In the morning, a city man is most often woken up by some kind of noise: the ringing of an alarm clock, a beep, the rumbling of wheels, signals of a car, and even the thunder of dishes dropped by a cook in the kitchen ...

It is not often that you have to wake up from silence.

Yes, yes, from the silence!

This is how it happens, or rather, how it was that morning.

Sleep was hesitating and slowly leaving me. The body is accustomed to something agitated and shook off sleep at once. And then - silence. Silence and coolness.

Tired of waiting. Uncertainly, he opened his eyes and saw overhead a green willow bush strewn with dew drops. Grass, flowers drank moisture overnight, their stems and heads drooped. They also rested, waiting for the sun.

I got up and sat down. Fragments of fog flew over the snowy water. Hitting the bushes, the fog got stuck in them, thickened, as if fumigating the greenery with thick smoke.

The birds were silent, the grasshoppers were silent, even the fish slept and did not play in the pool. Sleep and fog enveloped everything around.

However, it is an unforgivable sin for a fisherman to sleep on such a morning. I want to push my friend by the side, but he also looks with all his eyes, looks, listens.

I run across the grass towards the shore, leaving dark streaks behind me. My boots are shiny with dew. I wander into the water. The sleepy perch got entangled in the grass, scrambled in panic, threw itself onto a bump. He spread all the thorns, ready to protect his little life. But no one attacked him, and he sideways, sideways slipped into the water and as he rushed along the very top, dashing out the smooth surface with a combatively raised comb.

And here we are again among the reach, a little sluggish from sleep. Making the first casts. The boat is circling and slowly drifting with the current. I'm spinning the spinner. Grass hangs on the tee with a mustache, the spoon does not play. I unhook the grass, swing for the second cast, but I hear a quiet: "Sha!"

My friend shows with his eyes under the bird cherry tree bent over the water, where smooth circles diverge.

I look more closely and see a couple of ducks, the same one that flew over us in the evening. The drake, having lost its spring beauty and pretty emaciated, feeds without any fear, now and then submerging its head in the water. And the duck will plunge, chap and immediately look around, quacking. You can even guess what she is talking about to her unlucky spouse. Say, forever you guys are like that. No care, no sorrow. Eat, drink and sleep well - that's all your concern. And we have to spin like a routine: take down the testicles, then the kids grow up, worry about them, and even on the feeding of you, dissolute, guard.

Drake pulled his head out of the water, grunted irritably, without ceasing to eat, and we understood it this way: “Enough for you to grumble. Here's a saw! The hunting period is over, and you are still a coward! " “Trust in you, you’ll get a poacher into the pot so quickly. He, the poacher, does not hurt the time frame, ”answered the judicious and distrustful duck.

So they exchanged between cases, and our boat was brought closer and closer to the bush.

I admired the hard worker. Her lot is not easy. The spouse of the duck is really a thin helper and a terrible egoist. He is dandy not only in appearance, but also in spirit. If he already has a wife, then he demands from her full and undivided love, care and attention. He doesn't even want to know any parenting responsibilities. If he notices that the duck is making a nest, he will spread it and give the duck a bashing. Here the duck pleases him, watches over the feeding, then he will determine for the night and with his beak will go through all the feathers, he will clean out all the nasty things from them and grease them with fat. And when the husband falls asleep complacently, she will slowly go into the bushes and rather make a nest. God forbid, if a spouse finds eggs or even ducklings, he will peck everything and will not spare the children.

Indeed, there is some justice in the fact that in the spring they are allowed to beat drakes, not ducks. A sort of duck "dude" has a place in the soup.

The boat is right next to the bush. The duck noticed its black silhouette protruding from the fog, gave a distinct grunt and ran through the water near the sedge wall. Drake stupidly looked around and, apparently not quite comprehending what was the matter, rushed after her.

The couple soared over the bird cherry tree and left the river, to the forest lakes.

Summer thunderstorm

We were so carried away by fishing that we did not notice the rain, which crept up to us from behind the forest in small steps. It thickened, diverged, and soon the channel became crowded with bubbles, which, not having time to emerge, burst and dispersed in circles. The rain was so thick that the wind could not get through it and lay embarrassedly in the forest.

We hurried and swam to the islet, where there was a coniferous forest, surrounded on all sides by mows. We grabbed our backpacks and rushed to the fir trees. Under them lay dry red grass. The rain did not penetrate here. But we are already soaked and chilled. I didn't want to move. However, it was necessary to make a fire. And with great difficulty we lit it.

And the rain added agility. A huge black cloud crept over the river, and in one minute it became dark. Then the rain stopped all at once. And then gusts of wind swept along the river, wrinkling and stirring the water. Nervous lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and the wind dropped again.

It became quiet.

Only large drops, rolling down from the wet resinous branches of the fir, splashed loudly against the wide, wrinkled leaves of the hellebore, which had already started up the fourth shoot, and from the other side of the river could be heard the alarming bleating of goats grazing in the forest.

Lightning flashed. They pierced through the dark cloud with bright needles and stuck into the tops of the mountains, now clearly visible, now disappearing into the darkness. Thunder rumbled almost continuously.

We were expecting a frenzied downpour.

But an amazing thing: a formidable cloud lowered a quiet, mushroom rain to the ground, and itself, thundering in the reflections of lightning, swam further, dragging a fluffy, forked tail behind it. This tail cleanly swept away everything in its path. The blue sky appeared again with a washed and contented face of the sun.

And at once everything around came to life: the birds sang, snipes crackled their wings, a nimble mouse ran past us. The cloud was far away. She crawled over the passes and still threw bright arrows, but the sounds of thunder did not reach us.

Green stars

We walk with a friend along the bank of the Koiva, a tributary of the Chusovaya. The forests are still green, thick sedge is still bristling along the banks, the green hands of water lilies have not closed on the coastal lakes, just yesterday a cobweb stretched in long threads in the air - and you have snow on you!

Through the quiet, snowy curtain, the world seems intimidated, and the glare of greenery flickers, flickers. And over there, in the motionless white kingdom, lights blazed. We come closer and see a flaming mountain ash. The shy tree is a mountain ash, it sensed the approach of snow earlier than others and hurried to be painted with autumn color. With a sad rustle, crimson rosettes fall from the rowan trees and lonely, sadly glow on the white, but not yet dazzling snow. There is no real cold yet, and the snow does not shine silver.

Now the snow has thinned. More greenery before our eyes, and finally we see the forest, the sky, the gloomy sky in shaggy clouds, between which only here and there a pale blue is visible. The banks are white, and that is why the river seems dark and inhospitable. The shadows of the rocks are not reflected in it, as in summer.

The ducks started off. They fly low over the river, in large flocks. They sit down on bare remnants, hide their heads under the wing.

The snow quickly melts, the bumps are bare before our eyes, thick loud drops fall from the green leaves of birches and the soft paws of fir trees. The whole forest is filled with rustling, crackling and crackling.

But what is it? Before us are huge green stars. Such stars can only be seen in the forest and only after early snowfall. And you can also see such stars in the frost on the window, fabulous fern stars, only those stars are smaller and they are white.

And here they are spreading, green.

The fern grew in a loose bunch. Heavy snow fell on the carved leaves, glued them to the ground. The jagged, huge stars of the mysterious, fabulous fern spread out. I once heard, even as a child: if you find a fern color and take it in your hand, you become invisible. Now, looking at the magic stars, I believe it. I believe in everything related to the forest.

Tasks:

1. Continue to acquaint students with the works of V.P. Astafiev, develop children's interest in the world, their native land.

2. To form the ability to see the beauty of nature, created by the writer, to create works-miniatures about nature.

3. To foster a love of nature and develop the aesthetic taste of students.

Equipment:

1. Portrait of the writer

2. Epigraph to the lesson, colorfully designed

3. Reproductions of landscapes by Levitan, Benoit, Kuindzhi

Forms of work:

1. Expressive reading

2. Report about V.P. Astafiev, on the origins of his love for nature

3. Work with the texts of the works of V.P. Astafieva, finding words - images "for all living things."

4. Work in groups.

5. Conversation on the read works of the writer.

Epigraph

... a hunter, a fisherman, a connoisseur of herbs and forests, animals and birds, he [V.P. Astafiev] is naturally endowed with observation, he is overflowing with love for the multicolored world.(N. Yanovsky)

During the classes

I. Word of the teacher.

Today in the lesson we will talk about a wonderful person, a wonderful writer, our fellow countryman V.P. Astafiev. Love for the Motherland, native nature, the ability to feel especially strongly, especially to see vigilantly, to notice what is hidden from the gaze of the lazy and indifferent, is characteristic of him and his work. He possesses an amazing gift - the gift of “drawing with words” just like an artist draws with a pencil. The objective of the lesson is to learn from the master of words how he describes nature, what words he finds for birds and animals, flowers and mushrooms, maples and pines. N. Yanovsky (literary critic) said (referring to the epigraph of the lesson): "... a hunter, fisherman, connoisseur of herbs and forests, animals and birds, he is naturally endowed with observation, he is filled with love for the multicolored world"

I I. The student's message about V.P. Astafiev.(The material for the message is taken from the article by the writer “Involved in all living things.” Magazine “Literatura v shkola”, 1989, No. 2.)

“... early and forever I fell in love with our wondrous nature: the forest, the Yenisei, the Sentinel bull hanging over the river opposite my native village, strawberry ridges behind the village, ringing rivers, the sun standing vertically over houses and mountains, spring mornings with crunchy ice on yesterday only snow streams made ... I also remember summer village evenings ... It smells of smoke-smokers, settling down as dust, chicken feast, carries the smell of boiled potatoes ... However, in a special way, somehow even secretly and timidly I loved winter evenings. Above the rivals outside the village, the red dawn towards the wind turned purple for a long time and motionlessly. The village froze in the twilight; crunched under the feet of people, crunched under the hooves of horses, wooden huts crackled, a red-hot chius was pulling from the rocky corridor of the river, warping the face ... I also loved and love flowers very much. At the hut, I used to flood the hut with roasts, lungwort, cuckoo tears ... I love my land, and I never tire of being surprised at its beauty, inexhaustible patience and kindness.

Having lost my mother early - she drowned in the Yenisei in the spring of 1932 - I naturally gravitated towards my second and unchanging mother - the earth. And life provided me with a constant opportunity to be in nature and with nature ”.

III. Homework implementation- results individual work students on the stories of V.P. Astafiev “Green stars”, “Fall of a leaf” (from the words “Ahead, slightly protruding to the road, stood a medium-sized, knee-curved black-piebald birch ...” to the words “... became a part of the world in which everything good and necessary grows with such difficulty and is affirmed ... ”),“ Native birches ”(from the words“ Trees and bushes gathered from all over the world grew in the seaside park ... ”to the words“ ... white birch trunks were full of ... shine of foreign, glaring vegetation "

Work plan for a story or an excerpt from it

1. Expressive reading of a passage from a work indicated by the teacher.

2. Determination of the theme and main idea of ​​the literary text

3. Finding words-images in the text: metaphors, epithets, comparisons - used by the author to create pictures of nature

A student's approximate answer to the story "Green Stars"

In the story "Green Stars" VP Astafiev speaks about the forest located along the banks of the Koiva River, and about the coastal lakes; The main idea that the author wants to convey to the reader, in my opinion, is that he believes everything connected with the forest, and, probably, wants us to believe in the forest. For V.P. Astafiev, the forest is associated with all living things. As long as a person believes in the forest, in nature, takes care of it, he will have a future.

Look how observant the author is, with what feeling of tenderness he speaks about water lilies, about a “flaming” mountain ash, about a fern! These images are created with the help of epithets (the world is “timid, that is, quiet, hiding, not knowing what will happen next, because“ the forests are still green, ”and the first snow has already fallen; mountain ash is a“ shy ”tree, probably the earliest felt the approach of snow and got scared, because it was not at all ready for winter; the “sad rustle” of falling rosettes from rowan trees, it seems to me that the sadness is caused again by early snow and cold, apparently, they did not please people for a long time with their beauty of mountain ash, therefore they are sad, as people) and metaphors (here there is a hidden comparison of water lilies with palms: the leaves of water lilies, wide and round, lying flat on the water surface, reminded the author of the shape of a palm; rowan brushes are blazing lights, indeed, among the snowy plain, there are red rosettes like lights: their clearly visible; bunches of fern are green stars, if you imagine that a snowy plain is a boundless sky, then bunches of fern are like green stars.) That is how a person who loves it can talk about nature, I think. Let us learn from the master of the word to be attentive to nature and see its beauty.

Summarizing what was said by the students, we note once again the writer's careful and reverent love for nature, the desire to peep and understand its secrets, to praise its beauty.

IV. Group work.

Each group receives a card with an excerpt from V.P. Astafieva and prepares an expressive reading of it, finds words - images in it. The motto under which this work will take place is taken from N. Rylenkov's poem "Everything is in a melting haze": "It is not enough to see here, here you need to look closely so that the heart is filled with clear love."

Card number 1 (From the story "Vasyutkino Lake")

Taiga ... Taiga ... Endlessly it stretches in all directions. The clouds overhead are rare, but the further Vasyutka looks, the thicker they are, and, finally, the blue gaps disappear altogether. Like pressed cotton wool, the clouds lie on the taiga, and it dissolves in them.

Card number 2 (From "Zatesey" - "Berry")

I was about to reach the pine mane when I suddenly saw in the mossy stones, among the mountain river and thorns, strawberries in bloom. The month of October, autumn, deep autumn, the leaf, almost all fell, and the strawberries are in bloom! I leaned over to her. On a thin stalk, in crimson leaves, a little white flower lived and looked in perplexity at the autumn world.

Card number 3 (From "Zatesey" - "And to your dust")

In a dense, thin-bore aspen forest, I saw a stump, gray in two girths. This stump was guarded by broods of honey agarics with speckled hats. On the cut of the stump, with a soft cap, lay faded moss, decorated with three or four tassels of lingonberry.

Card number 4 (From "Zatesey" - "Is it a clear day")

Night fell on the village. From the lowland, from the handle and the pond, frost was drawn over the spoons, and soon frost appeared on the grass. He began to stain vegetable gardens, roofs of houses. The forest would be filled with rustling and ringing in the morning, while a dark sky with bright, spiky stars floated over the village.

Card number 5 (From "Zatesey" - "Summer Thunderstorm")

We were so carried away by fishing that we did not notice the rain, which crept up to us from behind the forest in small steps. It thickened, diverged, and soon the channel became cramped from bubbles, which burst and diverged in circles. The rain was so thick that the wind could not break through it and lay embarrassedly in the forest.

Card number 6 (From the story "The Eighth Escape")

The path went along the edge of the mountain. On the slopes, ruddy russules gleamed with a smile. From under the needles, sensing dampness, the mushrooms sprout curious, tight-faced faces. Pimples of honey agaric appeared on the stumps, and the boletus was already slobbering. The mushrooms were good.

Summing up the performances of the students, we will pose questions to the class:

What feelings should a person have in order to poetise nature in such a way?

What quality does a writer need to have in order to see everything that happens in nature?

V. Conclusion - an appeal to the epigraph and the final question.

"... a hunter, fisherman, connoisseur of herbs and forests, animals and birds, he is naturally endowed with observation, he is overflowing with love for the multicolored world", - said N. Yanovsky.

Is the literary critic right when he said about the writer that “he is filled with love for a multicolored world”? Give reasons for your answer.

Homework: write an essay - a miniature about nature on one of the topics: “What can the northern lights tell us about?”, “What can the northern wind sing to us on a polar night?

Literature lesson, grade 7
The theme of moral responsibility for everything, good and bad, that happens on earth
(based on the story "Theft" by V.P. Astafiev)

Tasks:

1. Continue acquaintance with the work of V.P. Astafieva. Identify the origins of his responsiveness to someone else's pain, readiness to respond to human misfortune.

2. Encourage students to reflect on their own destiny, to search for ways of moral self-improvement.

3. To educate a civic and socially active personality.

Epigraphs:

1. In prose V.P. Astafieva "reflection on our life, on the purpose of man on earth and in society and his moral foundations ..."(Makarov)

2. You live among people ... Check your actions with your consciousness: do you cause harm, trouble, inconvenience to people with your actions. Make the people around you feel good.(V.A. Sukhomlinsky)

3. To do good to people is to make yourself prettier.(L. Tatyanicheva)

Registration:

1. Portrait of the writer.

2. Writing on the blackboard the topic of the lesson, epigraphs and questions for the lesson on the biography of the writer and the story “Theft”.

Questions about the biography of the writer and the story "Theft" (written on the chalkboard)

The critic A. Makarov wrote that in Tolya Mazov “... a stormy process is taking place ... the process of the birth of a person in a person”. How do you understand this expressed thought?

Forms of work:

1. Word of the teacher.

2. Student messages

- “Biography of V.P. Astafieva "

- "Analysis of child crime in the region, city" (based on materials from central and local periodicals)

3. Vocabulary work

4. Conversation on problematic issues

5. Expressive reading of episodes

DURING THE CLASSES.

I. The word of the teacher, including lexical work.

1. Topic and objectives of the lesson.

2. Lexical work.

• Morality is a set of principles and norms of people's behavior in relation to each other and to society.
• Morality - (the same as morality).
• Moral - observing the norms of social behavior.
• Humanism is an attitude towards people, imbued with love for a person, care for his welfare, respect for human dignity.
• (A synonym can be the word mercy- readiness to provide help, to show condescension out of compassion, philanthropy, as well as help itself).
• Selflessness is the absence of a desire for personal gain.
• Ashes - that which is fragile, transient, has no true value.

3. Introductory remarks about Astafiev.

In one of the miniatures, or rather, "So that everyone's pain ...",

V.P. Astafyev talks about the town of Gelati, which is located in the depths of Georgia. There is an ancient cathedral built by David - the builder in ancient times. The cathedral was dark with soot. Heavy gray streaks rolled down the walls of the cathedral from the high dome. Scraps of frescoes were visible in the bursts of black soot.

The author explains that, according to a wild custom, the Mongol conquerors set up stables and made fires in every Orthodox church. But King David built the cathedral for centuries, and between the roof of the dome, at the behest of David, a layer of lead was poured. From the Mongol fires, lead melted, and its streams fell on the heads of foreign conquerors. They fled from Gelati in panic, believing that an Orthodox god had poured a vengeful rain on them.

Question after reading:

What does the “wise sorrow of incorruptible words” tell us about: “Let everyone who enters this temple step on my heart so that I hear his pain…”?

II. Student message about the writer and answers to the questions posed.(The material about the biography of the writer is taken from the article “Involved in all living things” in the magazine “Literatura v shkola” 1989 No. 2).

Questions before posting about the writer:

Where are the origins of the writer's responsiveness to someone else's pain, readiness to respond to human misfortune, to the suffering of a tree or bird?

What can be said about a person who so persistently asks himself questions: “Did you do everything for the happiness of others? Have you always been honest with yourself? Did you tear bread from the mouths of loved ones? Didn't you wipe the weak from the road with your elbows? "

We draw attention to the words of the critic A. Makarov, taken as an epigraph: “In V.P. Astafieva thinking about our life, about the purpose of man on earth and in society and his moral foundations ... "

III. Conversation on the story of V.P. Astafieva "Theft".

Briefly convey the content of the story.

(Scene of action - Kraesvetsk, Orphanage... For various reasons, children ended up in it. The guys are committing a crime: they steal money from the bank of the bathhouse. The cashier is under investigation, and her two children are sent to an orphanage. Then, thanks to the efforts of Tolya Mazov and other guys, the money was returned. The mother of the children is free.)

Address by V.P. Astafiev to the theme of childhood is not accidental. Valerian Ivanovich Repnin, the head of the orphanage, in a conversation with Stupinsky, quoted the words of the great German poet: "If the world breaks, the crack will first of all go to the poet's liking." And then he added on his own: "And I think: first of all, it will follow the fate of the children." How do you understand these words and are they fair?

To answer this question, let's remember how the children ended up in the orphanage, what was their fate?

The fate of Goshka Vorobyov (chapter 1)

The fate of Sasha Ragulin, Gali Kosova, Paralytica, Popik (chapter 2)

The fate of Demenkov, Borka Klin - head (chapter 2)

The fate of Tolya Mazov (chapter 4)

The fate of Zina Kondakova (chapter 6)

Theft has been committed.

Why does Tolya Mazov decide to return the money?

IV. An expressive reading by the teacher of an episode of the fight between Tolya Mazov and Demenkov.

Questions to the class after reading:

What force helped Tole Mazov stand against the imperious and almost ready-made killer Demenkov?

Why is Demenkov dangerous?

Bottom line. Helped good people who surrounded him: the commandant of the city Stupinsky, the head of the orphanage Repnin, the fireman Ibrahim, the trade union uncle Makhnev, comrade Ulya, the guys themselves who united around Toli Mazov (chapter 8), and the books he read (chapter 8).

Tolya Mazov won. Was it only Demenkov who was defeated by Mazov?

What victory has he won yet?

(Let us draw the students' attention to the following points. He did not overcome Demenkov so much as he brought his soul out of loss and doubt. It is appropriate to recall the aphorism of the philosopher B. Calderon “The greatest victory is a victory over oneself”.

(Chapter 9) After confessing to Repin: “I, perhaps, didn’t respect anyone like you in my life” Tolya Mazov thinks: “… how shy Valerian Ivanovich became when… he told him about respect, how this heavy, frowning man blushed, how he fussed, looking for glasses in his pocket ... "

“Tole was embarrassed and at the same time pleased that he decided to say this to Valerian Ivanovich. He said and would not know what important work he did or gave someone a gift. And the bruised face hurt less. And in general it became somehow easier, more comfortable in my soul, and my thoughts went smoother. With some distant, dull glimpse of consciousness, not yet glued together by sleep, Tolya noted: “This, you see, is happiness: he doesn’t get sick, he’s warm under the covers, and you don’t have to think about money”).

V. Expressive reading of the episode - chapter 13.

Questions after reading:

Why is the story called "Theft"?

(Clarify: they stole money, stole the mother from the children, stole the childhood from the children, etc.)

Vi. Reporting on child crime in the region, in the city.

Questions to the class:

What do you see as the cause of childhood delinquency? Who's guilty? How Episodes Help Answer These Questions (Chapter 13)

What is, in your opinion, a measure of human actions for a writer? What sayings of prominent people would you use to answer this question?

Vii. Conclusion - an expressive reading of the episode “Tolya Mazov at the cemetery at Goshka Vorobyov's” and the teacher's words.

Tolya Mazov's questions are not only to himself, but they are also to us.

Hurry, hurry, do not be late with love for the living, help them overcome the worries of endlessly flowing days.

Literature lesson, grade 8
The topic "The Story of V.P. Astafiev" Starodub "-
a story about the invincibility of good, the need for the consent of man and nature "

Tasks:

1. To acquaint students with the story of VP Astafiev “Starodub”, to reveal the world of people and nature, which is in an indissoluble and contradictory unity, the violation of which threatens with degeneration and death.

2. Encourage students to moral assessment, to realize their own spiritual capabilities

3. To cultivate the desire for active goodness, to teach the correct interaction with the outside world.

Pupils select epigraphs for the lesson on their own, working with a selection of literature about V.P. Astafiev (the list of references is indicated by the teacher).

Possible epigraphs:

In prose V.P. Astafieva reflections on our life, on the purpose of man on earth and in society and his moral foundations ...(A. Makarov)

He writes only what he himself lives with, what is his day and life, his love and hate, his own heart.(V. Kurbatov)

... communication with nature, work in the name of it is an ancient, unchanging, perhaps the most reliable joy in human life.(V.P. Astafiev)

You cannot find such a bright, clear, as Astafiev's, understanding of national, moral norms, which never become outdated, enter our soul, shape it, teach to value absolute values.(V.M. Yaroshevskaya)

Registration:

1. Portrait of the writer

2. Decorated epigraphs

Why did fate give me the happiness of life? Am I worthy of this happiness?

Did you do everything for the happiness of others?

Didn't he exchange the life that I had so hard inherited for dimes?

Have you always been honest with yourself?

Did you tear bread from the mouths of loved ones?

Have you wiped the weak from the road with your elbows?

Activities:

1. Independent search for epigraphs for the lesson

2. Composition-reasoning (composition-miniature)

3. Student message

4. Analytical conversation on the story

5. Expressive reading by dialogue roles

During the classes

I. Word of the teacher: communication of the topic and objectives of the lesson, analysis of the selected epigraphs for the lesson.

II. Composition-reasoning (composition-miniature).

Acquaintance with the work of V.P. Astafiev continues.

Many of his works have already been read, some ideas about the author as a writer and a citizen are already there.

Therefore, in order to test the knowledge of students about the author, his life position, we suggest writing a miniature essay

“They say that V.P. Astafiev…”. Students need to continue formulating the thesis and provide arguments that reveal the position that has been put forward.

Possible miniature composition.

They say that V.P. Astafiev is a writer who reveals in his works moral principles that never become outdated. About this the words of A. Makarov, V. Kurbatov, V. Yaroshevskaya and other literary critics.

I share their opinion. My acquaintance with the writers began with the story "Vasyutkino Lake", and then there were the stories "A photograph in which I am not," "A monk in blue pants," "Last bow". Now I have read the story "Starodub". Indeed, in all his works, Viktor Petrovich discusses what is good and evil, love and hate. Shares painful with us, readers. He advises to be honest, to observe moral norms in society, constantly makes you think about how to fill your life in order to leave a good memory of yourself. I am proud of the Person and the writer V.P. Astafiev. It is especially pleasant that he is my fellow countryman and he is not indifferent to the fate of his native land.

III. Student message "Pages of V.P. Astafiev's life"(According to the pages of the album "Viktor Astafiev. In the depths of Russia."

IV. Conversation on the content of the story "Starodub" by V.P. Astafiev.

(To draw the attention of the students to how the village appeared, who became its first inhabitant, to the customs of the villagers. The world is cruel: they did not help the raftsmen, since there is no reason to save those from whom they were reliably hiding; they wanted to put the boy with a crushed hand on a raft and push him, sacrifice Kultygin; they did not help the Kirghiz with the boy, they doomed him to death. Basically, the inhabitants of Vyrubov are unattractive people, they were persecuted people. Self-isolation led them to spiritual impoverishment. A person ceases to be a human when he is not only able do good, but also respond to it, perceive it).

2. “Kultysh is the only ray of light in the dark taiga kingdom of the Kerzhatsk village”, - this is how the researcher of V.P. Astafiev's work A.P. Lanshchikov said about him. Do you agree that Kultysh is a ray of light in the dark kingdom?

What gives him strength in confronting the evil world of Vyrubov, which defiles human feelings? (The ability to love and be faithful in love, unity with nature, moral nobility distinguishes Kultysh. People pushed him away, more than once doomed him to death, but it is Kultysh who brings them, holding no evil, meat in days of trouble and distributes it. drunken Kultysh, where a maral whale with a calf grazes, in fact betrayed him, and Kultysh goes in search of Amos who disappeared in the taiga. ) walked to people through Kultysh for a long time).

3. “Taiga is a treasure, but you have to touch it with a pure heart,” says the hero of the story “Starodub”. How do you understand his words and can you agree with this point of view? (Pay attention to the fact that Amos and Kultysh are exponents of different views, different attitudes towards the taiga. Include expressive reading according to the roles of the dialogue between Kultysh and Amos. Kultysh accuses his fellow villagers of cowardly - predatory use of the taiga, as if it is an enemy land and can be exterminated with impunity. Why did Amos die in the taiga? Amos thought about himself most of all, and he was not interested in what would become of people.)

V. Lesson summary.

“... not a single writer of our time can find such a vivid and clear understanding of national, moral norms, which never become obsolete, enter our soul and shape it. They teach to value absolute values, ”wrote V. Yaroshevskaya.

What moral standards does V.P. Astafiev and what moral standards are necessary for the formation of our souls?

Literature for the lesson

1. N. Yanovsky. Victor Astafiev. Sketch of creativity. M., "Soviet writer", 1982

2. V. Kurbatov. Instant and eternity. Reflections on the work of V. Astafiev. Krasnoyarsk book publishing house, 1983

3.V.P. Astafiev. Bibliographic index. Introductory article by A. Panteleeva. Krasnoyarsk book publishing house, 1989

4.V.P. Astafiev. Deep in Russia. The compiler of the album and the author of the text is V.M. Yaroshevskaya. Publishing house "Credo", 1998

Write an essay about the story "Green Stars,"
answering questions:
1. Why can this text be called artistic?
2. What artistic means was used to create the image of the forest?
3. What role does green play in the painted picture of the forest?
4. Why is the fern named "fabulous" and "magical"?
5. What can you say about the character of the narrator?

Answers and solutions.

In the story "Green Stars" V.P. Astafiev speaks about the forest located along the banks of the Koiva River and about coastal lakes; The main idea that the author wants to convey to the reader, in my opinion, is that he believes everything connected with the forest, and, probably, wants us to believe in the forest. For V.P. Astafiev's forest connects with all living things.
Creating the image of the forest, the author uses various artistic means. Astafyev speaks with tenderness about water lilies, about a “flaming” mountain ash, about a fern! These images are created with the help of epithets (the world is “timid, that is, quiet, hiding, not knowing what will happen next, because“ the forests are still green, ”and the first snow has already fallen; mountain ash is a“ shy ”tree, probably the earliest felt the approach of snow and got scared, because it was not at all ready for winter; the “sad rustle” of falling rosettes from rowan trees, it seems to me that the sadness is caused again by early snow and cold, apparently, they did not please people for a long time with their beauty of mountain ash, therefore they are sad, as people) and metaphors (here there is a hidden comparison of water lilies with palms: the leaves of water lilies, wide and round, lying flat on the water surface, reminded the author of the shape of a palm; rowan brushes are blazing lights, indeed, among the snowy plain, there are red rosettes like lights: their clearly visible; bunches of fern are green stars, if you imagine that a snowy plain is a vast sky, then bunches of fern are like green stars).
I think that a person who loves it with all his heart, treats nature with care and reverence, and wants to understand its secrets, and also praise its beauty, can talk about nature in this way.

Hollow woods, mainly cedar, are cut down along the Maly Abakan River and along the Bolshoy Abakan. And he was hollow because in the wastelands made by lumberjacks and fires, the soil layer was washed away on the slopes of the mountains, and the trees stand up to their knees, and sometimes up to their throats in a naked, unnatural and indifferent heap of stones. But the forest is still cut down, sometimes choosing a log from a huge whip, sometimes two, or even without sawing anything, they throw the forest along the banks, setting it on fire at last.

Needles burn out, dry twigs, branches burn, bark is on the trunks, and the trees themselves lie scattered, where they are scattered, where in a pile, but more often a blockage, this way and that, criss-crossing the tops are entangled, connecting with burnt trunks.

In the spring, the ice drift, the second, the third - ice drifts in the stormy mountain rivers - will push into the rubble of stones, barrow, sand, the water will rest against this obstacle, beat, beat and round it with a roar, making another squiggle on its already winding, tangled paths.

From the shore, from the stone, re-overgrown with currants, redwoods, elderberries, alders and all kinds of grassy and woody fools, smoked trunks of guns protrude from the wall of an ancient fortress - these are hollow, half-burnt tree trunks, the refuse of loggers, our generous and generous litter powers.

And this is life! Here is her strength and endurance. You will look into an empty black tree trunk, and in it is a bird's nest, where there are two. Someone runs into the depths of the trunk, into the darkness - from the terrible human eye, someone hisses terrifyingly, snaps his teeth. And from other trunks, from ready-made hollows, to which a person has not yet approached, has not frightened a living soul with his eye, animals and birds are pouring out, flying out. Here a motley chipmunk with puffed-out cheeks rolled gently on top of the stones, brought, you see, to his storehouse pine nuts behind his cheeks, whistled thinly, soared in fright on a nearby tree. He looks from there, chirps abruptly, as if striking a silicon chair, and fancies that he wants to say with a look and a sound: “Well, what do you want here? After all, he has already driven us into a suffocating, burnt hollow, so leave us alone here! .. "

But where will the king of nature leave him alone, if he drove himself into a poisoned burner, dies there and does everything so that all living things around him die with him.

Alekha! Listen, Alekha! Here in the newspaper they write, a young girl, a student, left her child in the hospital. How is it? In the Land of the Soviets, you know! It's him from the maternity hospital to the orphanage. After - to the orphanage. Everything is home, home, but there is no home. Understand?

I understand, - Alekh opened his eyes, driving from the forest, from work, in oiled overalls. - I would not understand! he snorted with a wide lip.

And Alekh fell silent. The person is laconic and must be categorical, besides, he is tired after working day and a long journey in a cold bus. He closed his eyes again, pressed himself tighter against the slippery back of the seat, pressed into it to make it warmer, and after a while, as if for himself, began the story measuredly, quietly. But the further he spoke, the quieter it became in the work bus, shabby, worn out beyond all measure and safety.

It was autumn. No, what am I? - Alekha rubbed his forehead with a black fist. - It was summer. In mid-June. In the forest, blueberries bloomed, mountain ash and all kinds of berries. We moved from site to site. I was pulling a sleigh with a booth. In the booth were the same hard workers, like you, and the instrument. The road is old, laid by geologists back in the war, it is all overgrown through, where with grass, where with moss, where with a bush. I'm going. I doze. It whispers branches on the radiator, whispers in the cab. As usual. And that's exactly who pushed me by the side. It seems to be awake, it seems to be not. Show me on the road, in the very middle, in the berries, under a dry viburnum bush a nest. Great. And a bird on it. Big. I'm already running into him. Eh-eh, Alekha, Alekha! Skoko you were told: "Do not doze behind the wheel! .."

I stopped the car, I ran, soft-boiled, I think, both the bird and the eggs ... My whole heart began to throb, as if from a big hangover. I run up. Everything is in place! The bird sits on the nest - it got between the caterpillars, between the runners. And she sat there. What courage, what heroism! - Alekha's voice rose and must have deafened Alekha himself. He broke off, fidgeted in the seat, as if he was making himself more comfortable, and everything creaked under him and even something, some kind of nut or piece of iron, whimpered thinly and pitifully. - And here sits, therefore, kapalukha, closed her eyes. Doesn't see me. Doesn't see anything. Hears nothing. And it seemed to have wilted, she became dead. I touched it with my finger: the feather fell off, all the meat in the bone fell through, but the body was hot. "Sit down," I say, "don't be afraid of me!" He looked around: no one was there, stroked her furtively, otherwise they would cut her off.

The next day I return to the old village - is it possible that mother is still at the nest? Eyes strained. Is sitting! I stopped the tractor, gas, scare, I think. No, a bird has become like a stone. I took a crowbar and a chisel in the cockpit. Is sitting! Well, what can I do? I went. Carefully, carefully ... I looked around - everything is in order!

And so I made eight flights. And not once, not once did the bird leave the nest! Never! It was impossible, apparently, to open the eggs for a minute - they would have cooled down. - Lech interrupted, waved away the smoke from his face, which was letting on him a neighbor. - On one flight I took our women: cooks, bakers, accountants, a bookkeeper and just lakhudrov. Here, I think, I'll show you the name. And I'll tell you. I will stop on purpose, drive me out of the trailer, and give me a lesson in ethics and aesthetics: like an unreasonable bird, a tractor above itself and sledges missed. Well it’s to think - and then horror! This is a homemade chicken will not stand it! Will fly away and stop rushing. But there was no kapalukha on the nest. From a distance I also noticed: the shells in the hole are turning white, but the mother is not there. She left. And she took the chicks away. Immediately, you see, and took away, as they hatched. And the nest is a pure Mushshinskaya hat, large, with feathers in it. I took the nest into the cockpit. I store it. As a new school will open on the site, I will take it there. And I'll tell the kids about the kapalukha ...

Alekha fell silent and closed not only his eyes and lips, but closed himself all over - for a long time, firmly. He spoke up. And his partner or fellow traveler looked at Alekha in surprise, as if he had seen him for the first time, and after extinguishing the cigarette butt on the lining of the bus, he said emotionally:

I'm half a liter, Alekha! No, - he slashed himself on the knee, - liters! Could run over the bird? Easy! Then I would cook it - and for a snack. Didn't cook! Didn't eat it! This is a feat, comrades ?! It is necessary to write about this in the newspapers, and not about women-curvians, that children are procreated and scattered all over the world ...

Nobody, neither Alekha, nor the lumberjacks traveling from the winter plot, supported the conversation. Working people got tired, froze, took a nap, going home, to the warmth, to their wives, to children. And somewhere, in big city, little children played with bottles with their nipples and their own fists on - there were not enough toys for everyone, and there were only two teachers for the whole house.

Sick llamas

I do not write and hardly talk about trips abroad - there is no need to upset myself and people, their life is already black. Memories in me, with me, they have become a part of my life and, therefore, at any moment, at any moment, in any work, they affect my relationship to reality, and my creativity too.

But on trips it happens that a bullet wounds the heart, shrinks the body, chills the blood and disturbs, disturbs the memory.

I was in Colombia for international exhibition books, and ambassadorial workers, not spoiled by attention and not tired of guests, caressed me, entertained, treated me, and finally even took me fishing high into the mountains, to a lake of wondrous beauty, where our ambassadorial employees have a permanent place and even a table dug into the shore ...

They fished for trout, but it was poorly caught, but it ate and drank well, because in this fertile country there is something to eat, there is something to drink.

Warmth, grace, everything blooms large, bright, and even the trample-grass that grows along our streets under the fence and wherever there is a place, bloomed here entirely with a little white calico. Blooming and dying, the grass becomes a kind of soft, transgressing mattress. Walking in the mountains is generally hard, you can't accelerate your pace, your heart gets tired and your legs hurt, but on such a grassy floor, like on swamp moss, walking is completely tiring. Therefore, I sat more in the camp, stared and, having spoken on the way, kept quiet, admired.

But they haven’t survived yet ...
Along the coast, along the fertile sand or grub, in the crumb of the stone, bright, large flowers grow, in bulk - bilberry, blueberry and the wondrous berry of the north - the prince. This sissy, blooming with an inconspicuous pink flower, grows everywhere in islets, fenced off with thin perches and branches, over the thin stumps there are perches connected by a triangle. There were different people here, they whipped a sparse, persistent forest thoughtlessly, which is closer, which is more convenient for an ax, bare the cape, but nature does not give up. In the opening of stumps, which are often not thicker than a human fist, a part-bird chick will suddenly move, the shoot of larch - the main tree here, suitable for building materials, for fuel, for firewood, for poles, for blocks for traps, will tremble with the fluff of needles, and that sprout and a forest-tundra chick, fated more often than to survive.
The first settlers put triangles over each shoot - look, man and beast, do not step on the forest baby, do not trample it - the future life of the planet is in it.
“A good sign of life - there are so few of them left and even fewer are reappearing,” looking at those pole triangles under which small trees grow, I thought. - To make them an ecological sign of our Siberian region, maybe the whole country, maybe the whole world. "
Meanwhile, the guys are being trampled down on the sly, they are being squeezed from their places - they stopped taking fish from them, they threaten not to conclude a contract for furs. The guys are thinking of giving up to Canada, settling in a taiga or tundra place, and some silently and evil, some kindly and sympathetically push in the back: “So go further, don't irritate our people with your disinterestedness, this independence, it is not to our hearts”.
"And not in the mind!" - I will add on my own.

The taste of melted snow

Years already ... many years, it seems, a century ago, I was sitting on the slope of the Urals, in old clearings with a gun among the stumps and roots, listening and could not hear enough of the spring wild choir of birds, from which the sky swayed. The earth and everything on it froze, did not move, did not swing a single branch, marveling at that miracle, that holiday, which she herself was the creator of.
The morning flew by, the mists settled, the sun rose high, but the birds did not stop, and between the stumps, roots and bushes, everything hissed, all the hushed kosachs were humming and belligerently jumping up and down.
Having risen from the ambush, I immediately sagged with a hacked donkey - my legs became numb. I sat for many hours, from dark to the sun, and did not notice the time. And as soon as I took a step, from under my feet, fluttering wings, a black bombshell rolled like a black bomb, poked into a lonely birch and stared at me.
I fired. The kosach, hitting the branches, swirling a feather, rolled down, slammed under the birch, and as soon as I stretched out my hand to take the bird, I heard a small rash and clicks of rain above my head. I raised my head - the sky was clear, sunny, but drops were falling and falling into my face, thickening, licking my lips, I felt the taste of melted snow, a weak, delicate sweetness on my lips, and I realized that it was sap, birch sap.
Falling down, the kosach knocked a birch out of its bosom, tore off a branch from the trunk, and shot through the white bark, and the tree immediately began to cry, often with tears, as if it had a presentiment with its gut and skin that next spring they would sprinkle powder on these endless fellings, this land, where nature has almost managed to heal wounds and give birth to animals, birds and various animals.
The hunter himself will walk in the half-killed young thickets, ankle-deep in feathers and cry, hearing the fragile bones crunch under his boots, and with confusion in his heart think about the future. Will birch sap sprinkle in the face of our children and grandchildren, will they feel the frothy sweetness of melted pure snow on their lips, will they hear the singing of birds, and such that even the sky sways from it and the drunken earth is forgotten, stunned by spring daring and boldness?

Melody

A variegated leaf. Red rosehip. Sparks of peeled viburnum in gray bushes. Yellow coniferous litter from larch trees. Black land, bare in the fields, under the mountain. Why so soon ?!

Line

Winter has come again. Cold. I dreamed about this line on a warm summer night.

Hello word

Cold. It's windy. The end of spring, and I have to hide in the forest for a walk.
I'm coming. I cough. I creak. Above me, birch trees rustle desertedly, not giving birth to leaves, only hung with earrings and shaded with pinches of green buds. The mood is gloomy. Thinking mostly about the end of the world.
But now a girl in a red jacket and a red cap is scratching on a trampled path on a tricycle. After her, mom rolls a stroller with the baby. - Stop, uncle! - shining with blackened eyes, the girl shouts and jokes on.
“Hello, little one! Hello, my child! " - I want to shout and me, but I do not have time.
Mother in a blue cloak, buttoned up tightly, is afraid to chill her chest, leveling with me, smiled wearily:
“For her, all people are still brothers!
I looked around - a girl in an open red jacket was racing along the spring birch forest, welcoming everyone, rejoicing at everything.
Does a man need much? So it became easier for me in my soul.

Book 2

How the goddess was treated

The Dome Cathedral

Home ... Home ... Home ...
Dome Cathedral, with a cock on the spire. Tall, stone, it sounds over Riga.
The vaults of the cathedral are filled with organ singing. From the sky, from above floats now a rumble, now thunder, now the gentle voice of lovers, now the call of the Vestals, now the roulades of the horn, now the sounds of the harpsichord, now the sound of a rolling brook ...
And again, with a formidable wave of raging passions, it blows everything away, again a roar.
Sounds sway like incense smoke. They are thick, tangible. They are everywhere, and everything is filled with them: soul, earth, world.
Everything froze, stopped.
Mental confusion, the absurdity of a vain life, petty passions, everyday worries - all of this remained in another place, in a different light, in a different life, distant from me, out there somewhere.
“Maybe all that came before was a dream? Wars, blood, fratricide, supermen playing with human destinies in order to establish themselves above the world.
Why do we live so intensely and difficult on our land? What for? Why?"
House. House. House…
Blagovest. Music. The gloom was gone. The sun rose. Everything is changing around.
There is no cathedral with electric candles, with ancient molding, with glass, toy and candy depicting paradise life. There is a world and I, calmed with awe, ready to kneel before the greatness of beauty.
The hall is full of people, old and young, Russian and non-Russian, party and non-party, evil and kind, vicious and light, tired and enthusiastic, all sorts of things.
And no one is in the hall!
There is only my serene, disembodied soul, it oozes with incomprehensible pain and tears of quiet delight.
It purifies itself, the soul is something, and it seems to me that the whole world held its breath, this seething, formidable world of ours was thinking, ready to fall on its knees with me, to repent, to fall with its withered mouth to the holy spring of good ...
And suddenly, like an obsession, like a blow: and yet at this time, somewhere, someone is targeting this cathedral, this great music ... with cannons, bombs, missiles ...
It can't be! Must not be!
And if there is. If we are destined to die, burn out, disappear, then let now, even at this moment, fate punish us for all our evil deeds and vices. Since we are unable to live freely, together, let at least our death be free, and the soul will go to another world, lightened and bright.
We all live together. We die separately. This has been the case for centuries. It was so until this moment.
So let's go now, let's rather, while there is no fear. Don't turn people into animals before you kill them. Let the vaults of the cathedral collapse, and instead of crying about the bloody, criminally folded path, people will carry the music of a genius into their hearts, and not the bestial roar of a murderer.
The Dome Cathedral! The Dome Cathedral! Music! What have you done to me? You are still trembling under the arches, you are still washing your soul, chilling your blood, illuminating everything around with light, knocking on your armored chests and sick hearts, but already a man in black comes out and bows from above. A small man trying to assure that it was he who did the miracle. A wizard and a songwriter, a nonentity and God, to whom everything is subject: both life and death.
There is no applause here. Here people cry from the tenderness that overwhelmed them. Everyone cries about his own. But together everyone cries about the end, a wonderful dream subsides, that magic is brief, deceptively sweet oblivion and endless torment.
The Dome Cathedral. The Dome Cathedral.
You are in my shuddering heart. I bow my head to your singer, thank you for the happiness, albeit a short one, for the delight and faith in the human mind, for the miracle created and sung by this mind, thank you for the miracle of the resurrection of faith in life. Thank you for everything, for everything!

Cemetery

As the steamer passes the luxurious territory with houses, teremkas, countryside for bathers, with tenacious signs on the shore: “ restricted area pioneer camps ", - a cape is visible ahead at the confluence of the Chusovaya and Sylva rivers. It is washed away by water that rises in the spring and falls in the winter.
Opposite the cape, on the other side of Sylva, dry poplars stand in the water.
Young and old poplars, all black and with broken branches. But on one birdhouse hangs down the roof. Some poplars bent down, others still hold straight and look with fear into the water, which washes away everything and washes away their roots, and the shore crawls, crawls, and soon it has been twenty years since the sea has been overflowing, but there is still no real shore, everything is crumbling. land.
On the day of the Forgiveness, people come from the surrounding villages and from a brick factory, throw cereals into the water, crush an egg, pinch a bread.
Under the poplars, under the water is a cemetery.
When the Kama reservoir was filled, there was a big assault. Many people and machines raked up the forest, houses, orphaned buildings and burned them. The bonfires were hundreds of miles away. At the same time, the deceased were moved to the mountains.
This is a cemetery near the village of Lyady. Not far from here, in the village of Troitsa, the once free, daring poet Vasily Kamensky lived and worked.
At the Lyadovskoye cemetery, work was also carried out before filling the free sea. Fast work. The builders dragged about a dozen fresh houses up the hill, assured themselves with a certificate from the village council about the fulfilled obligation, the magarych, on the occasion of the successfully completed business, drank it and left. The cemetery poplars went under the water, and the graves went under the water. Then a lot of bones turned white at the bottom. And the fish stood there in a school. Big bream. The locals did not catch fish and did not allow the strangers to catch. They feared sin.
And then the dried poplars fell into the water. The first to fall was the one with the birdhouse, he was the oldest, the most bony and the most woeful one.
A new cemetery was formed on the mountain. It has long been covered with grass. And there is not a single tree there, not even a single bush. And there is no fence. Polo around. The wind is coming from the reservoir. Grasses stir and whistle at night in crosses, in wooden and iron pyramids. Lazy cows and skinny goats with thorns graze here. They chew grass and chew wreaths of fir from the graves. Among the graves, on the frail grass, knowing neither trembling nor fear, a young shepherd is lying around and sleeping sweetly, blown by the breeze from the big water.
And they began to fish where the poplars fell. While strangers, unknowing people are catching, but the locals will soon start.
It's very cool in the evenings in steamy weather to take bream at this place ...

Stars and Christmas trees

In Nikolsky district, in the homeland of the late poet Yashin, for the first time I saw stars nailed to the ends of the corners of rural huts, and decided that it was Timurov's pioneers who had decorated the village in honor of some holiday ...
We went into one hut to drink some water. She lived in that wooden hut, with low rafters and narrowly cut windows into one glass, a friendly woman whose age could not be immediately determined - her face was so mournful and dark. But then she smiled: “Avon, how many suitors fell to me at once! If only they took me with them and lost my way in the forest ... ”And we recognized in her a woman who had passed the middle of the century, but was not crushed by life.
The woman joked well, her face brightened and, not knowing what to treat us, she offered everything pea whites, and when she found out that we had never tried such concoctions, she naturally presented us with dark pretzels, sprinkling them from a sheet of tin on the car seat, assuring us that Such a pretzel in a peasant has a strong spirit, and a sinful one pulls him into a funeral.
I am never tired of being amazed at how people, and especially women, and especially in the Vologda region, despite any adversity, preserve and carry through life an open, cheerful soul. You will meet a Vologda peasant or a woman at a crossroads, ask about something, and they will smile at you and speak as if you have known you for a hundred years and you are their closest relatives. And it really is relatives: after all, they were born on the same land, some troubles wept. Only some of us began to forget about it.
Tuned into a cheerful wave, I cheerfully asked what the stars were on the corners of the hut, in honor of what such a holiday?
And again the face of the old woman darkened, the giggles disappeared from her eyes, and her lips stretched out in a strict thread. Lowering her head, she answered in a dull voice, with worn-out dignity and sorrow:
- Celebration?! God forbid anyone such a holiday ... Five did not come back from the war: myself, three sons and brother-in-law ... - She looked at the stars, cut from tin, painted with crimson student paint, wanted to add something else, but only suppressed in herself sigh, closed the gate behind her, and from there, already from the yard, smoothing out the awkwardness made by me, added: - Go with God. If there is nowhere to sleep, turn to me, the hut is empty ...
“The hut is empty. The hut is empty ... "- it was beating in my head, and I was looking at everything steadily - in the village streets stars flashed in red specks on dark corners, sometimes singly, sometimes in bulk, and a difficult war, probably not a single family remained in Russia that would not have lost someone ...
And how many unfinished and aged huts are in the Vologda region! The residents of Vologda loved to build thoroughly and beautifully. Houses were erected with mezzanines, decorated with carvings - wooden lace, made a porch under the tower. The work is so painstaking, it takes time, diligence and skill, and usually the owner of the house moved in with his family into a warm, businesslike, or something, half of the hut, where there was an entrance hall, a kut and a Russian stove, and he finished the house, mezzanine, and so on slowly, efficiently so that the "clean" half is always festive and light.