The lightest prose. The best texts in prose for learning by heart (middle school age). Back to life

V. Rozov "Wild Duck" from the cycle "Touching the War")

The food was bad, I always wanted to eat. Sometimes food was given once a day, and then in the evening. Oh, how I wanted to eat! And on one of those days, when dusk was already approaching, and there was still not a crumb in our mouths, we, about eight fighters, were sitting on the high grassy bank of a quiet river and almost whined. Suddenly we see, without a gymnast. Something holding in hands. Another friend of ours is running towards us. Ran up. The face is radiant. The bundle is his tunic, and something is wrapped in it.

Look! Boris exclaims victoriously. He unfolds the tunic, and in it ... a live wild duck.

I see: sitting, hiding behind a bush. I took off my shirt and - hop! Have food! Let's fry.

The duck was weak, young. Turning her head from side to side, she looked at us with astonished beady eyes. She simply could not understand what kind of strange cute creatures surround her and look at her with such admiration. She did not break free, did not quack, did not strain her neck to slip out of the hands holding her. No, she looked around gracefully and curiously. Beautiful duck! And we are rough, unclean-shaven, hungry. Everyone admired the beauty. And a miracle happened, good fairy tale. Someone just said:

Let's let go!

Several logical remarks were thrown, like: “What's the point, there are eight of us, and she is so small”, “Still messing around!”, “Borya, bring her back.” And, no longer covering anything, Boris carefully carried the duck back. Returning, he said:

I put her in the water. I dived. And where it surfaced, I did not see. I waited and waited to see, but I did not see. It's getting dark.

When life overwhelms me, when you start cursing everyone and everything, you lose faith in people and you want to shout, as I once heard the cry of one very famous person: "I don't want to be with people, I want with dogs!" - in these moments of disbelief and despair, I remember a wild duck and think: no, no, you can believe in people. This will all pass, everything will be fine.

I can be told; “Well, yes, it was you, intellectuals, artists, everything can be expected about you.” No, in the war everything was mixed up and turned into one whole - single and invisible. In any case, the one where I served. There were two thieves in our group who had just been released from prison. One proudly told how he managed to steal a crane. Apparently he was talented. But he also said: “Let go!”

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Parable about life - Life values

Once a wise man, standing in front of his students, did the following. He took a large glass vessel and filled it to the brim with large stones. Having done this, he asked the disciples if the vessel was full. Everyone confirmed that it was full.

Then the sage took a box of small pebbles, poured it into a vessel and gently shook it several times. Pebbles rolled into the gaps between large stones and filled them. After that, he again asked the disciples if the vessel was now full. They again confirmed the fact - full.

And finally, the sage took a box of sand from the table and poured it into a vessel. The sand, of course, filled the last gaps in the vessel.

Now,” the sage addressed his disciples, “I would like you to be able to recognize your life in this vessel!

Large stones represent important things in life: your family, your loved one, your health, your children - those things that, even without everything else, can still fill your life. Small stones represent less important things, such as your job, your apartment, your house, or your car. Sand symbolizes life's little things, everyday fuss. If you first fill your vessel with sand, then there will no longer be room for larger stones.

It is the same in life - if you spend all your energy on small things, then there will be nothing left for big things.

Therefore, pay attention first of all to important things - find time for your children and loved ones, watch your health. You will still have enough time for work, for home, for celebrations and everything else. Watch your big stones - they are the only ones that have value, everything else is just sand.

A. Green. Scarlet Sails

She sat with her legs tucked up, her hands around her knees. Leaning attentively towards the sea, she looked at the horizon with large eyes, in which there was nothing left of an adult, - the eyes of a child. Everything that she had been waiting for so long and fervently was done there - at the end of the world. She saw in the land of distant abysses an underwater hill; climbing plants streamed upward from its surface; among their round leaves, pierced at the edge with a stalk, bizarre flowers shone. The upper leaves glistened on the surface of the ocean; the one who knew nothing, as Assol knew, saw only awe and brilliance.

A ship rose from the thicket; he surfaced and stopped in the very middle of the dawn. From this distance he was visible as clear as clouds. Scattering joy, he burned like wine, rose, blood, lips, scarlet velvet and crimson fire. The ship was heading straight for Assol. The wings of foam fluttered under the powerful pressure of his keel; already, having risen, the girl pressed her hands to her chest, as a wonderful play of light turned into a swell; the sun rose, and the bright fullness of the morning pulled the covers off everything that was still basking, stretching on the sleepy earth.

The girl sighed and looked around. The music stopped, but Assol was still at the mercy of her sonorous choir. This impression gradually weakened, then became a memory and, finally, just tiredness. She lay down on the grass, yawned and, blissfully closing her eyes, fell asleep - really, a sleep as strong as a young nut, without worries and dreams.

She was awakened by a fly roaming on her bare foot. Turning her leg restlessly, Assol woke up; sitting, she pinned her disheveled hair, so Gray's ring reminded of itself, but considering it nothing more than a stalk stuck between her fingers, she straightened it; since the hindrance did not disappear, she impatiently raised her hand to her eyes and straightened up, instantly jumping up with the force of a splashing fountain.

Gray's radiant ring shone on her finger, as if on someone else's - she could not recognize her own at that moment, she did not feel her finger. - “Whose thing is this? Whose joke? she exclaimed rapidly. - Am I sleeping? Maybe you found it and forgot? Grabbing her right hand, on which there was a ring, with her left hand, she looked around in amazement, searching the sea and green thickets with her gaze; but no one moved, no one hid in the bushes, and in the blue, far-illuminated sea there was no sign, and a blush covered Assol, and the voices of the heart said a prophetic "yes." There were no explanations for what had happened, but without words or thoughts she found them in her strange feeling, and the ring became close to her. Trembling, she pulled it off her finger; holding it in a handful like water, she examined it - with all her soul, with all her heart, with all the jubilation and clear superstition of youth, then, hiding behind her bodice, Assol buried her face in her hands, from under which a smile broke uncontrollably, and, lowering her head, slowly went back the way.

So, by chance, as people who can read and write say, Gray and Assol found each other in the morning of a summer day full of inevitability.

"Note". Tatyana Petrosyan

The note had the most innocuous appearance.

According to all gentlemen's laws, an ink mug and a friendly explanation should have been found in it: "Sidorov is a goat."

So Sidorov, not suspecting the worst, instantly unfolded the message ... and was dumbfounded.

Inside, it was written in large beautiful handwriting: "Sidorov, I love you!"

Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of his handwriting. Who wrote this to him?

(The way they used to smirk. But not this time.)

But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning!

There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him ?!

And then Sidorov's thought reached a dead end and thrashed about helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DO YOU LIKE??? What consequences will this entail and how should Sidorov be now? ..

"Let's talk logically," Sidorov reasoned logically. "What, for example, do I like? Pears! I love - that means I always want to eat ..."

At that moment, Vorobyova turned back to him and licked her lips bloodthirstyly. Sidorov froze. Her eyes, which had not been trimmed for a long time, caught his eye ... well, yes, real claws! For some reason, I remembered how Vorobyova greedily gnawed a bony chicken leg in the buffet ...

“You need to pull yourself together,” Sidorov pulled himself together. (Hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) “I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there can be no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often wears me around his neck. And I love them for that..."

Then Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with anguish that now he would have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and wear her to school around his neck to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and found that Vorobyova was not thin and it would probably not be easy to wear her.

“All is not lost yet,” Sidorov did not give up. “I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for a walk ...” Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the mere thought that Vorobyova could make him jump for every pie, and then he will take him for a walk, holding tightly to the leash and not allowing him to deviate either to the right or to the left ...

“... I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow directly into her ear ... - Sidorov thought in despair, - no, that's not it ... I like to catch flies and put them in a glass ... but this is too much ... I love toys that you can break and see what's inside..."

From the last thought, Sidorov felt unwell. There was only one salvation. He hurriedly tore a sheet out of his notebook, pursed his lips resolutely, and in firm handwriting brought out the menacing words: "Vorobyova, I love you too." Let her be scared.

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The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had lost all hope.

Hello, I'm on the ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered into the screen of the videophone. A man in his thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich's heart skipped a beat, he posted the ad on the net only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be old-fashioned insurance agents, and one confused literature with a ligature.

I give lessons, - Andrey Petrovich stammered from excitement. - H-at home. Are you interested in literature?

Interested, - nodded the interlocutor. - My name is Maxim. Let me know what the conditions are.

"For nothing!" almost escaped Andrey Petrovich.

Pay by the hour, he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?

I, in fact ... - the interlocutor hesitated.

Let's go tomorrow, - Maxim said decisively. - At ten in the morning will suit you? By nine I take the children to school, and then I am free until two.

Arrange, - Andrey Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.

Speak, I will remember.

That night Andrey Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his shaking hands. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggarly allowance. Ever since the day he was fired.

You are too narrow a specialist, - then, hiding his eyes, the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations said. - We appreciate you as an experienced teacher, but here is your subject, alas. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially cover the cost of education. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach it. Even cinema is still quite popular. He, of course, did not have long left, but in your lifetime ... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted a lot. It was not possible to find a new job, the literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of things. For a couple of years, he knocked on the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent half a year on retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

Savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the air car, old but reliable. Antique service, left from my mother, behind him things. And then ... Andrey Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of books. Ancient, thick, paper, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrey Petrovich had fifty books left - his most beloved, re-read ten times, those with which he could not part. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on the bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust off the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrey Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he ... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amada.

Nothing, Andrey Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter if you can buy it back. He can convey, that's it, that's the only important thing. Hand over! Pass on to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten, to the minute.

Come in, - Andrey Petrovich began to fuss. - Have a seat. Here, in fact ... Where would you like to start?

Maxim hesitated, carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.

What do you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.

Yes, yes, of course, - nodded Andrei Petrovich. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in public schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.

Nowhere? Maxim asked quietly.

I'm afraid it's nowhere. You see, the crisis began at the end of the twentieth century. There was no time to read. First to the children, then the children grew up, and there was no time for their children to read. Even more once than parents. Other pleasures appeared - mostly virtual ones. Games. All sorts of tests, quests ... - Andrey Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to replace the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography receded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?

Yes, please continue.

In the twenty-first century, books stopped printing, paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell - rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then they disappeared altogether - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent, wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he said at last. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what molded minds. Especially poetry. That which determined the inner world of man, his spirituality. Children grow up spiritualless, that's what's scary, that's what's terrible, Maxim!

I myself came to this conclusion, Andrey Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.

Do you have children?

Yes, - Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anya, good weather. Andrei Petrovich, I only need the basics. I will find literature on the net, I will read. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?

Yes, - said Andrey Petrovich firmly. - I'll teach.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, concentrated.

Pasternak,” he said solemnly. - It's snowy, it's snowy all over the earth, to all limits. A candle burned on the table, a candle burned ...

Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - trying to calm the trembling in his voice, asked Andrey Petrovich.

Certainly. Only here ... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy couple. I run the household, do business, set up accounts. I have a low salary. But I, - Maxim looked around the room, - I can bring food. Some things, perhaps household appliances. For payment. Will it suit you?

Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. It would suit him for free.

Of course, Maxim, - he said. - Thanks. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

Literature is not only what is written about, - Andrei Petrovich said, pacing around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the same tool used by great writers and poets. Here listen.

Maxim listened intently. He seemed to be trying to memorize, to memorize the teacher's speech.

Pushkin, - Andrey Petrovich said and began to recite.

"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".

Lermontov "Mtsyri".

Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...

Maxim listened.

Not tired? Andrey Petrovich asked.

No, no, what are you. Please continue.

The day changed into a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to a life in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, it took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be surprised how Maxim, at first deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and learned it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.

Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.

Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.

Classics, fiction, science fiction, detective.

Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatskys, Weiners, Japriso.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrey Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, persuading himself that he might fall ill. I couldn't, whispered an inner voice, stubborn and absurd. Scrupulous pedantic Maxim could not. He never missed a minute in a year and a half. And he didn't even call. By evening Andrey Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never closed his eyes. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.

The number is out of service, - said the mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even his favorite books did not save him from acute anguish and the reappeared feeling of his own worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. Call hospitals, morgues, an obsessive buzz in the temple. And what to ask? Or about whom? Did a certain Maxim act, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to stay within the four walls.

Ah, Petrovich! - welcomed the old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below. - Long time no see. Why don't you go out, are you ashamed, or what? So you don't seem to mind.

In what sense am I ashamed? Andrey Petrovich was taken aback.

Well, what about this, yours, - Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - who visited you. I kept thinking why Petrovich, in his old age, got in touch with this audience.

What are you talking about? Andrey Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?

It is known from what. I see these pigeons right away. Thirty years, count, worked with them.

With whom with them? Andrey Petrovich pleaded. - What are you talking about?

Do you really not know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. “Look at the news, it’s all over the place.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He climbed up to the fourteenth, with trembling hands fumbled in his pocket for the key. On the fifth attempt, he opened it, minced to the computer, connected to the network, scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly skipped a beat. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the picture blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrey Petrovich read from the screen, focusing his vision with difficulty, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about the childish lack of spirituality, with which he decided to fight. Arbitrarily taught children subjects outside school curriculum. He hid his activities from the owners. Withdrawn from circulation ... In fact, disposed of .... The public is concerned about the manifestation ... The issuing company is ready to suffer ... A specially created committee decided ... ".

Andrei Petrovich got up. On shaky legs, he walked into the kitchen. He opened the buffet, on the bottom shelf was an open bottle of cognac brought by Maxim as payment for tuition. Andrey Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I didn’t find it and pulled it out of my throat. He coughed, dropping the bottle, and staggered back against the wall. His knees gave way, Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. All down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

Soulless, defective piece of iron. He put everything he has into it. Everything that is worth living for. Everything he lived for.

Andrey Petrovich, overcoming the pain that seized his heart, got up. He dragged himself to the window, tightly wrapped the transom. Now the gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. And that's it.

The knock on the door caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, clenching his teeth, moved to open it. There were two children in the doorway. A boy of ten. And the girl is a year or two younger.

Do you give literature lessons? - looking from under the bangs falling over her eyes, the girl asked.

What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?

I am Pavlik, - the boy took a step forward. - This is Anechka, my sister. We are from Max.

From… From whom?!

From Max, - stubbornly repeated the boy. - He told me to deliver. Before he... how his...

It's snowy, it's snowy all over the earth to all limits! the girl suddenly cried out loudly.

Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.

Are you kidding? He spoke softly, barely audibly.

The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning, the boy said firmly. - This is what he ordered to pass, Max. Will you teach us?

Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.

My God, he said. - Come in. Come in kids.

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Leonid Kaminsky

Composition

Lena sat at the table and did her homework. It was getting dark, but from the snow, which lay in snowdrifts in the yard, it was still light in the room.
In front of Lena lay an open notebook in which only two phrases were written:
How do I help my mom?
Composition.
Further work did not go. Somewhere near the neighbors a tape recorder was playing. One could hear Alla Pugacheva persistently repeating: “I so want the summer not to end! ..”.
“But it’s true,” Lena thought dreamily, “it’s good if summer didn’t end! .. Sunbathe yourself, swim, and no writings for you!”
She read the headline again: How I Help Mom. “How can I help? And when to help here, if they ask so much at home!
A light went on in the room: it was my mother who came in.
- Sit, sit, I won't disturb you, I'll just tidy up the room a little. - She began to wipe bookshelves rag.
Lena began to write:
“I help my mom with the housework. I clean the apartment, wipe the dust off the furniture with a rag.
Why are you throwing your clothes all over the room? Mom asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical, because my mother did not expect an answer. She began to put things in the closet.
“I put things in their places,” Lena wrote.
“By the way, your apron should be washed,” Mom continued talking to herself.
“I’m washing clothes,” Lena wrote, then she thought and added: “And I’m ironing.”
“Mom, a button on my dress came off,” Lena reminded me and wrote: “I sew on buttons if necessary.”
Mom sewed on a button, then went out into the kitchen and returned with a bucket and a mop.
Pushing the chairs back, she started wiping the floor.
“Come on, put your feet up,” Mom said, deftly wielding a rag.
- Mom, you're bothering me! - Lena grumbled and, without lowering her legs, she wrote: "My floors."
Something burning came from the kitchen.
- Oh, I have potatoes on the stove! Mom screamed and rushed to the kitchen.
“I’m peeling potatoes and cooking dinner,” Lena wrote.
- Lena, have dinner! Mom called from the kitchen.
- Now! Lena leaned back in her chair and stretched.
The bell rang in the hallway.
Lena, this is for you! Mom shouted.
Olya, Lena's classmate, entered the room, flushed with frost.
- I do not for a long time. Mom sent for bread, and I decided on the way - to you.
Lena took a pen and wrote: “I go to the store for bread and other products.”
- Are you writing an essay? Olya asked. - Let me see.
Olya looked into the notebook and burst out:
- Wow! Yes, this is not true! You wrote it all!
Who said you can't compose? Lena was offended. – After all, that’s why it’s called so: co-chi-non-nie!

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Texts for learning by heart for the competition "Live Classics-2017"

Chingiz Aitmatov. "Mother Field" The scene of a fleeting meeting between mother and son at the train.

The weather was, like yesterday, windy and cold. It is not for nothing that the station gorge is called the caravanserai of the winds. Suddenly the clouds parted and the sun peeped through. "Oh," I thought, "if only my son would suddenly flash, like the sun from behind the clouds, would appear before my eyes at least once ..."
And then there was the sound of a train in the distance. He came from the east. The ground shook underfoot, the rails hummed.

Meanwhile, a man came running with red and yellow flags in his hands, shouted in his ear:
- Will not stop! Will not stop! Away! Get out of the way! - And he began to push us away.
At that moment there was a shout nearby:
- Mom-ah! Alima-a-an!
He! Maselbek! Oh, my God, my God! He swept past us quite close. He leaned over with his whole body from the car, holding on to the door with one hand, and with the other waved his hat to us and shouted goodbye. I only remember how I screamed: "Maselbek!" And in that short moment I saw him exactly and clearly: the wind tousled his hair, the skirts of his overcoat beat like wings, and on his face and in his eyes - joy, and grief, and regret, and goodbye! And without taking my eyes off him, I ran after him. The last wagon of the echelon rustled past, and I still ran along the sleepers, then fell. Oh, how I moaned and screamed! My son was leaving for the battlefield, and I said goodbye to him, hugging the cold iron rail. The clatter of wheels went farther and farther away, then it died away. And now it still sometimes seems to me that this echelon is passing through my head and the wheels are knocking in my ears for a long time. Aliman ran all in tears, sank down next to me, wants to lift me up and can’t, she chokes, her hands are shaking. Then a Russian woman, a switchman, arrived in time. And also: "Mom! Mom!" hugging, crying. Together they took me to the roadside, and as we walked to the station, Aliman gave me a soldier's hat.
“Take it, mother,” she said. - Maselbek left.
It turns out that he threw his hat to me when I ran after the carriage. I was driving home with this hat in my hands; sitting in the britzka, tightly pressed her to her chest. She still hangs on the wall. An ordinary soldier's gray earflap with an asterisk on the forehead. Sometimes I will take it in my hands, bury my face and smell my son.

"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (4)"

The poem in prose "The Old Woman" is read by Magomirzaev Magomirza

I walked across a wide field, alone.

And suddenly I fancied light, cautious steps behind my back... Someone was following my trail.

I looked around and saw a small, hunched-over old woman, all wrapped up in gray rags. The old woman's face alone was visible from under them: a yellow, wrinkled, sharp-nosed, toothless face.

I approached her... She stopped.

- Who are you? What do you need? Are you a beggar? Do you want charity?

The old woman did not answer. I leaned towards her and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a translucent, whitish membrane, or hymen, which happens to other birds: they protect their eyes from too bright light with it.

But the old woman's hymen did not move and did not open her eyes ... from which I concluded that she was blind.

- Do you want charity? I repeated my question. - Why are you following me? - But the old woman still did not answer, but only cringed a little.

I turned away from her and went on my way.

And here again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as if sneaking footsteps.

“That woman again! I thought. - Why did she come to me? - But I immediately added in my mind: - Probably, she blindly lost her way, now she is following my steps by ear in order to go out with me to a living place. Yes Yes; This is true".

But a strange uneasiness gradually took possession of my thoughts: it began to seem to me that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was guiding me, that she was pushing me first to the right, then to the left, and that I involuntarily obeyed her.

However, I continue to walk ... But ahead of me, on my very road, something blackens and expands ... some kind of pit ...

"Grave! flashed in my head. "That's where she's pushing me!"

I turn sharply back ... The old woman is again in front of me ... but she sees! She looks at me with big, angry, ominous eyes... the eyes of a bird of prey... I move towards her face, towards her eyes... Again the same dull hymen, the same blind and dull appearance.

"Oh! - I think ... - this old woman is my destiny. The fate from which no man can escape!

"Don't leave! don't leave! What is crazy? ... We must try. And I rush to the side, in a different direction.

I walk briskly... But light steps still rustle behind me, close, close... And the pit darkens ahead again.

I again turn in the other direction ... And again the same rustle behind and the same menacing spot in front.

And wherever I rush about, like a hare on the run ... everything is the same, the same!

Stop! I think. “I will deceive her!” I'm not going anywhere!" – and I immediately sit down on the ground.

The old woman is standing behind, two steps away from me. I can't hear her, but I feel she's there.

And suddenly I see: that spot that blackened in the distance is floating, crawling itself towards me!

God! I look back... The old woman looks straight at me - and her toothless mouth is twisted into a smile...

- You will not leave!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (5)"

Prose poem "Azure Sky"

Azure Realm

ABOUT azure kingdom! O kingdom of azure, light, youth and happiness! I saw you... in a dream.

There were several of us on a beautiful, dismantled boat. A white sail rose like a swan's chest under frisky pennants.

I didn't know who my comrades were; but I felt with all my being that they were as young, cheerful and happy as I am!

Yes, I did not notice them. All around I saw one boundless azure sea, all covered with small ripples of golden scales, and above my head the same boundless, the same azure sky - and across it, triumphant and as if laughing, the gentle sun rolled.

And between us, from time to time, laughter rose ringing and joyful, like the laughter of the gods!

Otherwise, words, poems full of wondrous beauty and inspirational power suddenly flew from someone’s lips ... It seemed that the sky itself sounded in response to them - and all around the sea trembled sympathetically ... And there again came blissful silence.

Slightly diving on soft waves, our fast boat floated. She did not move with the wind; it was ruled by our own beating hearts. Wherever we wanted, she rushed there, obediently, as if alive.

We came across islands, magical, translucent islands with tides of precious stones, yachts and emeralds. Intoxicating incense rushed from the rounded banks; one of these islands showered us with white roses and lilies of the valley; from others, rainbow-colored, long-winged birds suddenly rose up.

Birds circled above us, lilies of the valley and roses melted in the pearl foam that slid along the smooth sides of our boat.

Together with flowers, with birds, sweet, sweet sounds flew in ... Women's voices seemed to be in them ... And everything around: the sky, the sea, the swaying of the sail in the sky, the murmur of the stream behind the stern - everything spoke of love, of blissful love!

And the one that each of us loved - she was here ... invisibly and close. Another moment - and then her eyes will shine, her smile will bloom ... Her hand will take your hand - and will carry you away to an unfading paradise!

O blue kingdom! I saw you... in a dream.

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (6)"

Oleg Koshevoy about his mother (excerpt from the novel "Young Guard").

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became
be aware of yourself in the world. During the summer, they were always covered with a tan, he no longer departed in the winter - he was so gentle, even, only a little bit darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands - after all, they had so much work in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on their dark veins so much.
Yes, from the moment I became conscious of myself to the last
minutes when you are exhausted, quietly laid your head on my chest for the last time, seeing you off on a difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried about in soapy suds, washing my sheets when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, putting a small hand in a mitten in front of the yoke , she is so small and fluffy, like a mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the primer, and I repeat after
you: "be-a - ba, ba-ba". I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the corn, broken by the pressure of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, so feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in a bunch so as not to break the compressed stems.
I remember your hands, unbending, red, lubricated from the icy water in the hole where you rinsed your laundry when we lived alone - it seemed, completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could take a splinter out of my son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands could not do, that they could not do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what obedient tenderness, your full and white arm above the elbow wrapped around your stepfather’s neck, when he, playing with you, lifted you up in his arms, - stepfather, whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, already for one thing, that you loved him.
But most of all, for all eternity, I remember how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And whenever I opened my eyes, you were always by my side, and the nightlight burned in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from darkness, all quiet and bright yourself, as if in robes. I kiss your clean, holy hands!
You led your sons to war - if not you, then another, the same as
you, - you will not wait for others forever, and if this cup has passed you, then it has not passed another, the same as you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and have clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks in the field, and trains run along the rails, and cherries bloom in the garden, and the flame rages in the blast furnace, and someone's invisible force raises the warrior from the ground or from the bed, when he was ill or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and him.
Look around you too, young man, my friend, look around like me, and tell me who you are.
offended in life more than a mother - is it not from me, not from you, not from him, is it not from our failures, mistakes and not from our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the hour will come when all this at the mother's grave will turn into a painful reproach to the heart.
Mom, mom! .. Forgive me, because you are the only one, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, as in childhood, and forgive ... "

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (7)"

A.P. Chekhov. "Gull". Monologue of Nina Zarechnaya (final scene of farewell to Treplev)

I'm so tired... I wish I could rest... Rest!
I am a seagull... No, not that. I'm an actress. And he is here ... He did not believe in the theater, he kept laughing at my dreams, and little by little I also stopped believing and lost heart ... And then the worries of love, jealousy, constant fear for the little one ... I became petty, insignificant, I played senselessly ... I didn’t know what to do with my hands, I didn’t know how to stand on the stage, I didn’t control my voice. You don't understand this state when you feel like you're playing terribly. I am a seagull.
No, not that ... Remember, you shot a seagull? By chance, a man came, saw and, having nothing to do, killed him ... The plot for a short story ...
What am I talking about?.. I'm talking about the stage. Now I'm not like that ... I'm already a real actress, I play with pleasure, with delight, I get drunk on stage and feel beautiful. And now, while I live here, I keep walking, walking and thinking, thinking and feeling how my spiritual strength is growing every day ... Now I know, I understand. Kostya, that in our business it doesn’t matter whether we play on stage or write - the main thing is not glory, not brilliance, not what I dreamed of, but the ability to endure. Learn to bear your cross and believe. I believe, and it does not hurt me so much, and when I think about my calling, I am not afraid of life.
No, no... Don't see me off, I'll go myself... My horses are close... So she brought him with her? Well, it doesn't matter. When you see Trigorin, don't tell him anything... I love him. I love him even more than before... I love him, I love him passionately, I love him to the point of despair!
It was good before, Kostya! Remember? What a clear, warm, joyful, pure life, what feelings - feelings like delicate, graceful flowers ... "People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, sea ​​stars and those who could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, died out. For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living being, and this poor moon has vainly kindled its lantern. In the meadow the cranes no longer wake up with a cry, and May beetles are not heard in the linden groves ... "
I will go. Farewell. When I become a great actress, come and see me.
Do you promise? And now... It's getting late. I can barely stand...

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (8)"

BAD CUSTOM. Zoshchenko.

In February, my brothers, I fell ill.

Went to the city hospital. And here I am, you know, in the city hospital, being treated and resting my soul. And all around is silence and smoothness and God's grace. Around the cleanliness and order, even lying awkward. And if you want to spit - spittoon. If you want to sit down - there is a chair, if you want to blow your nose - blow your nose on your health in your hand, but so that in the sheet - no, my God, they don’t let you into the sheet. There is no such thing, they say.

Well, calm down.

And you can't help but calm down. There is such care around, such caress that it is better not to come up with. Just imagine, some lousy person is lying down, and they drag him lunch, and they clean the bed, and put thermometers under his arm, and shove clysters with his own hands, and even take an interest in health.

And who is interested? Important, advanced people - doctors, doctors, sisters of mercy and, again, paramedic Ivan Ivanovich.

And I felt such gratitude to all this staff that I decided to bring material gratitude.

I think you won’t give it to everyone - there won’t be enough giblets. Ladies, I think, one. And who - began to look closely.

And I see: there is no one else to give, except to the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich. The man, I see, is large and imposing, and he tries hardest of all and even goes out of his way.

Okay, I think I'll give it to him. And he began to think about how to stick it in, so as not to offend his dignity and so as not to get punched in the face for it.

The opportunity soon presented itself.

The paramedic comes to my bed. Hello.

Hello, how are you? Was there a chair?

Ege, I think, pecked.

How, I say, there was a chair, but one of the patients took it away. And if you want to sit down - sit down at your feet on the bed. Let's talk.

The paramedic sat down on the bed and sits.

Well, - I say to him, - how in general, what do they write, are the earnings great?

Earnings, he says, are small, but which intelligent patients, even at death, strive to put into their hands without fail.

If you please, I say, although not near death, I do not refuse to give. And I've been dreaming about it for a long time.

I take out money and give. And he so graciously accepted and made a curtsey with his pen.

And the next day it all started.

I was lying very calmly and well, and no one had disturbed me until now, and now the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich seemed to be stunned by my material gratitude. During the day, ten or fifteen times he will come to my bed. That, you know, he will correct the pillows, then he will drag him into the bath, He tortured me with some thermometers. Earlier, a thermometer or two will be set in a day - that's all. And now fifteen times. Previously, the bath was cool and I liked it, but now it will boil hot water - even shout the guard.

I already and that way, and so - no way. I still shove money to him, a scoundrel - just leave me alone, do me a favor, he goes into a rage even more and tries.

A week has passed - I see, I can't take it anymore.

I got tired, lost fifteen pounds, lost weight and lost my appetite.

And the paramedic is trying hard.

And since he, a tramp, almost boiled me in boiling water. By God. Such a bath, the scoundrel, did - I already had a callus on my leg burst and the skin came off.

I tell him:

What, I say, you bastard, are you boiling people in boiling water? There will be no more financial gratitude for you.

And he says:

It won't - it won't. Die, he says, without the help of scientists.

And now everything is going the same again: the thermometers are set once, the bath is cool again, and no one bothers me anymore.

No wonder the fight against tips is happening. Oh, brothers, not in vain!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document"

I SEE YOU PEOPLE! (Nodar Dumbadze)

- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it's me, Sosoya... I haven't been to you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench… Look, the rose has already faded… Yes, a lot of time has passed… And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a bit, I’ll tear out this weed and tell you everything in order ...

Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Do not recognize now our village! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Yevgeny Minin returned, and Nodar's father returned, and Otiya's father. True, he is without one leg, but what does it matter? Just think, a leg! .. But our Kukuri, Lukayin Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz didn't come back either... Many didn't come back, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt, corn appeared ... Ten weddings were played after you, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Georgy Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to the twelfth boy, Shukria. That was fun, Bezhana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear Bejana? Almost resolved on a tree! I managed to get down! The child was named Shukria, but I call him Slivovich. It's great, isn't it, Bezhana? Slivovich! What is worse than Georgievich? In total, thirteen children were born to us after you ... And one more piece of news, Bezhana, - I know it will please you. Father took Khatia to Batumi. She will be operated on and she will see! Then? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'm marrying her! Certainly! I'm doing a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn't wake up? Yes, my aunt also asks me about it... I'm getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can't live without me... And I can't live without Khatia... Didn't you love some kind of Minadora? So I love my Khatia ... And my aunt loves ... him ... Of course, she loves, otherwise she would not ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her ... She is waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I am waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me how she will return - sighted, blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, prettier, that it’s hard to even recognize me, but ... what the hell is not joking! .. However, no, it’s impossible that Khatia doesn’t like me! After all, she knows what I am, she sees me, she herself spoke about this more than once ... I graduated from tenth grade, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I will become a doctor, and if Khatia is not helped in Batumi now, I will cure her myself. So, Bejana?

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"Microsoft Word Document"

Marina Tsvetaeva. Sonechka's monologue. "How I love to love ...".

Do you ever forget when you love something - you love it? I never. It's like a toothache, only the opposite is the opposite of a toothache. Only there it whines, but here there is no word.
And what wild fools they are. Those who do not love do not love themselves, as if the point is to be loved. I'm not saying, of course, but you get up like a wall. But you know, there is no wall that I would not break through.
Do you notice how all of them, even the most kissing, even the most, as if loving, are so afraid to say this word? How do they never say it? One of them explained to me that this was grossly behind the times, that why words are needed when there are deeds, that is, kisses and so on. And I told him: "No. The case still does not prove anything. And the word is everything!"
After all, this is all I need from a person. "I love you" and nothing else. Let him dislike it any way he likes, do whatever he likes, I won't believe the deeds. Because the word was I only fed on this word. That's why she was so emaciated.
And how stingy, prudent, cautious they are. I always want to say: "Just tell me. I won't check." But they do not say, because they think that it is to marry, to contact, not to untie. "If I'm the first to say, I'll never be the first to leave." As if with me you can not be the first to leave.
I've never left first in my life. And how much more God will let me go in my life, I will not be the first to leave. I just can not. I do everything so that the other one leaves. Because I'm the first to leave - it's easier to go over my own corpse.
I have never been the first one to leave. Never stopped loving. Always until the very last opportunity. Until the very last drop. Like when you drink as a child and it's already hot from an empty glass. And you keep pulling and pulling and pulling. And only your own steam ...

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"Microsoft Office Word Document (23)"

Larisa Novikova

Pechorin's monologue from "A Hero of Our Time" by M. Lermontov

Yes, this has been my fate since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings that were not there; but they were supposed - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of slyness: I became secretive. I deeply felt good and evil; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy - other children are cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them—I was placed inferior. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world - no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth flowed in the struggle with myself and the light; my best feelings, fearing ridicule, I buried in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they did not believe me: I began to deceive; knowing well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others without art were happy, enjoying the gift of those benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is cured at the muzzle of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, hidden behind courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away, while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of the deceased its halves; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I have read her epitaph to you.

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"a wish"

It is worth wanting for real and ...

To tell the truth, all my life I often had all sorts of difficult-to-realize desires and fantasies in my head.

At one time, for example, I dreamed of inventing such an apparatus with which it would be possible to turn off the voice of any person at a distance. According to my calculations, this device (I called it TIKHOFON BYu-1 - the voice cut-off system according to the Barankin system) should have acted like this: suppose today at the lesson the teacher tells us about something uninteresting and thereby prevents me, Barankin, from thinking about what something interesting; I flip the switch on the quiet phone in my pocket, and the teacher's voice disappears. Those who do not have such an apparatus continue to listen, and I calmly go about my business in silence.

I really wanted to invent such a device, but for some reason it didn’t go beyond the name

I also had other strong desires, but none of them, of course, captured me like this, for real, like the desire to turn from a man into a sparrow! ..

I sat on the bench, not moving, not being distracted, not thinking about anything extraneous, and thinking only about one thing: “How would I turn into a sparrow as soon as possible.”

At first I sat on a bench just like all ordinary people sit, and did not feel anything special. All sorts of unpleasant human thoughts still climbed into my head: about the deuce, and about arithmetic, and about Mishka Yakovlev, but I tried not to think about all this.

I’m sitting on a bench with my eyes closed, goosebumps run through my body like crazy, like guys at a big break, and I sit and think: “I wonder what these goosebumps and these oats mean? Goosebumps - this is still understandable to me, I probably served my legs, but what does oats have to do with it?

I even ate my mother's oatmeal in milk with jam and always ate it at home without any pleasure. Why do I want raw oats? I'm still a man, not a horse?

I sit, think, wonder, but I can’t explain anything to myself, because my eyes are tightly closed, and this makes my head completely dark and unclear.

Then I thought: “Has something like this happened to me ...” - and therefore I decided to examine myself from head to toe ...

Holding my breath, I slightly opened my eyes and first of all looked at my legs. I look - instead of legs, I have dressed shoes, bare sparrow paws, and with these paws I stand barefoot on a bench, like a real sparrow. I opened my eyes wider, I look - instead of hands I have wings. I open my eyes even more, turn my head, I look - the tail sticks out from behind. This is what happens? It turns out that I still turned into a sparrow!

I am a sparrow! I'm no longer Barankin! I am the real, the most that neither is a sparrow sparrow! So that's why I suddenly wanted oats: oats are the favorite food of horses and sparrows! All clear! No, not everything is clear! What is that coming out? So my mom was right. So, if you really want to, then you can really achieve everything and achieve everything!

Here is the discovery!

About such a discovery, perhaps, it is worth tweeting to the whole yard. Why, for the whole yard - for the whole city, even for the whole world!

I spread my wings! I rolled out my chest! I turned towards Kostya Malinin and froze with my beak open.

My friend Kostya Malinin continued to sit on the bench, like the most ordinary person ... Kostya Malinin did not manage to turn into a sparrow! .. Here you go!

An excerpt from the story
Chapter II

My mommy

I had a mother, affectionate, kind, sweet. We lived with my mother in a small house on the banks of the Volga. The house was so clean and bright, and from the windows of our apartment one could see the wide, beautiful Volga, and huge two-story steamships, and barges, and a pier on the shore, and crowds of strollers who went out at certain hours to this pier to meet the incoming steamers ... And my mother and I went there, only rarely, very rarely: mother gave lessons in our city, and she was not allowed to walk with me as often as I would like. Mommy said:

Wait, Lenusha, I'll save up some money and take you up the Volga from our Rybinsk all the way to Astrakhan! That's when we'll have fun.
I rejoiced and waited for spring.
By the spring, mommy saved up a little money, and we decided to fulfill our idea with the very first warm days.
- That's as soon as the Volga is cleared of ice, we will ride with you! Mom said, gently stroking my head.
But when the ice broke, she caught a cold and began to cough. The ice passed, the Volga cleared up, and Mom kept coughing and coughing endlessly. She suddenly became thin and transparent, like wax, and kept sitting by the window, looking at the Volga and repeating:
- Here the cough will pass, I will get better a little, and we will ride with you to Astrakhan, Lenusha!
But the cough and cold did not go away; the summer was damp and cold this year, and every day mommy became thinner, paler and more transparent.
Autumn has come. September has arrived. Long lines of cranes stretched over the Volga, flying to warm countries. Mommy no longer sat at the window in the living room, but lay on the bed and shivered all the time from the cold, while she herself was hot as fire.
Once she called me to her and said:
- Listen, Lenusha. Your mother will soon leave you forever... But don't worry, dear. I will always look at you from the sky and rejoice in the good deeds of my girl, but ...
I did not let her finish and wept bitterly. And Mommy also cried, and her eyes became sad, sad, exactly the same as those of the angel whom I saw on the big image in our church.
After calming down a little, Mom spoke again:
- I feel that the Lord will soon take me to Himself, and may His holy will be done! Be smart without a mother, pray to God and remember me... You will go to live with your uncle, my brother, who lives in St. Petersburg... I wrote to him about you and asked him to take in an orphan...
Something painfully painful at the word "orphan" squeezed my throat ...
I sobbed and wept and huddled around my mother's bed. Maryushka (a cook who had lived with us for nine whole years, from the very year of my birth, and who loved mother and me without memory) came and took me to her, saying that "mother needs peace."
I fell asleep all in tears that night on Maryushka's bed, and in the morning ... Oh, what a morning! ..
I woke up very early, it seems at six o'clock, and I wanted to run straight to my mother.
At that moment Maryushka came in and said:
- Pray to God, Lenochka: God took your mother to him. Your mom has died.
- Mom's dead! I repeated like an echo.
And suddenly I felt so cold, cold! Then there was a noise in my head, and the whole room, and Maryushka, and the ceiling, and the table, and chairs - everything turned upside down and swirled in my eyes, and I no longer remember what happened to me after that. I think I fell to the floor unconscious...
I woke up when my mother was already lying in a large white box, in a white dress, with a white wreath on her head. An old gray-haired priest recited prayers, the choristers sang, and Maryushka prayed at the threshold of the bedroom. Some old women came and also prayed, then looked at me with pity, shook their heads and mumbled something with their toothless mouths...
- Orphan! Round orphan! said Maryushka, also shaking her head and looking at me pitifully, and weeping. Old women were crying...
On the third day, Maryushka took me to the white box in which Mama was lying and told me to kiss Mama's hand. Then the priest blessed mother, the singers sang something very sad; some men came up, closed the white box and carried it out of our house...
I cried out loud. But then the old women I already knew arrived in time, saying that they were carrying my mother to be buried and that there was no need to cry, but to pray.
The white box was brought to the church, we defended mass, and then some people came up again, picked up the box and carried it to the cemetery. A deep black hole had already been dug there, where Mom's coffin was lowered. Then they covered the hole with earth, put a white cross over it, and Maryushka took me home.
On the way, she told me that in the evening she would take me to the station, put me on a train and send me to Petersburg to my uncle.
“I don’t want to go to my uncle,” I said gloomily, “I don’t know any uncle and I’m afraid to go to him!”
But Maryushka said that she was ashamed to speak like that to the big girl, that her mother heard it and that she was hurt by my words.
Then I quieted down and began to remember my uncle's face.
I never saw my St. Petersburg uncle, but there was his portrait in my mother's album. He was depicted on it in a golden embroidered uniform, with many orders and with a star on his chest. He had a very important look, and I was involuntarily afraid of him.
After dinner, which I barely touched, Maryushka packed all my dresses and underwear into an old suitcase, gave me tea to drink, and took me to the station.

Lydia Charskaya
NOTES OF A LITTLE GIRL STUDENT

An excerpt from the story
Chapter XXI
To the sound of the wind and the whistle of a blizzard

The wind whistled, squealed, grunted and hummed in different ways. Now in a plaintive thin voice, now in a rough bass rumble, he sang his battle song. The lanterns flickered almost imperceptibly through the huge white flakes of snow that fell in abundance on the sidewalks, on the street, on carriages, horses and passers-by. And I went on and on, on and on...
Nyurochka told me:
“We must first go through a long big street, on which there are such tall houses and luxurious shops, then turn right, then left, then right again and left again, and there everything is straight, right to the very end - to our house. You will immediately recognize him. It is near the cemetery itself, there is also a white church ... such a beautiful one.
I did so. Everything went straight, as it seemed to me, along a long and wide street, but I did not see any tall houses or luxurious shops. Everything was obscured from my eyes by a living, loose wall of noiselessly falling huge flakes of snow, white as a shroud. I turned to the right, then to the left, then to the right again, doing everything exactly as Nyurochka told me, and everything went on and on and on without end.
The wind ruthlessly ruffled the floors of my burnusik, piercing me with cold through and through. Snow flakes hit my face. Now I was not going as fast as before. My legs felt like lead from fatigue, my whole body shivered from the cold, my hands froze, and I could hardly move my fingers. Having turned almost for the fifth time to the right and to the left, I now went on a straight path. Quietly, barely perceptibly flickering lights of lanterns came across to me less and less often ... The noise from the horse-drawn carriages and carriages on the streets subsided considerably, and the path along which I was walking seemed to me deaf and deserted.
At last the snow began to thin; huge flakes did not fall so often now. The distance cleared up a little, but instead it was such a thick twilight around me that I could barely see the road.
Now neither the noise of the ride, nor the voices, nor the exclamations of the coachmen could be heard around me.
What silence! What dead silence!
But what is it?
My eyes, already accustomed to the semi-darkness, now distinguish the surroundings. Lord, where am I?
No houses, no streets, no carriages, no pedestrians. In front of me is an endless, vast expanse of snow... Some forgotten buildings along the edges of the road... Some kind of fences, and in front of me is something huge black. It must be a park or a forest, I don't know.
I turned around... Lights flicker behind me... lights... lights... How many of them! Without end... without counting!
- Oh my God, this is a city! City, of course! I exclaim. - And I went to the outskirts ...
Nyurochka said that they lived on the outskirts. Yes of course! What is darkening in the distance, this is the cemetery! There is a church, and, not reaching, their house! Everything, everything happened as she said. And I got scared! That's stupid!
And with joyful animation, I again cheerfully walked forward.
But it was not there!
My legs now barely obeyed me. I could barely move them from exhaustion. The incredible cold made me tremble from head to toe, my teeth chattered, my head was noisy, and something hit my temples with all its might. To all this, some strange drowsiness was added. I was so sleepy, so terribly sleepy!
"Well, well, a little more - and you will be with your friends, you will see Nikifor Matveevich, Nyura, their mother, Seryozha!" I mentally cheered myself up as best I could.
But that didn't help either.
My legs could hardly move, now I could hardly pull them out, first one, then the other, out of the deep snow. But they move more and more slowly, everything ... quieter ... And the noise in the head becomes more and more audible, and more and more strongly something hits the temples ...
Finally, I can’t stand it and sink into a snowdrift that has formed on the edge of the road.
Ah, how good! What a sweet way to relax! Now I don't feel any fatigue or pain... Some kind of pleasant warmth spreads all over my body... Oh, how good! So I would sit here and not go anywhere from here! And if it were not for the desire to find out what happened to Nikifor Matveyevich, and to visit him, healthy or sick, I would certainly fall asleep here for an hour or two ... I fell asleep soundly! Moreover, the cemetery is not far away... You can see it there. A mile or two, no more...
The snow stopped falling, the blizzard subsided a little, and the moon emerged from behind the clouds.
Oh, it would be better if the moon did not shine and I would not know at least the sad reality!
No cemetery, no church, no houses - there is nothing ahead! .. Only the forest turns black as a huge black spot far away, and a white dead field spreads around me with an endless veil ...
Horror gripped me.
Now I just realized that I was lost.

Lev Tolstoy

Swans

Swans flew in herds from the cold side to the warm lands. They flew across the sea. They flew day and night, and another day and another night they flew over the water without rest. There was a full moon in the sky, and far below the swans saw blue water. All the swans are tired, flapping their wings; but they did not stop and flew on. Old, strong swans flew in front, those that were younger and weaker flew behind. One young swan flew behind everyone. His strength has weakened. He flapped his wings and could not fly further. Then he, spreading his wings, went down. He descended closer and closer to the water; and his comrades further and further whitened in the moonlight. The swan descended into the water and folded its wings. The sea stirred under him and rocked him. A flock of swans was barely visible as a white line in the bright sky. And it was barely audible in the silence how their wings rang. When they were completely out of sight, the swan bent his neck back and closed his eyes. He did not move, and only the sea, rising and falling in a wide strip, raised and lowered him. Before dawn, a light breeze began to stir the sea. And the water splashed into the white chest of the swan. The swan opened his eyes. In the east the dawn was reddening, and the moon and the stars became paler. The swan sighed, stretched out his neck and flapped his wings, rose and flew, catching his wings on the water. He climbed higher and higher and flew alone over the dark rippling waves.

Paulo Coelho
Parable "The Secret of Happiness"

One merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of all people. The young man walked for forty days through the desert and,
Finally, he came to a beautiful castle that stood on top of a mountain. There lived the sage he was looking for. However, instead of the expected meeting with a wise man, our hero found himself in a hall where everything was seething: merchants entered and left, people were talking in the corner, a small orchestra played sweet melodies and there was a table laden with the most delicious dishes of the area. The sage talked to different people, and the young man had to wait for his turn for about two hours.
The sage listened attentively to the young man's explanations about the purpose of his visit, but said in response that he did not have time to reveal to him the Secret of Happiness. And he invited him to take a walk around the palace and come back in two hours.
“However, I want to ask for one favor,” added the sage, holding out a small spoon to the young man, into which he dropped two drops of oil. - Throughout the walk, hold this spoon in your hand so that the oil does not spill out.
The young man began to go up and down the palace stairs, keeping his eyes on the spoon. After two hours he returned to the sage.
- Well, - he asked, - have you seen the Persian carpets that are in my dining room? Have you seen the park that the head gardener has been creating for ten years? Have you noticed the beautiful parchments in my library?
The young man, embarrassed, had to confess that he had not seen anything. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the sage had entrusted to him.
“Well, come back and get acquainted with the wonders of my Universe,” the sage told him. You can't trust a man if you don't know the house he lives in.
Calmed down, the young man took a spoon and again went for a walk around the palace; this time, paying attention to all the works of art hanging on the walls and ceilings of the palace. He saw gardens surrounded by mountains, the most delicate flowers, the delicacy with which each piece of art was placed exactly where it needed to be.
Returning to the sage, he described in detail everything he saw.
“Where are those two drops of oil that I entrusted to you?” the Sage asked.
And the young man, looking at the spoon, found that all the oil had spilled out.
- This is the only advice that I can give you: The secret of happiness is to look at all the wonders of the world, while never forgetting two drops of oil in your spoon.

Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "NEVOD"

And once again the net brought a rich catch. The fishermen's baskets were filled to the brim with heads, carps, tenches, pikes, eels and many other victuals. Whole fish families
with children and household members, were taken to the market stalls and were preparing to end their existence, writhing in agony in hot pans and boiling cauldrons.
The fish remaining in the river, confused and seized with fear, not daring even to swim, dug deeper into the silt. How to live on? One cannot cope with the seine alone. It is thrown daily in the most unexpected places. He mercilessly kills the fish, and in the end the whole river will be devastated.
- We must think about the fate of our children. No one, except us, will take care of them and save them from a terrible delusion, - the minnows, who had gathered for advice under a large snag, argued.
- But what can we do? - Tench asked timidly, listening to the speeches of the daredevils.
- Destroy the net! - minnows answered in unison. On the same day, omniscient nimble eels spread the message along the river
about a bold decision. All fish, young and old, were invited to gather tomorrow at dawn in a deep, quiet pool, protected by spreading willows.
Thousands of fish of all colors and ages sailed to the appointed place to declare war on the seine.
- Listen carefully! - said the carp, which more than once managed to gnaw through the nets and escape from captivity. - A net as wide as our river. To keep it upright under water, lead sinkers are attached to its lower knots. I order all the fish to divide into two flocks. The first must lift the sinkers from the bottom to the surface, and the second flock will firmly hold the upper nodes of the network. Pike are instructed to gnaw through the ropes with which the seine is attached to both banks.
With bated breath, the fish listened to every word of the leader.
- I order the eels to immediately go on reconnaissance! - continued the carp. - They should establish where the seine is thrown.
The eels went on a mission, and the fish schools huddled along the shore in agonizing expectation. Minnows, meanwhile, tried to encourage the most timid and advised not to panic, even if someone fell into the net: after all, the fishermen would still not be able to pull him ashore.
Finally the eels returned and reported that the net had already been abandoned about a mile down the river.
And now a huge armada of fish flocks swam to the goal, led by a wise carp.
- Swim carefully! - warned the leader. - Look at both, so that the current does not drag in the net. Work with might and main fins and slow down in time!
A seine appeared ahead, gray and ominous. Seized with a fit of anger, the fish boldly rushed to the attack.
Soon the net was raised from the bottom, the ropes holding it were cut by sharp pike teeth, and the knots were torn. But the angry fish did not calm down and continued to pounce on the hated enemy. Grasping the crippled leaky seine with their teeth and working hard with their fins and tails, they dragged it in different directions and tore it into small pieces. The water in the river seemed to boil.
The fishermen talked for a long time, scratching their heads, about the mysterious disappearance of the net, and the fish still proudly tell this story to their children.

Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "PELICAN"
As soon as the pelican went in search of food, the viper sitting in ambush immediately crawled, stealthily, to its nest. Fluffy chicks slept peacefully, not knowing anything. The snake crawled close to them. Her eyes flashed with an ominous gleam - and the massacre began.
Having received a fatal bite, the peacefully sleeping chicks did not wake up.
Satisfied with what she had done, the villainess crawled into the shelter in order to enjoy the grief of the bird from there.
Soon the pelican returned from hunting. At the sight of the brutal massacre inflicted on the chicks, he burst into loud sobs, and all the inhabitants of the forest fell silent, shocked by unheard-of cruelty.
- Without you there is no life for me now! - the unfortunate father lamented, looking at the dead children. - Let me die with you!
And he began to tear his chest with his beak at the very heart. Hot blood gushed from the open wound in streams, sprinkling the lifeless chicks.
Losing his last strength, the dying pelican cast a farewell glance at the nest with the dead chicks and suddenly shuddered in surprise.
O miracle! His spilled blood and parental love brought dear chicks back to life, snatching them from the clutches of death. And then, happy, he expired.

lucky
Sergey Silin

Antoshka ran down the street, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jacket, stumbled and, falling, had time to think: “I’ll break my nose!” But he didn't have time to get his hands out of his pockets.
And suddenly, right in front of him, out of nowhere, a small, strong man the size of a cat appeared.
The peasant stretched out his arms and took Antoshka on them, softening the blow.
Antoshka rolled onto his side, got up on one knee and looked at the peasant in surprise:
- Who are you?
- Lucky.
- Who-who?
- Lucky. I will make sure you are lucky.
- Does every person have a lucky one? - asked Antoshka.
“No, there aren’t many of us,” the man replied. - We just go from one to another. From today I will be with you.
- I'm starting to get lucky! Antoshka rejoiced.
- Exactly! - Lucky nodded.
- And when will you leave me for another?
- When required. I remember that I served a merchant for several years. And one pedestrian was helped for only two seconds.
- Yeah! thought Antoshka. - So I need
anything to wish?
- No no! The man raised his hands in protest. - I'm not a wish maker! I only help a little smart and hardworking. I just stay close and make sure that a person is lucky. Where did my invisibility cap go?
He fumbled around with his hands, felt for the invisibility cap, put it on, and disappeared.
- Are you here? - just in case Antoshka asked.
“Here, here,” said Lucky. - Don't look at
me attention. Antoshka put his hands in his pockets and ran home. And wow, lucky: I had time to the beginning of the cartoon to the minute!
Mom came home from work an hour later.
- And I got an award! she said with a smile. -
Let's go shopping!
And she went to the kitchen for the packages.
- Mom also got lucky? Antoshka asked his assistant in a whisper.
- Not. She's lucky because we're close.
- Mom, I'm with you! shouted Antoshka.
Two hours later they returned home with a mountain of purchases.
- Just a streak of luck! Mom wondered, her eyes sparkling. All my life I have dreamed of such a blouse!
- And I'm talking about such a cake! - Antoshka cheerfully responded from the bathroom.
The next day at school, he received three fives, two fours, found two rubles and reconciled with Vasya Potereshkin.
And when, whistling, he returned home, he discovered that he had lost the keys to the apartment.
- Lucky, where are you? he called.
A tiny, unkempt woman peeked out from under the stairs. Her hair was disheveled, her nose, her dirty sleeve was torn, her shoes were asking for porridge.
- You didn't have to whistle! - she smiled and added: - I'm unlucky! What, upset, huh? ..
Don't worry, don't worry! The time will come, I will be called away from you!
- Clearly, - Antoshka became despondent. - The streak of bad luck begins ...
- That's for sure! - Unlucky nodded happily and, stepping into the wall, disappeared.
In the evening, Antoshka got a scolding from dad for the lost key, accidentally broke his mother's favorite cup, forgot what was asked in Russian, and could not finish reading the book of fairy tales, because he left it at school.
And in front of the window the phone rang:
- Antoshka, is that you? It's me, Lucky!
- Hello, traitor! Antoshka muttered. - And who are you helping now?
But Lucky didn't take offense at the "traitor".
- One old woman. Guess she's been unlucky all her life! So my boss sent me to her.
Tomorrow I will help her win a million rubles in the lottery, and I will return to you!
- Truth? Antoshka rejoiced.
- True, true, - Lucky answered and hung up.
At night Antoshka had a dream. It’s as if he and Lucky are dragging four string bags of Antoshka’s favorite tangerines from the store, and from the window of the house opposite they are smiling at a lonely old woman who was lucky for the first time in her life.

Charskaya Lidia Alekseevna

Lucina life

Princess Miguel

"Far, far, at the very end of the world, there was a large beautiful blue lake, similar in color to a huge sapphire. In the middle of this lake on a green emerald island, among myrtle and wisteria, entwined with green ivy and flexible lianas, stood a high rock. On it stood a marble a palace, behind which was laid out a wonderful garden, fragrant with fragrance, a very special garden, which can only be found in fairy tales alone.

The powerful king Ovar was the owner of the island and the lands adjacent to it. And the king had a daughter growing up in the palace, the beautiful Miguel - the princess "...

A motley ribbon floats and unfolds a fairy tale. A number of beautiful, fantastic pictures swirl before my spiritual gaze. Aunt Musya's usually ringing voice is now lowered to a whisper. Mysterious and cozy in a green ivy gazebo. The lacy shadow of the trees and bushes surrounding her throw moving spots on the pretty face of the young storyteller. This tale is my favorite. Since the day my dear nanny Feni, who knew how to tell me so well about the girl Thumbelina, left us, I have been listening with pleasure to the only fairy tale about Princess Miguel. I love dearly my princess, despite all her cruelty. Is it really her fault, this green-eyed, pale pink and golden-haired princess, that when she was born into the light of God, instead of a heart, the fairies put a piece of a diamond into her childish small chest? And that a direct consequence of this was the complete absence of pity in the soul of the princess. But how beautiful she was! She is beautiful even in those moments when, with the movement of a tiny white hand, she sent people to a fierce death. Those people who accidentally fell into the mysterious garden of the princess.

In that garden among the roses and lilies were small children. Motionless pretty elves, chained with silver chains to golden pegs, they guarded that garden, and at the same time plaintively rang their bell-voices.

Let us go free! Let go, beautiful princess Miguel! Let us go! Their complaints sounded like music. And this music had a pleasant effect on the princess, and she often laughed at the entreaties of her little captives.

But their plaintive voices touched the hearts of people passing by the garden. And they looked into the mysterious garden of the princess. Ah, it was not for joy that they appeared here! With each such appearance of an uninvited guest, the guards ran out, grabbed the visitor and, on the orders of the princess, threw him into the lake from the cliff

And Princess Miguel laughed only in response to the desperate cries and groans of the drowning...

Even now I still cannot understand how such a tale, so terrible in essence, such a gloomy and heavy tale, came into the head of my pretty cheerful aunt! The heroine of this tale, Princess Miguel, of course, was an invention of a sweet, a little windy, but very kind Aunt Musya. Ah, it doesn’t matter, let everyone think that this fairy tale is an invention, an invention and the very princess Miguel, but she, my marvelous princess, firmly settled in my impressionable heart ... Whether she ever existed or not, what was my essence before that it was when I loved her, my beautiful cruel Miguel! I saw her in a dream and more than once, I saw her golden hair the color of a ripe ear, her deep green eyes, like a pool of forest.

That year I was six years old. I was already sorting out the warehouses and with the help of Aunt Musya I wrote clumsy, awry and awry letters instead of sticks. And I already understood the beauty. The fabulous beauty of nature: the sun, forests, flowers. And my eyes lit up with delight at the sight of a beautiful picture or an elegant illustration on the page of a magazine.

Aunt Musya, dad and grandmother tried from my very early age develop in me an aesthetic taste, drawing my attention to what other children passed without a trace.

Look, Lusenka, what a beautiful sunset! You see how wonderfully the crimson sun sinks into the pond! Look, look, now the water has become quite scarlet. And the surrounding trees seem to be on fire.

I look and seethe with delight. Indeed, scarlet water, scarlet trees and scarlet sun. What a beauty!

Y. Yakovlev Girls from Vasilyevsky Island

I am Valya Zaitseva from Vasilievsky Island.

A hamster lives under my bed. He will fill his full cheeks, in reserve, sit on his hind legs and look with black buttons ... Yesterday I thrashed one boy. She gave him a good bream. We, Vasileostrovsky girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary ...

It's always windy here on Vasilievsky. It's raining. Wet snow falls. Floods happen. And our island floats like a ship: on the left is the Neva, on the right is the Nevka, in front is the open sea.

I have a girlfriend - Tanya Savicheva. We are neighbors with her. She is from the second line, building 13. Four windows on the first floor. There is a bakery nearby, a kerosene shop in the basement... Now there is no shop, but in Tanino, when I was not yet born, the first floor always smelled of kerosene. I was told.

Tanya Savicheva was the same age as I am now. She could have grown up a long time ago, become a teacher, but she remained a girl forever ... When my grandmother sent Tanya for kerosene, I was not there. And she went to the Rumyantsev Garden with another girlfriend. But I know everything about her. I was told.

She was a singer. Always sang. She wanted to recite poetry, but she stumbled on words: she would stumble, and everyone thought that she had forgotten the right word. My girlfriend sang because when you sing, you don't stutter. She could not stutter, she was going to become a teacher, like Linda Avgustovna.

She has always played teacher. He puts on a large grandmother's scarf on his shoulders, folds his hands with a lock and walks from corner to corner. “Children, today we will do a repetition with you ...” And then he stumbles on a word, blushes and turns to the wall, although there is no one in the room.

They say there are doctors who treat stuttering. I would find this. We, Vasileostrovsky girls, will find anyone you want! But now the doctor is no longer needed. She stayed there... my friend Tanya Savicheva. She was taken from besieged Leningrad to the mainland, and the road, called the Road of Life, could not give Tanya life.

The girl died of starvation... Doesn't matter why you die - from hunger or from a bullet. Maybe hunger hurts even more...

I decided to find the Road of Life. I went to Rzhevka, where this road begins. I walked two and a half kilometers - there the guys were building a monument to the children who died in the blockade. I also wanted to build.

Some adults asked me:

- Who are you?

- I'm Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island. I also want to build.

I was told:

- It is forbidden! Come with your area.

I didn't leave. I looked around and saw a baby, a tadpole. I grabbed onto it.

Did he also come with his district?

He came with his brother.

You can with your brother. It is possible with the region. But what about being alone?

I told them

“You see, I don’t just want to build. I want to build for my friend... Tanya Savicheva.

They rolled their eyes. They didn't believe it. They asked again:

Is Tanya Savicheva your friend?

- What's so special about it? We are the same age. Both are from Vasilyevsky Island.

But she's not...

What stupid people, and still adults! What does "no" mean if we're friends? I told them to understand

- We have everything in common. Both street and school. We have a hamster. He will fill his cheeks ...

I noticed that they did not believe me. And to make them believe, she blurted out:

We even have the same handwriting!

— Handwriting? They were even more surprised.

- And what? Handwriting!

Suddenly they cheered up, from the handwriting:

- This is very good! This is a real find. Let's go with us.

- I'm not going anywhere. I want to build...

You will build! You will write for the monument in Tanya's handwriting.

“I can,” I agreed. Only I don't have a pencil. Give?

You will write on concrete. Do not write on concrete with a pencil.

I have never painted on concrete. I wrote on the walls, on the pavement, but they brought me to a concrete plant and gave Tanya a diary - a notebook with the alphabet: a, b, c ... I have the same book. For forty kopecks.

I picked up Tanya's diary and opened the page. It was written there:

I got cold. I wanted to give them the book and leave.

But I'm from Vasileostrovskaya. And if a friend's older sister died, I should stay with her, and not run away.

- Get your concrete. I will write.

The crane lowered a huge frame with a thick gray dough at my feet. I took a wand, squatted down and began to write. The concrete blew cold. It was difficult to write. And they told me:

- Do not rush.

I made mistakes, smoothed the concrete with my palm, and wrote again.

I didn't do well.

- Do not rush. Write calmly.

While I was writing about Zhenya, my grandmother died.

If you just want to eat, it's not hunger - eat an hour later.

I tried to fast from morning to evening. Endured. Hunger - when day after day your head, hands, heart - everything that you have is starving. First starving, then dying.

Leka had his own corner, fenced off with cabinets, where he drew.

He earned money by drawing and studied. He was quiet and short-sighted, wearing spectacles, and kept creaking with his drawing pen. I was told.

Where did he die? Probably, in the kitchen, where the “potbelly stove” smoked with a small, weak engine, where they slept, ate bread once a day. A small piece, like a cure for death. Leka didn't have enough medicine...

“Write,” they told me quietly.

In the new frame, the concrete was liquid, it crawled over the letters. And the word "died" disappeared. I didn't want to write it again. But they told me:

- Write, Valya Zaitseva, write.

And I wrote again - "died."

I am very tired of writing the word "died". I knew that with each page of the diary, Tanya Savicheva was getting worse. She stopped singing a long time ago and did not notice that she stuttered. She no longer played teacher. But she did not give up - she lived. I was told... Spring has come. Trees turned green. We have a lot of trees on Vasilyevsky. Tanya dried up, froze, became thin and light. Her hands trembled and her eyes hurt from the sun. The Nazis killed half of Tanya Savicheva, and maybe more than half. But her mother was with her, and Tanya held on.

Why don't you write? they told me quietly. - Write, Valya Zaitseva, otherwise the concrete will harden.

For a long time I did not dare to open the page with the letter "M". On this page, Tanya's hand wrote: “Mom on May 13 at 7.30 am.

morning of 1942. Tanya did not write the word "died". She didn't have the strength to write that word.

I gripped my wand tightly and touched the concrete. I did not look into the diary, but wrote by heart. Good thing we have the same handwriting.

I wrote with all my might. The concrete became thick, almost frozen. He no longer crawled on the letters.

- Can you write more?

“I’ll finish writing,” I answered and turned away so that my eyes could not see. After all, Tanya Savicheva is my ... girlfriend.

Tanya and I are of the same age, we Vasileostrovsky girls know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary. If she had not been from Vasileostrovsky, from Leningrad, she would not have lasted so long. But she lived - so she did not give up!

Opened page "C". There were two words: "The Savichevs are dead."

She opened the page "U" - "Everyone died." The last page of Tanya Savicheva's diary was with the letter "O" - "There is only Tanya left."

And I imagined that it was me, Valya Zaitseva, left alone: ​​without mom, without dad, without sister Lyulka. Hungry. Under fire.

In an empty apartment on the second line. I wanted to cross out that last page, but the concrete hardened and the wand broke.

And suddenly I asked Tanya Savicheva to myself: “Why alone?

And I? You have a girlfriend - Valya Zaitseva, your neighbor from Vasilyevsky Island. We will go with you to the Rumyantsev Garden, we will run, and when we get bored, I will bring my grandmother's scarf from home, and we will play teacher Linda Augustovna. A hamster lives under my bed. I'll give it to you for your birthday. Do you hear, Tanya Savicheva?

Someone put a hand on my shoulder and said:

- Let's go, Valya Zaitseva. You've done what it takes. Thanks.

I don't understand why they say "thank you" to me. I said:

- I'll come tomorrow ... without my district. Can?

“Come without a district,” they told me. — Come.

My friend Tanya Savicheva did not shoot at the Nazis and was not a partisan scout. She just lived in her hometown at the most difficult time. But, perhaps, the Nazis did not enter Leningrad because Tanya Savicheva lived in it and many other girls and boys lived there, who remained forever in their time. And today's guys are friends with them, as I am friends with Tanya.

And they only make friends with the living.

Vladimir Zheleznyakov "Scarecrow"

A circle of their faces flashed before me, and I rushed about in it, like a squirrel in a wheel.

I should stop and leave.

The boys jumped on me.

"For her legs! shouted Valka. - For the legs! .. "

They threw me down and grabbed my legs and arms. I kicked and jerked with all my might, but they tied me up and dragged me into the garden.

Iron Button and Shmakova dragged out the effigy mounted on a long stick. Dimka followed them and stood aside. The scarecrow was in my dress, with my eyes, with my mouth up to my ears. The legs were made of stockings stuffed with straw, tow and some kind of feathers stuck out instead of hair. On my neck, that is, on the scarecrow, a plaque dangled with the words: "Scarecrow is a traitor."

Lenka fell silent and somehow all faded away.

Nikolai Nikolaevich realized that the limit of her story and the limit of her strength had come.

“And they were having fun around the stuffed animal,” Lenka said. - They jumped and laughed:

"Wow, our beauty-ah-ah!"

"I waited!"

“I figured it out! I came up with! Shmakova jumped for joy. “Let Dimka set fire to the fire!”

After these words of Shmakova, I completely ceased to be afraid. I thought: if Dimka sets fire, then maybe I'll just die.

And Valka at this time - he was the first to succeed everywhere - stuck the stuffed animal into the ground and poured brushwood around it.

“I don’t have any matches,” Dimka said quietly.

“But I have!” Shaggy put the matches into Dimka's hand and pushed him towards the effigy.

Dimka stood near the effigy, his head bowed low.

I froze - waiting for the last time! Well, I thought he would now look back and say: “Guys, Lenka is not to blame for anything ... It’s all me!”

"Set it on fire!" ordered the Iron Button.

I could not stand it and screamed:

"Dimka! No need, Dimka-ah-ah-ah! .. "

And he was still standing near the stuffed animal - I could see his back, he stooped and seemed somehow small. Maybe because the scarecrow was on a long stick. Only he was small and fragile.

"Well, Somov! said Iron Button. “Finally, go to the end!”

Dimka fell to his knees and lowered his head so low that only his shoulders stuck out, and his head was not visible at all. It turned out to be some kind of headless arsonist. He struck a match, and a flame of fire grew over his shoulders. Then he jumped up and hurriedly ran away.

They pulled me close to the fire. I kept my eyes on the flames of the fire. Granddad! I felt then how this fire seized me, how it burns, bakes and bites, although only waves of its heat reached me.

I screamed, I screamed so much that they let me out of surprise.

When they released me, I rushed to the fire and began to scatter it with my feet, grabbed the burning branches with my hands - I did not want the stuffed animal to burn. For some reason, I really didn't want to!

Dimka was the first to come to his senses.

“What, are you crazy? He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away from the fire. - It's a joke! Don't you understand jokes?"

I became strong, easily defeated him. She pushed so hard that he flew upside down - only his heels flashed towards the sky. And she pulled out a scarecrow from the fire and began to wave it over her head, stepping on everyone. The scarecrow was already caught in the fire, sparks flew from it in different directions, and they all shied away from these sparks in fright.

They fled.

And I was spinning so fast, dispersing them, that I could not stop until I fell. There was a scarecrow next to me. It was scorched, trembling in the wind and from this as if alive.

At first, I lay with my eyes closed. Then she felt that she smelled of burning, opened her eyes - the scarecrow's dress was smoking. I patted the smoldering hem with my hand and leaned back on the grass.

There was a crunch of branches, receding footsteps, and silence fell.

"Anne of Green Gables" by Lucy Maud Montgomery

It was already quite light when Anya woke up and sat up in bed, looking perplexedly out the window through which a stream of joyful sunlight and behind which something white and fluffy swayed against the background of a bright blue sky.

At first, she couldn't remember where she was. At first she felt a delightful thrill, as if something very pleasant had happened, then a terrible memory came. It was Green Gables, but they did not want to leave her here, because she is not a boy!

But it was morning, and there was a cherry tree outside the window, all in bloom. Anya jumped out of bed and with one jump was at the window. Then she pushed open the window frame—the frame creaked as if it hadn't been opened in a long time, which it really was—and knelt down, peering out into the June morning. Her eyes sparkled with delight. Oh, isn't that wonderful? Isn't this a lovely place? If only she could stay here! She imagines what remains. There is room for imagination here.

A huge cherry tree grew so close to the window that its branches touched the house. It was so densely strewn with flowers that not a single leaf was visible. On both sides of the house stretched large gardens, on one side - apple, on the other - cherry, all in bloom. The grass under the trees looked yellow with blooming dandelions. At some distance in the garden, lilac bushes were visible, all in clusters of bright purple flowers, and the morning breeze carried their dizzyingly sweet aroma to Anya's window.

Beyond the garden, green meadows covered with lush clover descended to a valley where a stream ran and many white birch trees grew, their slender trunks rising above an undergrowth that suggested a wonderful rest among ferns, mosses and forest grasses. Beyond the valley was a hill, green and fluffy with firs and firs. There was a small gap among them, and through it one could see the gray mezzanine of the house that Anne had seen the day before from the other side of the Lake of Glittering Waters.

To the left were large barns and other outbuildings, and behind them green fields sloped down to the sparkling blue sea.

Anya's eyes, receptive to beauty, slowly moved from one picture to another, greedily absorbing everything that was in front of her. The poor thing has seen so many ugly places in her life. But what was revealed to her now exceeded her wildest dreams.

She knelt, forgetting everything in the world except the beauty that surrounded her, until she shuddered as she felt a hand on her shoulder. The little dreamer did not hear Marilla come in.

"It's time to get dressed," said Marilla curtly.

Marilla simply did not know how to talk to this child, and this ignorance, which she herself disliked, made her harsh and resolute against her will.

Anya stood up with a deep sigh.

— Ah. isn't that wonderful? she asked, pointing with her hand at the beautiful world outside the window.

“Yes, it’s a big tree,” said Marilla, “and it blooms profusely, but the cherries themselves are no good—small and wormy.

“Oh, I'm not just talking about the tree; of course, it is beautiful ... yes, it is dazzlingly beautiful ... it blooms as if it is extremely important for itself ... But I meant everything: the garden, and the trees, and the stream, and the forests - the whole big beautiful world. Don't you feel like you love the whole world on a morning like this? Even here I can hear the brook laughing in the distance. Have you ever noticed what joyful creatures these streams are? They always laugh. Even in winter I can hear their laughter from under the ice. I'm so glad there's a stream here near Green Gables. Maybe you think it doesn't matter to me if you don't want to leave me here? But it's not. It will always please me to remember that there is a stream near Green Gables, even if I never see it again. If there weren't a stream here, I would always have an unpleasant feeling that it should have been here. This morning I am not in the midst of grief. I'm never in the midst of grief in the morning. Isn't it wonderful that there is a morning? But I'm very sad. I just imagined that you still need me and that I will stay here forever, forever. It was a great comfort to imagine it. But the most unpleasant thing about imagining things is that there comes a moment when you have to stop imagining, and this is very painful.

"Better get dressed, go downstairs, and don't think about your imaginary things," said Marilla as soon as she managed to get a word in. - Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window open and turn the bed around to let it air out. And hurry, please.

Anya, obviously, could act quickly when it was required, because after ten minutes she came downstairs, neatly dressed, her hair combed and braided, her face washed; her soul was filled with the pleasant consciousness that she had fulfilled all of Marilla's demands. However, in fairness, it should be noted that she still forgot to open the bed for airing.

"I'm very hungry today," she announced, slipping into the chair Marilla pointed out to her. “The world no longer seems to be such a gloomy desert as it was last night. I'm so glad the morning is sunny. However, I love rainy mornings too. Every morning is interesting, isn't it? It is not known what awaits us on this day, and there is so much room for imagination. But I am glad that today there is no rain, because it is easier not to lose heart and endure the vicissitudes of fate on a sunny day. I feel like I have a lot to endure today. It's very easy to read about other people's misfortunes and imagine that we could heroically overcome them, but it's not so easy when you actually have to face them, right?

“For God's sake, hold your tongue,” said Marilla. A little girl shouldn't talk so much.

After this remark, Anne was completely silent, so obediently that her continued silence began to irritate Marilla somewhat, as something not quite natural. Matthew was also silent - but that was natural at least - so breakfast passed in complete silence.

As it neared its end, Anya became more and more distracted. She ate mechanically, and her large eyes gazed steadily, unseeingly at the sky outside the window. This annoyed Marilla even more. She had the uneasy feeling that while the body of this strange child was at the table, his spirit soared on the wings of fantasy in some transcendental land. Who would want to have such a child in the house?

And yet, what was most incomprehensible, Matthew wanted to leave her! Marilla felt that he wanted it this morning as much as he had last night, and that he was going to want it more. It was his usual way to get some fad into his head and cling to it with an astonishing silent persistence—an persistence ten times more powerful and effective through silence than if he talked about his desire from morning to evening.

When breakfast was over, Anya came out of her reverie and offered to wash the dishes.

— Do you know how to wash dishes properly? asked Marilla incredulously.

- Pretty good. I'm actually better at babysitting. I have a lot of experience in this business. Too bad you don't have kids here for me to take care of.

“But I don’t want to have more children here than at the moment. You alone are enough trouble. I have no idea what to do with you. Matthew is so funny.

“He seemed very nice to me,” Anya said reproachfully. - He is very friendly and did not mind at all, no matter how much I said - he seemed to like it. I felt a kindred spirit in him as soon as I saw him.

"You're both weirdos, if that's what you mean by kindred spirits," snorted Marilla. - Okay, you can wash the dishes. Do not spare hot water and dry thoroughly. I've got a lot of work to do this morning because I have to go to White Sands in the afternoon to see Mrs. Spencer. You will come with me, and there we will decide what to do with you. When you're done with the dishes, go upstairs and make the bed.

Anne washed the dishes rather quickly and carefully, which did not go unnoticed by Marilla. Then she made the bed, but with less success, because she had never learned the art of wrestling with feather beds. But still the bed was made, and Marilla, in order to get rid of the girl for a while, said that she would allow her to go into the garden and play there until dinner.

Anya rushed to the door, with a lively face and shining eyes. But on the very threshold, she suddenly stopped, turned sharply back and sat down near the table, the expression of delight vanished from her face, as if it had been blown away by the wind.

"Well, what else happened?" asked Marilla.

“I don’t dare to go out,” Anya said in the tone of a martyr who renounces all earthly joys. “If I can't stay here, I shouldn't fall in love with Green Gables. And if I go out and get acquainted with all these trees, flowers, and a garden, and a stream, I can not help but love them. It's already hard on my soul, and I don't want it to get even harder. I so want to go out - everything seems to be calling me: "Anya, Anya, come out to us! Anya, Anya, we want to play with you!" - but it's better not to. You shouldn't fall in love with something from which you will be cut off forever, right? And it's so hard to resist and not fall in love, right? That's why I was so glad when I thought I'd stay here. I thought there was so much to love here and nothing would stop me. But that brief dream was over. Now I've come to terms with my fate, so I'd better not go out. Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't be able to reconcile with him again. What is the name of this flower in a pot on the windowsill, please tell me?

- It's a geranium.

— Oh, I don't mean that name. I mean the name you gave her. Did you give her a name? Then can I do it? May I call her… oh, let me think… Darling will do… may I call her Darling while I'm here? Oh, let me call her that!

“For God's sake, I don't care. But what is the point of naming a geranium?

— Oh, I love things to have names, even if it's just geraniums. This makes them more human-like. How do you know you're not hurting a geranium's feelings when you just call it "geranium" and nothing else? You wouldn't like it if you were always called just a woman. Yes, I'll call her Honey. I gave a name this morning to this cherry under my bedroom window. I called her Snow Queen because she's so white. Of course, it won't always be in bloom, but you can always imagine that, right?

"I've never seen or heard anything like it in my life," Marilla muttered as she fled to the cellar for potatoes. “She's really interesting, as Matthew says. I can already feel myself interested in what else she will say. She casts a spell on me too. And she's already unleashed them on Matthew. This look, which he gave me when he left, again expressed everything that he spoke about and alluded to yesterday. It would be better if he was like other men and spoke openly about everything. Then it would be possible to answer and convince him. But what do you do with a man who only looks?

When Marilla returned from her pilgrimage to the cellar, she found Anne again in a reverie. The girl sat with her chin resting on her hands and her gaze fixed on the sky. So Marilla left her until dinner appeared on the table.

“May I take the mare and convertible after dinner, Matthew?” asked Marilla.

Matthew nodded and looked sadly at Anya. Marilla caught this glance and said dryly:

“I'm going to go to White Sands and sort this out. I'll take Anya with me so Mrs. Spencer can send her back to Nova Scotia right away. I'll leave you some tea on the stove and get home in time for the milking.

Again, Matthew said nothing. Marilla felt she was wasting her words. Nothing is more annoying than a man who doesn't answer... except for a woman who doesn't answer.

At the appointed time, Matthew hitched up the bay, and Marilla and Anne got into the cabriolet. Matthew opened the gates of the yard for them, and as they drove slowly past, he said aloud, to no one, it seemed, addressing:

“There was this guy here this morning, Jerry Buot from Creek, and I told him I'd hire him for the summer.

Marilla did not answer, but whipped the unfortunate sorrel with such force that the fat mare, unaccustomed to such treatment, galloped indignantly. As the cabriolet was rolling along the high road, Marilla turned and saw that the insufferable Matthew was leaning against the gate, looking mournfully after them.

Sergei Kutsko

WOLVES

Village life is so arranged that if you don’t go out into the forest before noon, don’t take a walk through familiar mushroom and berry places, then by evening there’s nothing to run, everything will hide.

So did one girl. The sun has just risen to the tops of the fir trees, and in the hands is already a full basket, wandered far, but what mushrooms! With gratitude, she looked around and was just about to leave, when the distant bushes suddenly shuddered and a beast came out into the clearing, his eyes tenaciously followed the figure of the girl.

— Oh, dog! - she said.

Cows were grazing somewhere nearby, and their acquaintance in the forest with a shepherd's dog was not a big surprise to them. But meeting with a few more pairs of animal eyes put me in a daze...

“Wolves,” a thought flashed, “the road is not far, to run ...” Yes, the forces disappeared, the basket involuntarily fell out of my hands, my legs became wadded and naughty.

- Mother! - this sudden cry stopped the flock, which had already reached the middle of the clearing. - People, help! - three times swept over the forest.

As the shepherds later said: “We heard screams, we thought the children were playing around ...” This is five kilometers from the village, in the forest!

The wolves slowly approached, the she-wolf walked ahead. It happens with these animals - the she-wolf becomes the head of the pack. Only her eyes were not so ferocious as they were inquisitive. They seemed to ask: “Well, man? What will you do now, when there are no weapons in your hands, and your relatives are not around?”

The girl fell to her knees, covered her eyes with her hands and wept. Suddenly, the thought of prayer came to her, as if something stirred in her soul, as if the words of her grandmother, remembered from childhood, were resurrected: “Ask the Mother of God! ”

The girl did not remember the words of the prayer. Signing herself with the sign of the cross, she asked the Mother of God, like her mother, in the last hope of intercession and salvation.

When she opened her eyes, the wolves, bypassing the bushes, went into the forest. Slowly ahead, with her head down, walked a she-wolf.

Boris Ganago

LETTER TO GOD

It happened in late XIX centuries.

Petersburg. Christmas Eve. A cold, piercing wind blows from the bay. Throws fine prickly snow. The hooves of horses clatter along the cobblestone pavement, the doors of shops slam - the last purchases before the holiday are being made. Everyone is in a hurry to get home as soon as possible.

Only little boy slowly wanders along the snow-covered street. Every now and then he takes out his cold, reddened hands from the pockets of his shabby coat and tries to warm them with his breath. Then he stuffs them deeper into his pockets again and moves on. Here he stops at the bakery window and looks at the pretzels and bagels displayed behind the glass.

The door of the store swung open, letting out another customer, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out of it. The boy swallowed convulsively, stamped his feet and wandered on.

Twilight falls imperceptibly. There are fewer and fewer passers-by. The boy pauses at the building, in the windows of which the light is on, and, rising on tiptoe, tries to look inside. Slowly, he opens the door.

The old clerk was late at work today. He has nowhere to hurry. He has been living alone for a long time and on holidays he feels his loneliness especially acutely. The clerk sat and thought bitterly that he had no one to celebrate Christmas with, no one to give gifts to. At this time, the door opened. The old man looked up and saw the boy.

"Uncle, uncle, I have to write a letter!" the boy spoke quickly.

— Do you have any money? the clerk asked sternly.

The boy, fiddling with his hat, took a step back. And then the lone clerk remembered that today was Christmas Eve and that he so wanted to give someone a present. He took out a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in ink and wrote: “Petersburg. January 6. Sir...”

- What is the lord's name?

"That's not the lord," the boy muttered, still not fully believing his luck.

Oh, is that a lady? asked the clerk, smiling.

No no! the boy spoke quickly.

So who do you want to write a letter to? the old man was surprised

— Jesus.

How dare you make fun of an old man? - the clerk was indignant and wanted to show the boy to the door. But then I saw tears in the eyes of the child and remembered that today is Christmas Eve. He felt ashamed of his anger, and in a warm voice he asked:

What do you want to write to Jesus?

— My mother always taught me to ask God for help when it is difficult. She said that God's name is Jesus Christ. The boy went closer to the clerk and continued: “But yesterday she fell asleep, and I can’t wake her up.” There’s not even bread at home, I’m so hungry,” he wiped the tears that had come to his eyes with his palm.

How did you wake her up? asked the old man, rising from his desk.

- I kissed her.

- Is she breathing?

- What are you, uncle, do they breathe in a dream?

“Jesus Christ has already received your letter,” said the old man, embracing the boy by the shoulders. “He told me to take care of you, and he took your mother to Himself.

The old clerk thought: “My mother, leaving for another world, you ordered me to be kind person and devout Christian. I forgot your order, but now you will not be ashamed of me.”

Boris Ganago

THE SPOKEN WORD

On the outskirts of the big city stood an old house with a garden. They were guarded by a reliable watchman - the smart dog Uranus. He never barked at anyone in vain, vigilantly watched strangers, rejoiced at his owners.

But this house was demolished. Its inhabitants were offered a comfortable apartment, and then the question arose - what to do with a shepherd? As a watchman, they no longer needed Uranus, becoming only a burden. For several days there were fierce disputes about the dog's fate. Through the open window from the house to the sentry kennel, the plaintive sobs of the grandson and the menacing shouts of the grandfather often flew.

What did Uranus understand from the words he heard? Who knows...

Only the daughter-in-law and grandson, who brought him food, noticed that the dog's bowl remained untouched for more than a day. Uranus did not eat in the following days, no matter how he was persuaded. He no longer wagged his tail when approached, and even looked away, as if he no longer wanted to look at the people who betrayed him.

The daughter-in-law, who was expecting an heir or heiress, suggested:

- Isn't Uranus sick? The owner in his hearts threw:

“It would be better if the dog died on its own.” Then you wouldn't have to shoot.

The bride shuddered.

Uranus looked at the speaker with a look that the owner could not forget for a long time.

The grandson persuaded the neighbor's veterinarian to look at his pet. But the veterinarian did not find any disease, only thoughtfully said:

“Maybe he yearned for something... Uranus soon died, until his death, slightly moving his tail only to his daughter-in-law and grandson, who visited him.

And the owner at night often remembered the look of Uranus, who had faithfully served him for so many years. The old man already regretted the cruel words that had killed the dog.

But is it possible to return what was said?

And who knows how the sounded evil hurt the grandson, tied to his four-legged friend?

And who knows how it, spreading around the world like a radio wave, will affect the souls of unborn children, future generations?

Words live, words don't die...

In an old book it was told: one girl's father died. The girl missed him. He was always kind to her. She lacked this warmth.

Once dad dreamed about her and said: now you be affectionate with people. Every kind word serves eternity.

Boris Ganago

MASHENKA

Christmas story

Once, many years ago, the girl Masha was mistaken for an Angel. It happened like this.

One poor family had three children. Their father died, their mother worked where she could, and then fell ill. There was not a crumb left in the house, but there was so much to eat. What to do?

Mom went out into the street and began to beg, but people, not noticing her, passed by. Christmas night was approaching, and the words of the woman: “I ask not for myself, for my children ... for Christ's sake! ” drowned in the pre-holiday bustle.

In desperation, she entered the church and began to ask Christ Himself for help. Who else was there to ask?

Here, at the icon of the Savior, Masha saw a woman kneeling. Her face was filled with tears. The girl had never seen such suffering before.

Masha had an amazing heart. When they were happy nearby, and she wanted to jump for happiness. But if someone was hurt, she could not pass by and asked:

What happened to you? Why are you crying? And someone else's pain penetrated into her heart. And now she leaned towards the woman:

Do you have grief?

And when she shared her misfortune with her, Masha, who had never experienced a feeling of hunger in her life, imagined three lonely babies who had not seen food for a long time. Without thinking, she handed the woman five rubles. It was all her money.

At that time, this was a significant amount, and the woman's face lit up.

Where is your house? - Masha asked in parting. She was surprised to learn that a poor family lives in a nearby basement. The girl did not understand how it was possible to live in the basement, but she firmly knew what she needed to do this Christmas evening.

Happy mother, as if on wings, flew home. She bought food at a nearby store, and the children happily greeted her.

Soon the stove blazed and the samovar boiled. The children warmed up, sated and quieted down. A table set with food was an unexpected holiday for them, almost a miracle.

But then Nadia, the smallest, asked:

Mom, is it true that on Christmas Day God sends an Angel to the children, and he brings them many, many gifts?

Mom knew perfectly well that they had no one to expect gifts from. Thank God for what He has already given them: everyone is fed and warm. But babies are babies. They so wanted to have a tree for the Christmas holiday, the same as that of all the other children. What could she, poor thing, tell them? Destroy a child's faith?

The children looked at her warily, waiting for an answer. And my mother confirmed:

It's true. But the Angel comes only to those who believe in God with all their hearts and pray to Him with all their hearts.

And I believe in God with all my heart and pray to Him with all my heart, - Nadia did not retreat. - May he send us His Angel.

Mom didn't know what to say. Silence settled in the room, only the logs crackled in the stove. And suddenly there was a knock. The children shuddered, and mother crossed herself and opened the door with a trembling hand.

On the threshold stood a little fair-haired girl Masha, and behind her - a bearded man with a Christmas tree in his hands.

Merry Christmas! - Masha happily congratulated the owners. The children froze.

While the bearded man was setting up the Christmas tree, the Nanny Car entered the room with a large basket, from which gifts immediately began to appear. The kids couldn't believe their eyes. But neither they nor mother suspected that the girl had given them her Christmas tree and her gifts.

And when the unexpected guests left, Nadia asked:

This girl was an angel?

Boris Ganago

BACK TO LIFE

Based on the story by A. Dobrovolsky "Seryozha"

Usually the brothers' beds were side by side. But when Seryozha fell ill with pneumonia, Sasha was moved to another room and was forbidden to disturb the baby. They only asked to pray for the little brother, who was getting worse and worse.

One evening Sasha looked into the sick room. Seryozha lay with open, seeing nothing, and hardly breathed. Frightened, the boy rushed to the office, from which the voices of his parents could be heard. The door was ajar, and Sasha heard his mother, crying, say that Seryozha was dying. Pa-pa answered with pain in his voice:

- Why cry now? He can no longer be saved ...

In horror, Sasha rushed into the room of his sister. There was no one there, and with sobs, he fell to his knees in front of the icon of the Mother of God, which hung on the wall. Through the sobs, the words broke through:

- Lord, Lord, make sure that Seryozha does not die!

Sasha's face was filled with tears. Everything around was blurred, as if in a fog. The boy saw in front of him only the face of the Mother of God. The sense of time is gone.

- Lord, You can do anything, save Serezha!

It's already quite dark. Exhausted, Sasha stood up with the corpse and lit the table lamp. The gospel lay before her. The boy turned over several pages, and suddenly his eyes fell on the line: “Go, and as you believed, let it be for you ...”

As if having heard an order, he went to Se-rezha. At the bedside of her beloved brother, mother sat silently. She gave a sign: "Don't make noise, Seryozha fell asleep."

No words were spoken, but this sign was like a ray of hope. He fell asleep - it means he is alive, so he will live!

Three days later, Seryozha could already sit up in bed, and the children were allowed to visit him. They brought their brother's favorite toys, a fortress and houses, which he cut and glued before his illness - everything that could please the baby. The little sister with a big doll stood near Seryozha, and Sasha, rejoicing, photographed them.

These were moments of true happiness.

Boris Ganago

YOUR CHILD

A chick fell out of the nest - very small, helpless, even the wings have not yet grown. He can’t do anything, he only squeaks and opens his beak - he asks for food.

The guys took it and brought it into the house. They built a nest for him out of grass and twigs. Vova fed the baby, and Ira gave water to drink and took out in the sun.

Soon the chick got stronger, and instead of a fluff, feathers began to grow in it. The guys found an old birdcage in the attic and, for reliability, put their pet in it - the cat began to look at him very expressively. He was on duty at the door all day long, waiting for the right moment. And no matter how much his children drove, he did not take his eyes off the chick.

Summer has flown by. The chick in front of the children grew up and began to fly around the cage. And soon he became cramped in it. When the cage was taken out into the street, he fought against the bars and asked to be released. So the guys decided to release their pet. Of course, it was a pity for them to part with him, but they could not deprive the freedom of someone who was created for flight.

One sunny morning, the children said goodbye to their pet, took the cage out into the yard and opened it. The chick jumped out onto the grass and looked back at his friends.

At that moment, a cat appeared. Hiding in the bushes, he prepared to jump, rushed, but ... The chick flew high, high ...

The holy elder John of Kronstadt compared our soul to a bird. For every soul the enemy hunts, wants to catch. After all, at first the human soul, just like a fledgling chick, is helpless, unable to fly. How can we preserve it, how can we grow it so that it does not break on sharp stones, does not fall into the net of a catcher?

The Lord created a saving fence behind which our soul grows and strengthens - the house of God, the Holy Church. In it, the soul learns to fly high, high, to the very sky. And she knows there such a bright joy that she is not afraid of any earthly nets.

Boris Ganago

MIRROR

Dot, dot, comma,

Minus, the face is crooked.

Stick, stick, cucumber -

Here comes the man.

With this rhyme, Nadia finished the drawing. Then, fearing that they would not understand her, she signed under it: "It's me." She carefully examined her creation and decided that something was missing from it.

The young artist went to the mirror and began to look at herself: what else needs to be completed so that anyone can understand who is depicted in the portrait?

Nadia loved to dress up and spin in front of a large mirror, tried different hairstyles. This time the girl tried on her mother's hat with a veil.

She wanted to look mysterious and romantic, like long-legged girls showing fashion on TV. Nadia introduced herself as an adult, cast a languid glance in the mirror and tried to walk with the gait of a fashion model. It didn’t turn out very pretty, and when she stopped abruptly, the hat slid down her nose.

Good thing no one saw her at that moment. That would be a laugh! In general, she did not like being a fashion model at all.

The girl took off her hat, and then her eyes fell on her grandmother's hat. Unable to resist, she tried it on. And she froze, making an amazing discovery: like two peas in a pod, she looked like her grandmother. She didn't have any wrinkles yet. Bye.

Now Nadia knew what she would become in many years. True, this future seemed to her very far away ...

It became clear to Nadia why her grandmother loves her so much, why she watches her pranks with tender sadness and sighs furtively.

There were steps. Nadya hurriedly put her cap back on and ran to the door. On the threshold, she met ... herself, only not so frisky. But the eyes were exactly the same: childishly surprised and joyful.

Nadenka hugged her future self and quietly asked:

Grandma, is it true that you were me as a child?

Grandmother was silent for a moment, then smiled mysteriously and took an old album from the shelf. Turning over a few pages, she showed a photograph of a little girl who looked very much like Nadia.

That's what I was.

Oh, you really look like me! - the granddaughter exclaimed in delight.

Or maybe you look like me? - slyly narrowed her eyes, asked the grandmother.

It doesn't matter who looks like who. The main thing is similar, - the baby did not concede.

Isn't it important? And look what I looked like...

And the grandmother began to leaf through the album. There were just no faces. And what faces! And each was beautiful in its own way. Peace, dignity and warmth, radiated by them, attracted the eye. Nadia noticed that all of them - small children and gray-haired old men, young ladies and smart military men - were somewhat similar to each other ... And to her.

Tell me about them, the girl asked.

Grandmother pressed her blood to herself, and a story about their family, coming from ancient centuries, began to flow.

The time for cartoons had already come, but the girl did not want to watch them. She was discovering something amazing that was long ago, but lives in her.

Do you know the history of your grandfathers, great-grandfathers, the history of your family? Maybe this story is your mirror?

Boris Ganago

PARROT

Petya wandered around the house. All games are boring. Then my mother gave an order to go to the store and also suggested:

Our neighbor, Maria Nikolaevna, broke her leg. She has no one to buy bread. Barely moves around the room. Let me call and see if she needs something to buy.

Aunt Masha was delighted with the call. And when the boy brought her a whole bag of groceries, she didn't know how to thank him. For some reason, she showed Petya an empty cage in which a parrot had recently lived. It was her friend. Aunt Masha looked after him, shared her thoughts, and he took it and flew away. Now she has no one to say a word to, no one to take care of. What is life if there is no one to take care of?

Petya looked at the empty cage, at the crutches, imagined how Aunt Mania was hobbling around the empty apartment, and an unexpected thought came into his head. The fact is that he had long saved up the money that was given to him for toys. Didn't find anything suitable. And now this strange thought - to buy a parrot for Aunt Masha.

Saying goodbye, Petya ran out into the street. He wanted to go to the pet store, where he had once seen various parrots. But now he looked at them through the eyes of Aunt Masha. Which one would she be friends with? Maybe this one suits her, maybe this one?

Petya decided to ask his neighbor about the fugitive. The next day he told his mother:

Call Aunt Masha... Maybe she needs something?

Mom even froze, then pressed her son to her and whispered:

So you become a man ... Petya was offended:

Wasn't I a human before?

There was, of course there was, ”my mother smiled. “Only now your soul has also woken up… Thank God!”

What is a soul? the boy was worried.

This is the ability to love.

The mother looked at her son questioningly.

Maybe call yourself?

Petya was embarrassed. Mom picked up the phone: Maria Nikolaevna, sorry, Petya has a question for you. I'll hand him the phone now.

There was nowhere to go, and Petya muttered in embarrassment:

Aunt Masha, can you buy something?

What happened at the other end of the wire, Petya did not understand, only the neighbor answered in some unusual voice. She thanked him and asked to bring milk if he went to the store. She doesn't need anything else. Thanks again.

When Petya called her apartment, he heard the hasty clatter of crutches. Aunt Masha did not want to make him wait extra seconds.

While the neighbor was looking for money, the boy, as if by chance, began to ask her about the missing parrot. Aunt Masha willingly told about the color and behavior ...

There were several parrots of this color in the pet store. Petya chose for a long time. When he brought his gift to Aunt Masha, then ... I do not undertake to describe what happened next.

One eastern ruler had a terrible dream, as if all his teeth fell out one by one. In great agitation, he called the interpreter of dreams to him. He listened to him anxiously and said:

Lord, I have sad news to tell you. You will lose one by one all your loved ones.

These words aroused the wrath of the sovereign. He ordered that the unfortunate man be thrown into prison and another interpreter be called, who, after listening to the dream, said:

I am happy to tell you good news - you will outlive all your ...

Do you ever have the desire to disappear for a while? Close yourself at home, and do not pick up the phone, do not open the door, at least for one day. Forget about everything, just withdraw into yourself, not to hear and not to know what is happening outside.

Relax. rest both body and soul. I want to leave even my mind. And leave ... Leave no one without saying goodbye, leave so that everyone would forget about you, well, at least for one day! Well, why not? Why is it necessary to spin in the cycle of this life? You gotta spin even if it's...

Life has become a habit.
And your eyes behind tinted windows
Everyone screams at me: “Hold her! Hold on
Until she completely eluded you!
And I listen to this cry with sad eyes
And I understand... It will never be the same.
I can't bring back the past.
It will not knock on me on New Year's Eve
Surreal Santa Claus
With a red cap on the back of his head
With a pompom, funny tilted to one side ...
Incredible, painfully desired gift
For swallowed pain and torn to ...

The young monk was furious, for he believed. When you believe then you see. Once he fell out of the window and crashed against the stones of the monastery.

A fallen angel, the Jesuits said with regret, shaking their heads.

And his soul ascended.

He stands in a raincoat alone on the road. Sullen. Ment.
Above it is a tree. And on the tree is the same jammed sparrow. They are so similar.

Sparrow could not resist and shit on his shoulder. Mint was surprised. Raised his face. He was tired of being offended. He laughed. Sparrow...

Dedicated to my neighbors
obsessed with greed
Do you understand what you are saying and what you are saying that you are asking? Do you hear yourself? Listen to what you say and what you ask, listen to your speech, to your words. Take a closer look at how you live and what you do. What have you become and what have you turned your life into. Look at yourself and your life from the outside. Look at your life through the eyes of a stranger. Assess the current situation. Then...

1
The sun, peeking out from behind the roof, quickly began to heat up the white glossy window sill. Behind him for an hour already, three stupid old women were talking about God. At first, smiling nervously, I reluctantly listened to their empty chatter, but after a while it drowned in my thoughts, and turned for me into a meaningless sound background, from which sometimes, however, individual words jumped out, such as: “faith”, “ sisters, service. At first, I bit my lips so as not to get stuck in their unctuous conversation, and again not ...

The future of the Earth is the present of Venus - all in one.

The crown of the Cosmic Hierarchy is Urusvati.
Dedicated to Heavenly Dafi…
blurring the boundaries between the present and the future.
Love has no barriers.
Life emerges from the Ocean of primeval waters. And Love is the first to come ashore to breathe the Soul into life. Love is the cosmic Name of life.

Love has 7 Superconductors. You were the Seventh of Them. Between me and You lay the earth; You know what an abyss it is...

And on Earth, we were also separated by the ocean. We...