Nikolay Sladkov, a Muscovite by birth, lived all his life in Leningrad. But he did not lead a sedentary lifestyle, but a business trip. His passion was photohunting. Yes, and the profession of a topographer, which he received before World War II, allowed him to travel a lot.
Sladkov’s routes passed through the hot deserts of Central Asia, along the glaciers, and the turbulent waters of the oceans, we had to climb into the dizzying heights of the mountains – in short, to be a pioneer sensitive to everything new and unexplored.
Nature is not only wealth. Not just sun, air and water. Not only white, black and soft gold. Nature feeds us, waters and clothes, but it still makes us happy and surprised. Each of us admires the beauty of nature of our native land. A Muscovite will tell you about September’s golden forests, Petersburgers – about the June white nights, and a resident of Yakutsk – about the gray January frosts! But Altai will tell you about the May raznotsvete. Nikolai Sladkov has been to Altai! He noticed how different the spring month of May could be in these parts.
And how many more miracles lurking in other places. For example, in the forest and the field, ordinary hours are not needed at all; here birds help out who live according to their time and rarely make mistakes. Together with the writer you easily notice beautiful things. Even the forest clearing will seem like a book wide open: go and look around. A thousand times more interesting to go than on a regular road!
Only you roll up – you will immediately feel the spiderwebs, which look like trapping nets and twisted sieves. And when only spiders had time? The sun rose and lit the dewy spider’s web with beads. That sparkled necklaces, beads and pendants. So that’s what it is, the web, in actual fact!
While admiring the dew beads on the cobwebs, you gather in the mouth of an agar, you suddenly realize that you have gone astray. Only multiple ay! can save from meaningless wandering, only a response echo will lead to a familiar forest trail.
When you walk, you notice a lot of things. So Sladkov’s stories begin: “Here I am walking along.” You can walk through a forest clearing, through a swamp, across a field, along a meadow, along the seashore and notice with the writer what the ordinary person did not see, learn amazingly interesting facts. Sometimes you give in to the narrator’s delight and smile at some particularly precise comparison or conclusion.
I want to visit the places about which the writer is so wonderful to tell. You scroll through one thumbnail after another, like childhood fairy tales. Everything seems familiar, and close, and relatives: a little bunny hare, a lonely cuckoo, a sweet nightingale, and a singing oriole. Fabulous stories of Nikolai Sladkov everywhere: above his head, on the sides, under his feet. Linger only look!
Wherever you look – everywhere blue and blue! And cloudless blue sky. And as if on the slopes of the green mountains it was as if someone had scattered the blue curtains * of the dream-grass. Shaggy flowers resemble large yellow-bellied bumblebees with blue petal wings. It seems that only touch – and the blue swarm will buzz! And on the gravelly bare slopes, a blue-blue blanket was spread out to cover the bare ground. A blue blanket is woven from a myriad of borage flowers. In Altai, cucumbers are called for cucumber smell. The flowers curved the stalks of the neck and bowed their heads, which looked like blue bells. And it even seems that in the wind they quietly toll, giving birth to the melody of blue May.
Curtains * – (outdated.) Flower glade.
In the middle of May, peonies are beginning to bloom in the sun; we have their name called Mary’s root. And before blooming, among the openwork and razlapistyh leaves poured their green fists, buds.
As a precious stone, squeezed in a fist, his thin hand raised a stalk from the ground to the sun. And today, green palms opened together. And the red flame of the flower flashed!
One by one, the buds unfold, and red sparks flare up on the mountainside. Flush and smolder until all the mountain slopes are set on fire with a red flame. Red May came!
Herbs rose to the knee. And only now bloomed tavolga and bird cherry. In one or two days, their dark branches put on a white outfit and the bushes become like brides. And from a distance, bird cherry trees resemble the surf foam of a restless green sea.
Fine in the afternoon, when the heated air is saturated with the aroma of flowering herbs, it is pleasant to rest under the bird-cherry trees, buzzing from insects. Bumblebees, flower flies, butterflies and beetles swarm around the white clusters. Loaded with pollen and drunk nectar, they are screwed into the air and fly away.
From the white cherries the petals are sprinkled. Fall on the broad leaves of hellebore *, whiten grass and earth.
One morning, at the end of May, I looked out of the window and gasped: the trees turned white, the road was white, the snow flickering in the air! Has winter really returned? Out on the street – I understood everything. From the whitened poplars flew white air snowflakes poplar fluff. The white blizzard whirls in the wind! No less surprised I was passing by a placer of dandelions. Yesterday, yellow canaries were sitting on their stems with flowers, and today white fluffy “chickens” lounged in their place.
White under the feet, on the sides, above his head. White May!
Chemeritsa * is a perennial meadow grass with a thick rhizome and panicles of flowers.
Altai feather grass stretches to the horizon. The silky cobbles play under the sun, and the steppe in May resembles a silvery cloud that has fallen to the ground. Sparks sparkle, as if winks at the sun. The breeze died, began to sway, she swam, splashing the sunlight. Streamed silvery waves of coves. One after another, the larks fly up and ring like silver bells. So it seems that every lark glorifies silver May.
Spring comes to the top of the Altai Mountains at the end of May. Every day the snow recedes higher and higher into the mountains – they become dark white – motley. You look at it – your eyes run: dark – white, white – dark! Like a chessboard! And here, at the foot, grouse bloomed together. Their variegated heads rose on thin stalks, looking out from the grass everywhere. They have brownish bells, like petals darkened from sunburn. Petals have light cells and specks. Looking at the flowers – and also dazzled in the eyes, it is the same as from a chessboard. No wonder these fragile flowers of botany are called “hazel grouse chess”. The motley mountains and motley flowers of the motley Altai May!
And what is the time in Altai, when the bathing places bloom! Wherever you look, bathing places are everywhere. Darkness is dark in the meadows, in the meadows, in the swamps. In the orange rings are mountain snowfields. Look at the flowers – and it seems that one is brighter than the other. No wonder they have the lights still called. They burn with flames among the lush greenery of the May meadow.
Once I noticed a pure-white flower on an orange glade from a flowering bathing-place. Everything unusual attracts attention. Therefore, I noticed this flower from a distance. Pearl on a golden meadow! With all the precautions, they dug out a white bathing suit and planted it on a selection site in the Altai Botanical Garden.
I visited the forest many times and, each time admiring the motley flowering meadow, I tried again to find a white bathing suit — and I did not find it. This is very rare. But let’s hope that the flower will take root in the garden and there will be a lot of them.
Here we have this May in Altai: colorful as a rainbow! And you?
Not gold, not silver, not hand, not pocket, not sunny, not sandy, but. bird’s. In the forest, it turns out, there are such – and almost on every tree! Like our cuckoo clock.
Only there is still a clock with charging, a clock with a chaffinch, a clock with a thrush.
The birds in the forest, it turns out, begin to sing, not when anyone desires, but when necessary.
Well, how much is now not on my silver, but on forest birds? And do not see, but listen!
Snipe on top buzzed – it means already three hours. The woodcock stretched out, grunting and squealing – the beginning of the fourth. And here is the cuckoo zakukovala – the sun will rise soon.
And the morning hours will work, and they will become not only audible, but also visible. A song thrush is sitting on a tree tree, whistling – about four. Tenkovka sings and turns on an aspen – the beginning of the fifth. Chaffinch thundered on a pine tree – soon five.
There is no need to start, repair or check this watch. Waterproof and shock resistant. True, it is sometimes scribed, but which watches do not hurry or do not lag behind? But always with you, you will not forget, you will not lose. Clock with a quail fight, with a cuckoo crowing, with a nightingale trilling, with a ringing of oatmeal, with a lark bell – a meadow yule. For every taste and hearing!
The forest road wags, winds, swamps bypasses, chooses where it is lighter and drier. And the forest directly cuts through the clearing: once and in half!
Like a book open. The forest stood on the sides, like unread pages. Go and read.
It is a hundred times harder to walk along a running glade than a full road, but it is a thousand times more interesting!
That moss-covered, gloomy fir-trees on the sides, then cheerful, light pine-trees. Alder thickets, unsteady moss swamps. Windfalls and windbreaks, sukhostoiny and valzheiny. And even trees, scorched by lightning.
From the road and half of it will not see!
A meeting with the sensitive inhabitants of the forest, which scare the well-trodden roads!
The shuffling of someone’s wings in the undergrowth, the tramp of someone’s legs. Suddenly the grass stirs, a branch suddenly sways. And your ears are on the top of your head, and your eyes are on your guard.
Unread half-open book: words, phrases, lines. Finds all the letters of the alphabet. Commas, periods, dots and dashes. Whatever the step, the signs are interrogative and exclamation. Straight in the legs are confused.
You walk along the clearing – and your eyes run!
The morning was cold, dewy – and the web splashed everywhere! On the grass, on the bushes, on the Christmas trees. Everywhere there are spider threads, balls, gamachki and trapping nets. Sita, that is not by the hands of the retinue. And when only spiders had time?
And spiders and not in a hurry. The web had hung everywhere before, but was invisible. And the dew covered the cobwebs with beads and flaunted. The undergrowth flared up with necklaces, beads, pendants, monists.
So that’s what it is, the web, in actual fact! And we always wiped our face with annoyance when something invisible and sticky stretched across it. And it turned out constellations, blazing in a dark forest universe. Milky forest paths, galaxies, forest comets, meteorites and asteroids. New and Supernovae. Suddenly, the manifest invisible kingdom of forest spiders. The universe of eight-eyed and eight-eyed! And around – their shining antennas, locators and radars.
Here one sits, shaggy and octopus, pawing through silent spider strings, setting up spider music inaudible to our ears. And looking at all eight eyes at what we do not see.
But the sun will dry the dew, and the outlandish world of forest spiders will disappear again without a trace – until the next dew. And again, let us wipe face with annoyance when something invisible and sticky stretches across it. As a reminder of the spider forest universe.
Fellings, of course, grow on stumps. And sometimes it happens so thickly that under them there is no stump visible. Like a stump of autumn leaves with his head fell asleep. And then they came to life and sprouted. And there are elegant stumps bouquets.
With a small basket, donuts are not collected. Collect so collect! Egg can be taken armfuls, as they say, rake rake or mow the scythe. And on the heat, and pickle enough, and even for drying will remain.
Just collect them, but not just to bring home. For agaric tea certainly need a basket. You push cellophane in a backpack or in bags – and bring home not mushrooms, but mushroom porridge. And then all this mess – in the trash.
You can in a hurry instead of real honey again to break the false ones. This and from the basket place only in the trash: neither the jare nor the brew are not suitable.
Of course, the real honey mushrooms are far from white and red mushrooms. But if crop failure – and happy monks. True, if the harvest – still happy. No stump in the forest is a bouquet of autumn! And you won’t pass by anyway, stop. If you do not collect, so at least see, admire.
The mushroom picker does not take a mushroom, but it is glad to the fly-agaric: the mushroom-go-go has gone – and the whites will go! Yes, and eye amanita delight, though inedible and poisonous. It is worth another, akimbo, on a white leg in lace panties, in a red clown cap – you do not want it, but you will love it. Well, you run into a fly-agaric round dance – just right to be dumbfounded! A dozen young men stood in a circle and prepared for the dance.
It was believed: a fly-ring marked circle, in which at night witches dance. So called the ring of mushrooms – witch circle. And although now no one believes in witches, there are no witches in the forest, but it’s still interesting to look at the “witch circle”. Witch’s circle and without witches is good: the mushrooms are ready to dance! A dozen young men in red hats stood in a circle, one, two! – broke, three or four! – get ready. Now – five or six! – someone will clap their hands and dance. Faster and faster, motley festive carousel. White legs zamelkayut, rustle old leaves.
And the fly agarics are standing and waiting. Wait, when you finally guess and leave. So that, without interference and another’s eyes, start to dance around, tapping white legs, waving red caps. Like in the old days.
Lost in the forest – shout ay!. Until they respond. It is possible, of course, to shout in a different way: “E-go-go-go!”, For example, or: “Ah-ya-ya!”. But the loudest spreads through the forest ay!. You are “ay!”, And in response to you from different sides: “Ay!”, “Ay!”.
This is already alarming if only an echo responds. That means you are lost. And echo with yourself. Well, quickly figure out which side of the house, and then in fact it can spin.
You go, you go, everything is straight and straight, but look – again the same place! Here is a noticeable stump, on which he sat recently. How so? You clearly remember that he went straight from the stump, did not turn anywhere, – how did this stump get in your way again? Here is a candy wrapper from a sour candy.
Time after time you leave the conspicuous place, and it seems to you that you are heading straight to the house, as if by a ticker. You go, you go, everything is straight and straight, and the stump is noticeable again in your way! And the same candy wrapper. And no way you can not get away from them, they attract, like a magnet. And to understand nothing, and the horror is already moving under the shirt.
For a long time you are no longer up to the berries and not to the mushrooms. In confusion and fear, screaming “ay!”, And in response, again and again, one distant echo.
Chilly, you look at a place that does not want to let you go. There is nothing special in appearance – ordinary hemp and decks, bushes and trees, deadwood and deadwood, but it seems to you that the pines here are somehow wary, and the trees are already painfully sullen, and aspens are fearfully whispering about something. And chill you with a chill to the pimples.
And suddenly distant, on the very edge of the ear, but so welcome and joyful: “Oh, uh!”
“Aww! Aww! ”- you shout back, tearing your voice, and, without sorting the roads, you fly to a distant call, scattering branches with your hands.
Here again, ay!, Already a little more audibly, and you clutch at him like a drowning man behind a straw.
Closer, loud, and you are no longer running, but just walking fast, relieved and noisy breathing, shaking forest glamor: you are saved!
And you meet friends as if nothing had happened: well, he fell behind, wandered a little bit – great trouble! And again the general laughter, jokes, pranks. Praise who found that who collected more. But inside you still trembling, and the chill stirs under the shirt. In the eyes all the same gloomy pines and ate that they did not want to let you go.
And from that day on, the forest “ay!” Will forever remain with you. And this is not just a cry for the sake of noise and pampering, but a call for salvation. You will never shout ay just like that, just to frighten the forest silence, and you will throw it into a wary silence, like throwing a life ring into a dark ox. And you will remember that first day for a long time, when you rushed in despair and shouted, lost your voice. And in response, I heard only an echo and the indifferent hum of treetops.
The forest disappeared into the gloom and swam. The color has also disappeared: everything has become gray and dull. Shrubs and trees in clots of darkness stirred in a viscous, volatile dregs. They cringed, then suddenly stretched, appeared and disappeared. The evening followed the night.
It is time for thick twilight and shadows, time for night forest accidents.
Thoughtful evening songs came to an end: whistling thrushes whizzed on the spruce poppies, and the big-eyed charges had long since scattered their voiced glass strings over the knots.
I am standing knee-deep in a swamp fluid. His back leaned against the tree; she stirs a little, breathes. I closed my eyes, they are now useless, now only ears are needed.
Started a night owl. Itself is not visible. A dark cry from the tree to the tree flies: u-gu-gu-gu! I turn my ear behind the flying cry. Here I next zagugugal: saw, probably, my yellow eyes and was surprised.
For a long time the night cuckoo cooked in the dark; a distant echo behind the swamp answered her.
I like to listen to the night. Silence, but you will hear everything. Mouse rustling in dry leaves. Duck wings whistle above. Suddenly cranks suddenly cry out in a distant swamp, as if they were frightened. The woodcock will fly solidly, without haste: horr, horr – by bass, zvirk, zvirk – in a thin voice.
Even in the dead of midnight, when no lively voice is heard, the forest is not silent. That wind is delivered at the top. That tree squeaks. Knocking on the bitch, a lump will fall. At least a thousand times listen to the night – each time will be a new way. As there are no two identical days, so does not look like night to night.
But there is a time in every night when there is complete silence. Before it, they begin to stir again and float in a viscid gloom in clots of darkness; now dark night is coming to replace the night. The forest seems to sigh: a quiet breeze will fly over the tops and each tree will whisper something in your ear. And if the leaves were on the trees, they would respond to the wind in their own way: the aspens would hurry up, the birches would gently rustle. But in the forest in April – and the trees are bare. Some ate and the pines hissed in the wind in response, and the floating hum of coniferous peaks would float above the forest like an echo of distant bells.
And at this moment, when the forest is still not truly awake, suddenly it is time for complete night silence. Fall needle – and heard!
In such silence I heard something that I had never heard in my life: a song of wings! The pre-dawn rustle of the peaks hid, and a strange sound was heard in the stagnant crying silence, as if someone was playing with his lips, beating the dance tact: brryn-brryn, brrn, brrn, brrnn! Brryn-brryn, brryn, brryn, brryn!
Once played up, it means that someone is in tact and danced?
Darkness and silence. There is still a dark moss bog ahead, a black spruce island behind. I stand on its sidelines, and strange sounds are coming. Closer, closer, heard overhead, removed, further, further. And then they appear again, again approaching and rushing past again. Someone flies around the fir-tree island, beating time in silence with elastic wings. A clear rhythm, dance beat, not only beats his wings on the fly, but sings! Sings on the motive: so-so, so, so, so! So, so, so, so, so!
The bird is small, but with wings and a big bird, it is impossible to sing loudly. So the singer chose a time for strange songs of his own, when everything is silent in the forest. Everyone woke up, but they did not give voices, they listened and they are silent. Only in this short time of the night and morning shifts can such a quiet song be heard. But the blackbirds will sing and drown out all the ringing whistles. Someone small, voiceless, who knows how to sing only with wings, chose this time of silence of the night, in a hurry to declare itself.
I spent many spring nights in the forest, but I never heard such a song again. And in the books about her did not find anything. The riddle has remained a mystery – a tiny exciting mystery.
But I still hope: suddenly I will hear again? And now I look at the black spruce islands in the deaf moss swamps in a very special way: the one who knows how to sing with wings lives there. In short moments of silence, he hastily rushes around the black island and beat his wings with his wings: well, well, well, well, well, well! And someone, of course, listens to his strange song. But who?
. I walk through the woods, do not plot anything bad, but everyone shies away from me! A little guard does not scream. Who even silently yells.
Our ear hears well only what we need. And what is not necessary, what is not dangerous – enters into one ear, enters into the other. And to whom we ourselves are dangerous — for those our ear is completely deaf. And here, in all its throat, there is a different fawning around on its squeaky ultrasound — guard, help, save! – and we know we break through. Do not insert the same auditory tube specifically for such a small ear into the ear. What more!
But for many in the forest we are fabulous giants! You just lifted your leg to step, and over your face your foot was hanging like a thundercloud! We are in the forest on a living walk, we rush like a cyclone, like a typhoon.
If you look at us from below – we are that rock to the sky! And suddenly this rock collapses and begins to roll with a roar and whooping. You just rejoice, in the grass you roll, kick and jerk with your feet, and under you everything is alive in a pancake, everything is broken, twisted, everything is in dust. Hurricane, storm, storm! Disaster! And your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes?
Nestling fell silent, pressed. You heartily extended good hands to him, you want to help him. And his eyes are rolling with fear! I sat quietly on a hummock, and suddenly giant tentacles stretched out from the sky with twisted claws! And the voice is booming, like thunder. And his eyes like shining lightning. And a large red mouth, and in her teeth, like eggs in a basket. Do not want – roll his eyes.
And here I am walking in the forest, I do not plan anything bad, but everyone is scared, everyone shy away. And even die.
Well, now and in the forest because of this not to go? Oh, and step can not step? Or look at your feet through a magnifying glass? Or cover the mouth with a bandage, so as not to swallow the midges inadvertently? What else do you order?
And nothing! And go to the forest, and wallow in the grass-ant. Sunbathe, swim, save the chicks, pick berries and mushrooms. Just remember one thing.
Remember that you are a giant. Huge fabulous giant. And since you are huge, do not forget the little ones. Once fabulous – please be kind. A kind fairy-tale giant, on whom the Liliputics always hope in fairy tales. Only that and all.
. I walk through the woods, and meet the guys. Saw my swollen backpack ask:
– No mushrooms, the berries did not ripen, what have you gathered?
– Beast, – I answer, – I caught! You have never seen such a thing!
The guys look at each other, do not believe.
“We,” they say, “know all the beasts.”
– So guess! – teasing guys.
– And guess! Just tell me some sign, even the smallest one.
“Please,” I say, “it’s not a pity.” The ear of the beast. bearish
Thinking. Which animal has a bear ear? Have a bear, of course. But I didn’t put a bear in my backpack! The bear won’t fit. And try to put him in a backpack.
– And the eye of the beast. crow’s! – prompts. – And paws. goose
Everyone laughed and shouted. They decided that I was kidding them. And I still give in:
– You do not like goose, put the cat’s feet. And the fox tail!
Offended, turned away. They are silent.
– Well, so? – I ask. – You guess or say?
– Give up! – breathed guys.
Slowly take off my backpack, untie the strings and shake out. a bunch of forest grass! And in the grass there is a crow’s eye, and a bear’s ear, goose and cat legs, and a fox tail, and snapdragon. And other grasses: mousetails, frogs, gills.
I show every plant and tell: it is from a cold, it is from cough. This is from bruises and scratches. It is beautiful, it is poisonous, it is fragrant. This is from mosquitoes and midges. This is so that the stomach does not hurt, and this is so that the head is fresh.
This is the beast in the backpack. Heard about this? Hear not heard, but now presented. Spread the miraculous beast through the woods in the skin of its green, lurking: listening to the bear’s ear, looking with a crow’s eye, waving its fox-tail, moving cat’s paws. The mysterious beast lies and keeps silent. Waiting for him to solve.
Who is cunning?
. I walk through the woods and I am glad: I am more cunning than anyone here. All through see! Woodcocks took off, pretended to be wounded, not run, not fly – takes. Yes, so it seems that a sly fox and that would be attached to her. But you can’t get me through these bird tricks! I know: once a cautious bird rushes around, then it is no accident. Her chicks are hiding here, and she takes away from them.
But it is not enough to know, we must still be able to see them. Woodcocks – the color of dry leaves, sprinkled with old needles. You can step over and overlook: they know how to hide. But all the more flattering to look for such stealth. And you see – do not take your eyes, so cute!
I trample carefully – would not come! Aha – one lies! He fell to the ground and closed his eyes. Still hoping to hold me. No, my dear, I got caught, and there is no salvation for you!
Just kidding, of course, I won’t do anything bad to him – I will admire and let go. But be in my place fox. there would be an end for him. After all, he has only two ways of salvation: to lay low or run. And the third is not given.
Got caught, darling! If you did not manage to hide, you cannot escape. Step, another step.
Something rushed over my head, I ducked and. the chick disappeared. What happened? And the fact that the woodcocker mother sat astride the chick, squeezed his legs at the side, lifted him into the air and carried him away!
The woodcock is already heavy, his mother was dragging him with difficulty. It seemed that a clumsy, heavy bird was flying with two bruised heads. Aside, the bird flopped and broke up into two – the birds scattered in different directions!
So you do not have a third! I was left without mining. From under her nose they took away. Although I am cunning, there is more cunning in the forest!
. I walk through the forest, squishing through the swamp, cross the field – everywhere my birds. And in their own way they treat me: some trust, others don’t. And their trust can be measured. in steps!
Pliska * in the swamp let me walk five steps, a lark in a field fifteen steps away, a thrush in the forest twenty steps away. A lapwing – on forty, a cuckoo – on sixty, a buzzard – on hundred, a curlew – on hundred fifty, and a crane – on three hundred. That is understandable – and even visible! – a measure of their trust. Pliska trusts four times more than a thrush, thrush fifteen times more than a crane. Maybe because a person is fifteen times more dangerous for a crane than for a thrush?
There is something to think about.
The crow in the forest trusts the hunter only a hundred paces. But the tractor driver in the field – already by fifteen. And the townspeople in the park, who feed her, she almost takes the pieces from her hands. Comprehends!
So it all depends on us. One thing we are in the woods with a gun, and the other – with a piece. Yes, even without a piece, but at least without a stick.
Have you seen wild ducks in city ponds? Thrushes and squirrels living in parks? This we are getting better. And because they trust us more. In the forest and in the field. In the swamp and in the park. Everywhere.
Pliska * is a yellow wagtail.
I go out once in a glade – the whole glade is littered with dandelions! Someone came across these gold placers, eyes scattered, hands itched – let’s tear and throw.
And narwhal – where to put such armfuls? His hands are sticky, his shirts are stained with juice. Yes, and not those flowers to put them in a vase: they smell of grass, seemingly unsightly. And it is very ordinary! Grow everywhere, become familiar to everyone.
Racked the wreaths and bouquets in a pile and threw it away.
It is always somehow uncomfortable when you see such a ruin: whether the feathers are torn birds, peeled birches, scattered anthills. Or abandoned flowers. What for? The bird pleased someone with songs, the birch trees pleased with the whiteness, the flowers – with the smell. And now everything is ruined and ruined.
But they will say: think about it, dandelions! This is not an orchid. Weed counting.
Perhaps, in fact, nothing in them is special and interesting? But they pleased someone. And now.
. Dandelions pleased now! And surprised.
A week later, I was again at the same glade – the flowers piled in a heap were alive! Bumblebees and bees, as always, collected pollen from flowers. And the plucked flowers diligently, as they did in life, in the morning opened and closed in the evening. Dandelions woke up and fell asleep as if nothing had happened!
A month later, I came to a clearing before a thunderstorm – dandelions were closed. Yellow corollas clenched into green fists, but did not wilt: they closed before the rain. Doomed, half-dead, they, as it should be, predicted the weather! And predicted exactly how in their best flowering days!
When the storm died down and the sun flooded the glade, the flowers opened up! And it was necessary for them – the flowers performed their duty.
But already from the last forces. Dandelions were dying. They didn’t have enough strength to turn into fluffy balls in order to scatter on parachutes over the glades and grow in the grass with bright suns.
But it is not their fault, they did what they could.
And we think dandelion is the most ordinary flower and we do not expect anything unexpected from it!
In April, a birch tree was cut down, and in May it spread leaves! Birch did not know that she had already been killed, and did what the birch was supposed to do.
A white water lily flower was thrown into a basin, and it neatly, like in a lake, folded its petals every evening and dipped under water, and in the morning it emerged and opened. Check the clock though! Water lily and plucked seen, distinguished day from night. Wasn’t it called “the eyes of lakes”?
Maybe they see us with you?
The forest looks at us with colored eyes of flowers. I am ashamed to drop myself in those eyes.
All on one
I walked along the seashore and used to look at my feet as usual – what could only waves do not throw on the shore! He sat on the vertebra of a whale, as on a stump. Found a fish tooth – walrus tusk. Gathered handfuls of openwork skeletons of sea urchins. It would have gone and gone, but brought me out of the pasture contemplation. cuff!
It turned out that I wandered into the nesting place of Arctic terns, birds, a smaller pigeon sprout and very similar to seagulls. Seemingly quite weak and defenseless. But these weak – I knew for a long time – twice a year fly from the Arctic to Antarctica! Even for an aircraft riveted from metal, such a flight is not easy. And what they are defenseless, I learned now. What began after the cuff! A blizzard raged over me, thousands of white wings pierced by the sun trembled, whirlwinds of white birds rushed about. Ears laid from a thousand-voiced scream.
On the ground under their feet everywhere were nests of terns. And I was bewilderingly trampling between them, afraid to crush, and the terns swarmed fiercely, chattering and squealing, preparing for a new attack. And attacked! The cuffs fell like a hail of a cloud — not to hide, not to dodge. Nimble angry birds rushed from above and body, legs, beak beat in the back and head. My cap flew off. I ducked, covering the back of my head with my hands – yes, where there! White beasts began to pinch the hands, but it hurts, with a twist, to bruises. I got scared and ran. And the terns drove me with cuffs, jabs, pecks and hooting, until they were hijacked by the far cape. I hid in the fin, and the bird blizzard long raged in the sky.
Rubbing bumps and bruises, I am now from afar! – admired them. What a picture! The bottomless sky and the bottomless ocean. And between the sky and the ocean a swarm of snow-white brave birds. A little bit, really, annoying: after all, a man, the king of nature, and suddenly, from some little chickens, hell jumps. But then the fishermen told me that this was the same – hare-like! – even a polar bear – the lord of the Arctic – flees from the terns. This is another matter, now it is not at all offensive! Both kings were slapped on the neck. So they, the kings, need to – do not interfere with life in peace!
And thrown away.
I have a collection of bird feathers. I collected them in different ways: I raised dropped feathers in the forest – I learned which birds shed and when they shed; he took two or three feathers from a bird torn by a predator, – enlightened who is attacking whom. Finally, there were birds killed and abandoned by hunters: toadstools, owls, dives, and loons. Here I didn’t learn anything new for myself – we all know that many hunters, who out of ignorance, who by mistake, and who simply to check the gun, were firing at the first birds that came up.
At home, I laid out the feathers on the table, spread the paper, and slowly looked at them. And it was just as interesting as shifting and treating sea shells, beetles, or butterflies. You also see and you are amazed at the perfection of the form, the beauty of the colors, the exquisiteness of the combination of colors in our everyday life completely incompatible: red and green, for example, or blue and yellow.
And play! You turn the feather so – it is green, you turn that way – it is already blue. And then something else, and purple and purple! The artist is a nature artist.
With such a scrutiny – sometimes in a magnifying glass! – you can not help noticing even the smallest specks stuck to feathers. More often it is just grains of sand. As soon as the feathers were shaken over the paper, the sand fell off, forming a dusty spot on the paper. But other mote grabbed so tightly that they had to be removed with tweezers. And what if these are some seeds?
Many birds – thrushes, bullfinches, waxwings, – eating wild berries, involuntarily spread the seeds of mountain ash, viburnum, buckthorn, bird cherries, juniper through the forest. Seated them here and there. Why not give them “feathering” seeds on their feathers? How many different seeds stick to bird and animal paws! And we all do wild sowing without even realizing it.
I continued collecting, and soon I had a box of different litters and rubbish bins from a half-matchbox. It remains to make sure that there are seeds there.
I made a crate, filled it with earth and dropped everything I had gathered. And he began to wait patiently: will he germinate or not?
Many specks of seedlings sprouted, stuck out and sprouted, the ground began to curl in green.
I recognized almost all the plants. Except for one thing: it did not give way to me, even though I leafed through all my reference guides.
I plucked the seed from the cuckoo’s feather. In the spring, she was shot by a hunter, he wanted to make a scarecrow, but he started doing things, it was not up to her, and he threw the cuckoo out of the fridge into the dustbin. She was lying next to the trash can, so out of place, so clean and fresh, that I could not resist and tore the tail of the cuckoo.
The cuckoo’s tail is big, beautiful; when it is cooked, it moves them from side to side – as if it conducts itself. I wanted to add this kukushkin “conductor stick” to my collection, in which there were already “whistling” feathers from the wing of the little bastard and duck-gogol, a “singing” feather from the tail of the snipe. And now kukushkina baton.
When I looked at the variegated tail feathers, then at the base of one, right at the very stem, I noticed a prickly fruit of some weed, rolled into fluff. I barely tore it off with tweezers. And this seed sprouted, but I could not determine the sprout.
Showed to experts from the botanical garden, they stared at him for a long time and intently, shaking his head and flicking his tongue. And only then – not immediately! – having rummaged about the scientific books, have learned in it a weed from. South America!
Very surprised – where did he come from me? They advised us to pull it out with the spine – so that it did not accidentally take root on our land: we have enough of our own weeds. They were even more surprised when they learned that a cuckoo had brought him from over the seas and mountains.
I was surprised too: I did not know that our cuckoos hibernate even in South America. Weed seed has become like a ringlet for ringing: thousands of kilometers brought his cuckoo home.
I imagined this cuckoo: how I wintered in the tropics, how I waited for spring to return to my homeland, how I hurried through the storms and showers in our northern forests – to nakukovat us for many years.
And they took her and shot her.
He built a beaver on the shore of a hut of knots and logs. The slots are trowelled with earth and moss, smeared with silt and clay. He left a hole in the floor – a door straight into the water. In the water he has a reserve for the winter – a cubic meter of aspen wood.
The beaver does not dry wood, but wets: it is not for the stove, but for food. He himself stove. It bites the bark from the aspen branches – and warms up from the inside. That’s how we are from hot cereal. Yes, it happens that it warms up, that the steam is curling over the hut in the cold! As if he is drowning the hut in black, there is a smoke going through the roof.
So it winters in the hut from autumn to spring. Behind the firewood, he dives to the bottom of the cellar, dries in the hut, gnaws the knots, sleeps under the whistle of a blizzard above the roof, or the frost snaps.
And together with him beaver brownies winter in a hut. In the forest is the rule: where the house – there and brownies. Whether in the hollow, in the hole, or in the hut. And the beaver has a big house – therefore there are a lot of brownies. Sit in all corners and crevices: right brownie hostel!
Bumble bees and hornets, beetles and butterflies winter. Mosquitoes, spiders and flies. Voles and mice. Toads, frogs, lizards. Even snakes! Not a beaver’s hut, but a living corner of young naturalists. Noah’s Ark!
Winter is long. Day by day, night after night. That frost, then a blizzard. Has brought the hut along with the roof. And under the roof the beaver slumbers, warming with aspen wood. His brownies sleep soundly. Only mice in the corners are scraped. Yes, on a frosty day, the steam over the hut is curled like smoke.
On the first poroshe hunter ran into the forest with a gun. Found a fresh rabbit track, unraveled all his cunning loops and monograms and set off after him. Here is a “bite,” here is a “discount,” then the hare jumped off his trail and lay close by. Hare, though cunning, confuses the trail, but always the same. And if you picked up the key to it, now quietly open it: somewhere it will be here.
No matter how ready the hunter was, the hare jumped out unexpectedly – as it soared! Bang bang – and by. Hare in the run, the hunter – for him.
With the run-up, with the acceleration, the hare fell into an unmolded swamp — it hit the ears! Here is a crushed icebreaker, here are splashes of brown slurry, its traces are dirty further. On hard snow the forest of the former has started up.
Rolled out into the clearing and. landed on kosachiny holes. How did the scythes start from under the snow to soar – snow fountains and explosions around! Little wings on the ears and nose do not whip. Swept as a scythe, rolled over his head; to the hunter, the tracks are clearly visible. Yes, so poddast that rear dads forward front popping! Yes, with the dispersal of the fox flew.
And the fox did not even think that the hare would come to her; hesitated, but still DAC for the side! It is good that the hare skin is thin and fragile, get rid of the skin; two red droplets in the snow.
Well, imagine yourself this hare. Scrape – one worse than the other! Had this happened to me, I probably would have stuttered.
And it fell into the marsh, and the feathered bombs near the nose exploded, the hunter fired a rifle, the beast of prey clutched to his side. Yes, in its place a bear and that bear disease would be sick! And that would have died. And he even that.
I got scared, of course, not without it. But the hares are not afraid to get used. Yes, if they die every time with fright, so soon the whole rabbit race will be translated. And he, a hare, flourishes! Because their heart is strong and reliable, tempered and healthy. Bunny heart!
Rabbit round dance
There is also a frost, but it is already a special frost, spring. The ear, which is in the shade, freezes, and that in the sun – burns. During the day, the snow melts and shines, and at night they become covered with crust. The most time for rabbit songs and funny rabbit round dances!
The traces show how they gather in the glades, edges and circle here loops and eights, merry-go-round between bushes and hummocks. It is as if the heads are spinning around the hares, and they release loops and pretzels in the snow. Yes, and dudyat: Gu-gu-gu-gu!
Where and cowardice has gone: now they do not care for any foxes, nor eagle owls, nor wolves, nor lynxes. All winter they lived in fear, they were afraid to whimper. Enough is enough! Spring in the forest, the sun overcomes frost. The most time for hare songs and hare round dances.
How the bear frightened himself
A bear entered the forest – it snapped under a heavy paw of a deadwood. The squirrel on the Christmas tree jumped – dropped the lump. The bump fell and hit the sleeping hare right in the forehead! The hare broke from the bed and jumped without looking back.
On the grouse brood I jumped – scared everyone to death. The grouse has scattered with the noise – the magpie has been alerted: she has begun to rustle on the whole forest. Heard moose – forty chatter, frightened someone. Not a wolf, not a hunter? Scrambled through. Yes, in the swamp, the cranes were alarmed: they curled up the trumpet. The Curlews whistled, Ulit * cried out.
Here, and bear ears alarmed! Something bad is going on in the forest: a squirrel clucks, forty cracks, elks break bushes, marsh birds scream. And behind someone like stomping! Do not leave here to pick up a goodbye, before it’s too late?
The bear barked, he laid his ears – but how would he give a streokach!
To know him that behind him a rabbit was trampling, the same one with whom the squirrel had hit the cone in the forehead. Gave a circle in the forest, aroused everyone. And the bear was frightened, whom he himself was scared before!
So the bear frightened himself, drove himself out of the dark forest. Some traces of dirt remained.
Ulit * is a bird from the Kulikov squad.
And I would like to be a hedgehog fluffy – so after all they will eat!
Good hare: legs are long, fast. Or a squirrel: just that – and a tree! And the hedgehog’s legs are short, the claws are dull: neither on the ground, nor on the knots from the enemy you will not jump.
And live and hedgehog hunting. And all the hope he has, with a hedgehog, is his thorn: Expose and hope!
And the hedgehog shrinks, skukozhivaetsya, bristling – and hopes. The fox with his paw will roll him – and he will give up. The wolf will nudge, prick its nose, snort and run away. Bear lips overhang, obdat heat to graze, scream dissatisfied and too ukosolapit. And you want to eat, but pricked!
And the hedgehog will lie down with a reserve, then a little will unfold for the test, the nose and the eye will stand out from under the thorns, look around, sniff it – is there anyone? – and rolled into the thicket. And so alive. Would it be fluffy and soft?
Of course, happiness is not great – all my life in the thorns from head to toe. But otherwise he can not. Like or dislike, but not. Eat up!
The foxhole accumulated bones, feathers, and stubs. On them, of course, flies. Where flies are, there are fly-eaters. The first came to the hole thin wagtail. She sat up, squeaked, shook her long tail. And let’s run back and forth, clicking the beak. And the foxes from the hole watch her, their eyes roll like this: right-left, right-left! They could not bear it and jumped out – they almost caught it!
But a little bit and foxes do not count. Hid back into the hole, hid. Now came the stove: this squats and bows, squats and bows. And she does not take her eyes off the flies. The heater aimed at the flies, and the fox aimed at the heater. Who is fishing?
Foxes jumped out – the stove flew away. The foxes, with annoyance with each other, grappled into a ball, started the game with themselves. But suddenly covered their shadow, shielded the sun! The eagle hung over the foxes, flung wide wings. Already clawed legs hung over, and the foxes in the hole had time to hide. It can be seen, still a young eagle, not experienced. Or maybe he just played too. But simply, not simply, but these games are dangerous. Play, play, yes look! And flies, and birds, eagles and cubs. And you will finish badly.
Frost – red nose
In frost, a red nose happens only with us. And even blue. But birds have their noses colored when springtime comes and the winter cold ends. In birds, in spring not only the feathers become bright – but also the noses! In finches, the beak becomes blue, in sparrows – almost black. In starlings it is yellow, in blackbirds it is orange, and in the oak goose, it is blue. In the river gull and garden porridge – red. How are we in the cold!
Someone at the birch eaten the whole top of his head. It is a birch tree, and the tip is as if trimmed. Who such a toothy could climb to the top? The squirrel could climb, but the squirrel rods in winter do not iron. Hares grouse, but hares do not climb on birches. Birch stands as a question mark, as a mystery. What kind of giant reached the top?
And this is not a giant, but, after all, a hare! Only it was not he who reached for the poppy head, but the poppy itself leaned toward him. At the beginning of winter heavy snow stuck to the birch – and bent in an arc. Birch leaned like a white barrier, buried its top in a snowdrift. And froze. So yes, the arc, all winter and stood.
This is where the hare and all the twigs rooted on the top! There is no need to climb or jump: the twigs are right near the nose. And by spring the summit had melted from a snowdrift, the birch was straightened – and the united summit was at an unattainable height! It should be birch smooth, high – mysterious.
Spring affairs and cares
I look to the left – blue sprouts bloom, wolf’s brist grow tawny, and coltsfoot zheltelila. Spring primroses opened and bloomed!
I turn back around – on the anthill the ants warm themselves, the bumblebee bumblebee buzzes, the first bees rush to the first flowers. All spring affairs and cares!
I look at the forest again – and there is already fresh news! The buzzards hover over the forest, taking a place around the day of the future nest.
I turn to the fields – and there is already a new one: the kestrel hangs over the arable land, looking out from the height of the voles.
In the swamp the sandpipers-turukhtans started spring dances.
And in the sky geese fly and fly: chains, wedges, chains.
So much around the news – just have time to turn your head. Dizzy spring – the neck would not collapse!
Bear measures growth
Every spring, coming out of the den, the bear comes to the long-chosen tree and measures its height: did it grow over the winter while it was sleeping? It becomes a tree on his hind legs, and the front plows on the tree bark so that the chips scroll! And light furrows become visible – as if they were flooding with an iron rake. For fidelity also bites bark with fangs. And then he rubs against the tree with his back, leaving scraps of wool and the thick smell of an animal on it.
If no one is afraid of a bear and it lives for a long time in the same forest, then by these marks you can actually see how it grows. But the bear itself does not measure growth, but places its bearish meta, pillars its plot. So that other bears know that the place is taken here, that they have nothing to do here. But if they don’t listen, they will deal with it. And what he, you can see for yourself, is only to look at his tags. You can try on – whose label will be higher?
Labeled trees are like border posts. On each pillar there is also a short reference: gender, age, height. Think about whether to mess? Think well.
In the dark-field, we were already in the swamp with Misha’s undersurge. To Dark Dawn – the moment when morning wins the night – only a rooster guesses in the village. The darkness is still the eye if it is, and the rooster will stretch the neck, alert, something there in the night will hear and shout.
And in the forest, a stealth bird announces an invisible bird: it wakes up and is brought in the branches. Then the morning breeze starts to stir – and rustling and whispering in the forest.
And when the rooster crowed in the village, and the first bird woke up in the forest, Misha whispered:
– Now the shepherd will lead his flock to the swamp, to the flowering water.
– From the next village, perhaps, a shepherd? – I ask quietly.
“No, no,” Misha smirks. – I’m not about the village shepherd, I’m about the swamp.
And here in the thick sedge came a sharp and strong whistling! A shepherd whistled, putting two fingers into his mouth, invigorating the flock with whistles. Yes, only where he whistles, the swamp is terrible, the earth is shaky. There is no way for the herd.
– Marsh shepherd. – whispers Misha.
“Bae-uh-uh! Bae-uh-uh! ”- a lamb plaintively bleated in that side. I do not get stuck in a swampy swamp?
– No, – laughs Misha, – this lamb will not get stuck. This is a marsh lamb.
The bull moaned deafly, – apparently, behind the herd.
– Oh, disappear in the quagmire!
“Nah, this one won’t disappear,” Misha the shepherd reassures, “this is a marsh bull.”
Already it became clear: gray fog moves above the black kuga. Somewhere in two fingers the shepherd whistles. Lamb bleats. The bull roars. And nobody is visible. Marsh herd something.
– Be patient, – whispers Misha. – We’ll see.
The whistles are getting closer and closer. In all eyes I look where the dark silhouettes of Kugi – marsh grass are moving in a gray fog.
“You don’t look there,” Misha pushes to the side. – Look down at the water.
And I see: a small bird stalks through the flowering water, from a starling, on high legs. She stopped by a hummock, lifted herself up on her fingers – yes, as she whistles, whistles! Well, exactly the shepherd whistles.
“And this is the shepherd boy,” Misha smirks. “In our village, everyone calls him that.”
Here I am cheerful.
– It can be seen, and the whole herd of swamp for this shepherd?
– According to the shepherd is, – nods Misha.
We hear: someone slaps on the water. We see: a big clumsy bird comes out of the kugi: a redhead, a wedge nose. Stopped and. bull bellowed! So this is a bitter – swamp bull!
At this point, I even saw about the lamb – the weevil snipe! The one that sings tail. It falls from a height, and the feathers in the tail rattle – as if a lamb bleats. The hunters call it the swamp lamb. I myself knew, but Misha knocked me with his flock confused.
“I wish you had a gun,” I laugh. – Once would the bull and ram shot down!
“Nah,” says Misha. – I’m a shepherd, not a hunter. And what a shepherd in the herd will shoot? Albeit on such a swamp.
A little on the swamp on the snake did not come! Well, I managed to pull my leg back in time. However, the snake, it seems, is dead. Someone killed her and left her. And for a long time already: it smacks, and the flies circle.
I step over the carrion, go to my hands to rinse my hands, turn around, and the snake is dead. scares the bushes! Resurrected and foot carries away. Well, not feet, of course, what are snake’s feet? But he crawls away quickly and hastily, and so tempts him to say: with all his might!
In three jumps I caught up with the revived snake and gently pressed my tail with my foot. The snake froze, twisted in a ring, then somehow strangely quivered, arched, turned over with a spotted belly and up. okolela the second time!
Her head resembles a flower bud with two orange specks, the lower jaw is tilted back, the black tongue-flyer has hung from the red mouth. Lies relaxed – dead dead! I touch – does not move. And again, drawn by the dummy and the flies are already beginning to fly.
Do not believe your eyes! The snake pretended to be dead, the snake fainted!
Watching her eye corner. And I see how much, and this is he, begins to quietly rise. He closed his mouth, turned over onto his belly, raised his big-eyed head, waved his tongue, trying to taste the wind. There is no danger – you can run away.
To tell such a thing – they may not believe it! Well, if a shy summer woman would have collapsed, having met a snake. And then the snake! Snake lost consciousness when meeting with a man. Take a look, they will say, this is the man who, when he is met, even the snakes faint!
And yet I told. Do you know why? Because I’m not the only one for snakes scary. And you are not better than me. And if you start frightening too, he will shudder, will turn over and “die”. Doohier dead will lie, and the scavenger will smell, and the flies will fly to the smell. And go away – and it will rise again! And rush into the thicket. Though legless.
And the animals go to the bath. Most others go to the bath. wild pigs! Their bath is simple: without steam, without soap, even without hot water. Just a bath – a pit in the ground. In the pit water is marsh. Instead of soap suds – slurry. Instead of washcloth – bunches of grass and moss. You would not be lured into such a bath and Snickers. And the boars themselves go. That’s what a bath is loved!
But the boars go to the bath is not at all for what we go to the bath. We go to wash, and boars – get dirty! We wash the dirt off with a washcloth, and the boars purposely smear the dirt on themselves. Tossing and turning in the water, splashing, and the dirtier they become – the merrier the grunt. And after the bath they are a hundred times dirtier than before. And they are glad-happy: now, through such a mud shell, no pieces and bloodsuckers can get to the body! Their bristles are rare in summer – that is how they are smeared. As we are anti-mosquito. Roll out, vymazhutsya – and not scratch!
The cuckoo doesn’t twist the nest, the cuckoo doesn’t hatch, it doesn’t teach the mind. No worries. But it only seems so to us. In fact, the cuckoo has many worries. And the first concern is to find a nest in which you can throw your testicle. And in which the cuckoo will be comfortable later.
The cuckoo sits discreetly and listens to bird voices. In the grove the birch oriole whistled. Her nest is a sight for sore eyes: a cradle-cradle in the fork of the branches. The wind cradles the rock, the chicks cram. Yes, try to thrust yourself to these desperate birds, they will begin to lash out, shout in foul cat voices. It is better not to get involved with such.
By the river on a hollow kingfisher sits thoughtfully. As if looking at his reflection. And the fish looks out. And the nest is guarding. How can he throw a testicle if he has a nest in a deep hole, and he doesn’t squeeze into a hole? Another must look for.
In a dark spruce grouse someone terrible voice. But the cuckoo knows that it is a harmless pigeon-wood pigeon cooing. There he has a nest on the tree, and it is easy to plant a testicle at him. But the nyakhira’s nest is so loose that it even shines through. And a small egg kukushkino can fall through the gap. Yes, the pigeon and he will throw it out or trample it: it is very small, very much different from his testicles. Not worth the risk.
No further sitting on sit. It’s time to fly and search.
Flew along the river. On a stone in the middle of the water, a small dipper – a water sparrow crouches and bows. Not the cuckoo was delighted, but he had such a habit. There is a nest under the coast: a mossy clod with a hole-entrance on the side. Like and suitable, but some damp, volgly. And right under it the water boils. Here the cuckoo will grow up, will jump out – and will drown. The cuckoo does not even raise a cuckoo, but still takes care of them. I rushed on.
Further in the riverine urema the nightingale whistles. Yes, so loud and biting that even nearby leaves tremble! I spotted his nest in the bushes, and already tried on my own to put it as she sees – the eggs in it cracked! The chicks are about to hatch. Her nightingale will not hatch her egg. Next you need to fly, look for another nest.
Where to fly? On an aspen, a pied flycatcher whistles: “Twist-wrench, twist-wrench!” But she has a nest in a deep hollow – how can you break a testicle into it? And how then from it, such a narrow, big cuckoo will get out?
Maybe bullfinch egg toss? The nest is suitable, the bullfin testicles the cuckoo will be easy to throw away.
– Hey, bullfinches, what are you feeding bullies?
– Delicious gruel from different seeds! Nutritious and vitamin.
Again, not that, the cuckoo is upset, the cuckoo needs meat dishes: spider beetles, larvae caterpillars. He will wither away from your rotten porridge, will get sick and die!
The sun is noon and the egg is not attached. I wanted to throw a Slavka-Chernogolovka, but I remembered in time that the testicles are brown and hers are blue. Sharp eyed eyes will immediately see and throw it away. The cuckoo cried out in her own voice: “Kli-kli-kli-kli! I rush all day, all the wings waved away – the cuckoo nest will not pick up! And they all poke a finger: carefree, heartless, they do not care about their children. And I.
Suddenly a very familiar whistle is heard, since childhood I still remember: “Fut, so-tick!” But so did her adoptive mother scream! And waving a red tail. Redstart coot! But I’m gonna give my egg to her: since I survived and grew up in such a way, then nothing will happen to my foundling. And she will not notice anything: her testicles are as blue as mine. She did. And she laughed merrily, as only the cuckoo females can do: “Hee hee hee!” Finally!
Her demolished – the master swallowed: so that the bill converges. But her concerns did not stop there – a dozen need to be planted! Again in the forest Shastay again look for fistula. And who sympathizes? Anyway, they will call the carefree and heartless.
. And rightly so!
Nightingale songs are fed
The nightingale sang in the wild cherry: loud, biting. The tongue in the gaping beak fought like a bell. Sings and sings – when only he has time. After all, the songs alone will not be full.
The wings dangled, threw back the head and such sonorous trills snaps out that the steam from the beak flies out!
And mosquitoes fly to the parks, to lively warmth. They hover over their open beaks, asking for it in their mouths. And the nightingale clicks his songs and. mosquitoes! Connects pleasant and useful. Just doing two things. And they say that the songs of the nightingale do not feed.
The sparrow-hawk lives in the forest, where there are no quails. And there is enough of all who fall under his paw: thrushes, finches, tits, skates. And how enough: from the ground, from the bush, from the tree – or even in the air! And small birds are afraid of him almost to faint.
The gully was just rattling with bird songs, but the sparrower flew by, the birds screamed at once in fright – and the gully died out! And fear will hang over him for a long, long time. Until the bravest finch comes to his senses and gives a voice. Then all the others will be revived.
By the autumn, the sparrowhouses fly out of the forest and circle above the villages and fields. Either soaring, then meltesha with pockmarked wings, they now don’t even think to hide. And they, such notable now, are not very afraid. Aback they are now not caught. And swifts, wagtails and swallows even chase them, trying to pinch. And then the sparrowhawner flees from them, then he throws himself on them. And this is not like a hunt, but a game: a game from youth, from an excess of strength! But beware if he rushes out of ambush!
The sparrowhawk sat deep in the spreading willow and waited patiently for sparrows to appear on the sunflowers. And only they stuck to the sunny baskets as he threw himself at them, spreading claws. But the sparrows were shot, experienced, rushed from the hawk right into the fence and flashed it like fish with a leaky net. And the hawk nearly got killed on this fence!
He poked around with piercing eyes, sat down on the fence above the hidden sparrows: I didn’t take you away from the flight – I would die like that!
There is already someone who! The sparrowhawk is on top of a coke, the sparrows below are rustling with a mouse under the fence, almost do not dig into the ground for fear. The hawk leaped to them – the sparrows slipped into the cracks on the other side. And do not climb a hawk. Then the hawk through the fence – sparrows again in the gap! And he sees the eye, but the beak is stiff.
But one young sparrow broke down and rushed from a terrible place. Immediately after him, the sparrowhawk pulled out his paw, to grab the tail by the fly, and the sparrow’s head into the very thick willow in which the sparrower hid before. As if I dived into the water, I pierced it, like a perforated wattle-hole. Not so stupid, he was. A hawk stuck, fluttered in the branches, as in a dense network.
Spent crafty hawk sparrows, flew away with nothing. He leaned into the fields – to catch the quail. Once a sparrowhawner.
The owl robs at night when nothing is visible. And maybe he even thinks that no one will recognize her, the robber. But still, just in case, hiding for a day in the thick of branches. And dozing without moving.
But not every day she manages to sit out. Then they will see the bloodbags, then the big-eyed tits will notice – they will immediately raise a shout. And if you translate from bird language to human, you get cursing and insults. Everyone who hears, all who the owl has harmed, flock to the cry. Melteshat around, flitter, pinch strive. The owl only turns his head and snaps his beak. Little birdies are not afraid of it with tweaks, but with their cry. On their bustle can fly and jays, and magpies, and crows. And these can be a real thorn to ask – pay for her nightly raids.
The owl could not stand it, fell and flew, silently tacking between the branches. And all the small fry behind it! All right, yours now took it, let’s see what will be at night.
Walking on a fairy tale
What is too simple: a snail, a spider, a flower. Without looking to step over and on.
Yes, but because over the miracle overstep!
The same snail at least. A walk along the ground and on the move along a path beneath itself is silvery, mica. Wherever she goes – a tablecloth is her path! And the house on the back is like a backpack for a tourist. Well, imagine: go and carry the house! Wow! Tired, he put a house next to him, climbed into it and sleep without worries. And it does not matter that without windows and without doors.
Stay with the spider: not a simple spider, but an invisible spider. Touch him with a blade of grass, he begins to sway with a fright, more and more quickly – until he turns into a slightly shining haze – as if he will dissolve in the air. Here he is, but not visible! And you thought that there are invisibles only in fairy tales.
Or this flower. Blind nature, blind and unreasonable – illiterate! – from a lump of earth, dewdrops and droplets of the sun. And you, literacy, this can? And here it is, not made by hands, in front of you – in all its glory. Watch and remember.
To visit the forest – look like fairy tales. They are there everywhere: above the head, on the sides, under the feet.