home Fishing methods I love a rainy summer day like this. Children's stories online

I love a rainy summer day like this. Children's stories online

A rainy summer day. I love to wander through the woods in this weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead where you can dry off and warm up. And besides, the summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather there is mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet made of last year's fallen leaves and crumbling pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered with raindrops that rain down on you with every movement. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns so brightly green and all burns with diamond sparks. Something festive and joyful is around you, and you feel yourself on this holiday as a welcome, dear guest.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Bright Lake, to the familiar watchman on the Taras fishing site. The rain was already thinning. On one side of the sky, gaps appeared, a little more - and the hot summer sun would appear. Forest path made sharp turn, and I went out onto a sloping promontory, which jutted with a wide tongue into the lake. Actually, there was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the Saimaa nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the bay. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island that spreads like a green cap opposite the Saimaa.

My appearance on the cape caused the guard call of the dog Taras, - to strangers she always barked in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if she were angrily asking: "Who is coming?" I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary intelligence and faithful service ...

From a distance, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down, it was the hunched over an old wooden roof, sprouted with cheerful green grass. Around the hut a dense growth of willow-tea, sage and "bear pipes" rose, so that the man approaching the hut could only see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was greasy.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley little dog flew out of the grass head over heels and burst into desperate barking.

- Well, stop ... Didn't recognize?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He approached carefully, sniffed at my hunting boots and only after this ceremony wagged his tail apologetically. Say, I'm guilty, I was mistaken - but all the same, I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking flame, an armful of freshly chopped wood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck into a stump of wood. Through the open door of the Saimaa one could see the entire economy of Taras: a gun on the wall, several pots in the oven, a chest under the bench, hanging tackles. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Regardless of the weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hotly and slept on the beds. This love of warmth was explained by the venerable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the invasion of the French in Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging the hunting armor on the wall, I began to build a fire. He spun around me, anticipating some kind of profit. The light flared up merrily, sending up a blue stream of smoke. The rain has already passed. Torn clouds swept across the sky, dropping rare drops. In some places, the skylights of the sky turned blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under whose rays the wet grass seemed to smoke. The water in the lake was still, as it happens only after rain. It smelled of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it is good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the surface of the Bright Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And it's not for nothing that old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city, he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly - this tranquility that covered here. It's good on the saimaa! .. A bright light burns merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts your eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with the wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes in my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper outdoor kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already starting to boil, but the old man was still gone.

- Where would he go? - I thought out loud. - They inspect the tackle in the morning, and now it's noon ... Maybe I went to see if anyone is catching fish without asking ... Sobolko, where did your master go?

The clever dog just wagged its bushy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. Outwardly, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "hunting" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears and a tail curled up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not find a squirrel in the forest, would not be able to "bark" a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, best friend person. You need to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its merits.

When this "man's best friend" squealed with joy, I realized that he had seen the owner. Indeed, in the channel a fishing boat appeared as a black dot, skirting the island. It was Taras ... He swam standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar - real fishermen all float like that on their one-line boats, called not without reason "gas chambers". As he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging on the beautifully floating bird. - Go, go ... Here I will give you - God knows where to sail away ... Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the saimaa, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

Old man Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. He walked all summer barefoot and without a hat. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. The broad, tanned face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he wore one shirt made of peasant blue canvas.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, master!

- Where does God bring from?

- But I swam behind Pryomysh, after a swan ... Everything here was spinning in the channel, and then suddenly it disappeared ... Well, I'm after him now. I went to the lake - no; swam through the backwaters - no; and he swims beyond the island.

- Where did you get it, the swan?

- And God sent, yes! .. Here the hunters from the gentlemen came running; Well, they shot the swan with the swan, but this one stayed. Huddled in the reeds and sits. He can't fly, so he hid like a child. Of course, I put nets near the reeds, and I caught him. One will be lost, the hawk will be seized, because there is still no real meaning in it. He remained an orphan. So I brought it and keep it. And he, too, got used to it ... Now it will soon be a month how we live together. In the morning at dawn it will rise, swim in the channel, feed, then go home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. An intelligent bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as of a loved one. The swan hobbled over to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.

- He will fly away from you, grandfather ... - I remarked.

- Why should he fly? And here it is good: well fed, water is all around ...

- And in winter?

- Will spend the winter with me in the hut. There will be enough room, but Sobolko and I are more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my saimaa, saw a swan and said the same thing: “It will fly away if you don’t clip your wings.” But how can you injure a bird of God? Let her live as she was instructed by the Lord ... One is indicated to the man, and another to the bird ... I don’t understand why the gentlemen shot the swans. After all, they will not eat, and so, for mischief ...

Swan accurately understood the old man's words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- And how is he with Sobolko? I asked.

- At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it. Now the swan will take a piece from Sobolk another time. The dog will growl at him, and his swan - with a wing. It's funny to look at them from the outside. And then they will go for a walk: a swan on the water, and Sobolko - along the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, well, but the craft was not right: he almost drowned. And as the swan swims away, Sobolko is looking for him. Sits on the shore and howls ... Say, I'm bored, the dog, without you, heart friend. So we live three of us.

I loved the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. I had to while away many summer nights on the saimaa, and each time you learn something new. Before, Taras was a hunter and knew places around fifty miles, knew every custom of a forest bird and a forest animal; but now he could not go far and knew one of his fish. It is easier to sail on a boat than walking with a gun in the woods, and especially in the mountains. Now the gun remained with Taras only out of old memory, and just in case a wolf had run in. In winters, wolves looked at the Saimaa and for a long time already sharpened their teeth at Sobolk. Only Sobolko was cunning and was not given to wolves.

I stayed on the site for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set nets for the night. Well, the Bright lake, and it's not for nothing that it was called the Bright one, - the water in it is completely transparent, so you sail in a boat and see the whole bottom at a depth of several fathoms. Both motley pebbles and yellow river sand, and algae, you can see how the fish walks "rune", that is, a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it was adjacent to the mountains only on one side, and on the other it went "into the steppe", where the blessed Bashkiria began. The most free places lay around the Bright Lake, and a brisk mountain river emerged from it, spreading over the steppe for a whole thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty miles long, and about nine wide. The depth reached in some places fifteen fathoms ... A group of wooded islands gave it a special beauty. One such island moved away to the very middle of the lake and was called Hunger, because, having got on it in bad weather, the fishermen often went hungry for several days.

Taras lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a bean. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetly for whole years.

- Aren't you bored, grandfather? - I asked when we returned from fishing. - It's terribly lonely in the forest ...

- One? The master will say the same ... I live here as a prince as a prince. I have everything ... And every bird, and fish, and grass. Of course, they don't know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices another time to look at God's creature ... Everyone has their own order and their own mind. Do you think the fish swims in the water in vain or the bird flies through the forest? No, they have no less concern than ours ... Avon, look, the swan is waiting for Sobolko and me. Ah, the prosecutor! ..

The old man was terribly pleased with his Reception, and all conversations in the end were reduced to him.

“A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Beck him with food, but don’t let him, next time it won’t go. It also has its own character, even though a bird ... With Sobolko, he also very proudly holds himself. A little bit, now it will blow with a wing, or even with a nose. It is known that the dog will want to play up another time, he strives to catch the tail with his teeth, and the swan in the face ... This is also not a toy to grab the tail.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

- Come in the autumn, - the old man says goodbye. - Then we will shoot the fish with a prison ... Well, we will also shoot hazel grouses. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandfather, I'll come sometime.

When I left, the old man returned me:

- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko ...

Indeed, it was worth admiring the original painting. The swan stood, wings spread, and Sobolko attacked him with a squeal and bark. The clever bird stretched out its neck and hissed at the dog, as geese do. Old Taras laughed heartily at this scene like a child.

The next time I got to Lake Bright was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. In some places, there was still a yellow leaf on the birches. Spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow with a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, tired of summer tireless work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed larger, because the coastal greenery was gone. Clear water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave hit the shore with a noise ...

Taras's hut stood in the same place, but seemed taller, because the tall grass surrounding it was gone. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and wagged his tail affectionately from a distance. Taras was at home. He repaired a seine for winter fishing.

- Hello, old man! ..

- Hello, master!

- Well, how are you?

- Yes, nothing ... In the fall, then, to the first snow, I fell ill a little. My legs hurt ... It always happens to me in bad weather.

The old man really looked tired. He seemed so decrepit and pitiful now. However, this happened, as it turned out, not at all from an illness. At tea we got to talking, and the old man told his grief.

- Do you remember, sir, the swan?

- Reception?

- He is the most ... Ah, the bird was good! .. But again Sobolko and I were left alone ... Yes, Pryomysh was gone.

- Did the hunters kill?

- No, he left himself ... That's how offensive it is to me, sir! .. Didn't I seem to look after him, I wasn't fond of! .. He fed me from my hands ... He walked towards me and answered my voice. He swims on the lake - I click on him, and he swims up. Scientist bird. And I’ve gotten used to it ... yes! During the flight, a herd of swans descended to Lake Bright. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let the bird of God gather with strength: it is not a close place to fly ... Well, and then sin came out. My Priyomish first kept away from other swans: he would swim up to them, and back. Those giggle in their own way, they call him, and he goes home ... They say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. Everything, therefore, speaks in its own way, in a bird's way. Well, and then, I see, my Priyomysh was homesick ... It's all the same how a person yearns. It will come ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Why, how plaintively he screams ... It will make me sad, and Sobolko, a fool, howls like a wolf. You know, a free bird, the blood had an effect ...

The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.

- Well, what then, grandfather?

- Oh, and don't ask ... I locked him in the hut for the whole day, so he got it right here too. He will stand on one foot at the very door and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only now he won't say in human language: “Let go, grandfathers, to your comrades. They will fly to the warm side, but what am I going to do with you here in winter? " Ah, you, I think, a task! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear ...

- Why will it disappear?

- But what about? .. Those on free will grew up. Them, the young ones who, father and mother, learned to fly. Do you think how they are? The swans will grow up, the father and mother will take them out first on the water, and then they will begin to teach them how to fly. Little by little they teach: farther and farther. With my own eyes, I saw how young people are trained to fly. First, they teach separately, then in small flocks, and then they will cluster into one large herd. It looks like a soldier is being drilled ... Well, my Priyomysh grew up alone and, read it, never flew anywhere. Swimming on the lake - that's all there is to it. Where can he fly? Will be exhausted, lag behind the herd and disappear ... Unaccustomed to a long flight.

The old man was silent again.

“But I had to release it,” he said sadly. - All the same, I think, if I keep him for the winter, he will become bored and wan. The bird is so special. Well, he did. My Priyomish stuck to the herd, swam with him for the day, and in the evening he went home again. So I sailed for two days. Also, although a bird, it's hard to part with your home. It was he who sailed to say goodbye, sir ... The last time he sailed from the shore that way, twenty yards, he stopped and, my brother, he would shout in his own way. Say: "Thank you for the bread, for the salt! .." Only I saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, both of us were very homesick. I ask him: "Sobolko, where is our Priyomish?" And Sobolko now howl ... So he regrets. And now to the shore, and now to look for a dear friend ... I dreamed at night that Priyomysh was here rushing along the shore and flapping his wings. I go out - there is no one ...

That's what happened, sir.

A rainy summer day. I love to wander through the woods in this weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead where you can dry off and warm up. Besides, summer rain is warm. In the city, in such weather, there is mud, and in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet made of last year's fallen leaves and crumbling pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered with raindrops that rain down on you with every move. And when the sun comes out after such a rain, the forest turns so brightly green and all burns with diamond sparks. Something festive and joyful is around you, and you feel yourself on this holiday as a welcome, dear guest.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached the Bright Lake, to the familiar watchman at the fishing saimaa (parking lot) Taras. The rain was already thinning. On one side of the sky, gaps appeared, a little more - and the hot summer sun would appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came to a sloping promontory, which jutted with a wide tongue into the lake. Actually, there was not the lake itself, but a wide channel between the two lakes, and the Saimaa nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the bay. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out with a green cap opposite the Saimaa.

My appearance on the cape caused the guard call of the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if she were angrily asking: "Who is coming?" I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary intelligence and loyal service.

From a distance, the fishing hut looked like a large boat turned upside down — it was the hunched over an old wooden roof overgrown with cheerful green grass. Around the hut a dense growth of willow-tea, sage and "bear pipes" rose, so that the man approaching the hut could only see one head. Such dense grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was greasy.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley little dog flew out of the grass head over heels and burst into desperate barking.

- Well, stop ... Didn't recognize?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He approached cautiously, sniffed at my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony did he wag his tail apologetically. They say, I'm guilty, I was mistaken - but all the same, I have to guard the hut.

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped wood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck into a stump of wood. Through the open door of the Saimaa one could see the whole household of Taras: a gun on the wall, several pots in the oven, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Regardless of the weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hotly and slept on the beds. This love of warmth was explained by the venerable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the invasion of the French in Russia in 1812.

The water in the lake was still, as it happens only after rain. It smelled of fresh grass, sage, the resinous scent of a nearby pine forest. In general, it is good, as soon as it can be good in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the surface of the Bright Lake turned blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged border. Wonderful corner! And it's not for nothing that old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city, he would not have lived even half, because in the city you cannot buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly - this tranquility that covered here. Good on the saimaa! A bright light burns merrily; the hot sun begins to bake, it hurts your eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with the wonderful forest freedom. The thought of the city flashes in my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper outdoor kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

- Where would he go? - I thought out loud. - The tackle is inspected in the morning, and now it is noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking. So, where did your master go?

The clever dog just wagged its bushy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. Outwardly, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "hunting" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not find a squirrel in the forest, would not be able to "bark" a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. You need to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its merits.

When this "man's best friend" squealed with joy, I realized that he had seen the owner. Indeed, in the channel a fishing boat appeared as a black dot, skirting the island. This was Taras. He swam, standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar - real fishermen all float like this on their one-tree boats, not without reason called "gas chambers." As he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging on the beautifully floating bird. - Go, go. Here I will give you - God knows where to sail away. Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the saimaa, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

Old man Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. All summer he went barefoot and without a hat. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. The broad, tanned face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he wore one shirt made of peasant blue canvas.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, master!

- Where does God bring?

- And here I swam behind the Priyomysh, after the swan. Everything here was spinning in the channel, and then suddenly it disappeared. Well, I'm after him now. I went to the lake - no; swam through the backwaters - no; and he swims beyond the island.

- Where did you get it, the swan?

- And God sent, yes! Here hunters from gentlemen came running; well, they shot the swan and the swan, but this one stayed. Huddled in the reeds and sits. He can't fly, so he hid like a child. Of course, I put nets near the reeds, and I caught him. One will be lost, the hawk will be seized, because there is still no real meaning in it. He remained an orphan. So I brought it and keep it. And he got used to it too. Now, soon it will be a month, how we live together. In the morning at dawn it rises, swims in the channel, feeds, then goes home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. An intelligent bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as of a loved one. The swan hobbled over to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.

“It will fly away from you, grandfather,” I remarked.

- Why should he fly? And here it is good: well fed, water is everywhere.

- And in winter?

- Will spend the winter with me in the hut. There will be enough room, but Sobolko and I are more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my saimaa, saw a swan and said in the same way: “It will fly away if you don’t clip your wings.” How can a bird of God be mutilated? Let her live as she was told by the Lord ... One is indicated to the man, and another to the bird ... I don’t understand why the gentlemen shot the swans. After all, they will not eat, and so, for mischief.

Swan accurately understood the old man's words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- And how is he with Sobolko? I asked.

- At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it. Now the swan will take a piece from Sobolk another time. The dog will grumble at him, and his swan - his wing. It's funny to look at them from the outside. And then they go for a walk together: the swan on the water, and Sobolko - along the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, well, but the craft was not right: he almost drowned. And as the swan swims away, Sobolko is looking for him. Sits on the shore and howls. Say, I'm bored, the dog, without you, dear friend. So we live three together.

I love the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. I had to while away many summer nights on the saimaa, and each time you learn something new. Before, Taras was a hunter and knew places around fifty miles, knew every custom of a forest bird and a forest animal; but now he could not go far and knew one of his fish. It is easier to sail on a boat than walking with a gun in the forest, and especially in the mountains. Now the gun remained with Taras only out of old memory, and just in case a wolf had run in. In winters, wolves looked at the Saimaa and for a long time already sharpened their teeth at Sobolk. Only Sobolko was cunning and was not given to wolves.

I stayed on the site for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set nets for the night. Well, the Bright lake, and it is not for nothing that it was called the Bright lake, - after all, the water in it is completely transparent, so you sail in a boat and see the whole bottom at a depth of several fathoms. You can see colorful pebbles, and yellow river sand, and seaweed, you can see how the fish walks "in a rune", that is, a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it was adjacent to the mountains only on one side, and on the other it went "into the steppe", where the blessed Bashkiria began. The most free places lay around the Bright Lake, and a brisk mountain river flowed out of it, spreading over the steppe for a whole thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty miles long, and about nine wide. The depth reached in some places fifteen fathoms. A group of wooded islands gave it a special beauty. One such island moved away to the very middle of the lake and was called Hunger, because, having got on it in bad weather, the fishermen often went hungry for several days.

Taras lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a boar. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetly for whole years.

- Aren't you bored, grandfather? - I asked when we returned from fishing. - It's terribly lonely in the forest.

- One? The master will say the same. I live here, prince prince. I have everything. And every bird, and fish, and grass. Of course, they do not know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices another time to look at God's creature. Everyone has their own order and their own mind. Do you think the fish swims in the water in vain or the bird flies in the forest? No, they have no less worries than ours. Avon, look, the swan is waiting for me and Sobolko. Ah, the prosecutor!

The old man was terribly pleased with his Receiver, and all conversations in the end were reduced to him.

“A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. “Beck him with food, but don’t let him, next time it won’t go.” It also has its own character, even if it is a bird. He also very proudly holds himself with Sobolko. A little bit, now it will hit with a wing, or even a nose. It is known that the dog will want to play up another time, it strives to catch the tail with its teeth, and the swan in the face. This is also not a toy to grab by the tail.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

- Come in the autumn, - the old man says goodbye. - Then we will shoot the fish with a prison. Well, we'll shoot the hazel grouses. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandfather, I'll come sometime.

When I left, the old man returned me:

- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko.

The next time I got to Lake Bright was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. In some places, there was still a yellow leaf on the birches. Spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow with a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, weary of summer tireless work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed large, because the coastal greenery was gone. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave roared against the shore.

Taras's hut stood in the same place, but it seemed taller, because the tall grass that surrounded it was gone. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and wagged his tail affectionately from a distance. Taras was at home. He repaired a seine for winter fishing.

- Hello, old man!

- Hello, master!

- Well, how are you?

- Never mind. In the fall, then, to the first snow, I fell ill a little. My legs hurt. It always happens to me in bad weather.

The old man did look weary. He seemed so decrepit and pitiful now. However, this happened, as it turned out, not at all from an illness. We got into conversation over tea, and the old man told his grief.

- Do you remember, sir, the swan?

- Adoption?

- He is. Ah, the bird was good! And here again Sobolko and I were left alone. Yes, there was no Priemyh.

- Did the hunters kill?

- No, he left. How insulting to me that, sir! Didn't I seem to have courted him, was I not fond of! He fed from his hands. He walked towards me and the voice. He swims on the lake - I will click on him, and he will swim up. Scientist bird. And I’m quite used to it. Yes! Already in the freezing sin went out. During the flight, a herd of swans descended to Lake Bright. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let the bird of God gather itself with strength: not a close place to fly. Well, and then the sin came out. My Priyomysh at first kept away from other swans: he would swim up to them, and back. Those giggle in their own way, call him, and he goes home. Say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. Everyone, therefore, speaks in their own way, in a bird's way. Well, and then, I see, my Priyomysh got bored. It's all the same how a person yearns. Will come ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Why, he screams so pitifully. It will overtake me melancholy, and Sobolko, a fool, howls like a wolf. You know, a free bird, the blood has affected.

The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.

- Well, what then, grandfather?

- Oh, don't ask. I locked him in a hut for the whole day, so he got it on there too. He will stand on one foot to the door itself and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only now he won't say in human language: “Let go, grandfathers, to your comrades. They will fly to the warmer side, but what am I going to do with you here in winter? " Ah, you, I think, a task! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear.

- Why will it disappear?

- And how? Those who grew up free will. Them, young, who, father and mother learned to fly. Do you think how they are? The swans will grow up - the father and mother will take them out first on the water, and then they will begin to teach them how to fly. Little by little they teach: farther and farther. With my own eyes, I saw how young people are trained to fly. First, they teach separately, then in small flocks, and then they will cluster into one large herd. It looks like a soldier being drilled. Well, my Priyomysh alone grew up and, read, did not fly anywhere. Swimming on the lake - that's all there is to it. Where can he fly? Will be exhausted, lag behind the herd and disappear. Unaccustomed to a distant summer.

The old man was silent again.

“But I had to release it,” he said sadly. - All the same, I think, if I keep him for the winter, he will become bored and wilted. The bird is so special. Well, he did. My Priyysh stuck to the herd, swam with him for the day, and in the evening he went home again. So I sailed for two days. Also, although he is a bird, it is difficult to part with his home. It was he who sailed to say goodbye, sir. The last time I sailed away from the shore that way for twenty yards, I stopped and how, my brother, he will shout in his own way. Say: "Thank you for the bread, for the salt!" I was the only one who saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, both of us were very homesick. I ask him: "Sobolko, but where is our Foster?" And Sobolko now howl. So he regrets. And now ashore, and now look for a dear friend. At night, I dreamed that Priyomysh was flapping along the coast and flapping his wings. I go out - no one is there.

That's what happened, sir.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley little dog flew out of the grass head over heels and burst into desperate barking.

- Well, stop ... Didn't recognize?

The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Regardless of the weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hotly and slept on the beds. This love of warmth was explained by the venerable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the invasion of the French in Russia in 1812.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper outdoor kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

- Where would he go? - I thought out loud. - The tackle is inspected in the morning, and now it is noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking. So, where did your master go?

The clever dog just wagged its bushy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. Outwardly, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "hunting" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not find a squirrel in the forest, would not be able to "bark" a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. You need to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its merits.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging on the beautifully floating bird. - Go, go. Here I will give you - God knows where to sail away. Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the saimaa, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, master!

- Where does God bring?

- Where did you get it, the swan?

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as of a loved one. The swan hobbled over to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.

“It will fly away from you, grandfather,” I remarked.

- Why should he fly? And here it is good: well fed, water is everywhere.

- And in winter?

Swan accurately understood the old man's words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- And how is he with Sobolko? I asked.

The most free places lay around the Bright Lake, and a brisk mountain river flowed out of it, spreading over the steppe for a whole thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty miles long, and about nine wide. The depth reached in some places fifteen fathoms. A group of wooded islands gave it a special beauty. One such island moved away to the very middle of the lake and was called Hunger, because, having got on it in bad weather, the fishermen often went hungry for several days.

Taras lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a boar. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetly for whole years.

- Aren't you bored, grandfather? - I asked when we returned from fishing. - It's terribly lonely in the forest.

The old man was terribly pleased with his Receiver, and all conversations in the end were reduced to him.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

- Come in the autumn, - the old man says goodbye. - Then we will shoot the fish with a prison. Well, we'll shoot the hazel grouses. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandfather, I'll come sometime.

When I left, the old man returned me:

- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko.

The next time I got to Lake Bright was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. In some places, there was still a yellow leaf on the birches. Spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow with a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, weary of summer tireless work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed large, because the coastal greenery was gone. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave roared against the shore.

- Hello, old man!

- Hello, master!

- Well, how are you?

- Never mind. In the fall, then, to the first snow, I fell ill a little. My legs hurt. It always happens to me in bad weather.

- Do you remember, sir, the swan?

- Adoption?

- He is. Ah, the bird was good! And here again Sobolko and I were left alone. Yes, there was no Priemyh.

- Did the hunters kill?

The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.

- Well, what then, grandfather?

- Why will it disappear?

The old man was silent again.

That's what happened, sir.

When I was already quite close to the hut, a motley little dog flew out of the grass head over heels and burst into desperate barking.

- Well, stop ... Didn't recognize?

The hut was empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some fishing tackle. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a weakly smoking light, an armful of freshly chopped wood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck into a stump of wood. Through the open door of the Saimaa one could see the whole household of Taras: a gun on the wall, several pots in the oven, a chest under the bench, hanging tackle. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers was placed in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Regardless of the weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hotly and slept on the beds. This love of warmth was explained by the venerable age of Taras: he was about ninety years old. I say "about" because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the invasion of the French in Russia in 1812.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper outdoor kettle of water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still gone.

- Where would he go? - I thought out loud. - The tackle is inspected in the morning, and now it is noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking. So, where did your master go?

The clever dog just wagged its bushy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. Outwardly, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called "hunting" dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, a tail bent up, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not find a squirrel in the forest, would not be able to "bark" a capercaillie, track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. You need to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its merits.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging on the beautifully floating bird. - Go, go. Here I will give you - God knows where to sail away. Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the saimaa, went ashore, shook himself and, waddling heavily on his crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, master!

- Where does God bring?

- Where did you get it, the swan?

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as of a loved one. The swan hobbled over to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.

“It will fly away from you, grandfather,” I remarked.

- Why should he fly? And here it is good: well fed, water is everywhere.

- And in winter?

Swan accurately understood the old man's words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- And how is he with Sobolko? I asked.

Taras lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a boar. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetly for whole years.

- Aren't you bored, grandfather? - I asked when we returned from fishing. - It's terribly lonely in the forest.

The old man was terribly pleased with his Receiver, and all conversations in the end were reduced to him.

I spent the night and in the morning the next day I was going to leave.

- Come in the autumn, - the old man says goodbye. - Then we will shoot the fish with a prison. Well, we'll shoot the hazel grouses. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandfather, I'll come sometime.

When I left, the old man returned me:

- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko.

The next time I got to Lake Bright was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. In some places, there was still a yellow leaf on the birches. Spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow with a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, weary of summer tireless work, was now resting. The bright lake seemed large, because the coastal greenery was gone. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave roared against the shore.

- Hello, old man!

- Hello, master!

- Well, how are you?

- Never mind. In the fall, then, to the first snow, I fell ill a little. My legs hurt. It always happens to me in bad weather.

- Do you remember, sir, the swan?

- Adoption?

- He is. Ah, the bird was good! And here again Sobolko and I were left alone. Yes, there was no Priemyh.

- Did the hunters kill?

The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.

- Well, what then, grandfather?

- Why will it disappear?

The old man was silent again.

That's what happened, sir.

In this story, an amazing story about how an old man tamed a swan. The bird became almost his own son.
From the mouth of the hunter, the reader learns the story of the receiving swan. Lonely old man Taras lives by the lake. Once on a hunt, the townspeople, who, of course, do not understand nature, shot two swans - a father and a mother, and they had an orphan chick that hid in the reeds. Grandfather Taras sympathized with the chick, began to feed him, but did not rub his friendship with the proud bird. I had to take the chick, saving it from the cold, to the barn. Soon the swan got used to the assistant, began to show interest in his life.

My grandfather had another pet - a dog. So he and the swan ceased to be afraid of each other, they even began to play. Surprisingly, they already ate from the same bowl! The old man only admired their friendship. Yes, and he himself was admired when he was walking on a boat, and a handsome swan was sailing in front.

He treated the swan just like his own child, which is why he can be called a reception.

And yet the time has come when the swan has become quite an adult. In addition, a flock of the same beautiful birds flew to the lake. Lebed, although he was afraid, wanted to join them. First, Taras locked him in the house, wanting to save him. The man thought that his pet was not able to fly away with the flock. After all, there young birds are brought up, trained, and this one will hardly get food for himself. Where is there to fly to warmer climes! But the swan cried so like a bird that Taras let him go. According to him, the adoptee rushed to his native birds, but stopped, as if saying goodbye to his adoptive father, shouted in his own way, they say, thanks for the bread and salt. And flew away on a long journey. The swan made his choice.

Without his swan, Taras grew very old, worried about the fate of the bird.

Still, the breed took its toll. I would like to believe that the bird, like a human, felt a feeling of gratitude to the old man Taras, who cared for her so tenderly.

I love a rainy summer day like this. Children's stories online

Picture or drawing Receiver

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I love a rainy summer day like this. Children's stories online

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