The best works for the reading competition. Works to be learned by heart

Traditional script prose competition

"Living Classic"

Goal: To show reader interest in the works of various authors

Development of interest in literature as a subject studied;

Development creative potential students, identification of gifted children;

Development and development of skills between students of different ages.

In the literature room, sitting at a desk, two boys argue loudly, proving to each other which work is more interesting. The situation is heating up. At this time, the literature teacher enters the class.

Teacher:- Good afternoon, boys, I accidentally overheard your conversation, can I help you with something?

Boys: - Of course, Tatyana Nikolaevna, judge us, do foreign writers or Russians write more interestingly?

Teacher: - Well, well, I’ll try to help you. Every person must have favorite piece and more than one. Today I will introduce you to the guys who already have favorite books, they are participating in the competition young readers prose "Living Classics". Let's listen to how the guys read excerpts from their favorite books. Maybe your opinion will change.

(Address to the public and jury)

Teacher: - Good afternoon, dear children and respected teachers. We are pleased to welcome you to our literary living room. So we begin our speech, during which you and I will have to resolve the dispute between my students.

Ved: Today 5 young readers from the 6th grade of the Cheryomushkin school will compete. The winner of the competition will be the one who shows his skill, knowledge of the text, and feels the hero of the work.

Teacher: Our participants will be evaluated by a distinguished jury consisting of:

1. Marina Aleksandrovna Malikova, teacher of Russian language and literature – chairman of the jury.

Jury members:

2. Elena Yuganovna Kivistik, teacher of history and social studies.

3. Daria Chernova, 10th grade student

Ved: Performances are judged based on the following parameters:

Selecting the text of the work;
grammatically correct speech, knowledge of the text;
artistry of performance;

Teacher: Opens our competitive program The work of the great Russian writer Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov “The Foal” is a story about a beautiful, defenseless animal that is trying to survive in difficult wartime.

Ved.: Mikhail Sholokhov reads “The Foal” Kuliev Danil , 6th grade student. Mikhail Sholokhov "Foal"

The foal neighed less and less, and the short, cutting cry became muffled. AND

This cry was coldly and terribly similar to the cry of a child. Nechepurepko, abandoning the mare, easily swam to the left bank. Trembling, Trofim grabbed the rifle, fired, aiming below the head that had been sucked in by the whirlwind, tore his boots off his feet and, with a dull grunt, stretching out his arms, plopped into the water.

On the right bank, an officer in a canvas shirt barked:

Stop shooting!..

Five minutes later, Trofim was near the foal, with his left hand he grabbed it under his cold belly, choking, hiccupping convulsively, and moved to the left bank... Not a single shot was fired from the right bank.

The sky, the forest, the sand - everything is bright green, ghostly... The last monstrous

effort - and Trofim’s feet scrape the ground. He dragged the slimy body of the foal onto the sand, sobbing, vomiting green water, groping in the sand with his hands...

The voices of the squadrons that had swum across the forest buzzed, and somewhere behind the spit gun shots rattled. The red mare stood next to Trofim, shaking herself and licking the foal. A rainbow stream fell from her drooping tail, sticking into the sand...

Trofim swayed to his feet, walked two steps along the sand and, jumping,

fell on his side. It was as if a hot prick penetrated my chest; falling, I heard a shot.

A single shot at a spypa - from the right bank. On the right bank there is an officer in

wearing a torn canvas shirt, he indifferently moved the bolt of his carbine, throwing out a smoking cartridge case, and on the sand, two steps from the foal, Trofim was writhing, and his hard, blue lips, which had not kissed children for five years, smiled and foamed with blood.

Teacher: Hans Christian Andersen was born in Denmark, into the family of a poor shoemaker. WITH early childhood We are fascinated by his charming tales.

Ved.: Hans Christian Andersen "Grandmother", read Medvedeva Ira , 6th grade student.

Grandma is so old, her face is all wrinkled, her hair is white, but her eyes are like your stars - so bright, beautiful and affectionate! And which ones only wonderful stories she doesn't know! And the dress she’s wearing is made of thick silk material with large flowers - it’s rustling! Grandma knows a lot, a lot; After all, she has been living in the world for a long time, much longer than mom and dad - really! Grandmother has a psalter - a thick book bound with silver clasps - and she reads it often. Between the sheets of the book lies a flattened, dried rose. She is not at all as beautiful as those roses that grandma has in a glass of water, but grandma still smiles most tenderly at this particular rose and looks at it with tears in her eyes. Why does grandma look at the dried rose like that? You know?

Every time the grandmother’s tears fall on a flower, its colors are revived again, it again becomes a lush rose, the whole room is filled with fragrance, the walls melt like fog, and the grandmother is in a green, sun-drenched forest! The grandmother herself is no longer a decrepit old woman, but a young, charming girl with golden curls and rosy round cheeks that rival the roses themselves. Her eyes... Yes, you can recognize her by her sweet, gentle eyes! A handsome, courageous young man sits next to her. He gives the girl a rose and she smiles at him... Well, grandma never smiles like that! Oh no, here he is smiling! He left. Other memories flash by, many images flash by; the young man is no longer there, the rose lies in an old book, and the grandmother herself... sits again on her chair, just as old, and looks at the dried rose.

Teacher: Yuri Koval is a Russian writer. A professional artist who published more than 30 books during his lifetime. His works have been translated into European languages.

Ved: An excerpt from the story “Potato Meaning” reads Novoselov Igor.

Yes, whatever you say, father, I love potatoes. Because potatoes have a lot of meaning.

What's the special meaning there? Potatoes and potatoes.
- Uh... don't talk, father, don't talk. Once you brew half a bucket, life seems to become more fun. That's the meaning... potato.
We sat with Uncle Zui on the river bank by the fire and ate baked potatoes. They just went to the river to watch the fish melt, and they built a fire, dug up some potatoes, and baked them. And Uncle Zuya ended up with salt in his pocket.
- What about without salt? Salt, father, I always carry with me. For example, you come to visit, and the hostess has unsalted soup. Here it would be awkward to say: your soup is unsalted. And here I’ll slowly take the salt out of my pocket and... salt it.
- What else do you carry in your pockets? And it’s true - they stick out for you all the time.
- What else am I wearing? I carry everything that fits in my pockets. Look - shag... salt in a bundle... a string, if you need to tie something up, a good string. Well, a knife, of course! Pocket flashlight! It’s not without reason that it’s said – pocket-sized. You have a flashlight, so put it in your pocket. And these are candies, if I meet any of the guys.
- And what's that? Bread, or what?
- Cracker, father. I’ve been wearing it for a long time, I want to give it to one of the horses, but I forget everything. Let's look now in another pocket. Come on now, show me what's in your pockets? Interesting.
- Yes, I don’t seem to have anything.
- How can that be? Nothing. A knife, I suppose you have a knife?
- I forgot my knife, I left it at home.
- How so? Are you going to the river but left your knife at home? .
“Well, I didn’t know that we were going to the river, but the salt ended up in my pocket.” And without salt, potatoes lose their meaning. Although, perhaps, potatoes make a lot of sense even without salt.
I raked a new crooked potato out of the ashes. He broke her black baked sides. The potatoes turned out to be white under the coal skin and pink. But the center was not baked, it crunched when I took a bite. It was a September, completely ripe potato. It’s not too big, but it’s about the size of a fist.
“Give me some salt,” I said to Uncle Zuyu. - The meaning needs to be salted.
Uncle Zui stuck his fingers into the chintz knot and sprinkled salt on the potato.
“The point is,” he said, “you can add some salt.” And it adds salt to the meaning.
Far away, on the other side of the river, figures were moving in the field - a village across the river was digging potatoes. Here and there, closer to the shore, potato smoke rose above the alder forest.
And from our shore voices were heard in the field, smoke rose. The whole world

I was digging potatoes that day.

Teacher : Lyubov Voronkova - her books that have become classics of children's literature speak about the main thing: love for the Motherland, respect for work, human kindness and responsiveness.

Ved: An excerpt from her story “Girl from the City” reads Dolgosheeva Marina.

Valentine came up with an idea: here on a round leaf of a water lily sits a tiny girl - Thumbelina. But it’s not Thumbelina, it’s Valentine herself sitting on a piece of paper and talking to the fish...
Or - this is a hut. Valentine comes to the door. Who lives in this hut? She opens the low door, enters... and there a beautiful fairy sits and spins golden yarn. The fairy stands up to meet Valentine: “Hello, girl! And I’ve been waiting for you for a long time!”
But this game ended immediately as soon as one of the guys came home. Then she silently put away her pictures.
One day before evening, Valentinka couldn’t stand it and went to the plates.
- Oh, it has risen! - she exclaimed. - It has risen! Leaves!.. Romanok, look!
Romanok approached the plates:
- It’s true!
But it seemed to Valentinka that Romanok was little surprised and little happy. Where is Taiska? She's gone. One Grusha sits in the upper room.
- Pear, come here and look!
But Grusha was knitting a stocking and just at that time she was counting the stitches. She waved it off angrily:
- Just think, there is something to see there! What a curiosity!
Valentinka was surprised: how come no one is happy? I need to tell my grandfather, because he sowed this!
And, forgetting her usual fear, she ran to her grandfather.
Grandfather cut a ditch in the yard to prevent spring water from spilling across the yard.
- Grandpa, let's go! Look what you have in your plates: leaves and grass!
Grandfather raised his shaggy eyebrows, looked at her, and Valentine saw his eyes for the first time. They were light, blue and cheerful. And the grandfather turned out to be not at all angry, and not at all scary!
- Why are you happy? - he asked.
“I don’t know,” Valentinka answered. – So simple, very interesting!
Grandfather put the crowbar aside:
- Well, let's go have a look.
Grandfather counted the seedlings. The peas were good. The oats also sprouted well. But the wheat turned out to be rare: the seeds are not good, you need to get fresh ones.
And it was as if they gave Valentine a gift. And the grandfather became not scary. And the green on the windows grew thicker and brighter every day.
How joyful it is when there is still snow outside, but the window is sunny and green! It’s as if a piece of spring has bloomed here!

Teacher: Lyubov Voronkova reached for the pen to express her love for the land and working people in poetry and prose.
As an adult, she returned to Moscow and became a journalist. She traveled a lot around the country and wrote about life in the countryside: this topic was close to her.

Ved: “Girl from the city” will continue to read to us Vera Nepomniachtchi

Everything surprised Valentinka, everything lured her: the lemon butterfly that flew to the lungwort, and the red cones that slightly sprouted at the ends of the spruce paws, and the forest stream in the ravine, and the birds flying from peak to peak...

Grandfather chose a tree for the shaft and began to chop it. Romanok and Taiska called back loudly; they were already heading back. Valentine remembered the mushrooms. So, she will never find one? Valentinka wanted to run towards Taiska. Not far from the edge of the ravine, she saw something blue. She came closer. Among the light greenery, bright flowers bloomed profusely, blue as the spring sky and as pure as it. They seemed to glow and shine in the darkness of the forest. Valentine stood over them, full of admiration.
- Snowdrops!
Real, alive! And they can be torn. After all, no one planted or sowed them. You can pick as much as you want, even a whole armful, a whole sheaf, even collect every single one and take it home!
But... Valentine will tear off all the blue, and the clearing will become empty, crumpled and dark. No, let them bloom! They are much more beautiful here in the forest. She will take just a little, a small bouquet from here. It will be completely unnoticeable!
When they returned from the forest, the mother was already at home. She had just washed her face, the towel was still hanging on her hand.
- Mommy! – Taiska screamed from a distance. - Mommy, look at the morels we picked!
- Mom, let's have lunch! – echoed Romanok.
And Valentine came up and handed her a handful of fresh blue flowers, still shiny, still smelling of the forest:
- I brought this to you... mom!

Teacher: Our competition performance has come to an end. Well, how did you guys like it?

Boys: Of course, Tatyana Nikolaevna. We now understand that it’s not interesting to read books just like that. You need to broaden your horizons and read different authors.

Ved: We want the high jury to appreciate our efforts, and we ask them to sum up the results.

Teacher: In the meantime, the jury is summing up the results... We invite you to play literary quiz.

Questions from the works:
1. The bird that Thumbelina saved? (Martin)
2. The little dancer from the fairy tale “Three Fat Men”? (Suok)
3. Who wrote the poem “Uncle Styopa”? (Mikhalkov)
4. On what street did the absent-minded man live? (Baseina)
5. Gena's crocodile friend? (Cheburashka)
6. What did Munchausen fly to the moon on? (On a cannonball)
7. Who speaks all languages? (Echo)
8. Who is the author of the fairy tale “Ryaba Hen”? (People)
9. Which of the heroes of a children's fairy tale considered himself the best ghost expert in the world? (Carlson)
10. Hero of Russian folk puppet shows? (Parsley)
11. Russian folk tale about the hostel? (Teremok)
12. Nickname of the calf from the cartoon “Vacation in Prostokvashino”? (Gavryusha)
13. What would you ask from Pinocchio? (Golden Key)
14. Who is the author of the lines “A golden cloud spent the night on the chest of a giant cliff”? (M.Yu. Lermontov)

15. What was your name main character story " Scarlet Sails"(Assol)

16. How many labors did Hercules perform (12)

Ved: To sum up the results and present diplomas to the winners of the school competition for young prose readers “Living Classics”, the floor is given to the chairman of the competition jury, Marina Aleksandrovna. (graduations)

Teacher: Our competition is over, but our favorite writers and their works will never end! We say to you: - Thank you, until new meetings and achievable victories!

V. Rozov “Wild Duck” from the series “Touching War”)

The food was bad, I was always hungry. Sometimes food was given once a day, and then in the evening. Oh, how I wanted to eat! And so on one of these days, when dusk was already approaching, and there was not yet a crumb in our mouths, we, about eight soldiers, sat on the high grassy bank of a quiet river and almost whined. Suddenly we see him without his gymnast. Holding something in his hands. Another of our comrades is running towards us. He ran up. Radiant face. The package is his tunic, and something is wrapped in it.

Look! – Boris exclaims triumphantly. He unfolds the tunic, and in it... is a live wild duck.

I see: sitting, hiding behind a bush. I took off my shirt and - hop! Have food! Let's fry it.

The duck was weak and young. Turning her head from side to side, she looked at us with amazed beady eyes. She simply could not understand what kind of strange, cute creatures surrounded her and looked at her with such admiration. She did not struggle, did not quack, did not strain her neck to slip out of the hands that held her. No, she looked around gracefully and curiously. Beautiful duck! And we are rough, uncleanly shaven, hungry. Everyone admired the beauty. And a miracle happened, like in a good fairy tale. Somehow he simply said:

Let's go!

Several logical remarks were thrown, like: “What’s the point, there are eight of us, and she’s so small,” “More messing around!”, “Borya, bring her back.” And, no longer covering it with anything, Boris carefully carried the duck back. Returning, he said:

I let her into the water. She dove. I didn’t see where she surfaced. I waited and waited to look, but I didn’t see it. It's getting dark.

When life gets me down, when you start cursing everyone and everything, you lose faith in people and you want to scream, like I once heard the cry of one very famous person: “I don’t want to be with people, I want with dogs!” - in these moments of disbelief and despair I remember wild duck and I think: no, no, you can trust in people. This will all pass, everything will be fine.

They may tell me; “Well, yes, it was you, intellectuals, artists, everything can be expected about you.” No, during the war everything got mixed up and turned into one whole - single and invisible. At least, the one where I served. There were two thieves in our group who had just been released from prison. One proudly told how he managed to steal a crane. Apparently he was talented. But he also said: “Let go!”

______________________________________________________________________________________

Parable about life - Life values

Once, one sage, standing in front of his students, did the following. He took a large glass vessel and filled it to the brim big stones. Having done this, he asked the disciples if the vessel was full. Everyone confirmed that it was full.

Then the sage took a box of small pebbles, poured it into a vessel and gently shook it several times. The pebbles rolled into the gaps between the large stones and filled them. After this, he again asked the disciples if the vessel was now full. They again confirmed the fact - it is full.

And finally, the sage took a box of sand from the table and poured it into the vessel. Sand, of course, filled the last gaps in the vessel.

Now,” the sage addressed the students, “I would like you to be able to recognize your life in this vessel!”

Large stones represent important things in life: your family, your loved one, your health, your children - those things that, even without everything else, can still fill your life. Small pebbles represent less important things, such as your job, your apartment, your house or your car. Sand symbolizes the little things in life, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. If you fill your vessel with sand first, there will be no room left for larger stones.

It’s the same in life - if you spend all your energy on small things, then there will be nothing left for big things.

Therefore, pay attention first of all to important things - find time for your children and loved ones, take care of your health. You will still have enough time for work, for home, for celebrations and everything else. Watch your big stones - only they have a price, everything else is just sand.

A. Green. Scarlet Sails

She sat with her legs tucked up and her arms around her knees. Attentively leaning towards the sea, she looked at the horizon with large eyes in which there was nothing adult left - the eyes of a child. Everything she had been waiting for so long and passionately was happening there - at the end of the world. She saw an underwater hill in the land of distant abysses; streamed upward from its surface climbing plants; Among their round leaves, pierced at the edge by a stem, fanciful flowers shone. The upper leaves glittered on the surface of the ocean; those who knew nothing, as Assol knew, saw only awe and brilliance.

A ship rose from the thicket; he surfaced and stopped in the very middle of dawn. From this distance he was visible as clear as clouds. Scattering joy, he burned like wine, rose, blood, lips, scarlet velvet and crimson fire. The ship went straight to Assol. The wings of foam fluttered under the powerful pressure of its keel; Already, having stood up, the girl pressed her hands to her chest, when a wonderful play of light turned into a swell; the sun rose, and the bright fullness of the morning tore the covers off everything that was still basking, stretching on the sleepy earth.

The girl sighed and looked around. The music fell silent, but Assol was still in the power of its sonorous choir. This impression gradually weakened, then became a memory and, finally, just fatigue. She lay down on the grass, yawned and, blissfully closing her eyes, fell asleep - truly, soundly, like a young nut, sleep, without worries and dreams.

She was awakened by a fly wandering over her bare foot. Restlessly turning her leg, Assol woke up; sitting, she pinned up her disheveled hair, so Gray's ring reminded her of herself, but considering it nothing more than a stalk stuck between her fingers, she straightened them; Since the obstacle did not disappear, she impatiently raised her hand to her eyes and straightened up, instantly jumping up with the force of a spraying fountain.

Gray's radiant ring shone on her finger, as if on someone else's - she could not recognize it as hers at that moment, she did not feel her finger. - “Whose thing is this? Whose joke? - she quickly cried. - Am I dreaming? Maybe I found it and forgot?” Grasping the right hand with her left hand, on which there was a ring, she looked around in amazement, torturing the sea and green thickets with her gaze; but no one moved, no one hid in the bushes, and in the blue, far-illuminated sea there was no sign, and a blush covered Assol, and the voices of the heart said a prophetic “yes.” There were no explanations for what had happened, but without words or thoughts she found them in her strange feeling, and the ring already became close to her. Trembling, she pulled it off her finger; holding it in a handful like water, she examined it - with all her soul, with all her heart, with all the jubilation and clear superstition of youth, then, hiding it behind her bodice, Assol buried her face in her palms, from under which a smile burst uncontrollably, and, lowering her head, slowly I went the opposite way.

So, by chance, as people who can read and write say, Gray and Assol found each other in the morning summer day, full of inevitability.

"A note". Tatyana Petrosyan

The note looked most harmless.

According to all gentlemanly laws, it should have revealed an inky face and a friendly explanation: “Sidorov is a goat.”

So Sidorov, without suspecting anything bad, instantly unfolded the message... and was dumbfounded.

Inside, in large, beautiful handwriting, it was written: “Sidorov, I love you!”

Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of the handwriting. Who wrote this to him?

(As usual they grinned. But this time they didn’t.)

But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning!

There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him?!

And then Sidorov’s thought reached a dead end and fluttered helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DOES LOVES MEAN??? What consequences will this entail and what should Sidorov do now?..

“Let’s think logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. “What, for example, do I love? Pears! I love it, which means I always want to eat it...”

At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long uncut... well, yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyova greedily gnawed at a bony chicken leg...

“You need to pull yourself together,” Sidorov pulled himself together. (My hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) “I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there is no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often carries me around his neck. And I love them for that..."

Then Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with sadness that he would now have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and carry her to school around his neck in order to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and discovered that Vorobyova was not thin and would probably not be easy to wear.

“All is not lost yet,” Sidorov did not give up. “I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for a walk...” Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyov could make him jump for every pie, and then he will take you for a walk, holding the leash tightly and not allowing you to deviate either to the right or to the left...

“...I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow right into her ear...” Sidorov thought in despair, “no, that’s not it... I like to catch flies and put them in a glass... but this is too much... I love toys that you can break and see what's inside..."

The last thought made Sidorov feel unwell. There was only one salvation. He hastily tore a piece of paper out of the notebook, pursed his lips resolutely and in firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you too.” Let her be scared.

________________________________________________________________________________________

The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.

Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

“I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?

“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.

“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.

“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?

I, actually... - the interlocutor hesitated.

Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.

“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.

Tell me, I'll remember.

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.

“You are too narrow a specialist,” the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations said then, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. New job could not be found, the literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closing, philologists, one after another, retrained in different fields. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."

It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.

Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?

Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.

Whatever you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.

Yes, yes, naturally,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.

Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.

I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?

Yes, please continue.

In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!

I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.

Do you have children?

Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?

Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.

Pasternak,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...

Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.

Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?

Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.

Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

“Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.

Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.

Pushkin,” said Andrei Petrovich and began to recite.

"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".

Lermontov "Mtsyri".

Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...

Maxim listened.

Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.

No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.

The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.

Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.

Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.

Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.

Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrisot.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.

The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.

Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.

In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.

Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.

What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?

It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.

With whom with them? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?

Don't you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside the school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".

Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back towards the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.

Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.

The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.

Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.

What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?

“I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.

From... From whom?!

From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...

Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.

Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.

Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.

The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?

Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.

“Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Leonid Kaminsky

Composition

Lena sat at the table and did her homework. It was getting dark, but from the snow that lay in drifts in the yard, it was still light in the room.
In front of Lena lay an open notebook, in which only two phrases were written:
How I help my mother.
Composition.
There was no further work. Somewhere at the neighbors' house a tape recorder was playing. Alla Pugacheva could be heard persistently repeating: “I really want summer not to end!..”.
“But it’s true,” Lena thought dreamily, “it would be good if summer didn’t end!.. Sunbathe yourself, swim, and no essays for you!”
She read the headline again: How I Help Mom. “How can I help? And when to help here, if they ask so much for the house!
The light came on in the room: my mother entered.
“Sit, sit, I won’t bother you, I’ll just tidy up the room a little.” “She began wiping the bookshelves with a rag.
Lena began to write:
“I help my mother with the housework. I clean the apartment, wipe the dust off the furniture with a rag.”
-Why did you throw your clothes all over the room? - Mom asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical, because my mother did not expect an answer. She began putting things in the closet.
“I’m putting things in their places,” Lena wrote.
“By the way, your apron needs to be washed,” mom continued talking to herself.
“Washing clothes,” Lena wrote, then thought and added: “And ironing.”
“Mom, a button on my dress came off,” Lena reminded and wrote: “I sew buttons on if necessary.”
Mom sewed on a button, then went out to the kitchen and returned with a bucket and mop.
Pushing the chairs aside, she began to wipe the floor.
“Well, raise your legs,” said mom, deftly wielding a rag.
- Mom, you're bothering me! – Lena grumbled and, without lowering her feet, wrote: “Washing the floors.”
There was something burning coming from the kitchen.
- Oh, I have potatoes on the stove! – Mom shouted and rushed to the kitchen.
“I’m peeling potatoes and cooking dinner,” Lena wrote.
- Lena, have dinner! – Mom called from the kitchen.
- Now! – Lena leaned back in her chair and stretched.
A bell rang in the hallway.
- Lena, this is for you! - Mom shouted.
Olya, Lena’s classmate, entered the room, blushing from the frost.
- I do not for a long time. Mom sent for bread, and I decided to go to you on the way.
Lena took a pen and wrote: “I’m going to the store for bread and other products.”
- Are you writing an essay? – Olya asked. - Let me see.
Olya looked at the notebook and burst out laughing:
- Wow! Yes, this is all not true! You made it all up!
– Who said you can’t compose? – Lena was offended. “That’s why it’s called so-chi-ne-nie!”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Texts for learning by heart for the competition “Living Classics-2017”

List of works to learn by heart and definition of the genre of the work the teacher carries out independently according to the author's program.

An excerpt of a work (poetic) for grades 5-11 must be a complete semantic text of at least 30 lines; prose text – 10-15 lines (grades 5-8), 15-20 lines (grades 9-11). Texts to learn by heart from dramatic work determined by the form of the monologue.

1. A.S. Pushkin. " Bronze Horseman"(excerpt "I love you, Peter's creation...")

2. I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)

3. I.S.Goncharov. "Oblomov" (excerpt)

4. A.N. Ostrovsky. “Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)

5. F.I.Tyutchev. "Oh, how murderously we love..."

6. N.A. Nekrasov. “The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”); “You and I are stupid people...”, “Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)

7. A.A.Fet. “Distant friend, understand my sobs...”

8. A.K. Tolstoy. “In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”

9. L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)

10. A. Rimbaud. "Closet"

Alexander Pushkin.“I love you, Peter’s creation” (from the poem “The Bronze Horseman”)

I love you, Petra's creation,

I love your strict, slender appearance,

Neva sovereign current,

Its coastal granite,

Your fences have a cast iron pattern,

of your thoughtful nights

Transparent twilight, moonless shine,

When I'm in my room

I write, I read without a lamp,

And the sleeping communities are clear

Deserted streets and light

Admiralty needle,

And, not letting the darkness of the night

To golden skies

One dawn gives way to another

He hurries, giving the night half an hour.

I love your cruel winter

Still air and frost,

Sleigh running along the wide Neva,

Girls' faces are brighter than roses,

And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,

And at the time of the feast the bachelor

The hiss of foamy glasses

And the punch flame is blue.

I love the warlike liveliness

Amusing Fields of Mars,

Infantry troops and horses

Uniform beauty

In their harmoniously unsteady system

The rags of these victorious banners,

The shine of these copper caps,

Shot through and through in battle.

I love you, military capital,

Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,

When the queen is full

Gives a son to the royal house,

Or victory over the enemy

Russia triumphs again

Or, breaking your blue ice,

The Neva carries him to the seas

And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

Show off, city Petrov, and stand

Unshakable like Russia,

May he make peace with you

And the defeated element;

Enmity and ancient captivity

Let the Finnish waves forget

And they will not be vain malice

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)

And now I repeat to you at parting... because there is no point in deceiving yourself: we are saying goodbye forever, and you yourself feel it... you acted smartly; you were not created for our bitter, tart, bean* life. You have neither insolence nor anger, but only youthful courage and youthful enthusiasm; This is not suitable for our business. Your brother, a nobleman, cannot go further than noble humility or noble ebullience, and this is nothing. For example, you don’t fight - and you already imagine yourself to be great - but we want to fight. What! Our dust will eat into your eyes, our dirt will stain you, and you haven’t grown up to us, you involuntarily admire yourself, you enjoy scolding yourself; But it’s boring for us - give us others! We need to break others! You are a nice fellow; but you are still a soft, liberal barich - e volatu, as my parent puts it.

Are you saying goodbye to me forever, Evgeniy? - Arkady said sadly, - and you have no other words for me?

Bazarov scratched the back of his head.

Yes, Arkady, I have other words, but I won’t express them, because this is romanticism - it means: get drunk *. And you should get married as soon as possible; Yes, get your own nest, and have more children. They will be smart just because they will be born on time, not like you and me.

NOTES:

* BOBYL- unmarried, bachelor, celibate, single, wifeless, familyless.

*GET EXCITED and fall apart, fall apart, fall apart - become soft, fall into a sentimental mood.

I.S. Goncharov."Oblomov" (excerpt)

No,” Olga interrupted, raising her head and trying to look at him through her tears. “I only recently found out that I loved in you what I wanted to have in you, what Stolz showed me, what we invented with him.” I loved the future Oblomov! You are meek and honest, Ilya; you are gentle... dove; you hide your head under your wing - and don’t want anything more; you are ready to coo under the roof all your life... but I’m not like that: this is not enough for me, I need something else, but I don’t know what! Can you teach me, tell me what it is, what I lack, give it all so that I... And tenderness... where it is not!

Oblomov’s legs gave way; he sat down in a chair and wiped his hands and forehead with a handkerchief.

The word was cruel; it deeply stung Oblomov: inside it seemed to burn him, outside it blew cold on him. In response, he smiled somehow pitifully, painfully bashful, like a beggar who was reproached for his nakedness. He sat with this smile of powerlessness, weakened from excitement and resentment; his dull gaze clearly said: “Yes, I am meager, pitiful, poor... beat me, beat me!..”

Who cursed you, Ilya? What did you do? You are kind, smart, gentle, noble... and... you are dying! What ruined you? There is no name for this evil...

“Yes,” he said, barely audible.

She looked at him questioningly, her eyes full of tears.

Oblomovism! - he whispered, then took her hand, wanted to kiss it, but couldn’t, he just pressed it tightly to his lips, and hot tears dripped onto her fingers.

Without raising his head, without showing her his face, he turned around and walked away.

A.N. Ostrovsky.“Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)

Monologue of Katerina.

I say, why don’t people fly like birds? You know, sometimes I feel like I'm a bird. When you stand on a mountain, you feel the urge to fly. That's how I would run up, raise my hands and fly...

How playful I was! I'm completely withered...

Was that what I was like? I lived, didn’t worry about anything, like a bird in the wild. Mama doted on me, dressed me up like a doll, and didn’t force me to work; I used to do whatever I want. Do you know how I lived with girls? I'll tell you now. I used to get up early; If it’s summer, I’ll go to the spring, wash myself, bring some water with me and that’s it, I’ll water all the flowers in the house. I had many, many flowers. Then we’ll go to church with Mama, all of us, strangers; our house was full of strangers; yes praying mantis. And we’ll come home from church, sit down to do some kind of work, more like gold velvet, and the wandering women will begin to tell us: where they were, what they saw, different lives, or sing poetry. So time will pass until lunch. Here the old women go to sleep, and I walk around the garden. Then to Vespers, and in the evening again stories and singing. It was so good!

Monologue of Kuligin.

Cruel morals, sir, in our city, they are cruel! In philistinism, sir, you will see nothing but rudeness and stark poverty. And we, sir, will never escape this crust! Because honest work will never earn us more than our daily bread. And whoever has money, sir, tries to enslave the poor so that he can make even more money from his free labors. Do you know what your uncle, Savel Prokofich, answered to the mayor? The peasants came to the mayor to complain that he would not disrespect any of them. The mayor began to tell him: “Listen,” he says, Savel Prokofich, pay the men well! Every day they come to me with complaints!” Your uncle patted the mayor on the shoulder and said: “Is it worth it, your honor, for us to talk about such trifles! I have a lot of people every year; You understand: I won’t pay them a penny per person, but I make thousands out of this, so that’s good for me!” That's it, sir!

F.I. Tyutchev."Oh, how murderously we love..."

Oh, how murderously we love,

We are most likely to destroy,

What is dear to our hearts!

How long ago, proud of my victory,

You said: she is mine...

A year has not passed - ask and find out,

What was left of her?

Where did the roses go?

The smile of the lips and the sparkle of the eyes?

Everything was scorched, tears burned out

With its hot moisture.

Do you remember, when you met,

At the first fatal meeting,

Her eyes and speeches are magical

And baby-like laughter?

So what now? And where is all this?

And how long was the dream?

Alas, like northern summer,

He was a passing guest!

Fate's terrible sentence

Your love was for her

And undeserved shame

She laid down her life!

A life of renunciation, a life of suffering!

In her soul's depths

She was left with memories...

But they also changed.

And on earth she felt wild,

The charm is gone...

The crowd surged and trampled into the mud

What bloomed in her soul.

And what about the long torment?

How did she manage to save the ashes?

Evil pain, bitter pain,

Pain without joy and without tears!

Oh, how murderously we love!

As in the violent blindness of passions

We are most likely to destroy,

What is dearer to our hearts!..

N.A. Nekrasov.“The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”)

The son cannot look calmly

On my dear mother's grief,

There will be no worthy citizen

I have a cold heart for my homeland,

There is no worse reproach for him...

Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,

For conviction, for love...

Go and die blamelessly.

You will not die in vain, the matter is strong,

When the blood flows underneath...

And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,

Herald of age-old truths,

Do not believe that he who has no bread

Not worth your prophetic strings!

Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;

God has not died in the souls of people,

And a cry from a believing chest

Will always be available to her!

Be a citizen! serving art,

Live for the good of your neighbor,

Subordinating your genius to feeling

All-embracing Love;

And if you are rich in gifts,

Don’t bother exhibiting them:

They themselves will shine in your work

Their life-giving rays.

Look: solid stone in fragments

The poor worker crushes

And from under the hammer it flies

And the flame splashes out on its own!

N.A. Nekrasov.“You and I are stupid people...”

You and I are stupid people:

In just a minute, the flash is ready!

Relief for a troubled chest

An unreasonable, harsh word.

Speak up when you're angry

Everything that excites and torments the soul!

Let us, my friend, be openly angry:

The world is easier and more likely to get boring.

If prose in love is inevitable,

So let's take a share of happiness from her:

After a quarrel, so full, so tender

Return of love and participation.

N.A. Nekrasov.“Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)

You're miserable too

You are also abundant

You are mighty

You are also powerless

Mother Rus'!

Saved in slavery

Free heart -

Gold, gold

People's heart!

People's power

Mighty force -

Conscience is calm,

The truth is alive!

Strength with untruth

Doesn't get along

Sacrifice by untruth

Not called

Rus' does not move,

Rus' is like dead!

And she caught fire

Hidden spark

They stood up - unwounded,

They came out - uninvited,

Live by the grain

The mountains have been destroyed!

The army is rising

Countless!

The strength in her will affect

Indestructible!

You're miserable too

You are also abundant

You're downtrodden

You are omnipotent

Mother Rus'!

A.A.Fet.“Distant friend, understand my sobs...” (“A. L. Brzeskoy”)

Distant friend, understand my sobs,

Forgive me for my painful cry.

Memories bloom in my soul with you,

And I haven’t lost the habit of cherishing you.

Who will tell us that we did not know how to live,

Soulless and idle minds,

That kindness and tenderness did not burn in us

And we didn’t sacrifice beauty?

Where is all this? The soul is still burning

Still ready to embrace the world.

Vain heat! Nobody is answering,

Sounds will resurrect and die again.

Only you are alone! High excitement

There is blood on the cheeks and inspiration in the heart. -

Get away from this dream - there are too many tears in it!

It’s not a pity for life with languid breathing,

What is life and death? What a pity about that fire

That shone over the whole universe,

And he goes into the night and cries as he leaves.

A.K. Tolstoy.“In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”

In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance,

In the anxiety of worldly vanity,

I saw you, but it's a mystery

Your features are covered.

Like the sound of a distant pipe,

Like a playing shaft of the sea.

I liked your thin figure

And your whole thoughtful look,

And your laughter, both sad and ringing,

Since then it has been ringing in my heart.

In the lonely hours of the night

I love, tired, to lie down -

I see sad eyes

I hear cheerful speech;

And sadly I fall asleep like that,

And I sleep in unknown dreams...

Do I love you - I don't know

But it seems to me that I love it!

L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)

In captivity, in a booth, Pierre learned not with his mind, but with his whole being, life, that man was created for happiness, that happiness is in himself, in the satisfaction of natural human needs, and that all unhappiness comes not from lack, but from excess; but now, in these last three weeks of the campaign, he learned another new, comforting truth - he learned that there is nothing terrible in the world. He learned that since there is no situation in which a person would be happy and completely free, there is also no situation in which he would be unhappy and not free. He learned that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom, and that this limit is very close; that the man who suffered because one leaf was wrapped in his pink bed suffered in the same way as he suffered now, falling asleep on the bare, damp earth, cooling one side and warming the other; that when he used to put on his narrow ballroom shoes, he suffered just as much as now, when he walked completely barefoot (his shoes had long since become disheveled), with feet covered with sores. He learned that when he, as it seemed to him, of his own free will, married his wife, he was no more free than now, when he was locked in the stable at night. Of all the things that he later called suffering, but which he hardly felt then, the main thing was his bare, worn, scabby feet.

A. Rimbaud."Closet"

Here old wardrobe carved, whose oak is streaked with dark

I began to look like kind old men a long time ago;

The closet is thrown open, and darkness comes from all the secluded corners

The enticing smell flows like old wine.

Full of everything: a pile of junk,

Pleasant-smelling yellow underwear,

Grandmother's scarf, where there is an image

Griffin, lace, and ribbons, and rags;

Here you will find medallions and portraits,

Strand white hair and a strand of a different color,

Children's clothes, dried flowers...

O closet of bygone days! Lots of stories

And you keep many fairy tales safely

Behind this door, blackened and creaky.

Chingiz Aitmatov. "Mother Field" The scene of a fleeting meeting between mother and son near the train.

The weather was, like yesterday, windy and cold. It’s not for nothing that the station gorge is called the caravanserai of the winds. Suddenly the clouds cleared and the sun came out. “Oh,” I thought, “if only my son would suddenly shine like the sun from behind the clouds, if only he could appear before our eyes at least once...”
And then the sound of a train was heard in the distance. He was coming from the east. The ground shook underfoot, the rails began to hum.

Meanwhile, a man came running with red and yellow flags in his hands and shouted in his ear:
- Will not stop! Will not stop! Away! Get out of the way! - And he began to push us away.
At that moment a cry was heard nearby:
- Mom-ah! Alima-a-an!
He! Maselbek! Oh, my God, my God! He rushed past us very close. He leaned out of the carriage with his whole body, holding the door with one hand, and with the other he waved his hat at us and shouted, saying goodbye. I just remember screaming: “Maselbek!” And in that short moment I saw him accurately and clearly: the wind tousled his hair, the skirts of his overcoat beat like wings, and on his face and in his eyes - joy, and grief, and regret, and farewell! And, without taking my eyes off him, I ran after him. The last carriage of the train rustled past, and I was still running along the sleepers, then I fell. Oh, how I moaned and screamed! My son was leaving for the battlefield, and I was saying goodbye to him, hugging a cold iron rail. The sound of the wheels went further and further, and then it died down. And now sometimes it still seems to me as if this train is rushing through my head and the wheels are pounding in my ears for a long time. Aliman ran up all in tears, sank down next to me, wants to lift me but can’t, she’s choking, her hands are shaking. Then a Russian woman, a switchman, arrived in time. And also: “Mom! Mom!” - hugs, cries. The two of them took me to the side of the road, and as we walked to the station, Aliman gave me a soldier’s hat.
“Take it, mom,” she said. - Maselbek left.
It turns out that he threw his hat to me when I was running behind the carriage. I was driving home with this hat in my hands; sitting in the chaise, she pressed her tightly to her chest. It still hangs on the wall. An ordinary soldier's gray earflaps with an asterisk on the forehead. Sometimes I take it in my hands, bury my face and smell my son’s smell.

"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (4)"

The prose poem “Old Woman” is read by Magomirzaev Magomirza

I walked across a wide field, alone.

And suddenly I thought I felt light, cautious steps behind my back... Someone was following my trail.

I looked around and saw a small, hunched old woman, all wrapped in gray rags. The old woman’s face alone was visible from under them: a yellow, wrinkled, pointed-nosed, toothless face.

I approached her... She stopped.

- Who are you? What do you need? Are you poor? Are you waiting for alms?

The old woman did not answer. I leaned over to her and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a translucent, whitish membrane, or hymen, such as is found in other birds: they protect their eyes with it from too bright light.

But the old woman’s hymen did not move and did not open her pupils... from which I concluded that she was blind.

- Do you want alms? – I repeated my question. - Why are you following me? - But the old woman still did not answer, but only shrank a little.

I turned away from her and went my way.

And now again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as if creeping steps.

“This woman again! – I thought. - Why did she pester me? “But I immediately added mentally: “She probably blindly lost her way, and is now following my steps by ear, so that together with me she can go out to a residential area.” Yes Yes; This is true".

But a strange uneasiness gradually took over my thoughts: it began to seem to me that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was guiding me, that she was pushing me now to the right, now to the left, and that I was involuntarily obeying her.

However, I continue to walk... But ahead, on my very road, something turns black and widens... some kind of hole...

“Grave! – flashed in my head. “That’s where she’s pushing me!”

I turn sharply back... The old woman is in front of me again... but she sees! She looks at me with large, angry, sinister eyes... the eyes of a bird of prey... I move towards her face, towards her eyes... Again the same dull hymen, the same blind and stupid appearance.

"Oh! – I think... – this old woman is my destiny. That fate from which a person cannot escape!”

“Don’t leave! don't leave! What kind of madness is this?... We have to try.” And I rush to the side, in a different direction.

I walk quickly... But the light steps still rustle behind me, close, close... And ahead the pit darkens again.

I again turn in the other direction... And again the same rustling from behind and the same menacing spot in front.

And wherever I rush, like a hare on the run... everything is the same, the same!

“Stop! - I think. - I’ll deceive her! I’m not going anywhere!” – and I instantly sit down on the ground.

The old woman is standing behind me, two steps away from me. I can't hear her, but I feel that she is here.

And suddenly I see: that spot that was black in the distance is floating, crawling towards me!

God! I look back... The old woman looks straight at me - and her toothless mouth is twisted into a grin...

- You will not leave!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (5)"

Prose poem "Azure Sky"

Azure Kingdom

O azure kingdom! O kingdom of azure, light, youth and happiness! I saw you... in a dream.

There were several of us on a beautiful, dismantled boat. The swan's chest heaved white sail under frisky pennants.

I did not know who my comrades were; but I felt with all my being that they were just as young, cheerful and happy as I was!

Yes, I didn’t even notice them. I saw all around me one boundless azure sea, all covered with small ripples of golden scales, and above my head the same boundless, the same azure sky - and across it, triumphant and as if laughing, the gentle sun rolled.

And from time to time, loud and joyful laughter rose between us, like the laughter of the gods!

Otherwise, suddenly words and poems would fly from someone’s lips, filled with wondrous beauty and inspired power... It seemed as if the very sky was sounding in response to them - and all around the sea trembled sympathetically... And there again a blissful silence fell.

Our fast boat sailed gently through the soft waves. She was not moved by the wind; it was ruled by our own playing hearts. Where we wanted, she rushed there, obediently, as if alive.

We came across islands, magical, translucent islands with shimmers of precious stones, yachts and emeralds. Delightful incense drifted from the rounded banks; some of these islands showered us with a shower of white roses and lilies of the valley; from others, iridescent long-winged birds suddenly rose up.

Birds circled above us, lilies of the valley and roses melted into the pearly foam that slid along the smooth sides of our boat.

Sweet, sweet sounds flew in with the flowers and the birds... Women's voices seemed to be in them... And everything around: the sky, the sea, the fluttering of the sail in the heights, the murmur of the stream behind the stern - everything spoke of love, of blissful love!

And the one whom each of us loved - she was here... invisible and close. Another moment - and then her eyes will shine, her smile will bloom... Her hand will take your hand - and take you with her to an unfading paradise!

O azure kingdom! I saw you... in a dream.

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (6)"

Oleg Koshevoy about his mother (excerpt from the novel "Young Guard").

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became
to be aware of oneself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered in tan, and it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, only a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands, - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins.
Yes, from the very moment I became conscious of myself until the last
minutes when, exhausted, you quietly laid your head on my chest for the last time, seeing me off on the difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried around in soapy foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, placing a small mittened hand on the yoke in front , she herself is so small and fluffy, like a mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the primer, and I repeat
you: “ba-a-ba, ba-ba.” I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the belly, broken by the grain of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, such a feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in the bunch so as not to break the compressed stems.
I remember your hands, unbending, red, turning blue from the cold water in the hole where you rinsed clothes when we lived alone - it seemed completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of the silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what submissive tenderness your full and white hand above the elbow wrapped itself around your stepfather’s neck when he, playing with you, picked you up in his arms - the stepfather whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, for one thing alone, that you loved him.
But most of all, I remembered forever how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And whenever I opened my eyes, you were always next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, yourself all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands!
You sent your sons off to war - if not you, then someone else, just like
you, - you will never wait for others, and if this cup passed you, it did not pass another, the same as you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and there are clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks of stacks in the field, and trains are running along the rails, and cherries are blooming in the garden, and a flame is raging in the blast furnace, and someone’s invisible force raises up a warrior from the ground or from the bed when he was sick or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and his.
Look around you too, young man, my friend, look around like I did and tell me who you are
I have offended you more in life than my mother - is it not from me, not from you, not from him, is it not from our failures, mistakes, and is it not from our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave.
Mom, mom!.. Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive...”

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (7)"

A.P. Chekhov. "Gull". Monologue of Nina Zarechnaya ( final scene farewell to Treplev)

I'm so tired... I wish I could rest... I could rest!
I am a seagull... No, that's not it. I'm an actress. And he is here... He didn’t believe in the theater, he kept laughing at my dreams, and little by little I also stopped believing and lost heart... And then the worries of love, jealousy, constant fear for the little one... I became petty, insignificant, I played senselessly... I didn’t know what to do with my hands, I didn’t know how to stand on stage, I didn’t have control of my voice. You don't understand this state when you feel like you're playing terribly. I am a seagull.
No, that's not it... Remember when you shot a seagull? A man came by chance, saw it and, having nothing better to do, killed it... The plot for a short story...
What am I talking about?.. I'm talking about the stage. Now I’m not like that... I’m already a real actress, I play with pleasure, with delight, I get drunk on stage and feel beautiful. And now, while I live here, I keep walking, I keep walking and thinking, thinking and feeling how my mental strength... Now I know, I understand. Kostya, that in our business - it doesn’t matter whether we play on stage or write - the main thing is not fame, not brilliance, not what I dreamed of, but the ability to endure. Know how to bear your cross and believe. I believe, and it doesn’t hurt me so much, and when I think about my calling, I’m not afraid of life.
No, no... Don’t see him off, I’ll get there myself... My horses are close... So she brought him with her? Well, whatever. When you see Trigorin, don’t say anything to him... I love him. I love him even more than before... I love him, I love him passionately, I love him desperately!
It was good before, Kostya! Remember? What a clear, warm, joyful clean life, what feelings, - feelings similar to delicate, graceful flowers... “People, lions, eagles and partridges, horned deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, sea ​​stars and those who could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, faded away. For thousands of centuries the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. Cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves..."
I will go. Farewell. When I become a big actress, come and see me.
Do you promise? And now... It's too late. I can barely stand on my feet...

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (8)"

BAD CUSTOM. Zoshchenko.

In February, my brothers, I fell ill.

I went to the city hospital. And here I am, you know, in the city hospital, receiving treatment and resting my soul. And all around is peace and quiet and God's grace. Everything around is clean and orderly, it’s even awkward to lie down. If you want to spit, use a spittoon. If you want to sit down, there is a chair, if you want to blow your nose, blow your nose into your hand, but if you blow it into the sheet, oh my God, they don’t allow you to blow it into the sheet. There is no such order, they say.

Well, you resign yourself.

And you can’t help but come to terms with it. There is such care, such affection, that it couldn’t be better. Just imagine, some lousy person is lying down, and they drag him lunch, and make his bed, and put thermometers under his armpits, and push enemas with his own hands, and even inquire about his health.

And who is interested? Important, progressive people - doctors, doctors, nurses and, again, paramedic Ivan Ivanovich.

And I felt such gratitude towards all this staff that I decided to offer financial gratitude.

I don’t think you can give it to everyone - there won’t be enough giblets. I'll give it to one, I think. And to whom - he began to take a closer look.

And I see: there is no one else to give, except to the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich. The man, I see, is large and respectable and tries harder than anyone else and even goes out of his way.

Okay, I think I'll give it to him. And he began to think about how to stick it to him, so as not to offend his dignity and so as not to get punched in the face for it.

The opportunity soon presented itself.

The paramedic approaches my bed. Says hello.

Hello, he says, how are you? Was there a chair?

Hey, I think it took the bait.

Why, I say, there was a chair, but one of the patients took it away. And if you want to sit down, sit down with your feet on the bed. Let's talk.

The paramedic sat down on the bed and sat.

Well,” I tell him, “what do they write about, are the earnings high?”

The earnings, he says, are small, but which intelligent patients, even at the point of death, certainly strive to put into their hands.

If you please, I say, although I’m not dying, I don’t refuse to give. And I’ve even been dreaming about this for a long time.

I take out the money and give it. And he kindly accepted and curtsied with his hand.

And the next day it all started.

I was lying very calmly and well, and no one had disturbed me until then, but now the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich seemed stunned by my material gratitude. During the day he will come to my bed ten or fifteen times. Either, you know, he’ll straighten the pads, or he’ll drag him into the bath. He tortured me with thermometers alone. Previously, a thermometer or two would be set a day in advance - that’s all. And now fifteen times. Previously, the bath was cool and I liked it, but now it’s boring hot water- at least shout guard.

I have already done this and that way - no way. I still shove money at him, the scoundrel, just leave him alone, do me a favor, he gets even more furious and tries.

A week has passed - I see I can’t do it anymore.

I was exhausted, lost fifteen pounds, lost weight and lost my appetite.

And the paramedic is still trying.

And since he, a tramp, almost even boiled me in boiling water. By God. The scoundrel gave me such a bath - the callus on my foot burst and the skin came off.

I tell him:

What, I say, you bastard, are you boiling people in boiling water? There will be no more material gratitude for you.

And he says:

It won't - it won't be necessary. Die, he says, without the help of scientists.

But now everything is going as before again: the thermometers are set once, the bath is cool again, and no one bothers me anymore.

It’s not for nothing that the fight against tipping is happening. Oh, brothers, not in vain!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document"

I SEE YOU PEOPLE! (Nodar Dumbadze)

- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it’s me, Sosoya... I haven’t been with you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench... Look, the rose has already faded... Yes, quite a bit of time has passed... And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a little, I’ll pull out this weed and tell you everything in order...

Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Our village is unrecognizable now! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Minin Evgeniy returned, and Nodar's father returned, and Otia's father. True, he is missing one leg, but what does that matter? Just think, a leg!.. But our Kukuri, Lukain Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz also did not return... Many did not return, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt and corn appeared... After you, ten weddings took place, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Giorgi Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to a twelfth boy, Shukria. That was some fun, Bejana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear, Bejana? I almost died on a tree! I still managed to get downstairs! The child was named Shukriya, but I call him Slivovich. Great, isn't it, Bejana? Slivovich! What's worse than Georgievich? In total, after you, we had thirteen children... Yes, one more news, Bezhana, I know it will make you happy. Khatia's father took her to Batumi. She will have surgery and she will see! After? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'll marry her! Certainly! I'll celebrate a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn’t see the light? Yes, my aunt also asks me about this... I’m getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can’t live without me... And I can’t live without Khatia... Didn’t you love some Minadora? So I love my Khatia... And my aunt loves... him... Of course she loves, otherwise she wouldn’t ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her... She’s waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I’m waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me whether she returns as sighted or blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, become prettier, that it is difficult to even recognize me, but... who the hell is not joking!.. However, no, it cannot be that Khatia doesn’t like me! She knows what I am like, she sees me, she herself has spoken about this more than once... I graduated from ten classes, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I’ll become a doctor, and if Khatia doesn’t get help in Batumi now, I’ll cure her myself. Right, Bejana?

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"Microsoft Word Document"

Marina Tsvetaeva. Sonechka's monologue. "How I love to love...".

Do you ever forget when you love something - you love it? I never. It's like a toothache, only the opposite - the opposite of a toothache. Only there it aches, but here there is no word.
And what wild fools they are. Those who don’t love don’t love themselves, as if the point is to be loved. I’m not saying, of course, but you hit a wall. But you know, there is no wall that I wouldn’t break through.
Do you notice how all of them, even those who kiss, even those who seem to love, are so afraid to say this word? How come they never say it? One explained to me that this is grossly backward, that there is no need for words when there are actions, that is, kisses and so on. And I told him: “No. The deed does not prove anything. But the word is everything!”
This is all I need from a person. “I love you” and nothing more. Even if he doesn’t love you any way he wants, or does whatever he wants, I won’t believe the deeds. Because there was a word. I only fed on this word. That’s why I became so emaciated.
And how stingy, calculating, and cautious they are. I always want to say: “Just tell me. I won’t check.” But they don’t say it because they think it’s about getting married, getting in touch, and not letting go. “If I’m the first to speak, I’ll never be the first to leave.” As if you can’t be the first to leave with me.
I have never been the first to leave in my life. And as long as God allows me in my life, I will not be the first to leave. I just can not. I do everything to make the other one leave. Because it’s easier for me to leave first - it’s easier to cross over my own corpse.
I was never the first to leave within myself. I was never the first to stop loving. Always until the very last opportunity. Until the very last drop. It’s like when you drink as a child and it’s already hot from an empty glass. And you keep pulling and pulling and pulling. And only your own steam...

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"Microsoft Office Word Document (23)"

Larisa Novikova

Monologue of Pechorin from "Hero of Our Time" by M. Lermontov

Yes, this has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings that were not there; but they were anticipated - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of guile: I became secretive. I felt good and evil deeply; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy, - other children were cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them - they put me lower. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth passed in a struggle with myself and the world; Fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they didn’t believe me: I began to deceive; Having learned well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others were happy without art, freely enjoying the benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is treated with the barrel of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, covered with courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away - while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of the deceased half of it; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I read her epitaph to you.

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"wish"

You have to really want it and...

To tell the truth, all my life I have often had all sorts of difficult-to-fulfill desires and fantasies in my head.

At one time, for example, I dreamed of inventing a device with the help of which it would be possible to turn off the voice of any person at a distance. According to my calculations, this device (I called it TIKHOFON BYU-1 - a voice switch according to the Barankin system) was supposed to act like this: suppose today in class the teacher tells us about something uninteresting and thereby prevents me, Barankin, from thinking about what something interesting; I click the quiet switch in my pocket, and the teacher’s voice disappears. Those who don’t have such a device continue to listen, and I calmly go about my business in silence.

I really wanted to invent such a device, but for some reason I didn’t get beyond the name

I also had other strong desires, but none of them, of course, captured me like this, truly, like the desire to turn from a man into a sparrow!..

I sat on a bench, without moving, without being distracted, without thinking about anything extraneous, and thought only about one thing: “How could I quickly turn into a sparrow.”

At first I sat on a bench just like all ordinary people sit, and I didn’t feel anything special. All sorts of unpleasant human thoughts continued to creep into my head: about the deuce, and about arithmetic, and about Mishka Yakovlev, but I tried not to think about all this.

I'm sitting on a bench with eyes closed, I have goosebumps all over my body, like crazy ones, running around like kids at a big break, and I sit and think: “I wonder what these goosebumps and these oats mean? Goosebumps - that’s understandable to me, I’m probably the one who spent time on my feet, but what does oats have to do with it?”

I even ate my mother’s oatmeal with milk and jam at home without any pleasure. Why do I want raw oats? I'm still a man, not a horse, right?

I’m sitting, thinking, wondering, but I can’t explain anything to myself, because my eyes are tightly closed, and this makes my head completely dark and unclear.

Then I thought: “Has something like this happened to me...” - and so I decided to examine myself from head to toe...

Holding my breath, I opened my eyes slightly and first looked at my feet. I look - instead of wearing boots, I have bare feet of a sparrow, and with these feet I stand barefoot on a bench, like a real sparrow. I opened my eyes wider, and I saw that instead of hands I had wings. I open my eyes even more, turn my head, and look - a tail sticks out from behind. What does this mean? It turns out that I have turned into a sparrow after all!

I am a sparrow! I'm no longer Barankin! I am the realest, most authentic sparrow! So that’s why I suddenly wanted oats: oats are the favorite food of horses and sparrows! All clear! No, not everything is clear! What does this mean? So my mother was right. This means that if you really want it, you can really achieve anything and achieve anything!

What a discovery!

Such a discovery is perhaps worth tweeting to the entire yard. What about the whole yard - the whole city, even the whole world!

I spread my wings! I popped my chest out! I turned towards Kostya Malinin and froze with my beak agape.

My friend Kostya Malinin continued to sit on the bench, like an ordinary person... Kostya Malinin failed to turn into a sparrow!.. That's it for you!

Texts for the “Living Classics” competition

"But what if?" Olga Tikhomirova

It has been raining since morning. Alyoshka jumped over the puddles and walked quickly - quickly. No, he wasn't late for school at all. He just noticed Tanya Shibanova’s blue cap from afar.

You can't run: you'll be out of breath. And she might think that he was running after her all the way.

It’s okay, he’ll catch up with her anyway. He’ll catch up and say... But what to say? It's been more than a week since we quarreled. Or maybe we should go ahead and say: “Tanya, let’s go to the cinema today?” Or maybe give her a smooth black pebble that he brought from the sea?...

What if Tanya says: “Take away your cobblestone, Vertisheev. What do I need it for?!”

Alyosha slowed down, but, looking at the blue cap, he hurried up again.

Tanya walked calmly and listened to the cars rustling their wheels on the wet pavement. So she looked back and saw Alyoshka, who was just jumping over a puddle.

She walked more quietly, but did not look back again. It would be nice if he caught up with her near the front garden. They would walk together, and Tanya would ask: “Do you know, Alyosha, why some maple trees have red leaves and others yellow?” Alyoshka will look and look and... Or maybe he won’t look at all, but will only mutter: “Read books, Shiba. Then you will know everything.” After all, they quarreled...

There was a school around the corner of the large house, and Tanya thought that Alyoshka would not have time to catch up with her.. We need to stop. But you can’t just stand in the middle of the sidewalk.

IN big house There was a clothing store, Tanya went to the window and began to look at the mannequins.

Alyoshka came up and stood next to him... Tanya looked at him and smiled slightly... “He’ll say something now,” thought Alyoshka and, in order to get ahead of Tanya, he said:

Ahh, it's you, Shiba.. Hello...

“Hello, Vertisheev,” she said.

Shipilov Andrey Mikhailovich " True story»

Vaska Petukhov came up with this device: you press a button, and everyone around you starts telling the truth. Vaska made this device and brought it to school. Marya Ivanovna comes into the classroom and says: “Hello guys, I’m very glad to see you!” And Vaska presses the button - once! “But to be honest,” continues Marya Ivanovna, “then I’m not happy at all, why should I be happy?” I'm tired of you worse than bitter radish in two quarters! You teach you, teach you, put your soul into you - and no gratitude. Tired of it! I won't stand on ceremony with you anymore. Anything - a couple at once!

And during recess, Kosichkina comes up to Vaska and says: “Vaska, let’s be friends with you.” “Come on,” says Vaska, and he presses the button – once! “Only I’m not just going to be friends with you,” Kosichkina continues, but with a specific purpose. I know your uncle works at Luzhniki; So, when “Ivanushki-International” or Philip Kirkorov perform again, then you will take me with you to the concert for free.

Vaska felt sad. He walks around school all day, pressing a button. As long as the button is not pressed, everything is fine, but as soon as you press it, this starts happening!..

And after school it’s New Year’s Eve. Santa Claus comes into the hall and says: “Hello, guys, I’m Santa Claus!” Vaska presses the button - once! “Although,” continues Father Frost, “in fact, I’m not Father Frost at all, but the school watchman Sergei Sergeevich.” The school doesn’t have the money to hire a real artist to play Grandfather Moroz’s role, so the director asked me to advocate for time off. One performance – half a day off. Only, I think I made a mistake; I should have taken the whole day off, not just half. What do you guys think?

Vaska felt very bad at heart. He comes home sad and sad. - What happened, Vaska? - Mom asks, “You don’t have a face at all.” “Yes,” says Vaska, “nothing special, I was just disappointed in people.” “Oh, Vaska,” my mother laughed, “how funny you are; how I love you! - Is it true? - Vaska asks, - and he presses the button - One! - Is it true! - Mom laughs. - True true? - says Vaska, and he presses the button even harder. - True true! - Mom answers. “Well, then that’s it,” says Vaska, “I love you too.” Very very!

“Groom from 3B” Postnikov Valentin

Yesterday afternoon, during math class, I firmly decided that it was time for me to get married. And what? I’m already in third grade, but I still don’t have a fiancee. When, if not now? A couple more years and the train left. Dad often tells me: At your age, people already commanded a regiment. And it is true. But first I have to get married. I told my best friend Petka Amosov about this. He sits at the same desk with me.

– “You’re absolutely right,” Petka said decisively. - We will choose a bride for you at the big break. From our class.

During the break, the first thing we did was make a list of brides and began to think about which one I should marry.

– “Marry Svetka Fedulova,” says Petka.

– Why on Svetka? – I was surprised.

– Oddball! She’s an excellent student,” says Petka. “You’ll be copying from her for the rest of your life.”

– No, I say. – Svetka is reluctant. She was cramming. He will force me to teach lessons. He will wander around the apartment like a clockwork and whine in a nasty voice: - Learn your lessons, learn your lessons.

– Let's cross it out! – Petka said decisively.

– Or maybe I should marry Soboleva? - I ask.

– On Nastya?

– Well, yes. She lives next to the school. It’s convenient for me to see her off,” I say. – It’s not like Katka Merkulova lives behind the railway. If I marry her, why should I trudge so far all my life? My mother doesn’t allow me to walk in that area at all.

– That’s right,” Petka shook his head. “But Nastya’s dad doesn’t even have a car.” But Mashka Kruglova has it. A real Mercedes, you'll drive it to the movies.

– But Masha is fat.

– Have you ever seen Mercedes? – asks Petka. - Three Mashas will fit in there.

– “That’s not the point,” I say. - I don’t like Masha.

– Then let's marry you to Olga Bublikova. Her grandmother cooks - you'll lick your fingers. Do you remember Bublikova treated us to grandma’s pies? Oh, and delicious. You won't be lost with such a grandmother. Even in old age.

– Happiness doesn’t lie in pies, I say.

– And what? – Petka is surprised.

– “I would like to marry Varka Koroleva,” I say. - Wow!

– And what about Varka? – Petka is surprised. - No A's, no Mercedes, no grandmother. What kind of wife is this?

– That's why her eyes are beautiful.

– Well, there you go,” Petka laughed. – The most important thing in a wife is the dowry. This is what the great Russian writer Gogol said, I heard it myself. And what kind of dowry is this – eyes? Laughter, and that's all.

– “You don’t understand anything,” I waved my hand. - Eyes are a dowry. The best!

That was the end of the matter. But I haven’t changed my mind about getting married. Just know!

Victor Golyavkin. Things are not going my way

One day I come home from school. That day I just got a bad grade. I walk around the room and sing. I sing and sing so that no one thinks that I got a bad mark. Otherwise they will ask: “Why are you gloomy, why are you thoughtful?”

Father says:

- Why is he singing like that?

And mom says:

- He is probably in a cheerful mood, so he sings.

Father says:

- He probably got an A, and that’s what’s fun for the man. It's always fun when you do something good.

When I heard this, I sang even louder.

Then the father says:

- Okay, Vovka, please your father and show him the diary.

Then I immediately stopped singing.

- For what? - I ask.

- “I see,” says the father, “you really want to show me the diary.”

He takes the diary from me, sees a deuce there and says:

- Surprisingly, I got a D and is singing! What, is he crazy? Come on, Vova, come here! Do you happen to have a fever?

- “I don’t have,” I say, “no fever...

The father spread his hands and said:

- Then you need to be punished for this singing...

That's how unlucky I am!

Parable “What you do will come back to you”

At the beginning of the twentieth century, a Scottish farmer was returning home and passed by a marshy area. Suddenly he heard cries for help. The farmer rushed to help and saw a boy who was being sucked into its terrible abysses by the swamp slurry. The boy tried to climb out of the terrible mass of the swamp, but his every movement condemned him to quick death. The boy screamed. out of despair and fear.

The farmer quickly cut down a thick branch, carefully

approached and extended a saving branch to the drowning man. The boy got out to safety. He was trembling, he could not stop crying for a long time, but the main thing was that he was saved!

- “Let’s go to my house,” the farmer suggested to him. - You need to calm down, dry out and warm up.

- No, no,” the boy shook his head, “my dad is waiting for me.” He's probably very worried.

Looking gratefully into the eyes of his savior, the boy ran away...

In the morning, the farmer saw a rich carriage pulled by luxurious thoroughbred horses drive up to his house. A richly dressed gentleman came out of the carriage and asked:

- Was it you who saved my son's life yesterday?

- Yes, I am,” answered the farmer.

- How much do I owe you?

- Don't offend me, sir. You don't owe me anything because I did what a normal person should have done.

The class froze. Isabella Mikhailovna bent over the magazine and finally said:
- Rogov.
Everyone sighed with relief and slammed their textbooks shut. And Rogov went to the board, scratched himself and for some reason said:
- You look good today, Isabella Mikhailovna!
Isabella Mikhailovna took off her glasses:
- Well, well, Rogov. Get started.
Rogov sniffled and began:
- Your hair is neat! Not what I have.
Isabella Mikhailovna stood up and walked over to the world map:
- Haven't you learned your lesson?
- Yes! - Rogov exclaimed passionately. - I repent! Nothing can be hidden from you! The experience of working with children is enormous!
Isabella Mikhailovna smiled and said:
- Oh, Rogov, Rogov! Show me where Africa is.
“There,” said Rogov and waved his hand out the window.
“Well, sit down,” sighed Isabella Mikhailovna. - Three...
During recess, Rogov gave interviews to his comrades:
- The main thing is to start this kikimore about eyes...
Isabella Mikhailovna was just passing by.
“Ah,” Rogov reassured his comrades. - This deaf grouse can’t hear more than two steps.
Isabella Mikhailovna stopped and looked at Rogov so that Rogov understood: the grouse could hear further than two steps.
The next day, Isabella Mikhailovna again called Rogov to the board.
Rogov turned white as a sheet and croaked:
- You called me yesterday!
“And I want more,” said Isabella Mikhailovna and squinted.
“Oh, your smile is so dazzling,” Rogov mumbled and fell silent.
- What else? - Isabella Mikhailovna asked dryly.
“Your voice is also pleasant,” Rogov squeezed out.
“Yes,” said Isabella Mikhailovna. - You haven't learned your lesson.
“You see everything, you know everything,” Rogov said listlessly. - But for some reason you went to school, people like me will ruin your health. You should go to the sea now, write poetry, meet a good person...
Bowing her head, Isabella Mikhailovna thoughtfully ran a pencil over the paper. Then she sighed and said quietly:
- Well, sit down, Rogov. Troika.

KOTINA KINDNESS Fedor Abramov

Nikolai K., nicknamed Kotya the Glass, was quite dashing during the war. The father is at the front, the mother died, and they don’t take him to the orphanage: there is a dear uncle. True, my uncle is disabled, but good deed(tailor) - why should he warm up the orphan?

The uncle, however, did not warm the orphan, and the sonfront-line soldier often fed from the trash heap. Collects potato peelings and cooks them in a canAnke on a fire pit by the river, in which sometimes you can catch some minnow, and that’s what he lived for.

After the war, Kotya served in the army, built a house, started a family, and then took in his uncle -That by that time he was completely decrepit, in his ninth decade

has passed.

Uncle Kotya did not refuse anything. What he and his family ate, he put in his uncle’s cup. And he didn’t even share a glass unless he was taking communion himself.

- Eat, drink, uncle! “I don’t forget my relatives,” Kotya said every time.

- Don't forget, don't forget, Mikolayushko.

- Did you offend me regarding food and drink?

- Didn't offend, didn't offend.

- So he gave shelter to a helpless old man?

- Sheltered, sheltered.

- But how come you didn’t give me shelter during the war? The newspapers write that other people's children were taken into care because of the war. Folk. Do you remember how they sang in the song? "There is a people's war going on, Holy war... "Am I really a stranger to you?

- Oh, oh, your truth, Mikolayushko.

- Don't groan! Then I should have groaned when I was rummaging in the garbage pit...

Kotya usually ended the table conversation with a tear:

- Well, uncle, uncle, thank you! The deceased father would bow at your feet if he returned from the war. After all, he thought, the son of Yevon, a miserable orphan, under his uncle’s wing, and the crow warmed me with its wing more than my uncle. Do you understand this with your old head? After all, moose protect little moose calves from wolves, but you’re not an elk. You are my dear uncle... Eh!..

And then the old man began to cry out loud. For exactly two months, Kotya raised his uncle like this, day after day, and on the third month, his uncle hanged himself.

Excerpt from the novel Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn"

I closed the door behind me. Then I turned around and looked - there he was, dad! I was always afraid of him - he really beat me up. My father was about fifty years old, and looked no less. His hair is long, unkempt and dirty, hanging in clumps, and only his eyes shine through them, as if through bushes. There is not a trace of blood in the face - it is completely pale; but not as pale as other people’s, but such that it’s scary and disgusting to look at, like a fish’s belly or like a frog. And the clothes are complete trash, nothing to look at. I stood and looked at him, and he looked at me, swaying slightly in his chair. He looked me from head to toe, then said:
- Look how you dressed up - wow! You probably think that you are an important bird now, or what?
“Maybe I think so, maybe not,” I say.
- Look, don’t be too rude! - Got crazy while I was away! I’ll deal with you quickly, I’ll knock your arrogance off you! You’ve also become educated; they say you can read and write. Do you think your father is no match for you now, since he is illiterate? I'll beat all this out of you. Who told you to gain stupid nobility? Tell me, who told you to do this?
- The widow ordered.
- Widow? That's how it is! And who allowed the widow to poke her nose into something that wasn’t her own business?
- Nobody allowed it.
- Okay, I’ll show her how to meddle where they don’t ask! And you, look, quit your school. Do you hear? I'll show them! They taught the boy to turn up his nose in front of his own father, he assumed such importance! Well, if I ever see you hanging around this very school, stick with me! Your mother could neither read nor write, so she died illiterate. And all your relatives died illiterate. I can neither read nor write, but look at how smart he is dressed up! I'm not the kind of person to put up with this, do you hear? Come on, read it, I’ll listen.
I took the book and started reading something about General Washington and the war. Not even half a minute had passed before he hit the book with his fist and it flew across the room.
- Right. You know how to read. But I didn’t believe you. Look at me, stop wondering, I won’t tolerate this! Follow
I'll be you, such a dandy, and if I just catch you near this very
school, I'll take all the skin off! I’ll pour it into you - before you know it! Good son, nothing to say!
He picked up a blue and yellow picture of a boy with cows and asked:
- What is this?
- They gave it to me because I am a good student. He tore the picture and said:
- I’ll give you something too: a good belt!
He muttered and grumbled something under his breath for a long time, then said:
- Just think, what a sissy! And he has a bed, and sheets, and a mirror, and a carpet on the floor - and biological father should be lying in a tannery with the pigs! Good son, nothing to say! Well, I’ll deal with you quickly, I’ll beat all the crap out of you! Look, he assumed importance...

Previously, I didn’t really like studying, but now I decided that
I will definitely go to school, to spite my father.

SWEET JOB Sergey Stepanov

The boys sat at a table in the yard and languished from idleness. It's hot to play football, but it's a long way to go to the river. And we went like this twice today.
Dimka came up with a bag of sweets. He gave everyone a piece of candy and said:
- You’re playing the fool here, and I got a job.
- What job?
- A taster at a confectionery factory. I took the work home.
- Are you serious? - the boys got excited.
- Well, you see.
- What kind of work do you have there?
- I'm trying some sweets. How are they made? Pour a bag into a large vat granulated sugar, a bag of powdered milk, then a bucket of cocoa, a bucket of nuts... What if someone throws in an extra kilogram of nuts? Or vice versa...
“Quite the opposite,” someone interjected.
- We must, in the end, try what happened. We need a person with good taste. And they can no longer eat it themselves. Not only that, they can’t look at these candies anymore! That's why they have automatic lines everywhere. And the result is brought to us, the tasters. Well, we try and say: everything is fine, you can take it to the store. Or: it would be nice to add raisins here and make a new variety called “Zyu-zyu”.
- Wow, great! Dimka, you ask, do they need more tasters?
- I "ll ask.
- I would go to the chocolate candy section. I'm good at them.
- And I agree with caramel. Dimka, do they pay wages there?
- No, they only pay with sweets.
- Dimka, let’s come up with a new type of candy now, and you’ll offer it to them tomorrow!
Petrov came up, stood next to him for a while and said:
-Who are you listening to? Didn't he deceive you enough? Dimka, admit it: you’re making a fool of yourself!
- You’re always like this, Petrov. You’ll come and ruin everything. You won't let me dream.

Ivan Yakimov “Strange Procession”

In the fall, on Nastasia the Shepherd, when they were feeding the shepherds in the yards - they were thanking them for saving their livestock - Mitrokha Vanyugin’s ram went missing. I searched and searched for Mitrokh, but there was no sheep anywhere, even for the life of me. He began to walk around houses and yards. He visited five hosts, and then directed his steps to Macrida and Epiphanes. He comes in, and the whole family is slurping fatty lamb soup, only the spoons flicker.

“Bread and salt,” says Mitrokha, looking sideways at the table.

Come in, Mitrofan Kuzmich, you will be a guest. “Sit down and sip some soup with us,” the owners invite.

Thank you. No way, they slaughtered a sheep?

Thank God they stabbed him to death, he'll stop accumulating fat.

“I can’t imagine where the ram could have gone,” Mitrokha sighed and, after a pause, asked: “Didn’t he come to you by chance?”

Or maybe he did, we need to look in the barn.

Or maybe he went under the knife? – the guest narrowed his eyes.

“Maybe he got under the knife,” the owner answers, not at all embarrassed.

Don't joke, Epifan Averyanovich, you're not in the dark, tea, you were slaughtering a sheep, you have to distinguish yours from someone else's.

Yes, these sheep are all gray, like wolves, so who can tell them apart, said Makrida.

Show me the skin. I recognize my sheep in no time.

The owner carries the skin.

Well, that’s right, my ram! - Mitrokha rushed from the bench. - There’s a black spot on the back, and on the tail, look, the fur is singed: Blind Manyokha, she set it on fire with a torch while she was giving it water. - How does this work out?, rowing in the middle of the day?

We didn’t do it on purpose, sorry, Kuzmich. He was standing right at the door, damned, who knew he was yours,” the owners shrug their shoulders. “Don’t tell anyone, for God’s sake.” Take our ram and that's the end of the matter.

No, not the end! - Mitrokha jumped up and down. “Your ram is a runt, a lamb against mine.” Turn my ram!

How can you get it back if it's half eaten? – the owners are perplexed.

Turn over everything that is left, pay money for the rest.

An hour later, from the house of Makrida and Epifan to the house of Mitrokha, in front of the whole village, a strange procession was moving. right leg, Epiphanes with a lamb skin under his arm, Mitrokha striding importantly behind him with a bag of lamb on his shoulder, and Macrida brought up the rear. She trotted along with cast iron on outstretched arms - carrying half-eaten soup from Mitrokhin's sheep. The ram, although disassembled, returned to its owner again.

Bobik visiting Barbos N. Nosov

Bobik saw a comb on the table and asked:

What kind of saw do you have?

What a saw! This is a scallop.

What is it for?

Oh you! - said Barbos. “It’s immediately obvious that he’s lived in a kennel all his life.” Don't know what a comb is for? Comb your hair.

What's it like to comb your hair?

Barbos took a comb and began to comb the hair on his head:

Look how you should comb your hair. Go to the mirror and comb your hair.

Bobik took the comb, went to the mirror and saw his reflection in it.

Listen,” he shouted, pointing to the mirror, “there’s some kind of dog there!”

Yes, it’s you yourself in the mirror! - Barbos laughed.

Like me? I’m here, and there’s another dog there. Barbos also went to the mirror. Bobik saw his reflection and shouted:

Well, now there are two of them!

Not really! - said Barbos. “It’s not two of them, but two of us.” They are there, in the mirror, lifeless.

Like inanimate? - Bobik shouted. - They're moving!

What a weirdo! - Barbos answered. “We are the ones moving.” You see, there’s one dog there that looks like me! - That's right, it looks like it! - Bobik was happy. Exactly like you!

And the other dog looks like you.

What you! - Bobik answered. “There’s some kind of nasty dog ​​there, and its paws are crooked.”

The same paws as yours.

No, you're deceiving me! You put some two dogs there and you think I’ll believe you,” Bobik said.

He began to comb his hair in front of the mirror, then suddenly laughed:

Look, that weirdo in the mirror is also combing his hair! This is hilarious!

Barbosonlysnorted and stepped aside.

Victor Dragunsky “Topsy-turvy”

One day I was sitting and sitting and out of the blue I suddenly thought of something that surprised even myself. I thought that it would be so good if everything around the world were arranged in reverse. Well, for example, for children to be in charge in all matters and adults would have to obey them in everything, in everything. In general, so that adults are like children, and children are like adults. That would be wonderful, it would be very interesting.

Firstly, I imagine how my mother would “like” such a story, that I walk around and command her as I want, and dad would probably “like” it too, but there’s nothing to say about grandma. Needless to say, I would remember everything to them! For example, my mother would be sitting at dinner, and I would tell her:

“Why did you start a fashion for eating without bread? Here's more news! Look at yourself in the mirror, who do you look like? Looks like Koschey! Eat now, they tell you! - And she would start eating with her head down, and I would just give the command: - Faster! Don't hold it by the cheek! Are you thinking again? Are you still solving the world's problems? Chew it properly! And don’t rock your chair!”

And then dad would come in after work, and before he even had time to undress, I would already shout:

“Yeah, he showed up! We must always wait for you! Wash your hands now! As it should be, as it should be, there is no need to smear the dirt. It's scary to look at the towel after you. Brush three times and don’t skimp on the soap. Come on, show me your nails! It's horror, not nails. It's just claws! Where are the scissors? Don't move! I don’t cut any meat, and I cut it very carefully. Don't sniffle, you're not a girl... That's it. Now sit down at the table.”

He would sit down and quietly say to his mother:

“Well, how are you?”

And she would also say quietly:

“Nothing, thank you!”

And I would immediately:

“Talkers at the table! When I eat, I am deaf and dumb! Remember this for the rest of your life. Golden Rule! Dad! Put down the newspaper now, your punishment is mine!”

And they would sit like silk, and when my grandmother came, I would squint, clasp my hands and shout:

"Dad! Mother! Take a look at our grandma! What a view! The coat is open, the hat is on the back of the head! The cheeks are red, the whole neck is wet! Good, nothing to say. Admit it, I was playing hockey again! What kind of dirty stick is this? Why did you drag her into the house? What? It's a stick! Get her out of my sight now - out the back door!”

Here I would walk around the room and say to all three of them:

“After lunch, everyone sit down for your homework, and I’ll go to the cinema!”

Of course, they would immediately whine and whine:

“And you and I! And we want to go to the cinema too!”

And I would tell them:

“Nothing, nothing! Yesterday we went to a birthday party, on Sunday I took you to the circus! Look! I liked having fun every day. Stay at home! Here’s thirty kopecks for ice cream, that’s all!”

Then the grandmother would pray:

“Take me at least! After all, each child can take one adult with them for free!”

But I would evade, I would say:

“And people over seventy years old are not allowed to enter this picture. Stay at home, fool!”

And I would walk past them, deliberately clicking my heels loudly, as if I didn’t notice that their eyes were all wet, and I would start getting dressed, and would twirl in front of the mirror for a long time, and would hum, and this would make them even worse they were tormented, and I would open the door to the stairs and say...

But I didn’t have time to think of what I would say, because at that time my mother came in, the real one, alive, and said:

- You're still sitting. Eat now, look who you look like? Looks like Koschey!

Inside out questions

Once upon a time there was a boy who spent whole days pestering everyone with questions. There is, of course, nothing wrong with this; on the contrary, curiosity is a commendable thing. But the trouble is that no one was able to answer this boy’s questions.
For example, he comes one day and asks:
- Why do the boxes have a table?
Of course, people only opened their eyes in surprise or, just in case, answered:
- Boxes are used to put something in them. Well, let's say, dinnerware.
- I know what the boxes are for. But why do the boxes have tables?
People shook their heads and hurried to leave. Another time he asked:
- Why does the tail have a fish?
Or more:
- Why does the mustache have a cat?
People shrugged their shoulders and hurried to leave, because everyone had their own things to do.
The boy grew up, but still remained a little boy, and not just a little boy, but a little boy inside out. Even as an adult, he walked around and pestered everyone with questions. It goes without saying that no one, not a single person, could answer them. Completely in despair, the little guy retreated inside out to the top of the mountain, built himself a hut and there, in his freedom, came up with more and more new questions. He came up with them, wrote them down in a notebook, and then racked his brains, trying to find the answer. However, never in his life did he answer any of his questions.
And how could he answer if in his notebook it was written: “Why does the shadow have a pine tree?” "Why don't clouds write letters?" "Why don't postage stamps drink beer?" He began to have headaches from the tension, but he didn’t pay attention to it and kept coming up with his endless questions. Little by little, he grew a long beard, but he didn’t even think about trimming it. Instead, he came up with a new question: "Why does a beard have a face?"
In a word, he was an eccentric like few. When he died, one scientist began to research his life and did an amazing scientific discovery. It turned out that this little guy had been accustomed to putting his stockings on inside out since childhood and had been wearing them that way all his life. He had never been able to put them on properly. That is why he could not learn to ask the right questions until his death.
And look at your stockings, are you wearing them correctly?

THE SENSITIVE COLONEL O. Henry

The sun is shining brightly and the birds are singing cheerfully on the branches. Peace and harmony are spread throughout nature. A visitor sits at the entrance to a small suburban hotel, quietly smoking a pipe, waiting for the train.

But then a tall man in boots and a hat with wide, down-turned brims comes out of the hotel with a six-shooter revolver in his hand and shoots. The man on the bench rolls off with a loud scream. The bullet grazed his ear. He jumps to his feet in amazement and rage and yells:
- Why are you shooting at me?
A tall man approaches with a wide-brimmed hat in his hand, bows and says:
- I'm sorry, sir. I'm Colonel Jay, sir, it seemed to me that you were insulting me, sir, but I see that I was mistaken. Very “hell that didn’t kill you, sir.”
- I insult you - with what? - the visitor bursts out. - I didn't say a single word.
“You were knocking on the bench, sir,” as if you wanted to say that you were a woodpecker,
se", and I - p" belong to d"goy po"ode. I see now that you are just
knocked the ashes out of your "tubka, sir." I beg your pardon, sir, and also that you go and have a glass with me, sir, in order to show that you have no bitterness in your soul against the gentleman who "I apologize to you, sir."

“MONUMENT TO A SWEET CHILDHOOD” by O. Henry

He was old and weak, and the sand in the clock of his life had almost run out. He
walked with unsteady steps along one of the most fashionable streets in Houston.

He left the city twenty years ago, when it was little more than a meager village, and now, tired of wandering around the world and full of a painful desire to look once again at the places where he spent his childhood, he returned and found that a bustling business city had grown on the site of his ancestors' house.

He searched in vain for some familiar object that could remind him days gone by. Everything has changed. There,
where his father’s hut stood, the walls of a slender skyscraper rose; the vacant lot where he played as a child was built up with modern buildings. On both sides there were magnificent lawns, running up to luxurious mansions.

Suddenly, with a cry of joy, he rushed forward with renewed energy. He saw in front of him - untouched by the hand of man and unchangeable by time - an old familiar object around which he had run and played as a child.

He extended his arms and rushed towards him with a deep sigh of contentment.
Later he was found sleeping with a quiet smile on his face on an old garbage heap in the middle of the street - the only monument to his sweet childhood!

Eduard Uspensky “Spring in Prostokvashino”

One day a parcel arrived for Uncle Fyodor in Prostokvashino, and in it was a letter:

“Dear Uncle Fedor! Your beloved Aunt Tamara, a former colonel of the Red Army, is writing to you. It's time for you to take up farming - both for education and for the harvest.

Carrots should be planted at attention. Cabbage - in a line through one.

Pumpkin - at the command “at ease”. Preferably near an old garbage dump. The pumpkin will “suck out” the entire trash heap and become huge. The sunflower grows well away from the fence so that the neighbors do not eat it. Tomatoes should be planted leaning against sticks. Cucumbers and garlic require constant fertilization.

I read all this in the charter of the agricultural service.

I bought seeds by the glass at the market and poured everything into one bag. But you'll figure it out on the spot.

Don't get carried away by gigantism. Remember the tragic fate of Comrade Michurin, who died after falling from a cucumber.

All. We kiss you with the whole family.”

Uncle Fyodor was horrified by such a package.

He selected for himself several seeds that he knew well. He planted sunflower seeds in a sunny place. I planted pumpkin seeds near the trash heap. That's all. Soon everything he grew up was tasty, fresh, just like in a textbook.

Marina Druzhinina. CALL, THEY WILL SING FOR YOU!

On Sunday we drank tea with jam and listened to the radio. As always at this time, radio listeners in live congratulated their friends, relatives, bosses on their birthday, wedding day or something else significant; they told me how wonderful they were, and asked me to perform them for them. wonderful people good songs.

- Another call! - the announcer declared jubilantly once again. - Hello! We are listening to you! Who will we congratulate?

And then... I couldn’t believe my ears! The voice of my classmate Vladka rang out:

- This is Vladislav Nikolaevich Gusev speaking! Congratulations to Vladimir Petrovich Ruchkin, sixth grade student “B”! He got an A in math! First one this quarter! And actually the first one! Pass it on for him best song!

- Wonderful congratulations! - the announcer admired. - We join these warm words and wish Dear Vladimir Petrovich, so that the mentioned five would not be the last in his life! And now - “Twice two is four”!

The music started playing, and I almost choked on my tea. It's no joke - they sing a song in my honor! After all, Ruchkin is me! And even Vladimir! And Petrovich too! And in general, I’m studying in the sixth “B”! Everything matches! Everything except five. I didn't get any A's. Never. But in my diary there was something exactly the opposite.

- Vovka! Did you really get an A?! “Mom jumped out from the table and rushed to hug and kiss me. - Finally! I dreamed about this so much! Why were you silent? How modest! And Vladik is a true friend! How happy he is for you! He even congratulated me on the radio! Five must be celebrated! I'll bake something delicious! - Mom immediately kneaded the dough and began to make pies, cheerfully singing: “Twice two is four, twice two is four.”

I wanted to shout that Vladik is not a friend, but a bastard! Everything is lying! There was no A! But the tongue did not turn at all. No matter how hard I tried. Mom was very happy. I never thought that my mother’s joy has such an effect on my tongue!

- Well done, son! - Dad waved the newspaper. - Show me the five!

- They collected our diaries,” I lied. - Maybe they’ll give it away tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow...

- OK! When they hand it out, then we’ll admire it! And let's go to the circus! Now I'm off to get some ice cream for all of us! - Dad rushed off like a whirlwind, and I rushed into the room, to the phone.

Vladik picked up the phone.

- Hello! - giggles. - Did you listen to the radio?

- Have you gone completely crazy? - I hissed. - Parents here have lost their heads because of your stupid jokes! And it’s up to me to unwind! Where can I get them a five?

- How is this where? - Vladik answered seriously. - Tomorrow at school. Come to me right now to do your homework.

Gritting my teeth, I went to Vladik. What else was left for me?..

In general, we spent two whole hours solving examples, problems... And all this instead of my favorite thriller “Cannibal Watermelons”! Nightmare! Well, Vladka, wait!

The next day, in mathematics class, Alevtina Vasilievna asked:

- Who wants to take it apart homework at the blackboard?

Vlad poked me in the side. I groaned and raised my hand.

First time in life.

- Ruchkin? - Alevtina Vasilievna was surprised. - Well, you are welcome!

And then... Then a miracle happened. I solved everything and explained it correctly. And in my diary a proud five turned red! Honestly, I had no idea that getting A’s was so nice! Those who don't believe, let them try...

On Sunday, as always, we drank tea and listened

the program “Call, they will sing for you.” Suddenly the radio started chattering again in Vladka’s voice:

- Congratulations to Vladimir Petrovich Ruchkin from the sixth "B" with an A in Russian! Please give him the best song!

What-o-o-o?! Only the Russian language was still missing for me! I shuddered and looked at my mother with desperate hope - maybe I didn’t hear. But her eyes were shining.

- How clever you are! - Mom exclaimed, smiling happily.

Marina Druzhinina story “Horoscope”

The teacher sighed and opened the magazine.

Well, “take courage now”! Or rather, Ruchkin! Please list the birds that live on the edges of the forest, in open places.

That's the number! I never expected this! Why me? I shouldn't be called today! The horoscope promised “all Sagittarius, and therefore me, incredible luck, unbridled fun and a rapid rise up the career ladder.”

Maybe Maria Nikolaevna will change her mind, but she looked at me expectantly. I had to get up.

But what can I say - I had no idea, because I didn’t study the lessons - I believed the horoscope.

Oatmeal! – Redkin whispered into my back.

Oatmeal! – I repeated mechanically, not trusting Petka too much.

Right! – the teacher was delighted. - There is such a bird! Let's move on!

“Well done Redkin! Correctly suggested! Still, today is my lucky day! The horoscope did not disappoint!” - joyfully flashed through my head, and without any doubt, in one breath, I blurted out after Petka’s saving whisper:

Millet! Semolina! Buckwheat! Pearl barley!

An explosion of laughter drowned out the “barley.” And Maria Nikolaevna shook her head reproachfully:

Ruchkin, you probably really love porridge. But what do birds have to do with it? Sit down! "Two"!

I was literally seething with indignation. I showed

Redkin's fist and began to think about how to take revenge on him. But retribution immediately overtook the villain without my participation.

Redkin, to the board! - Maria Nikolaevna commanded. “It seems you also whispered something to Ruchkin about dumplings and okroshka.” Do you think these are also birds of open places?

No! - Petka grinned. - I was joking.

Prompting incorrectly is mean! This is much worse than not learning a lesson! – the teacher was indignant. - I'll have to talk to your mom. Now name the birds - relatives of the crow.

There was silence. Redkin was clearly not in the know.

Vladik Gusev felt sorry for Petka, and he whispered:

Rook, jackdaw, magpie, jay...

But Redkin, apparently, decided that Vladik was taking revenge on him for his friend, that is, for me, and was giving him the wrong advice. Everyone judges for himself - I read about this in the newspaper... In general, Redkin waved his hand at Vladik: shut up, and announced:

The crow, like any other bird, has a large family. This is mom, dad, grandma - old crow - grandpa...

Here we literally howled with laughter and fell under our desks. Needless to say, the unbridled fun was a success! Even a bad mark didn't spoil the mood!

This is all?! – Maria Nikolaevna asked menacingly.

No, not everything! – Petka did not let up. “The crow also has aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, nephews...

Enough! – the teacher shouted. “Two.” And so that all your relatives come to school tomorrow! Oh, what am I saying!... Parents!

(Martynov Alyosha)

1. Viktor Golyavkin. How I sat under my desk (Volikov Zakhar)

As soon as the teacher turned to the board, I immediately went under the desk. When the teacher notices that I have disappeared, he will probably be terribly surprised.

I wonder what he'll think? He’ll start asking everyone where I’ve gone - it’ll be a laugh! Half the lesson has already passed, and I’m still sitting. “When,” I think, “will he see that I’m not in the class?” And it’s hard to sit under the desk. My back even hurt. Try to sit like that! I coughed - no attention. I can't sit anymore. Moreover, Seryozha keeps poking me in the back with his foot. I couldn't stand it. Didn't make it to the end of the lesson. I get out and say: - Sorry, Pyotr Petrovich...

The teacher asks:

- What's the matter? Do you want to go to the board?

- No, excuse me, I was sitting under my desk...

- So, is it comfortable to sit there, under the desk? You sat very quietly today. This is how it would always be in class.

3.The story “Nakhodka” by M. Zoshchenko

One day Lelya and I took a box of chocolates and put a frog and a spider in it.

Then we wrapped this box in clean paper, tied it with a chic blue ribbon and placed this package on the panel facing our garden. It was as if someone was walking and lost their purchase.

Having placed this package near the cabinet, Lelya and I hid in the bushes of our garden and, choking with laughter, began to wait for what would happen.

And here comes a passerby.

When he sees our package, he, of course, stops, rejoices and even rubs his hands with pleasure. Of course: he found a box of chocolates - this doesn’t happen very often in this world.

With bated breath, Lelya and I watch what will happen next.

The passerby bent down, took the package, quickly untied it and, seeing the beautiful box, became even more happy.

And now the lid is open. And our frog, bored with sitting in the dark, jumps out of the box right onto the hand of a passerby.

He gasps in surprise and throws the box away from him.

Then Lelya and I began to laugh so much that we fell on the grass.

And we laughed so loudly that a passerby turned in our direction and, seeing us behind the fence, immediately understood everything.

In an instant he rushed to the fence, jumped over it in one fell swoop and rushed towards us to teach us a lesson.

Lelya and I set a streak.

We ran screaming across the garden towards the house.

But I tripped over a garden bed and sprawled out on the grass.

And then a passerby tore my ear quite hard.

I screamed loudly. But the passer-by, giving me two more slaps, calmly left the garden.

Our parents came running to the scream and noise.

Holding my reddened ear and sobbing, I went up to my parents and complained to them about what had happened.

My mother wanted to call the janitor so that she and the janitor could catch up with the passerby and arrest him.

And Lelya was about to rush after the janitor. But dad stopped her. And he said to her and mother:

- Don't call the janitor. And there is no need to arrest a passerby. Of course, it’s not the case that he tore Minka’s ears, but if I were a passer-by, I would probably have done the same.

Hearing these words, mom got angry with dad and said to him:

- You are a terrible egoist!

Lelya and I also got angry with dad and didn’t tell him anything. I just rubbed my ear and started crying. And Lelka also whimpered. And then my mother, taking me in her arms, said to my father:

- Instead of standing up for a passerby and making children cry, you would better explain to them what is wrong with what they did. Personally, I don’t see this and regard everything as innocent children’s fun.

And dad couldn’t find what to answer. He just said:

- The children will grow up big and someday they will find out for themselves why this is bad.

4.

BOTTLE

Just now on the street some young guy broke a bottle.

He was carrying something. I don't know. Kerosene or gasoline. Or maybe lemonade. In a word, some kind of soft drink. It's a hot time. I'm thirsty.

So, this guy was walking, gaped and knocked the bottle onto the sidewalk.

And such, you know, dullness. There is no need to kick the fragments off the sidewalk. No! He broke it, damn it, and moved on. And other passers-by, then, walk on these fragments. Very nice.

Then I deliberately sat down on the pipe at the gate to see what would happen next.

I see people walking on the glass. He curses, but walks. And such, you know, dullness. Not a single person is found to perform a public duty.

Well, what's it worth? Well, I would stop for a couple of seconds and shake off the fragments from the sidewalk with the same cap. But no, they walk by.

“No, I think, darlings! We still don’t understand social tasks. Slam on the glass."

And then I see that some guys have stopped.

- Eh, they say, it’s a pity that there are few barefoot people these days. Otherwise, they say, it would be great to run into yourself.

And suddenly a man comes.

A completely simple, proletarian-looking person.

This man stops around this broken bottle. Shakes his cute head. Groaning, he bends down and sweeps the fragments aside with a newspaper.

“I think it’s great! I was grieving in vain. The consciousness of the masses has not yet cooled down.”

And suddenly it comes up to this gray one, common man The policeman scolds him:

- What is this, he says, a chicken head? I ordered you to take away the fragments, and you are throwing them aside? Since you are the janitor of this house, you must rid your area of ​​your excess glass.

The janitor, muttering something under his breath, went into the yard and a minute later appeared again with a broom and a tin shovel. And he started cleaning up.

And for a long time, until they drove me away, I sat on the cabinet and thought about all sorts of nonsense.

And you know, perhaps the most surprising thing in this story is that the policeman ordered the glass to be removed.

I was walking down the street... I was stopped by a beggar, a decrepit old man.

Inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough rags, unclean wounds... Oh, how hideously poverty has gnawed at this unfortunate creature!

He extended his red, swollen, dirty hand to me... He moaned, he bellowed for help.

I started rummaging through all my pockets... Not a wallet, not a watch, not even a handkerchief... I didn’t take anything with me.

And the beggar waited... and his outstretched hand weakly swayed and trembled.

Lost, embarrassed, I firmly shook this dirty, trembling hand...

- Don't blame me, brother; I have nothing, brother.

The beggar stared at me with his bloodshot eyes; his blue lips grinned - and he, in turn, squeezed my cold fingers.

- Well, brother,” he muttered, “thank you for that.” This is also alms, brother.

I realized that I also received alms from my brother.

12. The story “The Goat” by Tvark Man

We left early in the morning. Fofan and I were put in the back seat and we began to look out the window.

Dad drove carefully, didn’t overtake anyone, and told Fofan and me about the rules of the road. It’s not about how and where to cross the road so as not to be run over. And about how to drive so as not to run over anyone.

“You see, the tram has stopped,” dad said. - And we have to stop to let passengers through. And now that they have passed, we can move on. But this sign says that the road will narrow and instead of three lanes there will only be two. Let's look to the right, to the left, and if there is no one, we will change lanes.

Fofan and I listened, looked out the window, and I felt my legs and arms moving on their own. As if it was me, and not dad, who was driving.

Pa! - I said. - Will you teach Fofan and me to drive a car?

Dad was silent for a while.

Actually, this is an adult matter, he said. - Once you grow up a little, then you will definitely.

We began to approach the turn.

But this yellow square gives us the right to pass first. - said dad. - Main road. There is no traffic light. Therefore, we show the turn and...

He did not have time to leave completely. There was a roar of an engine on the left and a black “ten” rushed past our car. She swerved back and forth twice, squealed her brakes, blocked our path and stopped. A young guy in a blue uniform jumped out and quickly walked towards us.

Did you break something?! - Mom was scared. -Are you going to be fined now?

“Yellow square,” dad said in confusion. - Main road. I didn't break anything! Maybe he wants to ask something?

Dad lowered the window, and the guy almost ran to the door. He leaned over and I saw that his face was angry. Or no, not even evil. He looked at us as if we were the most important enemies in his life.

What are you doing, you goat!? - he yelled so loudly that Fofan and I flinched. - You drove me into oncoming traffic! Well, goat! Who taught you to drive like that? Who, I ask? They'll fucking put assholes behind the wheel! It’s a pity, I’m not at work today, I would write it for you! What are you staring at?

All four of us looked at him in silence, and he kept yelling and yelling, repeating “goat” every word. Then he spat on the wheel of our car and went to his “ten”. On his back, DPS was written in yellow letters.

The black "ten" squealed its wheels, took off like a rocket and sped off.

We sat in silence for a while longer.

Who is it? - Mom asked. - Why is he so nervous?

Fool Because completely - I answered. - DPS. And he was nervous because he was driving fast and almost crashed into us. He himself is to blame. We were driving correctly.

My brother was also yelled at last week,” Fofan said. - And DPS is a road patrol service.

It’s his own fault and he yelled at us? - Mom said. - Then this is not traffic police. This is HAM.

How is this translated? - I asked.

“No way,” my mother answered. - Boor, he is a boor.

Dad started the car and we drove on.

Got upset? - Mom asked. - No need. You were driving correctly, weren't you?

Yes, dad answered.

“Well, forget it,” said mom. - You never know there are boors in the world. Either in uniform or without uniform. Well, his parents saved money on raising him. So this is their problem. He probably yells at them too.

Yes, dad answered again.

Then he fell silent and didn’t say another word the whole way to the dacha.

13.V. Suslov “SLAPPING THE HEAD”

A sixth-grader stepped on an eighth-grader's foot.

Accidentally.

In the dining room, he went out of line to buy pies - and stepped on it.

And he got a slap on the head.

The sixth grader jumped back to a safe distance and said:

- Big one!

The sixth grader was upset. And I forgot about the pies. I walked away from the dining room.

I met a fifth grader in the hallway. I gave him a slap on the head and it made him feel better. Because if they give you a slap on the head, but you can’t give it to anyone, then it’s very insulting.

- Strong, right? - the fifth grader frowned. And he stomped down the corridor in the other direction.

I passed by a ninth-grader. I walked past the seventh grader. I met a boy from the fourth grade.

And gave him a slap on the head. For the same reason.

Then, as you already guessed, according to the ancient proverb “if you have strength, you don’t need intelligence,” the third grader received a slap on the head. And he also didn’t keep it to himself - he gave it to a second grader.

Why does a second grader need a slap on the head? No need at all. He sniffed and ran to look for the first-grader. Who else? It’s not right to give elders slaps on the head!

I feel most sorry for the first grader. His situation is hopeless: he can’t run away from school. kindergarten fight!

The first-grader became thoughtful because of the slap on the head.

His dad met him at home.

Asks:

- Well, what did our first grader get today?

- “Well,” he replies, “he got a slap on the head.” But they didn’t put any marks.

(Krasavin)

Anton Pavlovich ChekhovSUMMER RESIDENTS
A couple of recently married spouses were walking back and forth along the dacha platform. He held her by the waist, and she clung to him, and both were happy. From behind the cloudy fragments the moon looked at them and frowned: she was probably jealous and annoyed at her boring, useless virginity. The still air was thickly saturated with the smell of lilac and bird cherry. Somewhere, on the other side of the rails, a crake was screaming...
- How good, Sasha, how good! - said the wife. - Really, you might think that all this is a dream. Look how cozy and affectionate this forest looks! How sweet are these solid, silent telegraph poles! They, Sasha, bring the landscape to life and say that there, somewhere, there are people... civilization... Don’t you like it when the wind faintly carries the noise of a running train to your ears?
- Yes... However, your hands are so hot! It’s because you’re worried, Varya... What did we have for dinner today?
- Okroshka and chicken... There's enough chicken for both of us. They brought you sardines and balyk from the city.
The moon, as if sniffing tobacco, hid behind a cloud. Human happiness reminded her of her loneliness, her lonely bed behind the forests and valleys...
“The train is coming!” said Varya. - How good!
Three fiery eyes appeared in the distance. The head of the station came out onto the platform. Signal lights flashed here and there on the rails.
“We’ll see off the train and go home,” said Sasha and yawned. “We’re living well with you, Varya, so good that it’s even incredible!”
The dark monster silently crawled up to the platform and stopped. Sleepy faces, hats, shoulders flashed in the dimly lit carriage windows...
- Ah! Oh! - was heard from one of the carriages. - Varya and her husband came out to meet us! Here they are! Varenka!.. Varenka! Oh!
Two girls jumped out of the carriage and hung on Varya’s neck. Behind them appeared a plump, elderly lady and a tall, skinny gentleman with gray sideburns, then two high school students laden with luggage, a governess behind the high school students, and a grandmother behind the governess.
“Here we are, here we are, my friend!” began the gentleman with sideburns, shaking Sasha’s hand. - Tea, I've been waiting for it! Probably scolded my uncle for not going! Kolya, Kostya, Nina, Fifa... children! Kiss cousin Sasha! All to you, the whole brood, and for three or four days. I hope we won't embarrass you? Please, no ceremony.
Seeing his uncle and his family, the couple were horrified. While his uncle was talking and kissing, a picture flashed through Sasha’s imagination: he and his wife were giving their three rooms, pillows, and blankets to the guests; the balyk, sardines and okroshka are eaten in one second, the cousins ​​pick flowers, spill ink, make noise, the aunt spends whole days talking about her illness (tapeworm and pain in the pit of the stomach) and the fact that she was born Baroness von Fintich...
And Sasha already looked at his young wife with hatred and whispered to her:
- They came to you... damn them!
- No, to you! - she answered, pale, also with hatred and malice. “These are not mine, but your relatives!”
And turning to the guests, she said with a friendly smile:
- Welcome!
The moon emerged from behind the cloud again. She seemed to be smiling; She seemed pleased that she had no relatives. And Sasha turned away to hide his angry, desperate face from the guests, and said, giving his voice a joyful, complacent expression: “You are welcome!” You are welcome, dear guests!