Did you peck crumbs in the garbage in the winter?

Did you pick up grain from the barnyard?

Picked up.

Did you have lunch in the bird cafeteria near the school?

Thanks guys for feeding me.

That's it! - the Crow is tearing. What do you think you'll pay for all this? With your chirping?

Am I the only one using it? Sparrow was confused. - And the Tit was there, and the Woodpecker, and the Magpie, and the Jackdaw. And you, Crow, were...

Don't confuse others! crowed the Crow. - You answer for yourself. Borrowed - give back! Like all decent birds do.

Decent, maybe they do, - Sparrow got angry. - But are you doing, Crow?

I will cry first! Do you hear the tractor plowing in the field? And after him, I choose all kinds of root beetles and root rodents from the furrow. And Magpie and Jackdaw help me. And looking at us, other birds are trying.

You, too, for others do not vouch! - Sparrow rests. - Others may have forgotten to think.

But the Crow does not let up:

And you fly and check!

Sparrow flew to check. He flew into the garden - there the Tit lives in a new nest box.

Congratulations on your new home! - Sparrow says. - For joy, I suppose I forgot about the debts!

Do not forget, Sparrow, that you are! - Replies Tit. - The guys treated me with delicious lard in the winter, and I will treat them with sweet apples in the fall. I guard the garden from codling moths and leafworms.

For what need, Sparrow, flew into the forest to me?

Yes, they demand a calculation from me, - Sparrow chirps. - And you, Woodpecker, how do you pay? A?

I’m trying so hard, ”the Woodpecker answers. - I protect the forest from woodworms and bark beetles. I fight them without sparing my stomach! Even got fat...

Look at you, Sparrow thought. - I thought...

Sparrow returned to the dunghill and said to the Crow:

Yours, hag, really! All for winter debts work out. Am I worse than others? How can I start feeding my chicks with mosquitoes, horseflies and flies! So that the bloodsuckers do not bite these guys! I'll pay back my debts!

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

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

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Nikolai Sladkov
forest tales

How the bear was turned over

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

There is a forest sign: as the Bear turns over on the other side, so the sun will turn to the summer.

The patience of birds and animals has burst. Send the Bear to wake up:

- Hey, Bear, it's time! Winter is over for everyone! We missed the sun. Roll over, roll over, bed sores, I suppose?

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

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

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

The bear moved his ear, grumbles through his teeth:

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

Here the White Partridge wailed:

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

And the Bear is his:

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

The squirrel endured, endured - could not endure:

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

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

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

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

Are you a bear? the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! Mouse boasts.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.

Runs on it, scratches with claws, bites with teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a piglet, kicked his legs.

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

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

The mouse leaned out and squeaked:

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

Well, as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to the summer. Every day - the sun is higher, every day - spring is closer. Every day - brighter, more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

H odes under the ice! All fish are sleepy - you alone, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's wrong with you, huh?

- And the fact that for all fish in winter - winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter - summer! You, perches, doze, and we, burbots, play weddings, caviar with a sword, rejoice, have fun!

- Come on, perch brothers, to Burbot for the wedding! We will disperse our sleep, have fun, have a bite of burbot caviar ...

Otter and Raven

- Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?

- I did not expect, Otter, from you such a question. They got wet in the stream, froze, so they kindled a fire. They warm up by the fire.

- Strange ... But in winter I always bask in the water. There is never frost in the water!

Hare and Vole

- Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, endure until spring. And where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas ...

- Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring, not far off, but under your feet! Dig the snow to the ground - there is a green lingonberry, and a cuff, and a strawberry, and a dandelion. And sniff and eat.

Badger and Bear

- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?

- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. So, brother, I accelerated - the fifth month without waking up. All sides lay down!

- Or maybe, Bear, it's time for us to get up?

- It's not time. Sleep some more.

- And we will not oversleep spring with you from acceleration?

- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.

- And what is she - will she knock on us, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels? I, Misha, fear is heavy on the rise!

- Whoa! You'll jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under the sides - I suppose you won’t lie down! Sleep while dry.

Magpie and Dipper

- Oh-oh-oh, Olyapka, did you think of swimming in the wormwood?!

And swim and dive!

- Will you freeze?

- My pen is warm!

- Will you get wet?

- I have a water-repellent feather!

- Will you drown?

- I can swim!

- A … A … Are you hungry after swimming?

- Aya, for this I dive, to have a bite with a water bug!

winter debts

Sparrow chirped on a dunghill - and jumps! And the Crow croaks with its nasty voice:

- What, Sparrow, rejoiced at, why chirped?

“The wings itch, Crow, the nose itches,” Sparrow replies. - Passion to fight hunting! And don't croak here, don't spoil my spring mood!

- I'll ruin it! - Crow does not lag behind. How can I ask a question!

- In scared!

- And I'll scare you. Did you peck crumbs in the garbage in the winter?

- Pecked.

- Did you pick up grain at the barnyard?

- Picked.

- Did you have lunch in the bird cafeteria near the school?

Thanks guys for feeding me.

- That's it! - Crow yells. “What are you thinking of paying for all this?” With your chirping?

- Am I the only one who used it? Sparrow was confused. - And the Tit was there, and the Woodpecker, and the Magpie, and the Jackdaw. And you, Crow, were...

- Do not confuse others! - Crow wheezes. - You answer for yourself. Borrowed - give back! Like all decent birds do.

- Decent, maybe they do, - Sparrow got angry. “But are you doing it, Crow?”

- I'll cry first! Do you hear the tractor plowing in the field? And after him, I choose all kinds of root beetles and root rodents from the furrow. And Magpie and Jackdaw help me. And looking at us, other birds are trying.

“You don’t vouch for others either!” - Sparrow rests. - Others may have forgotten to think.

But the Crow does not let up:

- And you fly and check!

Sparrow flew to check. He flew into the garden - there the Tit lives in a new nest box.

- Congratulations on your new home! Sparrow says. - For joy, I suppose I forgot about the debts!

- Do not forget, Sparrow, that you are! - Replies Sinica. - The guys treated me with delicious lard in the winter, and I will treat them with sweet apples in the fall. I guard the garden from codling moths and leafworms.

- For what need, Sparrow, did you fly into the forest to me?

“Yes, they demand payment from me,” Sparrow chirps. - And you, Woodpecker, how do you pay? A?

“I’m trying so hard,” Woodpecker answers. - I protect the forest from woodworms and bark beetles. I fight them without sparing my stomach! Even got fat...

“Look at you,” Sparrow thought. - I thought...

Sparrow returned to the dunghill and said to the Crow:

- Yours, hag, the truth! All for winter debts work out. Am I worse than others? How can I start feeding my chicks with mosquitoes, horseflies and flies! So that the bloodsuckers do not bite these guys! I'll pay back my debts!

He said so and let's jump up and chirp again on the dunghill. Bye free time There is. Until the sparrows hatch in the nest.

Polite Jackdaw

I have many among wild birds acquaintances. I know one sparrow. He is all white - an albino. You can immediately distinguish him in a flock of sparrows: everyone is gray, but he is white.

I know forty. I distinguish this one by impudence. In winter, it used to be that people hung food out the window, so she would immediately fly in and ruffle everything.

But I noticed one jackdaw for her politeness.

There was a blizzard.

In early spring there are special blizzards - solar. Snow whirlwinds curl in the air, everything sparkles and rushes! Stone houses look like rocks. There is a snowstorm at the top, from the roofs, as from mountains, snowy waterfalls flow. Icicles from the wind grow in different directions, like a shaggy beard of Santa Claus.

And above the eaves, under the roof, there is a secluded place. There, two bricks fell out of the wall. In this recess, my jackdaw settled down. All black, only on the neck is a gray collar. The jackdaw basked in the sun and even pecked at some tidbit. Cubby!

If I were that jackdaw, I wouldn't give up this place to anyone!

And suddenly I see: another one flies up to my big jackdaw, smaller and dimmer in color. Jump-jump on the ledge. Wag your tail! She sat opposite my jackdaw and looked. The wind flutters it - so it wrings its feathers, so it whips with white grits!

My jackdaw grabbed a piece of her beak - and walked out of the recess onto the ledge! I gave way to a stranger's warm place!

And someone else's jackdaw grabs a piece from my beak - and on her warm place. She pressed someone else's piece with her paw - she pecks. Here is shameless!

My jackdaw on the eaves - under the snow, in the wind, without food. The snow cuts her, the wind wrings her feathers. And she, fool, suffers! Does not kick out the little one.

“Probably,” I think, “someone else’s jackdaw is very old, so they give way to her place. Or maybe this is a well-known and respected jackdaw? Or maybe she is small, but remote - a fighter. I didn't understand anything then...

And recently I see: both jackdaws - mine and someone else's - are sitting side by side on an old chimney and both have twigs in their beaks.

Hey, let's build a nest together! Here everyone will understand.

And the little jackdaw is not at all old and not a fighter. Yes, and she is not a stranger now.

And my friend big jackdaw is not a jackdaw at all, but a gal!

But still my friend gal is very polite. I see this for the first time.

Black grouse notes

Black grouse do not sing in the forests yet. Still only writing notes. This is how they write music. One flies from a birch to a white meadow, puffs out his neck like a rooster. And mince legs in the snow, mince. He drags his half-bent wings, the snow furrows his wings - he draws musical lines.

The second black grouse will fly off and follow the first one through the snow as soon as it starts! So the points with your feet on the musical lines and arrange: “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si!”

The first one immediately into the fray: do not interfere, they say, to compose! Chufyrknet on the second yes on his lines behind him: “Si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do!”

He will drive away, raise his head up, think. He mutters, mutters, turns back and forth and writes down his mumbling on his lines with his paws. For memory.

Fun! They walk, run - line the snow with wings on musical lines. They mumble, they chime, they compose. They compose their spring songs and write them down in the snow with their legs and wings.

But soon the grouse will finish composing songs - they will begin to learn. Then they will fly up to high birch trees - from above, you can clearly see the notes! - and they will sing. Everyone will sing the same way, everyone has the same notes: grooves and crosses, crosses and grooves.

They learn everything and learn it until the snow melts. And it will come down - it does not matter: they sing from memory. During the day they sing, in the evening they sing, but especially in the morning.

They sing well, like the notes!

Whose thaw?

I saw Forty-first thawed patch - a dark speck on white snow.

- My! – shouted. - My thaw, since I saw it first!

There are seeds on the thawed patch, spider bugs swarm, the lemongrass butterfly lies on its side - it warms up. Magpie's eyes fled, and her beak was already open, but out of nowhere - Rook.

“Hey, grow up, I’ve already arrived!” In winter, she roamed through the crow's garbage dumps, and now on my thawed patch! Ugly!

- Why is she yours? - Magpie chirped. - I saw it first!

“You saw it,” Rook barked, “and I dreamed about her all winter.” For a thousand miles to her in a hurry! For her sake warm countries left. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Where there are thawed patches, there we are, rooks. My thaw!

- What is he croaking here! - Magpie rumbled. - All winter in the south, he warmed himself, basked, ate and drank what he wanted, and returned - give him a thawed patch without a queue! And I froze all winter, rushed from the garbage heap to the landfill, swallowed snow instead of water, and now, a little alive, weak, I finally looked out for a thawed patch, and that one is taken away. You, Rook, are only dark in appearance, but you are on your own mind. Shoo from the thawed patch until it pecked at the crown of the head!

Lark flew up to the noise, looked around, listened and chirped:

- Spring, the sun, the sky is clear, and you quarrel. And where - on my thaw! Do not overshadow the joy of meeting her. I want songs!

Magpie and Rook only fluttered their wings.

Why is she yours? This is our thaw, we found it. Magpie waited for her all winter, looked through all her eyes.

And maybe I was in such a hurry from the south to her that I almost dislocated my wings on the way.

- And I was born on it! squeaked the Lark. - If you look, you can also find shells from the egg from which I hatched! I remember, it used to be, in winter in a foreign land, a native nest - and reluctance to sing. And now the song is torn from the beak - even the tongue is trembling.

Skylark jumped up onto a bump, screwed up his eyes, his neck trembled - and the song flowed like a spring stream: it rang, gurgled, murmured. Magpie and Rook gaped their beaks - they listened. They will never sing like that, their throat is not right, they can only chirp and croak.

They would probably have listened for a long time, languishing in the spring sun, but suddenly the earth trembled under their feet, swelled up like a tubercle and crumbled.

And the Mole looked out - sniffed.

- Did you hit the thaw hole right away? So it is: the earth is soft, warm, there is no snow. And it smells... Phew! Does it smell like spring? Spring, is it cha, are you upstairs?

- Spring, spring, digger! - Magpie shouted peevishly.

- Knew where to please! Grach growled suspiciously. Even if you're blind...

- Why do you need our thawed patch? screeched Skylark.

The mole sniffed at the Rook, at the Magpie, at the Lark - with his eyes he sees badly! sneezed and said:

“I don't need anything from you. And I don't need your thaw. Here I will push the earth out of the hole and back. Because I feel: it's bad for you. Quarrel, almost fight. Moreover, it is light, dry, and the air is fresh. Not like in my dungeon: dark, damp, musty. Grace! You still have some kind of spring here ...

- How can you say that? Skylark was horrified. “Do you know, excavator, what spring is!”

I don't know and I don't want to know! Mole snorted. - I do not need any spring, I have underground all year round equally.

- In the spring, thawed patches appear, - Magpie, Lark and Rook said dreamily.

“And scandals begin on thawed patches,” the Mole snorted again. – And for what? Thaw like thaw.

- Don't tell me! Magpie jumped up. - And the seeds? And the beetles? Are the sprouts green? All winter without vitamins.

- Sit, walk, stretch! Grach growled. - nose in warm earth rummage!

- And it’s good to sing over thawed patches! Skylark yelled. - How many thawed patches in the field - so many larks. And everyone sings! There is nothing better than a thaw in spring.

- Why are you arguing then? Mole didn't understand. - The lark wants to sing - let him sing. Rook wants to march - let him march.

- Right! Soroka said. - And while I'm busy with seeds and beetles ...

Here the shouting and squabbling began again.

And while they were shouting and quarreling, new thawed patches appeared in the field. Birds scattered over them to meet spring. Sing songs, dig in the warm earth, kill the worm.

- It's time for me too! The mole said. And he fell into a place where there is no spring, no thawed patches, no sun and no moon, no wind and no rain. And where even to argue with no one. Where it's always dark and quiet.

Hare round dance

Frost is still outside. But a special frost, spring. The ear that is in the shade freezes, and that in the sun burns. Drops from green aspens, but the droplets do not reach the ground, they freeze on the fly into ice. On the sunny side of the trees, the water glistens, and the shady side is covered with a frosted shell of ice.

Willows turned red, alder thickets turned red. Snow melts and burns during the day, frost snaps at night. It's time for rabbit songs. It's time for the night hare round dances.

How hares sing, you can hear at night. And how they lead a round dance, you can’t see it in the dark.

But you can understand everything from the footprints: there was a straight hare path - from stump to stump, through bumps, through fallen trees, under white snow gates - and suddenly spun in unimaginable loops! Eights among the birches, round dance circles around the Christmas trees, a carousel between the bushes.

It was as if the heads of the hares were spinning, and they went to wind and confuse.

They sing and dance: “Gu-gu-gu-gu-u! Goo-goo-goo!"

How they blow into birch pipes. Even the split lips are shaking!

They don’t care about foxes and owls now. All winter they lived in fear, all winter they hid and were silent. Enough!

March in the yard. The sun overcomes the frost.

It's time for rabbit songs.

Time for hare dances.

Inhuman steps

Early spring, evening, deep forest swamp. In the light, damp pine forest, there is still snow here and there, and in the warm spruce forest on the hillock it is already dry. I enter a dense spruce forest, as if I were entering a dark barn. I stand, I am silent, I listen.

Around the black trunks of firs, behind them a cold yellow sunset. And an amazing silence when you hear the beats of the heart and your own breathing. A thrush on a spruce crown whistles lazily and loudly in silence. He whistles, listens, and in response to him - silence ...

And suddenly in this transparent and breathless silence - heavy, heavy, inhuman steps! Splashes of water and tinkling of ice. To-py, then-py, then-py! It is as if a heavily laden horse is pulling a cart through the swamp with difficulty. And immediately, like a blow, a stunning rumbling roar! The forest trembled, the earth shook.

The heavy footsteps died away: light, hectic, hasty steps were heard.

Light steps overtook heavy ones. Top-top-slap - and stop, top-top-slap - and silence. It was not easy for hurried steps to catch up with slow and heavy ones.

I leaned back against the trunk.

It became completely dark under the fir trees, and only the swamp between the black trunks was dully white.

The beast roared again - as if it had slammed from a cannon. And again the forest gasped and the earth swayed.

I'm not making this up: the forest really trembled, the earth really shook! A fierce roar - like a hammer blow, like a roll of thunder, like an explosion! But he did not generate fear, but respect for his unbridled strength, for this cast-iron throat, erupting like a volcano.

Light steps hurried, hurried: moss smacked, ice crunched, water splashed.

I have long understood that these are bears: a child and a mother.

The child does not keep up, lags behind, and my mother smells me, gets angry and worried.

Mom warns that the teddy bear is not alone here, that she is close, that it is better not to touch him.

I understood her well: she warns convincingly.

Heavy steps are inaudible: the bear is waiting. And the light ones hurry, hurry. Here is a quiet squeal: the bear cub has been spanked - keep up! Here are heavy and light steps walking side by side: to-py, to-py! Slap-slap-slap! More and more, quieter. And they fell silent.

And again silence.

Drozd stopped whistling. Lunar spots lay on the trunks.

Stars flared in black puddles.

Each puddle is like a window open to the night sky.

It's creepy to step through those windows right into the stars.

Slowly I wander to my fire. Sweet heart squeezes.

And in my ears the mighty call of the forest is buzzing and buzzing.

Thrush and Owl

Listen, explain to me: how to distinguish an owl from an owl?

- It depends on what kind of owl ...

- What an owl ... Ordinary!

- There is no such owl. There is a barn owl, a gray owl, a hawk owl, a marsh owl, a polar owl, a long-eared owl ...

- Well, what kind of owl are you?

- I something? I am a long-tailed owl.

- Well, how to distinguish you from an owl?

- It depends on which owl ... There is a dark owl - forest, there is a light owl - desert, and there is also a fish owl ...

- Ugh, you evil spirits of the night! Everything was so confused that you yourself, go, don’t figure out who is who!

– Ho-ho-ho-ho! Boo!

Five black grouse

A hazel grouse flew to the side of the grouse current and started his song: “Five-yat, five-yat, five black grouse!” I counted: six braids on the current! Five aside in the snow, and the sixth sits next to the hut, on a gray hummock.

And the hazel grouse: “Five-yat, five-yat, five black grouse!”

- Six! I say.

“Five, five, five black grouse!”

Nearest - the sixth - heard, got scared and flew away.

“Five, five, five black grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.

I am silent. I see five. The sixth one left.

And the hazel grouse does not let up: “Five-yat, five-yat, five black grouse!”

- I'm not arguing! I say. - Five is five!

“Five, five, five black grouse!” - the hazel grouse whistles.

I can see without you! I barked. - Don't be blind!

How they chirp, how the white wings flutter—and not a single black grouse is left!

And the hazel grouse flew away with them.

Notepad forgot

I walk through the forest and get upset: I forgot my notebook! And in the forest today, as if on purpose, so many different events! Spring lingered, lingered, and that's how it burst. It finally turned out to be a warm and wet day, and the winter collapsed at once. The roads are muddy, the snow is swollen, the bare alders are covered in raindrops, warm steam is stirring over the thawed patches. The birds seemed to have escaped from their cages: hubbub, chirping and whistling. In the swamp, cranes trumpet, lapwings squeal over puddles, curlews whistle on melted hummocks. Thrushes, finches, bramblings, greenfinches fly over the forest alone, in groups, in flocks. News from all sides - just have time to turn your head!

The first white-browed thrush sang, the first black-eyed oystercatcher yelled, the first snipe, the wood lamb, bleated. What to do with such a flood of spring news?

How convenient it was: I saw and wrote down, heard and wrote down. You walk through the woods and put the news in your notebook, like mushrooms in a basket. Once - and in a notebook, two - and in a notebook. A full notebook of news, even a pocket pulls ...

And now? Look, listen and remember everything. Be afraid to miss the smallest thing, be afraid to forget, confuse, make a mistake. Put the news not in a notebook, but in yourself. What are you - a backpack or a basket?

With a notepad, it’s convenient and simple: “The first snipe bleated.” Or: "The robin sang on the Christmas tree." And that's all. How printed. Notch for memory, message note.

And now if you please, this very robin, who suddenly decided to sing, and together with a huge Christmas tree, in whose paws, as in wide palms, the fragments of her glass song roll, ringing, manage to put on the shelf of your memory and save.

There, too, cranes and lapwings, along with their meadow and tussocks, finches and bramblings, with all this damp spring day - all into themselves, into themselves and into themselves! And hurry now not to write down, but to watch and listen.

That's the darkness.

Or maybe let? Maybe that's better? All the news is not in my notebook and not in my pocket, but right in me. And not some boring set of events - who, what, where, when? - and the whole spring. Whole! Day after day: with the sun, the wind, the glow of the snow, the murmur of the water.

And now you are already all saturated with spring - what's wrong with that? What could be better if spring is inside, and birds are flooding in your soul! There can be no better!

Good thing I forgot my notepad. Worn with him now, as with a hand-written sack. Next time I'll forget it on purpose. And throw away the pencil.

I will walk, soak in the spring and the songs of birds. To the top!

Attention! This is an introductory section of the book.

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Description of the presentation on individual slides:

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BIOGRAPHY of Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov Prepared by the teacher primary school GBOU secondary school No. 349 of the Krasnogvardeisky district of St. Petersburg Pechenkina Tamara Pavlovna

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Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was born on January 5, 1920 in Moscow, but he lived all his life in Leningrad, in Tsarskoye Selo. Here, not far from his house, there were many old forest parks, where the future writer discovered a whole world, unusually rich in the secrets of nature. For days on end, he would disappear into the most remote places of the surrounding parks, where he peered and listened to the life of the forest. Wandering among the old trees, from childhood he was imbued with the wisdom of nature, learned to recognize the voices of a variety of birds.

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The boy really wanted to know what the forest was talking about, he really wanted to comprehend its secrets. Kolya began to enthusiastically read a variety of books about nature, and wrote down his own observations in his diary, in the Notebook of Observations, which he began to keep in the second grade. Gradually, in the diary, the place of short entries began to be supplemented by stories from the life of forest dwellers. By that time, the forest had already become a real good friend for him.

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During the war, N. Sladkov volunteered for the front and became a military topographer. In peacetime, he retained the same specialty. In his youth, he was fond of hunting, but later abandoned this occupation. Instead, he began to engage in photo hunting, put forward the call "Do not take a gun into the forest, take a photo gun into the forest."

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The first stories were written by him in 1952, and in 1953 Nikolai Sladkov's first book, Silver Tail, was published. "There is the same harmony in nature as in music, throw out a note and the melody will be broken..." Nikolai Sladkov's books - stories and stories about nature - are unusually harmonious, they very fully and accurately reflect the secrets of nature. In order to find yourself in a wild forest, it is not at all necessary to take a train ticket every time and go to distant lands - you can just reach out to the bookshelf and take your favorite book by Nikolai Sladkov, sit comfortably in your favorite corner and be transported to beautiful world nature...

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Together with Vitaly Bianchi, his friend and like-minded person, Nikolai Sladkov prepared radio programs "News from the Forest" for many years and answered numerous letters from his listeners. In total, during his life full of adventures, Nikolai Ivanovich wrote more than 60 books. Among the most famous are such publications as: For the book "Underwater Newspaper" Nikolai Ivanovich was awarded State Prize named after N. K. Krupskaya.

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Such a gift - to talk about forest dwellers with sincere love and a warm smile, as well as with the meticulousness of a professional zoologist - is given to very few. And very few of them can become real writers - such as Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov, unusually organically combining in his work the talent of an excellent storyteller and the truly limitless erudition of a scientist, having managed to discover something of his own in nature, unknown to others, and tell about it to his grateful readers...

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In one of his books, the writer wrote: “For a long time and intently we peer into nature. Isn't it time to look inside yourself? How do the watchful eyes of birds and animals, the eyes of fields and forests see us? Who are we - the rulers of the Earth? What do we want? And what are we doing? Sladkov's books allow us to look into ourselves. What can we do to make our planet more beautiful, so that animals and plants do not disappear from the face of the Earth, so that you can swim in rivers, so that birds sing in forests and cities, so that our children do not forget what pure water and, filled with the aroma of grass and rain, the air? “To protect the earth, nature, you need to love it, to love it, you need to know. Having learned, it is impossible not to fall in love. “I write about nature because I love it very much: for its beauty, for its mysteries, for its wisdom and diversity.” “Nature is a fascinating book. Just start reading it, you won't be disappointed."