I needed to get to duck lake. Collection of ideal social studies essays
For those entering the 9th grade
Option D-9-00-1
The postal troika quickly raced a light gibberish. From under the hooves of the heated horses, rubble and fine stone dust flew in splashes, but the driver, bending over from the irradiation, still drove and shouted. Behind the driver was a figure in a uniform cap with a cockade and a civilian overcoat. Although on the bumpy road the rattayka kept shaking and throwing up in the most cruel way, but the gentleman with the cockade did not pay the slightest attention to this. He, too, leaned over and seemed to carefully watch every movement of the horses, controlling them and making sure that none of them fell behind. From time to time he pointed out to the coachman which, in his opinion, should be whipped, sometimes he even took the whip from him and diligently, albeit clumsily, whipped himself. From this occupation, which absorbed all his attention, he occasionally only broke away to look at his watch.
Vasily Ivanovich all the time, while the troika was rushing uphill, laughed like crazy. But when the bell, ringing desperately in front of the porch, suddenly fell silent, the caretaker was already sitting on the couch and, as if nothing had happened, was smoking his cigar.
For a few seconds all that could be heard from the yard was the breathing of the tired horses. But suddenly the door opened, and a newcomer ran into the room. It was a gentleman of about thirty-five, of small stature, with a disproportionately large head. The broad face, with slightly protruding cheekbones, straight eyebrows, a slightly upturned nose and finely defined lips, was almost rectangular and breathed a peculiar energy.
Option D-9-00-2
I have already introduced you, sympathetic readers, some of my neighbors, but now let me introduce you to Major General Apollon Innokent'evich Khvalynsky.
Imagine a tall man, once slender and in the most, as they say, time. True, the once regular and pleasant features of his face, apparently very handsome at one time, have coarsened, his cheeks sagged, and now he all seems somewhat blurry and somehow settled.
He is a kind person, but his concepts and habits are utterly strange. For example, a poor neighbor-landowner approaches him; Khvalynsky will certainly look at him a little sideways, be silent, puff up, begin not to pronounce, but to spit through his teeth, and at that time he looks like a male quail.
He is troublesome and a terrible burnout, but the owner is bad, and the steward is in charge of him. They say that in his youth he was an adjutant to some significant person, but he did not go to war, and no one heard anything about his military exploits and valor.
Khvalynsky is good at big dinner parties. Dinners are his element, and here he is completely at ease, having the opportunity to prove himself, as they say, with might and main. With undisguised pleasure, infecting others, he drinks any wine. At the beginning of dinner, he adheres to self-esteem, speaks little and laconic, without expecting special attention from anyone and nowhere. But provincial dinners are not usually reserved for too long.
Option D-9-02-1
Blizzard
The day before yesterday we began to hurriedly pack for the road. Unexpectedly, a letter arrived about my grandmother's illness, and our mother immediately decided, together with all the children, to visit her and treat her with something delicious. From childhood we were accustomed to various, often too unexpected journeys, and only sincerely rejoiced at the miraculous change in our boring and solitary life.
The brother and sister, tightly bundled up, waited impatiently to be carried to a tightly closed wooden wagon. Hastily dressing and chewing on a sandwich with appetizingly fried eggs, I ran to the wagon. Matushka carefully examined our attire and slowly sat down herself. The horses, jingling their silver bells, set off.
The wind covered the freshly cleared roads with snow. We moved forward extremely slowly, little by little. From time to time our driver glanced askance at the completely unbeaten paths, more and more often he raised his head upwards, from where whole heaps of crumbly snow were constantly falling down.
All of a sudden, everything around our wagon swirled so wildly, it raced, as if someone uninvited and uninvited, invisible to anyone, had taken possession of all the vast space around and was now ominously celebrating good luck. Suddenly, our mica window fell off the hook and flung open. In an instant, the entire interior of the wagon was completely littered with snow. The snow seemed to be coming from everywhere: from the outside, from the inside, from under the floor. The perforated window was unable to protect us from the pitiless wind. We decided to lead the horses by the bridle, carefully choosing the road.
Option D-9-02-2
Old man
I see him as if it was yesterday.
Here he is sitting at a table lit by a lamp with a blue shade and covered with a canvas tablecloth. The collar of a washed shirt with unblown folds somehow especially neatly hugs his wrinkled neck. Gray hair at the temples is neatly combed into a side parting. The carefully trimmed beard suits his pleasantly tanned face extremely well. It smells of juniper whisk, bath soap and something else indefinite, similar to the aroma of baked bread. And this pleasant mixed smell of soap, washed cotton, pipe tobacco and freshly baked bread creates a special impression of senile strength and purity.
He sits in his favorite place, spreading his legs under the table in short darned - overdarned socks and leather props. In front of him on the table is a glass of strong tea, infused with herbs collected in the forest thicket. Half of his face is illuminated by a lamp, with his left hand with a protruding little finger, he props up his head, holding folded fingers over his eyes with a visor. The old man slowly stamps his foot as he reads the newspaper, and, blinking his eyes frequently, occasionally glances at the samovar. The room is really cozy and warm, constantly noisy in the stove. The dispassionate blue night is reflected in the worn-out windows. Large winter flies, waking up, angrily beat on the ceiling above the lamp.
The old man has a lot of original, artless things that belonged to him alone. In gait, in the manner of laughing and speaking, even in the way he holds a wooden spoon at the table - everything feels unique.
Option D-9-02-3
The next morning, two new students showed up at the school. They must have been from the same village, as they were brought together. Snow-covered backs of visitors, their faces flushed in the cold, testified that they had come from afar. Standing by the loaded sleigh, the boys impatiently stamped their feet in felted boots, while their driver, a hook-nosed old man with a sparse, frosty beard, lit his pipe.
One of the boys, fair-haired and blue-eyed, was smiling and whispering something to his fellow traveler. A bad little coat, spacious, designed for growth, fell almost to the ground. Another boy, short and puny, with a sharp little face and shiny black button-eyes, answered him dismissively, desperately wrinkling his nose. A worn sheepskin coat, narrow at the shoulders and too wide at the knees, gave him an unusual appearance.
At the end of the lesson, the students ran out into the yard. Coming up with the uninvited guests, they stopped, looking at the newcomers demandingly. Then, not knowing either the names of the newcomers or their age, they rushed to unload the luggage. Knapsacks with provisions and simple belongings were removed from the firewood and taken into the room. The blue-eyed boy carefully took some object wrapped in canvas under his arm and stepped aside.
Snowflakes glided smoothly in the air, covering clothes with a thin velvety layer. The January morning sun was iridescently refracted on the children's eyelashes sparkling with frost, on the plank shutters shining with frost, sparkling on the frosty window patterns, thin, as if woven by skillful lace.
There was only one thing that did not give anyone peace - a bundle, tenderly pressed to the chest of a blue-eyed boy.
Option D-9-03-1
Dark blue, like a lovely sapphire, hangs Ladoga lake. It just hangs in the swaying air, filling everything to the brink of the sky, merging with it in the blue distance. His appearance completely suppresses even the wild imagination. Contrary to the usual geography, this is not a lake, no, this is a sea, boundless, boundless. It is so easy and free to breathe here, and here you can only realize what the Neva is.
The majestic beauty of the river and the marvelous lake - the sea that gives it its source - is truly a wonderful, luxurious sight.
A hundred more human generations will never stain the Neva with anything. There will never be dangerous shoals in it, no silt deposits, no overly dense, impassable thickets - all the misery of drying up rivers and small rivers. The wonderful lake provides her with the freshness of youth for a long time.
A few tedious minutes of the inevitable hustle and bustle at the pier during the transfer, and the tiny steamboat drags itself along the canal, puffing and tensely overcoming the countless waves striving to meet it.
In the boundless green sea of grasses, yellow-white and purple specks of wild flowers are visible. From them, or from others, invisible, or simply from the endless waves of grass going into the distance, does this fresh, delicate fragrance waft?
From the narrow bridge that separates the lake from the canal and is covered with creeping grasses, many shining dragonflies fly over the water, like a flock of rattled, rattled. In the pale azure of the sky, above the immense blue water, invisible larks pour out charming trills. And among the dark-blue masses of the waves, long stripes of horsetail turn green, and duck voices are heard from there, echoing in every way.
Option D-9-03-2
My friend looks to be in his fifties. He is a stout, medium-sized man, dressed in an embroidered blouse and homespun slacks. On his feet are soft felted shoes trimmed with green marigold at the edges. And on the head is a deep woolen cap covering the eyes with a visor. Small slit eyes, almost without eyebrows, glance with cunning.
My hero lives in settlements located in the center of hunting grounds. To his gatehouse with a tiled red-brown roof, he made a large cobbled aisle. There are ten beds in the spacious annex room. On a table covered with an embroidered tablecloth, there is always a pile of rye pies with millet porridge, baked by a skilled neighbor, and next to it, flaunting, a huge silver samovar with faceted sides gleams.
Through the terrace you can go into the owner's tiny room, where stiffly starched curtains bulge on two whitewashed windows, the plank floors are carefully scraped, and bunches of onions and garlic hang on the walls. The furniture seems not in the least intricate and at the same time very comfortable: a bookcase with books, an iron bed with polished knobs, an invariable lamp under a shade.
The owner is cordial and hospitable, and his home hunting hotel is full during the hunting season. No one is denied. When there are not enough beds for the guests, they lay straw mats on the floor. If there is still not enough space, they spend the night in a wood-burning shed not far from the house. This Sarayushko is nothing but a decent slum. During thunderstorms, it shakes, creaks and cracks, and the doors open and slam by themselves, and they have to be locked with a latch.
Option D-9-03-3
Pretty huts with hewn roofs and freshly painted architraves were scattered on an unsightly hillock, as if shaken out of a purse. Each house was surrounded by a carved fence, a well-groomed courtyard was located behind, and in front - a front garden with outlandish flowers.
The village was firmly fenced off from the world by mountain ranges, taiga and a furious, restive river. For a long, long time, the one who first came here, looked around, carefully aiming, looking closely. It was impossible to get here either along the river, or along the mountains, or along the taiga, or in any other way. You look like you're going to die. Yes, it is not difficult to hide from the world here behind the larches in the taiga thicket, behind the foaming waves of the river, behind insurmountable mountain barriers.
In this unfamiliar village, for a long time, harsh, tough, unbending people lived. They came here, settled and gave everything around them their own, never before heard names. And the most healing and charming flower was given a name in honor of the beloved and revered tree - oak. This flower, yellowish - white, smelling of spices, has become an undying memory of the native, forever lost land. Every spring, starodubs lit up with a clear fire throughout Siberia - mother and dropped seeds so that in no case would the earth stop blooming, would not stop blooming with painted meadows and glades. From the flowers of the starodub, local damsels and minnows wove wreaths. Old, elderly grandmothers served tea, infused with flower sprouts, to weak, wounded taiga residents, and sometimes they even brewed a love potion from the silver-green leaves of the starodub.
Option D-9-04-1
From time immemorial there was a huge mountain here. On its peaks, just as before, lay eternal snow, bound by a dead cold. When the sun rose and warmed the peak, the snowflakes immediately melted. Light drops, pure and transparent, ran to the edge of the cliff and, swayed by the wind, reflected in themselves an unprecedented world that had opened before them.
And a drop full of expectation, joyful and anxious, became larger and heavier, broke away and flew down, sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow. It seemed to her that she would forever fly past the sheer cliffs, green mosses, mountain crevices, but the drop fell on the wild rocks blocking the path and died.
Meanwhile, again, in spite of everything, blizzards roared. It snowed. Where there were hollows and gullies, snowdrifts grew without restraint, comparing and covering everything. Only bare rocks, blown by a mad wind, rose sadly among the snowy fields.
Somewhere above, cirrus clouds were impassively rushing somewhere, still consisting of thin ice crystals. Subsequently, the clouds sank lower and turned blue, and soon the earth warmed up. Suddenly, unexpectedly, a wind blew from the south and brought a thaw. Within a short time, snowdrifts loosened and heavily settled. Water thawed from above leaked through them, made moves and began to make its way through the crevices of the settled rock. Streams invisible under the stones murmured restlessly.
The bizarre rocks looked as if with distrust at the resurgent life.
Option D-9-04-2
I slowly walked along a narrow but picturesque taiga river. Dry pine forests on the banks intermingled with centuries-old oak groves, thickets of willow, and alder, and alder. The ship's pines, downed by the storm, lay like cast copper bridges over its brownish water. Wind-blown sandbars are overgrown with coltsfoot. Thickets of lingonberries nestled near the water. The river went in bizarre bends, its deaf backwaters were lost in the distance of gloomy forests. Glittering dragonflies were constantly flying from shore to shore above the sparkling water, and giant hawks soared above.
However, the most amazing thing in these untrodden places was the air. It felt complete, perfect purity, giving a special sharpness to everything around. Each branch of the pine was, as it were, forged from rusty iron. The clarity of the air gave some extraordinary strength and originality to the world, especially in the morning, when everything was wet with dew. Only a bluish mist seeped in from below.
And during the day the river, and the banks, and the forests played with many sunspots, gold, green and iridescent. Streams of light faded, then flared up and turned the thicket into a living, moving world of foliage. The eye rested from the contemplation of the mighty and varied, as if gilded light. Forest smells came unbidden and unexpectedly, in waves, and it was sometimes difficult to identify them. Everything: the breath of juniper, water, rotten stumps, mushrooms, and maybe the sky itself, reflected in the water, mixed in them. And the sky itself seemed deep, clear, extremely warm.
Option D-9-04-3
The wind carries burning, piercing and stinging sand from south to west, from the smooth yellow shore to the sea. Slow scallops of low waves smooth the water, run onto the sand, beat it, comb it, paint it with something yellow - red and transparent mica veil roll back.
The yellow-flaming strip on the sand turns pink, fills with yolk, disappears.
The clouds roll over from side to side, stretch and freeze, looking into the depths of the sea. In the intervals between gusts of wind, the aromas of something extremely exciting are wafting: resinous and salty bark, or fish, or wormwood.
You rush along the beach barefoot, throwing your head back, throwing up your hands, and, barely touching the hot sand with your bare heels, you expose your whole body to its needles thrown by the wind.
In the afternoon it is good to come here along the very border of quiet waves running onto the beach. The feet squeeze shallow depressions around them, which instantly run and are immediately filled with a bluish trembling moisture.
Between two juniper bushes, in a red dress, sits a blond, freckled girl. She is making something outlandish out of shells, tilting her head, almost not moving and not noticing anything around. I slowly approach and, inhaling juniper bitterness, surreptitiously watch how her hands, thin and white, sort through the shells. In front of her, bizarre grottoes, fortresses, bastions grow. I stand behind her for a long time and then, sneaking on tiptoe, I leave without betraying myself either by sound, or rustle, or in any other way. For the next hour, I try to build something similar out of weathered, sun-dried shells.
Option D-9-05-1
Over the Oka River, gray clouds gathered in powerful knots piled up. Ahead, a huge blue-purple cloud was rising from behind the nearby forest. Behind the forest suddenly something rumbled, as if a gigantic cannon had been fired there. From somewhere the wind broke out and flew over our heads.
The storm was moving fast. She, like a bird, increasingly flapped her huge wings, cutting the air with her black beak. Her whistling and swift roar fell to the ground more and more sharply. Flying above and blinding with sparkling zigzags of lightning, she seemed to be chasing prey.
The river is full of dark waves. They rushed about randomly, but closer to the shore they lined up in rows. The river seemed to be holding back her tears with difficulty. Suddenly, a dazzling line crossed the gray mass of clouds very close by.
A greedy, evil hail cut in a strip. Large, dove-egg-sized hailstones clicked on the stone pavement, broken trees, beat on the flaming rowan tassels and already overripe raspberries.
Gradually, the wind began to subside, and the lightning sparkled already far, far away. The thunder rumbled deeper and deeper, and its sounds merged with the roar of stones on the river bank into one discordant, variegated noise. Between the rapidly flying clouds, light blue stains appeared, foreshadowing the imminent restoration of order in the entire area surrounding us. The rays of the sun awakened the river, and it, modest, hidden in its discreet colors, lit up like beautiful face, lit up with a smile.
Russian nature needs a ray of sunshine, and then it reveals its amazing, incomparable wealth of ordinary summer day somewhere on the banks of the Oka River.
Option D-9-05-2
To the lake.
I needed to get to duck lake by dawn, and I left the house at night so that I could be there in time in the morning.
I walked, slowly, along a soft, dusty road, descended into ravines, climbed not at all high hillocks, passed sparse pine forests with a frozen, stagnant smell of resin, and no one caught up with me, no one came across to meet me - I was alone in night.
Sometimes endless, boundless rye stretched along the road. She matured and stood like a statue, gently brightening in the darkness; the ears of corn leaning toward the road touched my boots and hands weakly, and these touches were like a silent, timid caress sent down by someone from above. The air was warm and clean, and smelled of hay and the occasional bitter freshness of night meadows; beyond the fields, beyond the river, beyond the forests that could be seen not far away, lightning blazed everywhere.
Soon the road, soft and soundless, went to the side, and I stepped onto a hard path winding fussily along the bank of the river. There was a smell of river dampness and a breath of moist air. Logs floating in the darkness occasionally collided, and then a dull, faint sound was heard, as if someone had softly tapped the butt of an ax on a tree. Far ahead, a fire burned like a bright dot; sometimes it disappeared behind the trees, then unexpectedly appeared again, and, narrow, intermittent, a strip of light stretched from it along the blue-black water.
It’s good to think at such moments: one suddenly remembers the distant and forgotten, once familiar and dear faces surround in a close circle, and dreams sweetly squeeze the chest, and little by little it begins to seem that all this has already happened once.
I had already gone halfway, and the lake was still very far away. No, it's not easy to walk at night. I was already thinking about sitting down under a tree to wait for the dawn, when suddenly I heard a trembling sound like a song.
Option D-9-05-3
A damp breeze blows from the misty-gray depths of the gorge, slender larches rustle in the distance. In the heights one can feel the smell of pine needles, and resin, and rotten earth. Somewhere in the darkness, absorbing colors, a soft, soporific whisper constantly sounds indistinctly. A rapid river is splashing, and it seems that everything around is singing, forcing people to shut up.
On the golden-red slope, bathed in the sun, everything is burnt out and breathes the smell of withered herbs. Strange plants on long pale green stalks, saxifrages, tensely rose from the cracks between the stones. The river runs, playing, over the pebbles, and they shine through the glassy, transparent water surface, like a colorful carpet.
There are no more than a hundred steps to the exit to the valley. If you go out there, you will involuntarily admire the even ring of Ciscaucasia, enclosed by a wall of blue mountains. The steppe around becomes sunlight sandy. Here and there gardens are visible in the middle of it, and from their spots, gray and brown, the yellow light seems to be still hot. White huts, like lumps of sugar scattered across the steppe, and around them, toy people, are bustling about and everyone is melting, melting in the streams of a sultry haze.
The steppe is embroidered with silk. When you look into the blue above it, you want to get up and walk without end.
The gorge, narrowing, rises higher and higher, and the fog, thickening, covers it with a blue canopy. And even higher, under the very sky, also blue, an icy peak melts on the sun invisible behind the clouds.
Something obscure disturbs the heart, awakens incomprehensible thoughts, and nothing is heard except the kind and soft rustle of the forest and the melodious ringing of the river.
Option D-9-06-1
In the morning, diamonds of dew on the yellow-green grass are like countless beads scattered on a cloth tablecloth. The gatehouse stands on the shore of the lake, behind the palisade, and the morning silence is not disturbed by the singing of birds or the rustle of leaves. It seems that nature sleeps in a calm sleep, not burdened by any worries.
A shaggy, long-eared dog lay serenely under a wooden canopy. Exasperated by the soft, gentle morning sun, he does not even raise his head, but only yawns after me and sighs noisily, like an old man. True, today he does not care about his sworn enemies - village cats.
Meanwhile, cats of various colors are sitting everywhere: on the roof, under the stairs, on the unpainted fence - and staring at the purse with fish, hung on a branch of an old wild apple tree. From time to time, one or another rogue jumps up, trying to knock over the bag, and, noticing the dog, rushes to his heels.
I leave the house, and the cats, taken by surprise, immediately scatter, get stuck between the stakes of the palisade and start screaming frantically.
In autumn, the garden is covered with golden-orange leaves. In two tiny little rooms it becomes light, as in a flying garden. The oven crackles and smells of apples and clean floors. The tits sit on the branches, chirp carelessly and look at the windowsill, where there is a slice of rye bread. Behind the stove, a cricket starts its artless song. I feel lost in this vast world and perceive it as happiness.
Option D-9-06-2
Everything around began to change by leaps and bounds. Apple and pear trees, everywhere stretching networks of crooked, gnarled branches, curled up with milky snow, and every day this color became whiter, thicker and more fragrant.
A huge old maple, visible from everywhere, was dressed in fresh, soft green. The tops of the ancient lindens on the main avenue were also covered with a transparent pattern of young foliage. And all this: the top of a maple, acacia, and bushes of wild-growing currants, and the wedding whiteness of apple trees and pears growing interspersed - struck with its density, freshness and novelty.
In a cleanly swept yard, the vegetation seemed to have become more crowded. For whole days the windows and doors were wide open in all the rooms: in the white hall, in the blue old-fashioned drawing room, in the small sofa room, also blue and hung all over with oval miniatures.
One day, having dozed off after dinner, Mitya left the house and, without hurrying anywhere, went into the garden. The day was hot and quiet, and as he walked along the cobbled road, Mitya brushed against the snow-white branches sticking out from somewhere below. The flowers were slowly crumbling, and the ground between them was completely strewn with faded petals. Their sweetish aroma was felt in the warm air. Sometimes there would be a cloud, the blue sky turned blue, and the warm air and these decaying smells became even stronger and sweeter. And all the time, bored in the daytime, then there, then another nightingale.
Option D-9-06-3
Issis - black smoke curls over the dacha station. Stretching long military echelons. Bandaged heads, bloodless faces of the seriously wounded, and tightly tied monastic kerchiefs of nurses, and soldiers' blankets hanging from the upper shelves are visible in the carriage windows.
A young wounded man greedily looks out of the door, standing on crutches, and, catching the sympathetic glances of women, waves his hand. The locomotive with a short whistle pulls the cars, and the echelon slowly floats past. And to meet him in a hurry another composition. In the wide-open doors of the caravans there are short-haired heads, beardless young faces, freckles the color of ripe rye scattered on the cheeks, young cornflower blue, brown, gray eyes clouded with grief. Sunflowers stored at home are pouring out of pockets, a daring song is picked up in unison.
The locomotive disappears in the distance, the women look after it for a long, long time. Boys don't go to parties, they go to war. Attacked native land German. Exposed, damned, a hundred thousandth army clad in iron. So they hurry, young, hastily trained recruits, to lay down their lives for Russia.
Meanwhile, passenger cars, clanging wheels, bring summer residents to the station, and immediately carriages and cabs fly up. Simple things of visitors: suitcases, cartons, aluminum buckets are unloaded onto the platform. The polished harness on the horses shines, and the sedate coachmen look down on those who meet them.
However, despite the spring and a serene, peaceful life, everyone seems to hear the beeps of other, military echelons.
I believe that a person who is able to see and feel the beauty of nature will be able to discover in himself a craving for creation,
to the desire to create. Yu. P. Kazakov in this text raises the problem of the origins of genuine talent.
The beauty of the world around us can change us, make us better.
Recall the story of Yu. Yakovlev "Awakened by nightingales." The hero of the story had the nickname Selyuzhenok, this is a difficult naughty child, a fidget. Adults did not like him and did not even want to take him seriously. But one night the boy heard a nightingale singing and he wanted to portray this bird. He sculpted a nightingale from plasticine, and then enrolled in an art school. In life, he had an interest, a hobby. Adults have changed their attitude towards him.
Many writers and poets believed that nature is a source of inspiration, a muse.
Unique beauty native land encouraged them to new and new creative search. With their poems and prose, they delight the reader, make them think.
It is even difficult to imagine if such poets as Alexander Pushkin, Nikolai Nekrasov, Fedor Tyutchev, Afanasy Fet would not have descriptions of nature in their verses.
Also, everyone knows the wonderful poems of Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin about nature. She has her own unique poetic life in Yesenin's works, she is all in constant motion, changing.
Thus, nature can awaken the best qualities in a person, reveal his creative potential.
Yuri Kazakov
I needed to get to the duck lake by dawn, and I left the house at night in order to be there until morning.
I walked along a soft dusty road, descended into ravines, climbed hillocks, passed sparse pine forests with a stagnant smell of resin and strawberries, again went out into the field ... No one caught up with me, no one came across - I was alone in the night.
Sometimes rye stretched along the road. She had already matured, stood motionless, gently brightening in the darkness; the ears of corn leaning toward the road touched my boots and hands weakly, and these touches were like a silent, timid caress. The air was warm and clean; the stars twinkled strongly; there was a smell of hay and dust, and occasionally the bitter freshness of night meadows; beyond the fields, beyond the river, beyond the forest expanses, lightning flashed faintly.
Soon the road, soft and soundless, turned aside, and I stepped onto a hard, callused path that wound bustlingly along the river bank. It smelled of river dampness, clay, and a damp chill. Logs floating in the darkness occasionally collided, and then a dull, faint sound was heard, as if someone had softly tapped the butt of an ax on a tree. Far ahead, on the other side of the river, a fire burned like a bright dot; sometimes he disappeared behind the trees, then reappeared, and a narrow intermittent strip of light stretched from him across the water.
It’s good to think at such moments: one suddenly remembers the distant and forgotten, once familiar and dear faces surround in a close circle, and dreams sweetly squeeze the chest, and little by little it begins to seem that all this has already happened once ... As if it had already passed ravines cool with dampness and dry hedges, and the river darkened, pieces of the washed-out bank broke into it with a splash, logs floating on the water softly knocked, black haystacks appeared and disappeared, and trees with branches twisted in a silent struggle, and lakes overgrown with mud with black windows ... Just can not remember where, when it was, at what a happy time of life.
I had been walking for an hour and a half, and the lake was still far away. It's hard to walk at night: you get tired of stumbling over roots and molehills, you get tired of the fear of going astray, getting lost in an unfamiliar forest. I almost regretted that I had left the house at night, and was thinking whether to sit down under a tree, whether not to wait for dawn, when suddenly I heard a thin trembling sound, like a song. I stopped, listened... Yes, it was a song! It was impossible to make out the words, only a drawn-out "Oooh ... Aaaoo ..," was heard - but I was delighted with this voice and, just in case, added a step. The song did not approach and did not move away, but still stretched out in a thin tangled thread. "Who is this?" I thought.
I went faster, pulled out of the spruce cleft, passed through the aspen undergrowth, and finally, below, in a small ravine, surrounded on all sides by dense forest, I saw a fire. Near him, propping his head on his hand, lay a man, looking into the fire and singing softly.
Going downstairs, I stumbled, loudly cracked deadwood, the man at the fire fell silent, quickly turned around, jumped up and began to peer in my direction, shielding himself from the fire with his palm.
Hunter, - I answered, approaching the fire. - Do not be afraid ...
And I'm not afraid. - He made an indifferent face. - What do I need! A hunter is a hunter...
The man whose song I was in such a hurry for turned out to be a bow-legged guy of about sixteen. He was ugly, with a thin Adam's apple neck and large protruding ears. He was dressed in a quilted jacket, oiled cotton trousers and tarpaulin boots. On his head, as if glued, sat a small cap with a short visor.
He stared at me for a few seconds, then asked with obvious curiosity:
Are you going for ducks?
Yes, I want to go to the lake, - I said, taking off my gun.
What is it for?
I explained.
Well, it's close! he reassured me and, turning his head to the river, listened,
It wasn't you who were screaming? he asked after a while.
No... What?
I don’t know, someone was shouting ... He would shout, he would be silent, he would shout again ... I wanted to go, but Lyoshka was afraid, my brother ...
He fell silent again, and I heard frequent light footsteps. Someone ran from the river here to the fire.
Semyon, Semyon! came a frightened and enthusiastic boyish voice. From the darkness into the light of the fire jumped a boy of about eight years old in a large, not tall, padded jacket. Seeing me, he immediately stopped and, opening his mouth, began to look from me to Semyon.
Well? Simon asked lazily.
Oh Semyon! Someone is sitting! - The boy looked at me again and took a breath. I took it with my hand, and there - walks!
The big fish is walking! - And he made a wave-like movement with his hand, showing how he “walks”.
Semyon jumped up, pulled up his pants and, muttering: "I'm right now!", disappeared into the darkness. The boy looked at me for some time without blinking, then, without taking his eyes off me, he stepped back once, stepped again, turned around and also rushed into the darkness - only his feet began to stomp.
Soon I heard a strange fuss, muffled voices, splashing water; then everything was quiet, steps were heard, and the guys returned to the fire. Semyon was carrying a small sterlet on his outstretched arm. The sterlet wagged its tail weakly.
Stuffing the fish into a linen bag, Semyon sat down beside me and, smiling, said:
This is how we catch. Three have already been caught.
I pulled out one, - the boy whispered and, looking down, began to fiddle with a button on his quilted jacket.
But, but! - Semyon pronounced weightily and fell silent ominously.
The boy sighed and became even more embarrassed.
Lesha mumbled something under his breath.
What? - Semyon opened his eyes wide. - What did you say?
Nothing ... - Lesha was frightened.
Look at me! Semyon looked at me from under his brows, and suddenly a momentary mischievous smile lit up his face, his eyes flashed, his teeth flashed, even his ears moved. Lyosha also snorted, but immediately caught himself and lowered his head even lower. Semyon reached into his pocket, hesitated a little, finally pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, lit a cigarette, and offered it to me. I refused.
The July twilight forest was slowly preparing to go to sleep. The restless forest birds fell silent, the fir-trees swollen with darkness froze. Resin hardened, and its smell mixed with the smell of dry dew that had not yet fallen to the ground.
Far below, through pine paws, through willow bushes, birch and rowan foliage, one could see a not very wide river, bright even at night. She ran up to the eel from afar, rested against it with her noiseless strong jets and turned to the right. Nothing betrayed the movement of the river: neither the rustle of water washing the stones and coastal clay, nor the smell of fish and grass moisture.
The opposite bank was also not low, hilly, but the eel still dominated it. Sandy spits turned white near the water, and then deciduous greenery swirled, interspersed with darker pine and spruce forests. To the left was a vast floodplain, crossed by a winding old woman and bordered by an immovable forest.
The floodplain was peacefully bright, accumulating a white mist in its lowlands, and at first it faded, then quietly extinguished the flower blue and yellowness of the still unmowed meadow.
A barely noticeable path branched off from the road and disappeared into the undisturbing twilight.
RAIN
Twilight thickened so much that, apart from the dark silhouettes of houses, it was almost impossible to see anything in the distance. A fresh breeze rustled in the leaves, swept and subsided.
The first drops of rain, rare and heavy as peas, pounded on the roofs. Lightning flashed in a fiery zigzag not far away, and a thunderstorm began. Tearing apart the dark bulk of the sky, lightning lit up the surroundings for a moment, and again everything plunged into darkness, and the thunder impressively shook the earth.
The rain poured down like a solid wall, as if the bottom of some colossal vessel had fallen off in the sky, and streams of water fell to the ground.
Lightning flashed one after another, and somewhere completely overhead there was a deafening thunder and roar. It seemed that the rampage of the elements would never end. However, the downpour subsided as suddenly as it began. The storm moved a little further south, however, there was not a single star in the sky, and a quiet heavy rain did not stop.
Distant lightning flashed a little less frequently, each time snatching out of the gloom for a moment houses and palisades dark from the rain.
When a gap appeared in the clouds, it was possible to make out people on the street hurrying to their homes. (166 words)
NIGHT
I had to get to the duck lake by dawn, and I left the house at night.
I walked along a soft dusty road, descended into ravines, climbed hillocks, passed sparse pine forests with a stagnant smell of resin and strawberries, again went out into the fields ... No one caught up with me, no one came across to meet me - I was alone in the night.
Sometimes rye stretched along the road. She had already matured, stood motionless, gently brightening in the darkness.
Soon the road, soft and soundless, turned aside, and I stepped onto a hard, callused path that wound bustlingly along the river bank. The logs floating in the darkness occasionally collided and then there was a deaf weak knock, as if someone had hit the tree with the butt of an ax. Far ahead, on the other side of the river, a fire burned like a bright point, and a narrow, intermittent strip of light stretched from it across the water.
I walked faster, passed through the aspen undergrowth, and below, in a small ravine, surrounded on all sides by dense forest, I saw a fire. Near him, propping his head on his hand, lay a man, looking into the fire and singing softly.
LONELINESS
After the death of the white wolf, the Gray Fierce seemed to be petrified. He sat for a long time in the hollow, and his gloomy song was heard far away.
All summer he roamed the steppe alone, instilling fear in herds and auls. The nightly robbery did not subside, and the shepherds cursed their lot. Twice they set off after him on fresh horses with a pack of frisky dogs, but both times he managed to get away.
During the day he hid, and at night nothing stopped him: neither the cry of a man, nor the barking of dogs, nor rifle shots. The shepherds were wasting their cartridges in vain, aiming at the gray shadow. The wolf was returning, the echo in the darkness of the night was barely dying down.
A short, insatiable autumn flashed by, and now the snowy snowstorms howled again. The nights were clear, windless, hungry, and fury bubbled in the dumb throat of the Gray Fierce.
Once, on a frosty bright night, Fierce suddenly ran into a large pack of wolves. Raising a whirlwind of prickly snow dust, the flock flew at him and surrounded him, but, realizing that they had met not prey, but the owner of these places, they began to sniff the Gray Fierce. (154 words)
(1) I had to get to the duck lake by dawn, and I left the house at night in order to be there until morning.
(2) The air was warm and clean; glittering stars twinkled; there was a smell of fresh hay and the bitter freshness of night meadows; beyond the fields, beyond the river, beyond the forest expanses, lightning flashed faintly.
(3) I had been walking for an hour and a half, and it was still far from the lake. (4) I almost regretted that I had left the house at night, and was thinking whether to sit down under a tree, whether to wait for dawn, when suddenly a thin trembling sound like a song reached me. (5) I stopped, listened ... (6) Yes, it was a song! (7) It was impossible to make out the words, but I was delighted with this voice and, just in case, went faster. (8) The song did not approach and did not move away, but still stretched out in a thin tangled thread.
(9) Soon, passing the aspen undergrowth, below, in a small ravine, surrounded on all sides by a dense forest, I saw a fire. (Yu) Near him, propping his head with his hand, lay a man, looked at the sky and sang softly.
(I) Going down, I stumbled and loudly cracked deadwood. (12) The man at the fire fell silent, quickly turned around, jumped up and began to peer in my direction, shielding himself from the fire with his palm.
- (14) Hunter, - I answered, approaching the fire. - (15) I went to the song ...
(16) The person whose song I was in such a hurry for turned out to be a guy of sixteen years old. (17) He was ugly, with a thin Adam's neck and large protruding ears. (18) A boy of eight years old was sitting nearby.
- (19) Semyon composes all kinds of music with us, - the boy said willingly. - (20) We even played in the club at school ...
(21) Semyon threw a quick searching look at me and reluctantly admitted:
Actually, of course, I am a fan of this business.
- (22) Dad bought a button accordion for him, - again the boy could not stand it. - (23) You know how he plays the button accordion! (24) He will play whatever you want!
- (25) That's right! Simon confirmed and sighed. - (26) That's right, I'm playing. (27) But only I have a dream, such a dream! (28) How do I play? (29) I'm taking collections for button accordion in the club. (ZO) Well, I'll play and see: it's not that! (31) You take a chord, it seems to be good, but if you estimate on a fine ear, then there is no real purity and taste. (32) There is no true purity! (33) And a song, especially if it is long, should have its own smell, like a river or a forest. (34) Grabs my heart, I can’t, well, I can’t at all - and I start to shift it in my own way ...
(35) He suddenly looked at me suspiciously, trying to guess if I was laughing at him. (36) And, reassured, he continued, blinking often, moving the fingers of his dark hands:
I have a dream ... (37) Write one thing to depict such a night. (38) I am lying by the fire at night, and now it plays in my ears, it seems to me. (39) And I would compose like this: first, so that the violins enter subtly and subtly. (40) And it would be like silence. (41) And then the violins are also pulled, and the English horn will already play, with such a sound - hoarse. (42) He plays such a melody that close your eyes and fly over the earth wherever you want, and below you are all lakes, rivers, cities, and everywhere is quiet, dark. (43) The horn plays, and the cellos give it a different voice, they sing on low strings, like pine trees are humming, and the violins pull and pull quietly. (44) Here other instruments come in and all together play louder and louder ... (45) And the whole orchestra will play extraordinary music! (46) The main thing is that there are instruments that ring like bells. (47) Well, after that you need to gradually remove the instruments, and it will be quieter and quieter, and again only violins will end, they will pull for a long time until they completely freeze ...
(48) Semyon looked into the darkness, blinked, licked his parched lips.
- (49) And also, - he continued, - it will be necessary to add a bell so that it rings evenly. (50) Only slowly. (51) And how does the moon come out from behind the forest, can it be depicted? .. (52) I can’t tell you about the night and all that, well, there are stars or fog over the river. (53) And in music I can do anything, my heart aches, I go to bed - I don’t sleep, but I fall asleep - often such music plays!
(54) I wake up, I want to remember everything and I can’t ...
(55) You need to study, this is a must!
(56) Semyon fell silent, smiled embarrassedly and began to straighten the fire.
(57) It was time for me to go. (58) I said goodbye to the guys with regret.
(59) I had already managed to decently move away - I climbed onto the mane, found a path and walked to the lake, when Semyon's song overtook me again. (60) And again it was impossible to make out the words, not to catch the melody, but now I knew that this song was beautiful and poetic, because it was born of pure talent, the beauty of twinkling stars, great silence and the aroma of a fading summer.
(According to Yu.P. Kazakov*)
* Yuri Pavlovich Kazakov (1927-1982) - Russian Soviet writer, one of the largest representatives of Soviet short stories.
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In the above text, Yu.P. Kazakov thinks: where can you meet talented people?
To help the reader understand the issue raised, the author describes the meeting of the protagonist and a simple village guy who had good musical abilities: he sang and played the button accordion. However, Semyon believed that in ordinary collections of songs "there is no true purity." Therefore, the young man dreamed of writing your own a work with parts for many musical instruments that would convey all the beauty of a summer night.
The position of the writer is definite. Kazakov is sure that position in society and place of residence do not affect talent in any way. Gifted people can be found everywhere.
It is impossible not to agree with the opinion of the author. I believe that abilities depend only on the desire of a person to develop them further.
To prove the validity of this statement, I will give a few examples. Let us recall the work of M.A. Bulgakov “The Master and Margarita