Konstantin Paustovsky "Hare paws"

Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Lake Urzhensk and brought a small warm hare wrapped in a torn wadded jacket. The hare was crying and often blinking his red eyes from tears...

— Are you crazy? shouted the vet. “Soon you’ll be dragging mice to me, you barehead!”

“Don’t bark, this is a special hare,” Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. - His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.

- From what to treat something?

- His paws are burned.

The veterinarian turned Vanya to face the door, pushed him in the back and shouted after him:

— Get on, get on! I can't heal them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will have a snack.

Vanya did not answer. He went out into the passage, blinked his eyes, pulled his nose and bumped into a log wall. Tears ran down the wall. The hare shivered quietly under the greasy jacket.

What are you, little one? the compassionate grandmother Anisya asked Vanya; she brought her only goat to the vet. - Why are you, my dear ones, shedding tears together? Ay what happened?

“He’s burnt, grandfather hare,” Vanya said quietly. - He burned his paws in a forest fire, he cannot run. Here, look, die.

“Don’t die, little one,” Anisya murmured. - Tell your grandfather, if he has a great desire to go out a hare, let him carry him to the city to Karl Petrovich.

Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the woods to Lake Urzhenskoye. He did not walk, but ran barefoot on a hot sandy road. A recent forest fire has passed northward near the lake itself. There was a smell of burning and dry cloves. It grew in large islands in glades.

The hare moaned.

Vanya found fluffy leaves covered with soft silver hair on the way, pulled them out, put them under a pine tree and turned the hare around. The hare looked at the leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.

What are you, grey? Vanya asked quietly. - You should eat.

The hare was silent.

The hare moved his torn ear and closed his eyes.

Vanya took him in his arms and ran straight through the forest - he had to quickly give the hare a drink from the lake.

Unheard-of heat stood that summer over the forests. In the morning, strings of white clouds floated up. At noon, the clouds were rapidly rushing up to the zenith, and before our eyes they were carried away and disappeared somewhere beyond the boundaries of the sky. The hot hurricane had been blowing for two weeks without a break. The resin flowing down the pine trunks turned into an amber stone.

The next morning, grandfather put on clean shoes and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece of bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried the hare from behind. The hare was completely quiet, only occasionally shuddered all over and sighed convulsively.

Dry wind blew a cloud of dust over the city, soft as flour. Chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw flew in it. From a distance it seemed that a quiet fire was smoking over the city.

The market square was very empty, sultry; the cab horses dozed near the water booth, and they wore straw hats on their heads.

Grandfather crossed himself.

- Not the horse, not the bride - the jester will sort them out! he said and spat.

Passers-by were asked for a long time about Karl Petrovich, but no one really answered anything. We went to the pharmacy. A fat old man in pince-nez and in a short white coat shrugged his shoulders angrily and said:

- I like it! Pretty weird question! Karl Petrovich Korsh, a specialist in childhood diseases, has stopped seeing patients for three years now. Why do you need him?

Grandfather, stuttering from respect for the pharmacist and from timidity, told about the hare.

- I like it! the pharmacist said. - Interesting patients wound up in our city. I like this wonderful!

He nervously took off his pince-nez, wiped it, put it back on his nose and stared at his grandfather. Grandfather was silent and stomped on the spot. The pharmacist was also silent. The silence was becoming painful.

— Post street, three! the pharmacist suddenly shouted in his heart and slammed some disheveled thick book shut. - Three!

Grandfather and Vanya made it to Pochtovaya Street just in time - a high thunderstorm was setting in from behind the Oka. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon, like a sleepy strongman straightening his shoulders and reluctantly shaking the ground.

Gray ripples went along the river. Noiseless lightnings surreptitiously, but swiftly and strongly struck the meadows; far beyond the Glades, a haystack, lit by them, was already burning. Large drops of rain fell on the dusty road, and soon it became like the surface of the moon: each drop left a small crater in the dust.

Karl Petrovich was playing something sad and melodic on the piano when his grandfather's disheveled beard appeared in the window.

A minute later Karl Petrovich was already angry.

“I'm not a veterinarian,” he said, and slammed the lid of the piano shut. Immediately thunder rumbled in the meadows. - All my life I have been treating children, not hares.

“What a child, what a hare is all the same,” grandfather muttered stubbornly. — All the same! Lie down, show mercy! Our veterinarian has no jurisdiction over such matters. He horse-drawn for us. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him my life, I must show gratitude, and you say - quit!

A minute later Karl Petrovich—an old man with gray, tousled eyebrows—was agitated as he listened to his grandfather's stumbling story.

Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. The next morning, grandfather went to the lake, and left Vanya with Karl Petrovich to follow the hare.

A day later, the entire Pochtovaya Street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that Karl Petrovich was treating a hare that had been burned in a terrible forest fire and had saved some old man. Two days later, the whole small town already knew about it, and on the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich, introduced himself as an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked him to talk about a hare.

The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in a cotton rag and carried him home. Soon the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor tried for a long time to get his grandfather to sell him the hare. He even sent letters with stamps to answer. But my grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote a letter to the professor:

“The hare is not corrupt, a living soul, let him live in the wild. At the same time, I remain Larion Malyavin.

This autumn I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on Lake Urzhenskoe. The constellations, cold as grains of ice, floated in the water. Noisy dry reeds. The ducks shivered in the thickets and plaintively quacked all night.

Grandpa couldn't sleep. He sat by the stove and repaired a torn fishing net. Then he put on the samovar - from it the windows in the hut immediately fogged up and the stars turned from fiery points into muddy balls. Murzik was barking in the yard. He jumped into the darkness, chattered his teeth and bounced off - he fought with the impenetrable October night. The hare slept in the passage and occasionally in his sleep he loudly pounded with his hind paw on a rotten floorboard.

We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and indecisive dawn, and over tea my grandfather finally told me the story of the hare.

In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. The forests were dry as gunpowder. Grandfather got a hare with a torn left ear. Grandfather shot him with an old, wire-bound gun, but missed. The hare got away.

Grandfather realized that a forest fire had started and the fire was coming right at him.

The wind turned into a hurricane. Fire drove across the ground at an unheard of speed. According to my grandfather, even a train could not escape such a fire. Grandfather was right: during the hurricane, the fire went at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.

Grandfather ran over the bumps, stumbled, fell, the smoke was eating away at his eyes, and behind him a wide rumble and crackle of the flame was already audible.

Death overtook the grandfather, grabbed him by the shoulders, and at that time a hare jumped out from under the grandfather's feet. He ran slowly and dragged his hind legs. Then only the grandfather noticed that they were burned by the hare.

Grandfather was delighted with the hare, as if it were his own.

As an old forest dweller, grandfather knew that animals smell much better than humans where the fire comes from, and always escape. They die only in those rare cases when the fire surrounds them.

The grandfather ran after the rabbit. He ran, crying with fear and shouting: “Wait, dear, don’t run so fast!”

The hare brought grandfather out of the fire.

When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and grandfather both fell down from fatigue. Grandfather picked up the hare and carried it home. The hare had scorched hind legs and belly. Then his grandfather cured him and left him.

“Yes,” said the grandfather, looking at the samovar so angrily, as if the samovar was to blame for everything, “yes, but in front of that hare, it turns out that I have been very guilty, dear man.

- What did you do wrong?

- And you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will know. Get a flashlight!

I took a lantern from the table and went out into the vestibule. The hare was sleeping. I bent over him with a lantern and noticed that the left ear of the hare was torn. Then I understood everything.

Konstantin Paustovsky "Cat-thief"

We are in despair. We didn't know how to catch this ginger cat. He robbed us every night. He hid so cleverly that none of us really saw him. Only a week later it was finally possible to establish that the cat's ear was torn off and a piece of dirty tail was cut off. It was a cat that had lost all conscience, a cat - a vagabond and a bandit. They called him behind the eyes Thief.

He stole everything: fish, meat, sour cream and bread. Once he even tore open a tin can of worms in a closet. He did not eat them, but chickens came running to the open jar and pecked at our entire supply of worms. Overfed chickens lay in the sun and moaned. We walked around them and swore, but the fishing was still disrupted.

We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat. The village boys helped us with this. Once they rushed over and, out of breath, told that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged a kukan with perches in its teeth. We rushed to the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perches caught on Prorva. It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.

The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it. We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly. But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.

The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof. The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All the days, from dawn to dark, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets. To get to the shore of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their aureoles swayed over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust. We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the red cat's new tramp antics. But, finally, the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.

We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue. An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves. Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lyonka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house. Lyonka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground. The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat bit into the head of a fish. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lyonka dragged him by the line. The cat resisted desperately, but Lyonka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the delicious fish. A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole. Lyonka grabbed the cat by the collar and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.

Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:

"What are we to do with him?"

- Rip out! - I said.

“It won’t help,” Lyonka said. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.

The cat waited with closed eyes. We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream. The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed himself, looking at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes. After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head. Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.

From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing. The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act. The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates. The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the hens and, with a short triumphant cry, jumped onto the table. The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.

Ahead rushed, hiccuping, an ankle-tied rooster-fool, nicknamed "The Gorlach". The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball. After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water on him and he walked away. Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and a hustle.

The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers. We renamed him from Thief to Policeman. Although Reuben claimed that this was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the policemen would not be offended by us for this.

Everyone, even the most serious person, not to mention, of course, boys, has his own secret and slightly funny dream. I also had such a dream - be sure to get to Borovoye Lake.

It was only twenty kilometers from the village where I lived that summer to the lake. Everyone tried to dissuade me from going - and the road was boring, and the lake was like a lake, all around there was only forest, dry swamps and lingonberries. Famous painting!

Why are you rushing there, to this lake! - the garden watchman Semyon was angry. - What didn't you see? What a fussy, grasping people went, Lord! Everything he needs, you see, to snatch with his hand, to look out with his own eye! What will you see there? One reservoir. And nothing more!

Have you been there?

And why did he surrender to me, this lake! I don't have anything else to do, do I? That's where they sit, all my business! Semyon tapped his brown neck with his fist. - On the hump!

But I still went to the lake. Two village boys followed me, Lenka and Vanya. Before we had time to go beyond the outskirts, the complete hostility of the characters of Lenka and Vanya was immediately revealed. Lyonka estimated everything that he saw around in rubles.

Here, look, - he said to me in his booming voice, - the gander is coming. How much do you think he pulls?

How do I know!

Rubles for a hundred, perhaps, pulls, - Lenka said dreamily and immediately asked: - But how much will this pine tree pull? Rubles for two hundred? Or all three hundred?

Accountant! Vanya remarked contemptuously and sniffled. - At the most brains on a dime pull, and to everything asks the price. My eyes would not look at him.

After that, Lenka and Vanya stopped, and I heard a well-known conversation - a harbinger of a fight. It consisted, as is customary, of only questions and exclamations.

Whose brains are pulling a dime? My?

Probably not mine!

You look!

See for yourself!

Don't grab! They did not sew a cap for you!

Oh, how I would not push you in my own way!

And don't be scared! Don't poke me in the nose!

The fight was short, but decisive, Lenka picked up his cap, spat and went, offended, back to the village.

I began to shame Vanya.

Of course! - Vanya said, embarrassed. - I got into a heated fight. Everyone is fighting with him, with Lenka. He's kinda boring! Give him free rein, he hangs on all prices, as in a general store. For every spike. And he will certainly bring down the whole forest, chop it for firewood. And I am most afraid of everything in the world when they bring down the forest. Passion as I fear!

Why so?

Oxygen from forests. Forests will be cut down, oxygen will become liquid, rotten. And the earth will no longer be able to attract him, to keep him near him. He will fly away to where he is! - Vanya pointed to the fresh morning sky. - There will be nothing for a person to breathe. The forester explained to me.

We climbed the izvolok and entered the oak copse. Immediately, red ants began to seize us. They clung to the legs and fell from the branches by the scruff of the neck. Dozens of ant roads strewn with sand stretched between oaks and junipers. Sometimes such a road passed, as if through a tunnel, under the knotty roots of an oak tree and again rose to the surface. Ant traffic on these roads was continuous. In one direction, the ants ran empty, and returned with the goods - white grains, dry paws of beetles, dead wasps and hairy caterpillars.

Bustle! Vanya said. - Like in Moscow. An old man from Moscow comes to this forest for ant eggs. Every year. Takes away in bags. This is the most bird food. And they are good for fishing. The hook needs to be tiny-tiddly!

Behind the oak copse, on the edge, at the edge of the loose sandy road, stood a rickety cross with a black tin icon. Red, flecked with white, ladybugs crawled along the cross. A gentle wind blew in your face from the oat fields. Oats rustled, bent, a gray wave ran over them.

Behind the oat field we passed through the village of Polkovo. I noticed a long time ago that almost all regimental peasants differ from the neighboring inhabitants by their high growth.

Stately people in Polkovo! - our Zaborevskys said with envy. - Grenadiers! Drummers!

In Polkovo, we went to rest in the hut of Vasily Lyalin, a tall, handsome old man with a piebald beard. Gray tufts stuck out in disorder in his black shaggy hair.

When we entered the hut to Lyalin, he shouted:

Lower your heads! Heads! All of my forehead on the lintel smash! It hurts in Polkovo tall people, but they are slow-witted - they put the huts according to short stature.

During the conversation with Lyalin, I finally found out why the regimental peasants were so tall.

Story! Lyalin said. - Do you think we've gone up in vain? In vain, even the Kuzka-bug does not live. It also has its purpose.

Vanya laughed.

You're laughing! Lyalin noted sternly. - Still a little learned to laugh. You listen. Was there such a foolish tsar in Russia - Emperor Pavel? Or was not?

Was, - said Vanya. - We studied.

Was yes swam. And he made such business that we still hiccup. The gentleman was fierce. The soldier at the parade squinted his eyes in the wrong direction - he is now inflamed and begins to thunder: “To Siberia! To hard labor! Three hundred ramrods!” That's what the king was like! Well, such a thing happened - the grenadier regiment did not please him. He shouts: “Step march in the indicated direction for a thousand miles! Campaign! And after a thousand versts to stand forever! And he shows the direction with his finger. Well, the regiment, of course, turned and marched. What will you do! We walked and walked for three months and reached this place. Around the forest is impassable. One hell. They stopped, began to cut huts, knead clay, lay stoves, dig wells. They built a village and called it Polkovo, as a sign that a whole regiment built it and lived in it. Then, of course, liberation came, and the soldiers settled down to this area, and, read it, everyone stayed here. The area, you see, is fertile. There were those soldiers - grenadiers and giants - our ancestors. From them and our growth. If you don't believe me, go to the city, to the museum. They will show you the papers. Everything is written in them. And you think - if they had to walk two more versts and come out to the river, they would have stopped there. So no, they did not dare to disobey the order - they just stopped. People are still surprised. “What are you, they say, regimental, staring into the forest? Didn't you have a place by the river? Terrible, they say, tall, but guesswork in the head, you see, is not enough. Well, explain to them how it was, then they agree. “Against the order, they say, you can’t trample! It is a fact!"

Vasily Lyalin volunteered to accompany us to the forest, show the path to Borovoye Lake. First we passed through a sandy field overgrown with immortelle and wormwood. Then thickets of young pines ran out to meet us. The pine forest met us after the hot fields with silence and coolness. High in the sun's slanting rays, blue jays fluttered as if on fire. Clean puddles stood on the overgrown road, and clouds floated through these blue puddles. It smelled of strawberries, heated stumps. Drops of dew, or yesterday's rain, glittered on the hazel leaves. The cones were falling.

Great forest! Lyalin sighed. - The wind will blow, and these pines will hum like bells.

Then the pines gave way to birches, and behind them the water glistened.

Borovoye? I asked.

No. Before Borovoye still walk and walk. This is Larino Lake. Let's go, look into the water, look.

The water in Larino Lake was deep and clear to the very bottom. Only at the shore she trembled a little - there, from under the mosses, a spring poured into the lake. At the bottom lay several dark large trunks. They gleamed with a faint, dark fire as the sun reached them.

Black oak, - said Lyalin. - Seared, age-old. We pulled one out, but it's hard to work with it. The saw breaks. But if you make a thing - a rolling pin or, say, a rocker - so forever! Heavy wood, sinks in water.

The sun shone in the dark water. Beneath it lay ancient oaks, as if cast from black steel. And above the water, reflected in it with yellow and purple petals, butterflies flew.

Lyalin led us to a deaf road.

Go straight ahead, - he showed, - until you run into mshharas, into a dry swamp. And the path will go along the msharams to the very lake. Just go carefully - there are a lot of pegs.

He said goodbye and left. We went with Vanya along the forest road. The forest grew taller, more mysterious and darker. Gold resin froze in streams on the pines.

At first, the ruts, long overgrown with grass, were still visible, but then they disappeared, and the pink heather covered the whole road with a dry, cheerful carpet.

The road led us to a low cliff. Mshars spread out under it - dense birch and aspen low forests warmed to the roots. Trees sprouted from deep moss. Small yellow flowers were scattered here and there over the moss, and dry branches with white lichen were lying about.

A narrow path led through the mshary. She walked around high bumps. At the end of the path, the water shone with a black blue - Borovoye Lake.

We cautiously walked along the msharams. Pegs, sharp as spears, were sticking out from under the moss - the remains of birch and aspen trunks. The lingonberry bushes have begun. One cheek of each berry - the one that turned to the south - was completely red, and the other was just beginning to turn pink. A heavy capercaillie jumped out from behind a hummock and ran into the undergrowth, breaking dry wood.

We went to the lake. Grass rose above the waist along its banks. Water splashed in the roots of old trees. A wild duck jumped out from under the roots and ran across the water with a desperate squeak.

The water in Borovoye was black and clean. Islands of white lilies bloomed on the water and smelled sickly. The fish struck and the lilies swayed.

Here is grace! Vanya said. - Let's live here until our crackers run out.

I agreed. We stayed at the lake for two days. We saw sunsets and twilight and the tangle of plants that appeared before us in the firelight. We heard the calls of wild geese and the sound of night rain. He did not walk for long, about an hour, and tinkled softly across the lake, as if stretching thin, like cobweb, trembling strings between the black sky and the water.

That's all I wanted to tell. But since then, I will not believe anyone that there are places on our earth that are boring and do not give any food to either the eye, or hearing, or imagination, or human thought.

Only in this way, by exploring some piece of our country, can one understand how good it is and how we are attached in our hearts to each of its paths, springs, and even to the timid squeaking of a forest bird.

Paustovsky about nature

Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky- Russian Soviet writer; modern readers are more aware of such a facet of his work as stories and stories about nature for a children's audience.

Paustovsky was born on May 31 (May 19, O.S.), 1892 in Moscow, his father was a descendant of a Cossack family, worked as a railway statistician. Their family was quite creative, they played the piano here, often sang, and loved theatrical performances. As Paustovsky himself said, his father was an incorrigible dreamer, so his places of work, and, accordingly, his residence changed all the time

In 1898, the Paustovsky family settled in Kyiv. The writer called himself "a resident of Kyivian," many years of his biography were associated with this city, it was in Kyiv that he took place as a writer. The place of study of Konstantin was the 1st Kyiv classical gymnasium. As a student of the last class, he wrote his first story, which was published. Even then, the decision came to him to be a writer, but he could not imagine himself in this profession without accumulating life experience, "going into life." He had to do this also because his father left his family when Konstantin was in the sixth grade, the teenager was forced to take care of supporting his relatives.

In 1911, Paustovsky was a student at the Faculty of History and Philology of Kyiv University, where he studied until 1913. Then he transferred to Moscow, to the university, but already to the Faculty of Law, although he did not complete his studies: his studies were interrupted by the First World War. He, as the youngest son in the family, was not drafted into the army, but he worked as a carriage driver on a tram, on an ambulance train. On the same day, while on different fronts, two of his brothers died, and because of this, Paustovsky came to his mother in Moscow, but stayed there only for a while. At that time, he had a variety of jobs: Novorossiysk and Bryansk metallurgical plants, a boiler plant in Taganrog, a fishing artel on Azov, etc. During his leisure hours, Paustovsky worked on his first story, Romantics, during 1916-1923. (it will be published in Moscow only in 1935).

When the February Revolution began, Paustovsky returned to Moscow, collaborated with newspapers as a reporter. Here he met the October Revolution. In the post-revolutionary years, he made a large number of trips around the country. During the civil war, the writer ended up in Ukraine, where he was called to serve in the Petliura, and then in the Red Army. Then, for two years, Paustovsky lived in Odessa, working in the editorial office of the Moryak newspaper. From there, carried away by a thirst for distant wanderings, he went to the Caucasus, lived in Batumi, Sukhumi, Yerevan, Baku.

The return to Moscow took place in 1923. Here he worked as the editor of ROSTA, and in 1928 his first collection of stories was published, although some stories and essays had been published separately before. In the same year, he wrote his first novel, Shining Clouds. In the 30s. Paustovsky is a journalist for several publications at once, in particular, the Pravda newspaper, Our Achievement magazines, etc. These years are also filled with numerous travels around the country, which provided material for many works of art.

In 1932, his story "Kara-Bugaz" was published, which became a turning point. She makes the writer famous, in addition, from that moment Paustovsky decides to become a professional writer and leaves his job. As before, the writer travels a lot, during his life he traveled almost the entire USSR. Meshchera became his favorite corner, to which he dedicated many inspirational lines.

When the Great Patriotic War began, Konstantin Georgievich also happened to visit many places. On the Southern Front, he worked as a war correspondent, without leaving literature. In the 50s. Paustovsky's place of residence was Moscow and Tarus on the Oka. The post-war years of his career were marked by an appeal to the topic of writing. During 1945-1963. Paustovsky worked on the autobiographical Tale of Life, and these 6 books were the main work of his entire life.

In the mid 50s. Konstantin Georgievich becomes a world-famous writer, the recognition of his talent goes beyond the borders of his native country. The writer gets the opportunity to travel all over the continent, and he enjoys using it, having traveled to Poland, Turkey, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Sweden, Greece, etc. In 1965, he lived on the island of Capri for quite a long time. In the same year, he was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but in the end it was awarded to M. Sholokhov. Paustovsky - holder of the orders "Lenin" and the Red Banner of Labor, was awarded a large number of medals.

Vanya Zubov's father was shaking with swamp fever every year since the spring. He was lying on the floorboards, coughing and crying from the acrid smoke: rotten wood was smoked in the vestibule in order to survive from the mosquito hut.

The deaf grandfather, nicknamed Gundosy, came to treat his father. Grandfather was a healer and a screamer, they were afraid of him throughout the district, in all the remote forest villages.

Grandfather crushed dried crayfish in a mortar, made healing powders for his father and shouted, looking at Vanya with angry trembling eyes:

Is this the earth? Podzol! Even potatoes don't bloom on it, don't want to accept it, the devil. Go to hell, that podzol! The tsar rewarded us for our work - there is nowhere for the people to go!

There’s nowhere to go, that’s right,” sighed the father.

When the word "motherland" was uttered in front of Berg, he grinned. He didn't understand what that meant. The homeland, the land of the fathers, the country where he was born - in the end, it doesn't matter where a person was born. One of his comrades was even born in the ocean on a cargo ship between America and Europe.

Where is this person's home? Berg asked himself. - Is the ocean really this monotonous plain of water, black from the wind and oppressing the heart with constant anxiety?

Berg saw the ocean. When he studied painting in Paris, he happened to be on the banks of the English Channel. The ocean was not like him.

Varya woke up at dawn, listened. The sky was a little blue beyond the window of the hut. In the yard where an old pine tree grew, someone was sawing: Zhik-zhik, zhik-zhik! Apparently, experienced people sawed: the saw went loudly, did not jam.

Varya ran barefoot into the little porch. It was chilly there from last night.

Varya opened the door to the yard and looked in - under a pine tree, bearded peasants were sawing dry needles with an effort, each as tall as a small fir cone. The peasants put pine needles for sawing on goats, knitted from cleanly planed chips.

There were four sawers. They were all wearing identical brown coats. Only the beards of the peasants were different. One had red hair, another had it as black as a crow's feather, a third had a kind of tow, and a fourth had gray hair.

The lake near the shores was covered with heaps of yellow leaves. There were so many of them that we couldn't fish. The fishing lines lay on the leaves and did not sink.

I had to go on an old canoe to the middle of the lake, where water lilies were blooming and the blue water seemed black as tar.

There we caught colorful perches. They fought and sparkled in the grass like fabulous Japanese roosters. We pulled out a tin roach and a ruff with eyes like two small moons. The pikes caressed at us with their teeth as small as needles.

It was autumn in the sun and fog. Distant clouds and thick blue air could be seen through the swept forests. At night, low stars stirred and trembled in the thickets around us.

The son of Anisya's grandmother, nicknamed Petya the Big, died in the war, and her granddaughters stayed with her grandmother, the son of Petya the Big - Petya the Little. Little Petya's mother, Dasha, died when he was two years old, and little Petya completely forgot what she was like.

“It kept bothering you, making you laugh,” Grandma Anisya said, “yes, you see, you caught a cold in the fall and died. And you are all in it. Only she was talkative, and you are a wild one. Everything is buried in the corners and you think. But it's too early for you to think. You will have time to think about life. Life is long, there are so many days in it! You don't think.

Trouble began at the end of the summer, when the bow-legged dachshund Funtik appeared in the old village house. Funtik was brought from Moscow.

One day, the black cat Stepan was sitting, as always, on the porch and, without hurrying, was washing himself. He licked the splayed fist, then, closing his eyes, rubbed with all his might with a saliva-slicked paw behind his ear. Suddenly, Stepan felt someone's gaze. He looked around and froze with a paw behind his ear. Stepan's eyes turned white with anger. A small red dog stood nearby. One of his ears was closed. Trembling with curiosity, the dog stretched his wet nose towards Stepan - he wanted to sniff this mysterious beast.

There is such a plant - tall, with red flowers. These flowers are collected in large erect brushes. It is called fireweed.

I want to tell about this fireweed.

Last summer I lived in a small town on one of our deep rivers. Pine forests were planted around this town.

As always in such towns, wagons of hay stood in the marketplace all day. Furry horses were sleeping around them. By evening, the herd, returning from the meadows, raised dust red from the sunset. A hoarse loudspeaker broadcast local news.

Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Lake Urzhensk and brought a small warm hare wrapped in a torn wadded jacket. The hare was crying and blinking his eyes red with tears...

What, are you crazy? shouted the vet. - Soon you'll be dragging mice to me, bald!

And you don’t bark, this is a special hare, ”Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. - His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.

From what to treat something?

His paws are burned.

The veterinarian turned Vanya to face the door, pushed him in the back and shouted after him:

Get on, get on! I can't heal them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will have a snack.

When Pyotr Terentyev left the village for the war, his little son Styopa did not know what to give his father as a farewell gift, and finally presented an old rhinoceros beetle. He caught him in the garden and planted him in a matchbox. Rhino got angry, knocked, demanded to be released. But Styopa did not let him out, but slipped blades of grass into his box so that the beetle would not die of hunger. The rhinoceros gnawed at the blade of grass, but still continued to knock and scold.

Styopa cut a small window in the box to let in fresh air. The beetle stuck out a shaggy paw at the window and tried to grab Styopa by the finger - he must have wanted to scratch him out of anger. But Styopa did not give a finger. Then the beetle would begin to buzz with annoyance so that Styopa Akulina's mother would shout:

"Let him out, you goblin!" All day zhundit and zhundit, the head is swollen from it!

Pyotr Terentyev grinned at Stepin's present, stroked Styopa's head with a rough hand, and hid the box with the beetle in his gas mask bag.

“Just don’t lose him, save him,” Styopa said.

“Somehow you can lose such gifts,” Peter answered. - I'll save it somehow.

Either the beetle liked the smell of rubber, or Peter smelled pleasantly of an overcoat and black bread, but the beetle calmed down and drove with Peter to the very front.

At the front, the soldiers were surprised at the beetle, touched its strong horn with their fingers, listened to Peter's story about his son's gift, they said:

What was the boy thinking! And the beetle, you see, is combat. Just a corporal, not a beetle.

The fighters were interested in how long the beetle would last and how it was with food allowances - what Peter would feed and water him. Without water, although he is a beetle, he cannot live.

Peter smiled embarrassedly, answered that if you give a beetle some spikelet, it will eat for a week. Does he need a lot?

One night, Peter dozed off in the trenches, dropped the box with the beetle out of his bag. The beetle tossed and turned for a long time, opened the slot in the box, crawled out, wiggled its antennae, and listened. The earth rumbled in the distance, yellow lightning flashed.

The beetle climbed onto the elderberry bush at the edge of the trench to get a better look around. He has never seen such a storm. There were too many lightning. The stars did not hang motionless in the sky, like a beetle in their homeland, in Peter's Village, but took off from the earth, illuminating everything around with a bright light, smoking and dying out. Thunder rumbled continuously.

Some bugs whistled past. One of them hit the elder bush so hard that red berries fell from it. The old rhinoceros fell, pretended to be dead and was afraid to move for a long time. He realized that it was better not to mess with such beetles - there were too many of them whistling around.

So he lay until the morning, until the sun rose. The beetle opened one eye, looked at the sky. It was blue, warm, there was no such sky in his village. Huge birds howling fell from this sky like kites. The beetle quickly turned over, stood up, crawled under the burdock - he was afraid that the kites would peck him to death.

In the morning, Peter missed the beetle, began to fumble around on the ground.

- What are you? - asked a neighbor-fighter with such a tanned face that he could be mistaken for a black man.

“The beetle has left,” Peter answered with chagrin. - That's the trouble!

“I found something to grieve about,” said the tanned fighter. - A beetle is a beetle, an insect. The soldier was of no use to him.

- It's not about usefulness, - Peter objected, - but about memory. My son gave it to me in the end. Here, brother, not an insect is expensive, memory is dear.

- That's for sure! agreed the tanned fighter. “That, of course, is a different matter. Only to find it is like a shag crumb in the ocean-sea. Gone, then the beetle.

Since then, Peter stopped putting the beetle in boxes, but carried it right in his gas mask bag, and the soldiers were even more surprised: “You see, the beetle has become completely handmade!”

Sometimes, in his free time, Pyotr released a beetle, and the beetle crawled around, looking for some roots, chewing leaves. They were no longer the same as in the village. Instead of birch leaves, there were many elm and poplar leaves. And Peter, reasoning with the soldiers, said:

— My beetle switched to trophy food.

One evening a fresh air blew into the gas mask bag, the smell of big water, and the bug crawled out of the bag to see where it was.

Peter stood with the soldiers on the ferry. The ferry floated across the wide bright river. Behind it, the golden sun was setting, willows stood along the banks, storks with red paws flew over them.

Wisla! - said the soldiers, scooped up water with bowls, drank, and some washed their dusty face in cool water. - We drank, then, water from the Don, Dnieper and Bug, and now we will drink from the Vistula. Painfully sweet water in the Vistula.

The beetle breathed the coolness of the river, moved its antennae, climbed into the bag, fell asleep.

He woke up from a strong shaking. The bag shook, she jumped. The beetle quickly got out, looked around. Peter ran across the wheat field, and the fighters ran nearby, shouting "Hurrah." A little light. Dew shone on the helmets of the fighters.

At first, the beetle clung to the bag with all its might, then realized that it still couldn’t resist, opened its wings, took off, flew next to Peter and buzzed, as if encouraging Peter.

A man in a dirty green uniform took aim at Peter with a rifle, but a beetle from a raid hit this man in the eye. The man staggered, dropped his rifle and ran.

The beetle flew after Peter, clung to his shoulders and climbed into the bag only when Peter fell to the ground and shouted to someone: “That's bad luck! It hit me in the leg!" At this time, people in dirty green uniforms were already running, looking around, and a thunderous “cheers” rolled on their heels.

Piotr spent a month in the infirmary, and the beetle was given to a Polish boy for safekeeping. This boy lived in the same courtyard where the infirmary was located.

From the infirmary, Peter again went to the front - his wound was light. He caught up with his part already in Germany. The smoke from heavy fighting was as if the earth itself was burning and throwing out huge black clouds from every hollow. The sun faded in the sky. The beetle must have gone deaf from the thunder of the cannons and sat quietly in the bag, not moving.

But one morning he moved and got out. A warm wind was blowing, blowing the last streaks of smoke far south. The pure high sun sparkled in the deep blue sky. It was so quiet that the beetle could hear the rustle of a leaf on the tree above it. All the leaves hung motionless, and only one trembled and rustled, as if rejoicing at something and wanting to tell all the other leaves about it.

Peter was sitting on the ground, drinking water from a flask. Drops trickled down his unshaven chin, playing in the sun. Having drunk, Peter laughed and said:

- Victory!

- Victory! the fighters who were sitting nearby responded.

- Eternal glory! Our native land yearned for our hands. Now we will make a garden out of it and live, brothers, free and happy.

Shortly thereafter, Peter returned home. Akulina screamed and wept for joy, but Styopa also wept and asked:

- Is the beetle alive?

He is alive, my friend. The bullet did not touch him, he returned to his native places with the winners. And we will release him with you, Styopa, - answered Peter.

Peter took the beetle out of the bag and placed it in his palm.

The beetle sat for a long time, looked around, wiggled its whiskers, then rose up on its hind legs, opened its wings, folded them again, thought, and suddenly took off with a loud buzz - it recognized its native places. He made a circle over the well, over the dill bed in the garden, and flew across the river into the forest, where the guys called around, picked mushrooms and wild raspberries. Styopa ran after him for a long time, waving his cap.

- Well, - said Pyotr, when Styopa returned, - now this bug will tell his people about the war and about his heroic behavior. He will collect all the beetles under the juniper, bow in all directions and tell.

Styopa laughed, and Akulina said:

- Telling stories to the boy. He will truly believe.

“And let him believe,” Peter answered. - From the fairy tale, not only the guys, but even the fighters are a pleasure.

- Well, isn't it! Akulina agreed and threw pine cones into the samovar.

The samovar hummed like an old rhinoceros beetle. Blue smoke from the samovar chimney streamed, flew into the evening sky, where the young moon was already standing, was reflected in the lakes, in the river, looked down on our quiet land.

thief cat

We are in despair. We didn't know how to catch this ginger cat. He robbed us every night. He hid so cleverly that none of us really saw him. Only a week later it was finally possible to establish that the cat's ear was torn off and a piece of dirty tail was cut off.

It was a cat that had lost all conscience, a cat - a vagabond and a bandit. They called him behind the eyes Thief.

He stole everything: fish, meat, sour cream and bread. Once he even tore open a tin can of worms in a closet. He did not eat them, but chickens came running to the open jar and pecked at our entire supply of worms.

Overfed chickens lay in the sun and moaned. We walked around them and swore, but the fishing was still disrupted.

We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat.

The village boys helped us with this. Once they rushed over and, out of breath, told that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged a kukan with perches in its teeth.

We rushed to the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perches caught on Prorva.

It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.

The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it.

We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly.

But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.

The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof.

The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All the days, from dawn to dark, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets.

To get to the shore of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their aureoles swayed over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust.

We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the red cat's new tramp antics.

But finally the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.

We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue.

An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves.

Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lyonka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house.

Lyonka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground.

The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat bit into the head of a fish. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lyonka pulled him by the fishing line, the cat resisted desperately, but Lyonka was stronger, and, besides, the cat did not want to release the tasty fish.

A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole.

Lyonka grabbed the cat by the collar and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.

Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:

"What are we to do with him?"

- Rip out! - I said.

“It won’t help,” Lyonka said. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.

The cat waited with closed eyes.

We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream. The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed himself, looking at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes.

After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head.

Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.

From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing.

The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act.

The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates.

The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the hens and, with a short triumphant cry, jumped onto the table.

The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.

Ahead rushed, hiccuping, an ankle-legged rooster-fool, nicknamed "The Gorlach".

The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball.

After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water on him and he walked away.

Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and a hustle.

The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers.

We renamed him from Thief to Policeman. Although Reuben claimed that this was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the policemen would not be offended by us for this.

Residents of the old house

Trouble began at the end of the summer, when the bow-legged dachshund Funtik appeared in the old village house. Funtik was brought from Moscow.

One day, the black cat Stepan was sitting, as always, on the porch and, slowly, washed his face. He licked the splayed fist, then, closing his eyes, rubbed with all his might with a slobbered paw behind his ear. Suddenly, Styopa felt someone's gaze. He looked around and froze with a paw behind his ear. Stepan's eyes turned white with anger. A small red dog was standing nearby. One of his ears was closed. Trembling with curiosity, the dog stretched its wet nose towards Stepan - he wanted to sniff this mysterious beast.

— Oh, that's how!

Stepan contrived and hit Funtik on the twisted ear.

War was declared, and since then life has lost all charm for Stepan. There was no point even thinking about lazily rubbing your muzzle against the jambs of cracked doors or wallowing in the sun near the well. I had to walk cautiously, on tiptoe, look around more often and always choose some tree or fence ahead in order to get away from Funtik in time.

Stepan, like all cats, had strong habits. He loved in the mornings to go around the garden overgrown with celandine, drive Sparrows from old apple trees, catch yellow cabbage butterflies and sharpen his claws on a rotten bench. But now he had to walk around the garden not on the ground, but along a high fence, for some unknown reason covered with rusty barbed wire and, moreover, so narrow that at times Stepan thought for a long time where to put his paw.

In general, there were various troubles in Stepan's life. Once he stole and ate a raft with a fish hook stuck in the gills - and everything went away, Stepan did not even get sick. But never before had he had to humiliate himself because of a bow-legged dog that looked like a rat. Stepan's mustache trembled with indignation.

Only once during the whole summer, Stepan, sitting on the roof, grinned.

In the yard, among the curly goose grass, there was a wooden bowl with muddy water - they threw crusts of black bread for chickens into it. Funtik went to the bowl and carefully pulled out a large soaked crust from the water.

The quarrelsome cock, nicknamed the Gorlach, gazed fixedly at Funtik with one eye. Then he turned his head and looked through the other eye. The rooster could not believe that here, nearby, in broad daylight, a robbery was taking place.

Thinking, the rooster raised his paw, his eyes were filled with blood, something inside him gurgled, as if a distant thunder rumbled in the rooster. Stepan knew what that meant—the rooster was furious.

Swiftly and terribly, stamping with callused paws, the rooster rushed to Funtik and pecked him in the back. There was a short, hard knock. Funtik released the bread, flattened his ears and with a desperate cry rushed into the vent under the house.

The rooster flapped its wings triumphantly, raised thick dust, pecked at the soggy crust and threw it aside in disgust - it must have smelled like dog from the crust.

Funtik sat under the house for several hours and only in the evening got out and sideways, bypassing the rooster, made his way into the rooms. His muzzle was covered with dusty cobwebs, and withered spiders stuck to his mustache.

But much more terrible than a rooster was a thin black hen. She wore a shawl of variegated down around her neck, and she looked like a gypsy fortune-teller. Bought this chicken for nothing. No wonder the old women in the village said that chickens turn black with anger.

This chicken flew like a crow, fought and could stand on the roof for several hours and cackle without interruption. There was no way to knock her off the roof, even with a brick. When we returned from the meadows or from the forest, this chicken was already visible from afar - it stood on the chimney and seemed to be carved out of tin.

We were reminded of medieval taverns - we read about them in the novels of Walter Scott. On the roofs of these taverns, tin roosters or chickens stuck up on a pole, replacing the signboard.

Just like in a medieval tavern, we were greeted at home by dark log walls caulked with yellow moss, flaming logs in the stove and the smell of cumin. For some reason, the old house smelled of cumin and wood dust.

We read the novels of Walter Scott on cloudy days, when warm rain peacefully rustled on the roofs and in the garden. From the blows of small raindrops, the wet leaves on the trees quivered, water poured in a thin and transparent stream from the drainpipe, and under the pipe a small green frog sat in a puddle. Water poured right on her head, but the frog did not move and only blinked.

When there was no rain, the frog sat in a puddle under the washstand. Once a minute, cold water dripped onto her head from the washstand. From the same novels by Walter Scott, we knew that in the Middle Ages the most terrible torture was such a slow drip of ice water on the head, and we were surprised at the frog.

Sometimes in the evenings the frog would come into the house. She jumped over the threshold and could sit for hours and look at the fire of a kerosene lamp.

It was hard to understand why this fire attracted the frog so much. But then we guessed that the frog came to look at the bright fire in the same way that children gather around the uncleaned tea table to listen to a fairy tale before going to bed.

The fire flared up, then weakened from the green midges burning in the lamp glass. It must have seemed to the frog a big diamond, where, if you peer for a long time, you can see in every facet whole countries with golden waterfalls and iridescent stars.

The frog was so carried away by this fairy tale that she had to be tickled with a stick so that she woke up and went to her place, under the rotten porch - dandelions managed to bloom on its steps.

The roof was leaking when it rained. We put copper basins on the floor. At night, water dripped into them especially loudly and measuredly, and often this ringing coincided with the loud ticking of clocks.

The clocks were very cheerful - painted with lush roses and shamrocks. Funtik, every time he passed them, grumbled softly - probably so that the walkers knew that there was a dog in the house, were on the alert and did not allow themselves any liberties - did not run ahead for three hours a day or did not stop without any causes.

There were many old things in the house. Once upon a time, these things were needed by the inhabitants of the house, but now they were gathering dust and drying out in the attic and mice swarming in them.

From time to time we made excavations in the attic and among the broken window frames and curtains made of shaggy cobwebs we found either a box of oil paints covered with multi-colored petrified drops, or a broken mother-of-pearl fan, or a copper coffee mill from the times of the Sevastopol defense, or a huge heavy book with engravings from ancient history , then, finally, a pack of decals.

We translated them. From under the soaked paper film appeared bright and sticky views of Vesuvius, Italian donkeys adorned with garlands of roses, girls in straw hats with blue satin ribbons playing serso, and frigates surrounded by plump balls of gunpowder smoke.

Once in the attic we found a wooden black box. On the lid it was inscribed in copper letters with the English inscription: “Edinburgh. Scotland. Made by Master Galveston.

The casket was brought into the rooms, the dust was carefully wiped off, and the lid was opened. Inside were copper rollers with thin steel spikes. Near each roller sat on a bronze lever a copper dragonfly, butterfly or beetle.

It was a music box. We turned her on, but she didn't play. In vain we pressed on the backs of beetles, flies and dragonflies - the box was damaged.

Over afternoon tea, we talked about the mysterious master Galveston. Everyone agreed that he was a cheerful old Scotsman in a plaid waistcoat and leather apron. While working, turning copper rollers in a vise, he probably whistled a song about a postman whose horn sings in misty valleys, and a girl gathering brushwood in the mountains. Like all good masters, he talked to the things he did and predicted to them their future lives. But, of course, he could never guess that this black box would fall from under the pale Scottish sky into the desert forests beyond the Eye, to a village where only roosters crow, as in Scotland, and everything else is not at all like this distant northern country.

Since then, Master Galveston has become, as it were, one of the invisible inhabitants of the old village house. Sometimes it even seemed to us that we heard his hoarse cough when he accidentally choked on the smoke from the pipe. And when we knocked together something - a table in the gazebo or a new birdhouse - and argued how to hold the jointer or drive two boards one to the other, we often referred to Master Galveston, as if he was standing nearby and, screwing up his gray eye, looked mockingly at our fuss. And we all sang Galveston's last favorite song:

Farewell, star above the lovely mountains!

Farewell forever, my warm father's house...

The box was placed on the table, next to the geranium flower, and eventually forgotten about.

But one autumn, late autumn, in an old and echoing house, a glassy iridescent ringing rang out, as if someone was hitting bells with small hammers, and from this wonderful ringing a melody arose and flowed:

To the lovely mountains

you will return...

It suddenly woke up after years of sleep and the box began to play. At first we were frightened, and even Funtik listened, carefully raising first one ear, then the other. Obviously, some spring had come loose in the box.

The box played for a long time, then stopping, then again filling the house with a mysterious ringing, and even the clocks fell silent in amazement.

The box played all its songs, fell silent, and no matter how hard we fought, we could not make it play again.

Now, in late autumn, when I live in Moscow, the casket stands there alone in empty, unheated rooms, and, perhaps, on impenetrable and quiet nights, it wakes up again and plays, but there is no one to listen to it, except for shy mice.

For a long time afterwards we whistled a melody about the lovely abandoned mountains, until one day an elderly starling whistled it to us - he lived in a birdhouse near the gate. Until then, he sang raucous and strange songs, but we listened to them with admiration. We guessed that he learned these songs in the winter in Africa, eavesdropping on the games of Negro children. And for some reason we were glad that next winter, somewhere terribly far away, in dense forests on the banks of the Niger, the starling would sing under the African sky a song about the old abandoned mountains of Europe.

Every morning on the wooden table in the garden we sprinkled crumbs and grits. Dozens of nimble tits flocked to the table and pecked at the crumbs. The tits had white fluffy cheeks, and when the tits pecked all at once, it looked like dozens of white hammers were hurriedly hitting the table.

The tits quarreled, crackled, and this crackle, reminiscent of quick strokes with a fingernail on a glass, merged into a cheerful melody. It seemed as if a live chirping music box was playing on an old table in the garden.

Among the residents of the old house, in addition to Funtik, the cat Stepan, a rooster, walkers, a music box, master Galveston and a starling, there was also a tamed wild duck, a hedgehog who suffered from insomnia, a bell with the inscription "Gift of Valdai" and a barometer that always showed "great dry land" . I'll have to talk about them another time - now it's too late.

But if, after this little story, you dream of a cheerful nightly playing of a music box, the sound of raindrops falling into a copper basin, the grumbling of Funtik, dissatisfied with the walkers, and the cough of the good-natured Galveston, I will think that I told you all this not in vain.

hare paws

Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Lake Urzhensk and brought a small warm hare wrapped in a torn cotton jacket. The hare was crying and often blinking his red eyes from tears...

— Are you crazy? shouted the vet. “Soon you’ll be dragging mice to me, you barehead!”

“Don’t bark, this is a special hare,” Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. - His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.

- From what to treat something?

- His paws are burned.

The veterinarian turned Vanya to face the door, pushed him in the back and shouted after him:

— Get on, get on! I can't heal them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will have a snack.

Vanya did not answer. He went out into the passage, blinked his eyes, pulled his nose and bumped into a log wall. Tears ran down the wall. The hare shivered quietly under the greasy jacket.

What are you, little one? the compassionate grandmother Anisya asked Vanya; she brought her only goat to the vet. - Why are you, my dear ones, shedding tears together? Ay what happened?

“He’s burnt, grandfather hare,” Vanya said quietly. - He burned his paws in a forest fire, he cannot run. Here, look, die.

“Don’t die, little one,” Anisya murmured. - Tell your grandfather, if he has a great desire to go out a hare, let him carry him to the city to Karl Petrovich.

Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the woods to Lake Urzhenskoye. He did not walk, but ran barefoot on a hot sandy road. A recent forest fire has passed northward near the lake itself. There was a smell of burning and dry cloves. It grew in large islands in glades. The hare moaned. Vanya found fluffy leaves covered with soft silver hair on the way, pulled them out, put them under a pine tree and turned the hare around. The hare looked at the leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.

What are you, grey? Vanya asked quietly. - You should eat.

The hare was silent.

The hare moved his torn ear and closed his eyes.

Vanya took him in his arms and ran straight through the forest - he had to quickly give the hare a drink from the lake.

Unheard-of heat stood that summer over the forests. In the morning, strings of white clouds floated up. At noon the clouds were rapidly rushing upward, towards the zenith, and before our very eyes they were carried away and disappeared somewhere beyond the boundaries of the sky. The hot hurricane had been blowing for two weeks without a break. The resin flowing down the pine trunks turned into an amber stone.

The next morning, grandfather put on clean shoes and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece of bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried the hare from behind. The hare was completely quiet, only occasionally shuddered all over and sighed convulsively.

Dry wind blew a cloud of dust over the city, soft as flour. Chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw flew in it. From a distance it seemed that a quiet fire was smoking over the city.

The market square was very empty, sultry; the cab horses dozed near the water booth, and they wore straw hats on their heads. Grandfather crossed himself.

- Not the horse, not the bride - the jester will sort them out! he said and spat.

Passers-by were asked for a long time about Karl Petrovich, but no one really answered anything. We went to the pharmacy. A fat old man in pince-nez and in a short white coat shrugged his shoulders angrily and said:

- I like it! Pretty weird question! Karl Petrovich Korsh, a specialist in childhood diseases, has stopped seeing patients for three years now. Why do you need him?

Grandfather, stuttering from respect for the pharmacist and from timidity, told about the hare.

- I like it! the pharmacist said. - Interesting patients wound up in our city. I like this wonderful!

He nervously took off his pince-nez, wiped it, put it back on his nose and stared at his grandfather. Grandfather was silent and stomped on the spot. The pharmacist was also silent. The silence was becoming painful.

— Post street, three! the pharmacist suddenly shouted in his heart and slammed some disheveled thick book shut. - Three!

Grandfather and Vanya made it to Pochtovaya Street just in time - a high thunderstorm was setting in from behind the Oka. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon, as a sleepy strongman straightened his shoulders, and reluctantly shook the ground. Gray ripples went along the river. Noiseless lightnings surreptitiously, but swiftly and strongly struck the meadows; far beyond the glades, a haystack, lit by them, was already burning. Large drops of rain fell on the dusty road, and soon it became like the surface of the moon: each drop left a small crater in the dust.

Karl Petrovich was playing something sad and melodic on the piano when his grandfather's disheveled beard appeared in the window. A minute later Karl Petrovich was already angry.

“I'm not a veterinarian,” he said, and slammed the lid of the piano shut.

Immediately thunder rumbled in the meadows.

- All my life I have been treating children, not hares.

“What a child, what a hare is all the same,” grandfather muttered stubbornly. — All the same! Lie down, show mercy! Our veterinarian has no jurisdiction over such matters. He horse-drawn for us. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him my life, I must show gratitude, and you say - quit!

A minute later Karl Petrovich—an old man with gray, tousled eyebrows—was agitated as he listened to his grandfather's stumbling story.

Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. The next morning, grandfather went to the lake, and left Vanya with Karl Petrovich to follow the hare.

A day later, the entire Pochtovaya Street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that Karl Petrovich was treating a hare that had been burned in a terrible forest fire and had saved some old man. Two days later, the whole small town already knew about this, and on the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich, introduced himself as an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked for a conversation about a hare.

The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in a cotton rag and carried him home. Soon the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor tried for a long time to get his grandfather to sell him the hare. He even sent letters with stamps to answer. But my grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote a letter to the professor: “The hare is not corrupt, a living soul, let him live in the wild. At the same time, I remain Larion Malyavin.

This autumn I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on Lake Urzhenskoe. The constellations, cold as grains of ice, floated in the water. Noisy dry reeds. The ducks shivered in the thickets and plaintively quacked all night.

Grandpa couldn't sleep. He sat by the stove and repaired a torn fishing net. Then he put on the samovar - from it the windows in the hut immediately fogged up and the stars turned from fiery points into muddy balls. Murzik was barking in the yard. He jumped into the darkness, clanged his teeth and bounced off - he fought with the impenetrable October night. The hare slept in the passage and occasionally in his sleep he loudly pounded with his hind paw on a rotten floorboard.

We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and indecisive dawn, and over tea my grandfather finally told me the story of the hare.

In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. The forests were dry as gunpowder. Grandfather got a hare with a torn left ear. Grandfather shot him with an old, wire-bound gun, but missed. The hare got away.

Grandfather realized that a forest fire had started and the fire was coming right at him. The wind turned into a hurricane. Fire drove across the ground at an unheard of speed. According to my grandfather, even a train could not escape such a fire. Grandfather was right: during the hurricane, the fire went at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.

Grandfather ran over the bumps, stumbled, fell, the smoke was eating away at his eyes, and behind him a wide rumble and crackle of the flame was already audible.

Death overtook the grandfather, grabbed him by the shoulders, and at that time a hare jumped out from under the grandfather's feet. He ran slowly and dragged his hind legs. Then only the grandfather noticed that they were burned by the hare.

Grandfather was delighted with the hare, as if it were his own. As an old forest dweller, grandfather knew that animals can smell where the fire comes from much better than humans, and always escape. They die only in those rare cases when the fire surrounds them.

The grandfather ran after the rabbit. He ran, crying with fear and shouting: “Wait, dear, don’t run so fast!”.

The hare brought grandfather out of the fire. When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and grandfather both fell down from fatigue. Grandfather picked up the hare and carried it home. The hare had scorched hind legs and belly. Then his grandfather cured him and left him.

“Yes,” said the grandfather, looking at the samovar so angrily, as if the samovar was to blame for everything, “yes, but in front of that hare, it turns out that I have been very guilty, dear man.

- What did you do wrong?

- And you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will know. Get a flashlight!

I took a lantern from the table and went out into the vestibule. The hare was sleeping. I bent over him with a lantern and noticed that the left ear of the hare was torn. Then I understood everything.