Singing tree. Sladkov, Nikolai Ivanovich - Singing tree Approximate word search

There lived a very curious king, he listened to everything under the windows; and the merchant had three daughters, and somehow these daughters said to their father; one says:

“If only the king’s baker would take me!”

And the other one says:

“If only the king’s servant would marry me!”

And the third says:

“And I would like to marry the Tsar himself; I would bring him two sons and one daughter!

The king heard this whole conversation; After some time, the king did exactly as they wished: the eldest daughter married the baker, the middle daughter married the king’s servant, and the youngest daughter married the king himself. The king lived well with his wife, and she became pregnant; then she began to give birth. Now the king sends for the city grandmother; and the sisters said to the king’s wife:

- Why send? We ourselves can be your grandmothers.

When the queen gave birth to a son, these grandmothers took it and told the king that your wife gave birth to a puppy, and they put the newborn baby in a box and put it in the pond in the royal garden. The Tsar was angry with his wife and wanted to shoot her with a cannon; Yes, the visiting kings dissuaded him - for the first time, you need to forgive. Well, the king forgave; I left it until another time.

A year later, the queen became pregnant with another child and gave birth to a son; The sisters again told the king that your wife gave birth to a kitten. The king became even more angry and wanted to completely execute his wife, but again they begged and persuaded him. He changed his mind and left her until the third time. And the sisters and the other baby were put in a box and released into the pond. Then the queen became pregnant with her third child and gave birth to a beautiful daughter; The sisters again reported to the king that your wife gave birth to God knows what. The king became even more angry, set up a gallows and wanted to hang his wife; Yes, the kings visiting from other lands told him:

“It’s better to build a chapel near the church and put her there: whoever goes to mass, everyone will spit in her eyes!”

The king did so; and not only does she spit in her eyes, everyone carries rolls, some pies. And whom the queen gave birth to children, and the grandmothers allowed into the pond, the royal gardener took them to himself and began to raise them.

These royal children grew not by years, but by months, not by days, but by hours; the princes grew up to be such fine fellows that they couldn’t even think of, guess, or write with a pen; and the princess is such a beauty - simply terrifying! And they came in time and began to ask the gardener to allow them to build a house outside the city. The gardener allowed; they built a large, excellent house and began to live well. The brothers loved to follow hares; once they went hunting, and my sister was left alone at home. And an old woman comes to her house and says to this girl:

- It’s good and beautiful in your house; only you don't have three things.

The princess asks the old lady:

- What don’t we have? It seems we have everything!

Old lady says:

- This is what you don’t have: a talking bird, a singing tree and living water.

The brothers arrive from hunting, their sister meets them and says:

- Brothers! We have everything, only three things are missing!

The brothers ask:

- What don’t we have, sister?

She says:

“We don’t have a talking bird, a singing tree or living water.”

The elder brother asks:

“Sister, bless me, I’ll go get these wonders.” And if I die or they kill me, then you will recognize me by this: I’ll poke a knife into the wall; If blood drips from the knife, it will be a sign that I am dead.

So he went; He walked and walked and came to the forest. An old man is sitting on a tree; he asks him:

- How can I get a talking bird, a singing tree and living water?

The old man gave him a roll:

- Wherever this little skating rink goes, follow it there!

Katochek rolled, and the prince followed him; the skating rink rolled up to a high mountain and disappeared; The prince went up the mountain, reached half the mountain, and suddenly disappeared. In his house, blood immediately dripped from his knife; sister and tells the middle brother that our big brother has died: blood dripped from his knife! The middle brother answers her:

“Now I’ll go, sister, to get the talking bird, the singing tree and living water.”

She blessed him; he went; He walked and walked, for many or few miles, and came to the forest. An old man is sitting on a tree; the prince asks him:

- Well, grandfather, how can I get a talking bird, a singing tree and living water?

The old man says:

- Here's a skating rink for you - wherever it rolls, go there.

The old man threw it - the skating rink rolled, and the prince followed him; the skating rink rolled up to a steep, high mountain and disappeared; he climbed up the mountain, got halfway, and suddenly disappeared.

My sister has been waiting for him for many, many years, but he is still not there! - and says:

“My other brother must have died too!”

She went herself to get the talking bird, the singing tree and living water; She walked for who knows how long and came to the forest. An old man is sitting on a tree; asks him:

- Grandfather! How can I get a talking bird, a singing tree and living water?

The old man answers:

- Where can you get it! There were more cunning people here than you, but they all disappeared.

The girl asks:

- Say please!

And the old man says to her:

- Here's the skating rink, go get it!

The little boat rolled, and the girl followed him. Whether long or short, this roller coaster rolled up to a steep, high mountain; the girl climbed up the mountain, and they started shouting at her:

- Where are you going? We will kill you! We'll eat you!

She just goes and goes; I climbed the mountain, and there sat a talking bird.

The girl took this bird and asked it:

- Tell me where to get the singing tree and living water?

Bird says:

- Go there!

She came to the singing tree, on that tree different birds sing; she broke off a branch from it and moved on; she came to the living water, scooped up a jug and took it home. She began to go down the mountain, took it and sprinkled it with living water: suddenly her brothers jumped up and said:

- Oh, sister, how long we slept!

- Yes, brothers, if it weren’t for me, you would have slept here forever!

And the sister says to them:

- Here, brothers, I got a talking bird, a singing tree and living water.

The brothers rejoiced. They came home and planted a singing tree in their garden; it has blossomed throughout the entire garden, and birds are singing on it in different voices.

One day the brothers went hunting and the king came across them. The king fell in love with these hunters and began asking them to visit him. They say:

- We will ask my sister for permission; If she allows, then we will certainly do it!

Here they come from hunting, their sister meets them, and is happy to look after them; her brothers tell her:

- Allow us, sister, to visit the king; he asked us with honor.

The princess allowed them; they went to visit. We've arrived; the king received them well and treated them well; They began to report to the king and ask him to visit them. After some time, the king came to them, they received him just as well, treated him and showed him a singing tree and a talking bird. The king was surprised and said:

- I am a king, but I don’t have it!

Here the sister and brothers say to the king:

- We are your children!

The king found out about everything, was delighted, and stayed with them forever, and took his wife from the chapel; and they all lived together for many years in every happiness.

In a dense forest, in a clearing with thick grass, a tree grew. At first glance, it was no different from other forest trees. But this is only at first glance. After all, in fact, the tree was unusual: it could sing. If someone wandered into the forest and found it, then, sitting down under it to rest, the traveler could hear music in the rustling of leaves. And then a miracle happened: this music revealed to a person the truth about what he is like and what his actions are.

And then, one day in the spring, a lumberjack and his little son were walking through the forest looking for suitable trees for firewood, and they came across this amazing tree. The lumberjack wanted to cut it down, but changed his mind. It was very strong, beautiful, and decorated the clearing with itself. They sat down under it, took out a knapsack, and from the knapsack, a flask of water and sandwiches. First the man gave water to the boy, and then he drank it himself. Then we started eating sandwiches. We ate, looked around - it was beautiful: colorful butterflies were circling over the clearing, the emerald grass was agitated. Quietly, calmly, the foliage rustles above them.

And suddenly the boy says:

- Dad, I think I did something wrong.

- Wrong? What?

– In the morning I didn’t eat the breakfast that my mother prepared. I got angry with her because I wanted potatoes, not porridge. That’s why I didn’t even say goodbye to my mother when leaving home.

- Yes this is bad. You need to ask your mother for forgiveness when we return home,” the father answered, and he himself began to think. He also felt a pang of conscience. Two days ago, he cut down several trees in the place where the protected area began and quickly sold them. And now it was as if some voice reminded him of this.

“I will definitely make peace with my mother,” the boy continued. “She wanted what was best, didn’t she, dad?”

“Of course,” answered the lumberjack, leaning against a tree and closing his eyes. – Porridge makes children grow, but potatoes can give them a stomach ache.

“Oh, it’s a pity,” the son sighed. - I like potatoes better.

They sat under the tree for a while, admired the clearing and the cloudless sky, and got ready to leave.

“We need to remember this place,” said the lumberjack. – It’s a good place to relax! Wonderful clearing, beautiful tree!

Of course, they had no idea that they had been under the singing tree.

A few days later, the woodcutter came to the forest alone, and again rested under it. This time it sang to him about a little girl whom he had offended many years ago, when he was still a young man, by taking her money. He used them to buy himself cigars. This girl was his own sister, but he never asked her forgiveness. The lumberjack could not understand why these memories came flooding back to him, and why they bothered him so much. After all, he hadn’t thought too much about all this before.

The third time, the tree reminded the woodcutter of his recent quarrel with his neighbor. And, although the lumberjack considered himself completely right, he could not help but agree that he spoke to his neighbor rudely and with anger, trying to hit him with his words as painfully as possible. The lumberjack didn’t like that all these thoughts came into his head. Little by little he began to realize that this was happening precisely when he was sitting under a beautiful lonely tree in a clearing. Then he went ahead and cut down the tree. And he uprooted the stump, albeit with difficulty, and cut it into firewood. The lumberjack sold the felled tree to his friend at furniture factory and soon forgot both about the tree and about his memories. At the factory, good strong boards were made from wood, and then the workers made an ordinary desk from them.

Several years have passed. The lumberjack's son grew up to become a musician. One day he needed a desk. In the local newspaper he found an advertisement that someone was selling a table, not new, but very strong and comfortable. The musician bought it. In the evening he sat down at his new table to write music. And suddenly thoughts began to come to him that had never come before. About good and evil, about forgiveness, enmity, friendship, about life and death. He barely had time to write them all down using notes. The composer himself was surprised where he got this from, but was glad, because he had long wanted to express exactly these thoughts, but could not find the appropriate notes. Now he succeeded, and the composition was soon completed.

And the lumberjack was proud that his son became a musician, and always listened to his music. Therefore, when a new composition came out, he decided to listen to it too. And as he listened, strange things suddenly began to happen to his heart: it shrank from excitement, from memories, from remorse. He remembered his sister and neighbor, and many people whom he had deceived or offended. Some of them had already died, while others were still alive. Tears streamed down the old lumberjack's wrinkled cheeks. He realized that many years had passed and he still had not corrected his mistakes. But now, when he listened to the melody written by his son, his heart seemed to become different. And then he decided to rush to those whom he had offended to ask for forgiveness. And to those with whom he was once angry, to tell them that he forgives.

The forest in which the singing tree once grew was cut down long ago to make way for a road. The beautiful clearing, thick grass and colorful butterflies were gone. But the tree still continued to sing - through the music that the lumberjack's son composed. People who listened to her learned the truth about themselves and their actions. And whose heart changed, he certainly tried to correct his whole life.

One day a squirrel found a nut under a tree. Small, but beautiful and appetizing. I tried to crack it, but nothing worked, the nut turned out to be tough. The squirrel bit him this way and that with her sharp teeth, but the nut still did not give in. There were no other nuts found. What to do? The squirrel began to remember who else lived in the forest with strong teeth and could help her. And she remembered the bunny - he gnaws the bark of trees, and he could probably crack a nut. She ran to the bunny and asked:

- Help me, please, crack the nut! And I will share it with you.

- Fine! – the bunny agreed. He took the nut, bit it once, then twice. And suddenly he screams:

- Oh oh oh! I think I broke a tooth!

Then he checked and calmed down:

- No, I didn’t break it. But I almost broke it, a little more, and I would have been left without one tooth! I can't crack your nut. Got caught too strong.

“Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll share it with you anyway,” the squirrel consoled the bunny, although she was upset that he couldn’t help her.

- Thank you! – he was delighted. – Do you want me to introduce you to my friend the beaver? He really has teeth, he chews trees with them to build his dams!

- Oh, how great! Of course, introduce me!

And they went to the beaver. But the beaver turned out to be very busy. He was just dragging a thick branch somewhere.

- Well, please, help! - asked the squirrel. - And I’ll share a nut with you!

Beaver agreed:

- Give me your nut! Now I’ll quickly split it, you won’t even have time to blink!

He bit the nut with all his might and remained frozen with it in his teeth.

“Olekh was greedy in my teeth!” - he shouted.

- What? – the squirrel and the bunny did not understand.

“Olekh was greedy, I’m greedy!” – the beaver shouted again in despair.

“Ah, I understand,” said the bunny. - He has a nut stuck in his teeth.

- Oh, we need to get it out quickly! – the squirrel was scared. She grabbed it and pulled, but the nut wouldn’t budge. The bunny also tried, but nothing happened. The beaver already has tears flowing from his eyes, but the nut is still in his teeth.

-What kind of noise are you making here? What's happened?

The squirrel, the hare and the beaver raised their heads and saw a raven sitting on a branch. He glances sideways at them in surprise.

“I was flying past and heard screams.” So I decided to see what you were up to here.

- The beaver has a nut stuck in its teeth! - said the bunny.

The beaver just looked sadly at the raven and said nothing.

- Let me take a look. “The raven flew closer to the beaver, and then quickly and deftly took out a nut with its beak. And he is still intact!

Answers (2)

Current page: 7 (book has 20 pages total) [available reading passage: 12 pages]

FUN GAME

The fox brought mice for lunch to the fox cubs. And the foxes are full - let's play with the mice. Two people grabbed one mouse and pulled and pulled. And one of them hits three mice at once - whack! Only the tails are hanging.

We played until we got tired of it. Then they abandoned the mice and climbed into the hole. They lay down at the entrance, put their muzzles on their front paws - they look from the dark hole at bright world. And they see: flies have flown to the hole. They circled and buzzed. Behind the flies is a wagtail bird. So thin and grey. It shakes its tail and minces with its legs. He will run and stop, he will run and stop. And he stops and wags his tail. He looks at the flies.

The fox cubs cowered. Wagtail to the right, and fox eyes to the right, wagtail to the left - eyes to the left. That's how they roll.

How the little foxes will jump out! We almost didn't catch the bird.

They huddled in the hole again - they were on guard.

The flies came again. Behind the flies is a wagtail. Right at the hole it teases with its tail.

The little foxes jumped out and almost got caught!

At this point you won’t understand: is this a game or a hunt?

Once again they jumped out - and again in vain. Huddled together. And from above, from the blue sky, a shadow hung, blocking the sun.

The fox cubs rushed into the hole at once - they barely squeezed through.

It was the eagle that scared them.

Apparently, the eagle is still young, not experienced. He probably played too - all the animals and all the birds play games of hunting. Only everyone's toys are different. Some have mice, others have fox cubs. Play and take a look!

And this is a convenient toy – a mouse. If you want, play hunting with her, or hide and seek with her. And I'm tired - hap! - and ate it.

The pika danced a waltz. A small bird with an awl nose and a propped tail was circling on the bark of a thick spruce tree. She easily jumped up twice, then bowed her head to her shoulder, touched her nose to the leg and suddenly turned around herself! Jump, bowed head, beak and leg, quick turn. Time after time, circle after circle, figure after figure. Thin claws and stiff feathers rustled across the bark. The pika rushed in a waltz.

When you see something that has never been seen before, you just want to look. But later I want to understand everything. Why does a pika dance a waltz? This bird is secretive and unnoticeable. It’s no wonder that no one had noticed her dancing before. But what kind of joy does she have today, why is she so dexterous and fast, why is her black eye so shiny? After all, the sun is shining like yesterday, neither hot nor cold, the grass and leaves are still the same around.

I peer into the spruce trunk and below, near the ground, I see a narrow dark crack. That’s right: there’s a nest in the crack, there are chicks in the nest! But the bird is not dancing for joy. The pika sees me, and fear squeezes her tiny heart. And she dances out of fear... Jump forward, head to shoulder, nose to leg, quick turn. Time after time, turn after turn, figure after figure. Claws rustle, eyes sparkle. The bird dances the pika waltz - a dance of fear.

I've been wondering for a long time: why are finches called finches?

Well, the Black-headed Warbler is understandable: the male has a black beret on his head.

Zoryanka is also clear: she always sings at dawn and her bib is the color of dawn.

Oatmeal too: oats are picked up on the roads all winter.

But why is a finch a finch?

Finches are not finches at all. In the spring they arrive as soon as the snow melts; in the fall they often linger until there is new snow. And sometimes they spend the winter in some places if there is food.

And yet they called the finch a finch!

This summer, it seems, I solved this riddle.

I was walking along a forest path, I heard a finch thundering! He sings great: his head is thrown back, his beak is open, the feathers on his neck are trembling - as if he is gargling with water. And the song splashes from the beak: “Witt-ti-ti-ti, vi-chu!” Even the tail is shaking!

And then suddenly a cloud floated into the sun: a shadow covered the forest. And the finch immediately wilted. He got ruffled, frowned, and hung his nose. He sits dissatisfied and sadly says: “Tr-rr-r-ryu, tr-rr-r-r!” It’s as if the cold is making him lose his teeth, in a sort of trembling voice: “Tr-ru-yu!”

Anyone who sees this will immediately think: “What a finch! The sun was barely behind the cloud, and he was already ruffled and trembling!”

That's why the finch became a finch!

They all have such a habit: the sun for the cloud - the finches for their “true”. And it’s not because of the cold: in winter it can get colder.

There are different guesses on this matter. Whoever speaks is worried at the nest, whoever screams before the rain. But in my opinion, he is unhappy that the sun is hidden. He's bored without the sun. Can't sing! So he's grumbling.

However, maybe I’m wrong. Better find out for yourself. You can’t put everything ready-made in your mouth!

There are different roads in the forest. There are times when you go straight and you won’t come back; if you go to the left, you’ll get lost in the thicket; if you go to the right, you’ll get stuck in a swamp. Well, such paths! But there are others in the forest. There are such things that you will walk along it once for the rest of your life and remember it. And you will return to her again.

That happened once. I was walking along a forest road and holding a piece of paper in my hand. A simple piece of paper from a notebook. On the piece of paper it is written: “Where the fork is to Zvenirechka and Vasilki, the jerk shouts.” I'm standing at a fork in the road. In the wedge, between the roads, a bird shouts: “In vain! In vain! Only one jerk can scream like that, he is the only one with such a voice.

“That same fork! – I guess. “To Zvenirechka and Vasilki!”

I go and read: “Two fork paths. The one with the chiffchaff will lead you into the swamp, and the one with the chiffchaff will lead you to Cornflowers.”

“What kind of Vasilkovskaya is this?” - Think. And I guess with my ear: here she is! A chiffchaff is singing near the fork. He sings and pronounces: “Tee-shadow, te-shadow!”

Singing pointers work great! And there is no need to put up pillars.

I’m figuring out how I’ll answer a passerby if he asks me about the route.

“Please,” he asks, “tell me how to get to Vasilki? I was completely dizzy in the forest.”

And I will answer:

“It's as easy as shelling pears. In the forest it’s not like in the city. In the city you need to look and ask people you meet. And then just listen. Go all the way straight to the fork where the twitcher quacks. Turn right and walk to the path with the chiffchaff. This path is straight and straight until you hear the bunting. From the oatmeal to the left - here you have Vasilki.” What a wonderful path!

Walk and walk this way: straight, left, and right!

And I got to the oatmeal. He sits hunched over on a branch and sings: “Carry it, carry it, carry it, don’t be a coward!”

Turn left - here you come to the village.

Great, whatever you say! Read it on the piece of paper and walk – you won’t get lost. Better than any guidebook. Better, because any guidebook gets old quickly. And the songs never get old.

Now it's time to reveal a little secret. I made the notes on the piece of paper myself, only many, many years ago. And so, after a long separation, he returned to his native place again. I found the old road, but forgot all the intersections. I would have wandered around the intersections if it weren’t for the birds and the piece of paper with faded letters. And now he came out without a hitch. The birds showed the way with songs. Only now, of course, the great-grandchildren of those who once sang here were singing. They stayed true to the place. No other signs would have lasted such a long time in the forest.

How clearly I imagined myself as a boy walking here with a notebook a long time ago, listening to the birds and writing down my first observations! I felt joyful: I returned, I also remained faithful to my forest path.

All night long a tree creaked in the forest: creaking, creaking, creaking, creaking... And the wind, hissing, rolled onto the tops like a heavy wave. And again the tree creaked about its gray tree life.

How many millennia had passed before a real, living voice swarmed in a deep forest, next to the dead creaking of trees? At first, he, too, was probably as boring, timid and weak as this creak.

The waves rolled and rolled, and the wood creaked and creaked. And I fell asleep.

I woke up not from noise, but from silence. The wind died down, the tree fell silent, and dry needles began to be heard falling from the tree.

And suddenly the tree began to sing! At first quietly and timidly, and then more and more boldly and loudly. It sang in a living voice, and the sounds came not from the branches, but from inside the trunk, from the very core of the tree. The tree squealed, chirped, shouted something - the tree sang!

It wasn't a dream. It was morning, and I saw the fog rising from the forest clearing in a lazy ring. Dewdrops shot blue and red arrows at the sun. And on a branch a woodpecker was yawning and stretching.

Maybe this is how a living voice was once born in the forest?..

I didn’t want to get up, and even more I didn’t want to destroy the secret of the singing tree myself.

The woodpecker ruined the secret. Like a magic wand, he raised his long nose, shook his head and shouted loudly. And the tree, in response to the cry, suddenly squeaked, screamed desperately and impatiently. It no longer sang: it screamed, called, hurried, begged and begged.

Each riddle has its own answer. There is a hollow in the tree, in the hollow there is a nest, and in the nest there are woodpeckers.

All night the tree rocked and rocked them, the forest songs creaked to them. In the morning their turn came, and an insistent and hungry squeal came from the tree.

For many millennia, a sad creaking sound was heard in the forest. But once upon a time the first living voice sounded in him. And maybe it sounded like that at dawn, in a hollow, under the reliable protection of some tree.

The chick fell behind his family and was left alone in the forest - weak and inept. One appetite at least.

Previously, I would turn my nose up at a soft caterpillar, but now I would be happy with a prickly beetle. In the evenings, everyone would sit in a row, wing to wing, cheerfully and warmly. And now I’m alone, scared and cold.

You call - they don’t respond, you shout - they are silent. Look how many birds there are in the forest, and you are like in the desert.

But the orphan was lucky: he followed a family of warblers. He fluttered from bush to bush with them and became his own. Squeaked - they answered. He opened his mouth and put it in his mouth.

He became like a nanny for Slavka's children. A little cold - they come to him. They sit side by side - everyone is warm. Old warblers have no time to bother with their babies: they barely have time to get food for them.

And so the foster child began to live. It's a completely different matter now. Not only the beetle - even the caterpillar falls. Sleeps with everyone, wing to wing. If he shouts, they will answer; if he calls, they will answer. Not like being alone in the forest.

Nourishing, warm and fun. The beak hardens, the wings grow.

What else does a chick need?

A bear entered the dark forest - a dead tree crunched under its heavy paw. The squirrel on the tree got scared and dropped a pine cone from its paws.

A cone fell and hit the hare on the forehead.

The hare broke from his bed and ran into the thicket.

He ran into a brood of grouse and alarmed everyone to death.

I scared the jay out from under the bushes. It caught the eye of the magpie and it started screaming throughout the forest.

Moose have sensitive ears, they can hear: a magpie is chirping! Not otherwise - he sees hunters.

The moose went through the forest to break the bushes!

The cranes in the swamp were frightened - they began to purr. The curlews circled and whistled sadly.

The bear stopped and pricked up his ears.

Bad things are happening in the forest: a squirrel is chirping, a magpie and a jay are chattering, moose are breaking down bushes, wading birds are screaming in alarm. And someone is stomping behind!

Shouldn't I leave in good health?

The bear barked, laid his ears back and let it run!

Oh, if only he knew that behind him was a hare stomping, the same one that the squirrel hit in the forehead with a bump.

So the bear scared himself, drove himself out of the dark forest. Only footprints remained in the dirt.

A golden oriole flew over a clearing in the summer, saw a lying stone, and whistled:

- You're stupid, Stone! All your life you lie in one place, you don’t see or know anything. And I was in the distant South, I saw many miracles!

The Stone remained silent.

A crested waxwing flew over a clearing in winter, saw a half-buried stone and waxed:

- You're stupid, Stone! You spend your whole life in one place, you don’t see anything. I grew up in the far North and saw many miracles!

Again the Stone remained silent, but thought to himself: “I’ve seen more than you, you feathered braggarts!” In winter, the North itself came to visit me, and in the summer, the South. I know both heat and frost. I saw the forest both green and white. I know you, Oriole, a summer bird, and you, Waxwing, a winter bird. But you visit the same land every year, but you haven’t seen each other! Me too, famous travelers!”

The sea is still sleeping at dawn. It is quiet and almost colorless - gray in the twilight. Along the surf strip, cormorants sit in black formation, like soldiers. I fired buckshot at the formation. The cormorants immediately, as if on command, flapped their wings and flew into the sea, touching the calm water with the tips of their wings. But one remained on the shore. I walked over and picked him up by his black, cold and wet webbed paws. The cormorant's head dangled helplessly on its long neck. He was killed outright.

I sat down on the sand and began to look at a bird that was new to me. I turned the cormorant in my hands and blew under its feather. Then he took out a measuring compass and measured the cormorant’s beak, paw, wing and tail, so that later he could more accurately determine it using the determinant. The color of the cormorant was black, sometimes with green, sometimes with a bronze tint. The eyes were especially beautiful: slanted, amazing green, malachite color.

I spent a long time fiddling with the dead cormorant.

The sun was rising. Its rays awakened all living things. The beam penetrated the grass, and various bugs swarmed in the grass: mustachioed, humpbacked, shaggy. The ray warmed the flower bud - the bud moved, quietly opened, like a blue peephole. The insects spent the night in the bud, spread their wings in the sun and flew away.

The sea also woke up. I put the bird down: the sea is most beautiful at sunrise.

The horizon turned blue. Closer to the sea, stripes of azure stretched across the sea, even lower - purple, then green, like the eyes of a cormorant, and even bronze, like the reflection of a cormorant feather - where it was shallow and the sand of the bottom was visible. And from the blue horizon, cheerful white lambs ran across the sea.

I would not have taken my eyes off the sea if not for the strong noise behind me. I turn around and see: the dead cormorant has come to life! Flapping his wings, he ran along the yellow sand towards the sea, spitting out fish as he went.

Fish-eating birds always do this when they want to make their flight easier. This resurrected glutton spat out thirty gobies - almost a kilogram of fish! And he flew into the sea, knocking down the white crests of the waves with his black wings. So he sat down on the water and swayed on the waves.

Didn't the sun's ray also revive him? Of course not. A buckshot simply hit him on the head and stunned him, and the cormorant “lost consciousness.” Well, he lay down in the breeze, the sun warmed him, and he came to life.

I didn't regret it. The cormorant meat is not so great - it smells like fish. Fool him!

The very word “swamp” is no longer encouraging. Something slurping, wet, dirty. Neither sit down nor lie down. Squish and swell underfoot. The heat and the overwhelming smell. Swarms of annoying and sticky midges overhead.

But there are other swamps - incredible, amazing beauty. These are the ones I'll tell you about now.

At night I struggled along a muddy, smacking path through bushes and reeds. The abyss became thinner and deeper. Glistened with black oil open water. It was impossible to go further at night. I leaned my back against a stumpy willow that dipped its weeping branches into the black water like a tent, and dozed off. You can sleep standing up, if you just adapt a little.

I woke up from the warmth on my face and some kind of radiance under my closed eyelids. So the sun has risen. I opened my eyes and gasped quietly! The clear rays of the sun illuminated every leaf, everything became bright, sharp, faceted. And above the blue water, on slender stem-legs, stood green bowls made of malachite, and in the bowls lay pink buds.

Pink buds, each in two fists!

Maybe I'm still dreaming?

The sun touched the burdock bowls and incredibly tender buds. The buds woke up and began to move. Outer white petals - each in the palm of your hand! - opened, showing the sun the red core of a lotus flower. It was as if white tender palms were carefully and tenderly warming the flowers that had withered overnight in the sun, as if each lotus, raising its thin arms into the sky, stretched out its beauty to the sun.

The sun moved slowly in the sky, and, as if enchanted, as if in a dream, the lotus flowers turned behind it. The green bowls of huge leaves, like locator antennas, also turned behind the sun, catching its caressing rays. And the heavy drops of dew inside them, like puddles of mercury, swayed heavily and glittered dullly with their rounded edges.

A faint pink steam smoked over the lotus swamp. Slowly, as if in a dream, flapping its snow-white wings, an incredible white heron flew by. Her wings, pierced by the sun, suddenly flared up and began to glow.

The breeze blew, wrinkled the water, and mischievously shook the flowers. The whole huge pink swamp began to stir, fuss, murmur, and woke up. I woke up too.

A persistent mosquito was buzzing right into my ear. From under his feet, swaying and shimmering, swamp bubbles floated up and protruded from the water like the eyes of a frog. Yes, this is a dream - there is a swamp around and under your feet. But what a swamp!

A stream babbled in the bushes. There lived a frog in the stream. And in the bushes there is a nightingale.

As soon as the sun set on the forest, the frog and the nightingale began to sing. The frog purred and croaked, and the nightingale clicked and whistled.

Of course, the nightingale is not a frog. He was probably disgusted to listen to her, so he whistled and clicked louder and louder.

But the frog is not a nightingale either: she was probably afraid that she could not be heard because of the whistle, and she also croaked and purred louder.

They will get so excited - there will be a roar and a groan!

The nightingale peals after peals - only the leaves tremble.

The frog is straining - even ripples in the water.

And you stand and listen, even though the mosquitoes are biting you.

Everyone was angry with the frog: he wouldn’t let the nightingale really listen! And they clapped their hands and threw stones into the stream. At least she cares.

But suddenly she fell silent. He probably already devoured it. A fat spotted snake lived in this stream.

Everyone was very happy: now we will listen to the vociferous nightingale!

Evening after evening falls on the tugai (dense thickets along the banks of rivers), and there is silence and peace, but the nightingale still does not sing. It whistles, clicks, and then goes silent.

And everything was somehow half-hearted, lazy and reluctant. And somehow carelessly, with blots, somehow. Neither the leaf nor the heart will tremble from the whistle. Probably, he had no one to argue with - he went soft.

He began to sing poorly: flabby, sleepy and sluggish. At least throw the frog into the stream again!

To sing, the cuckoo needs a ringing line so that its voice becomes elastic and sonorous. There are such corners in the forest: everything there rings - both the birds and the wind.

We are standing in a ringing bore, and a cuckoo is calling above us. She sits on a black pine tree, over which a star trembles. Sits and bows to the green dawn: a slightly raised tail, slightly drooping wings and a swollen thick throat.

This is a skilled screamer.

The pine bore picks up the cry, makes it louder and rushes towards dawn, beyond the jagged strip of forest. And from there - from far, far away! - another cuckoo answers him. “Kuk-ku” and “ku-ku” - and smoothly, and okay, and exactly in time.

Ours is making “peek-a-boo!” - and another one builds.

Ours will suddenly shout “ho!” - and the stranger will respond “ho!”

And it won’t get lost, won’t confuse, won’t get ahead of you. They have such agreement, such a rhythm - I could listen until the morning.

There are too many stars above the black pine. The dawn has gone out. You couldn’t see it, but you could hear it! All the other cuckoos have fallen silent, but ours is screaming: the opponent is too stubborn, there’s no way to defeat him!

It’s been a long time since we lost count, and we’ve long solved the mystery of the answering cry.

It is not a rival that echoes our cuckoo, but a distant forest echo; it echoes itself, it wants to outshout itself.

And the years fall into the forest like weighty, clean drops. Cuckoo years are sonorous, like a borok, clear, like the dawn, and long, like a viscous forest echo.

I wish I could live and listen, listen and live!

Birds are afraid of the human eye. I checked it myself. It’s worth looking at a bird’s nest and it’s over: the bird will take away the eggs and chicks and abandon the nest. I photographed bird's nests. Today I’ll take it off - tomorrow the nest is empty. What it came down to was filming the chicks in the absence of the old people. And still the old people found out that I was looking at their chicks! By morning there are no chicks or eggs in the nest.

Three mysteries emerged. How will the birds know that I saw their nest? Where do they take their chicks? And, most importantly, why are they afraid of the human eye? What kind of eye is this fatal?

But there was only one solution to three riddles.

The human eye has nothing to do with it.

The culprit was the raven's eye.

While I was fumbling around in the bushes, pointing the camera at the nest, a crow was watching me. The raven heard the alarming cries of the birds. And as soon as I left, she flew into the bushes. It was not in vain that the bird was worried when a man was fussing in the bushes.

Here is the rumpled grass, here are the bent branches, and here is the nest.

Five chicks for a crow to swallow.

This is what happens most often. People will find a nest, make a noise, and the grass and branches around will be crushed and bent. The parent birds will be alarmed. And the crow sits on the sidelines and notices everything.

The raven's eye is terrible for birds.

And the human is to blame for not noticing the crow in time.

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