Paustovsky biography is complete and detailed. A brief biography of Paustovsky the most important thing
Konstantin Paustovsky is a classic in twentieth-century literature. All works with pleasure are read by adults, and children they personify human and literary nobility. Paustovsky was born in Moscow in an intelligent family, theatergoers who love to play the piano and sing. He died at seventy-six years. He studied in Kiev in a classical gymnasium. His parents divorced and he had to earn extra money as a teacher.
After graduating from high school, he entered the University of Kiev at the Faculty of Law, but dreamed of becoming a writer. For himself, he decided, for writing, you need to "go live" and gain life experience. In Moscow, he works as a car driver, then he gets a job as a paramedic on a rear train, replaces many different professions, was even a fisherman on the Sea of \u200b\u200bAzov.
In his spare time from work, he wrote stories. During the revolution, he worked as a reporter in a newspaper in Moscow and described events. During World War II he is a war correspondent. After the war, Paustovsky is engaged in literary activities and writes: novels, novels, as well as stories and tales for children. The book "Stories and Tales of Animals and Nature." It includes famous stories:
- Adventures of a rhinoceros beetle;
- Tree frog;
- Steel ring;
- Badger nose and other works.
Read Paustovsky's biography for grade 3
Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky was born on May 31, 1892 in Moscow. He grew up in the family of George Maximovich Paustovsky and Maria Paustovsky, had two brothers and a sister. In 1904 he entered the Kiev gymnasium. My favorite subject in the gymnasium was geography and literature.
In 1912, having changed his place of residence and school many times, the young man began his studies at the Faculty of History and Philology of Kiev University, and completed 2 courses. After the outbreak of World War I, he was transferred to Moscow University, but soon left him and began to work. Having changed many professions, he is arranged as a medical orderly for the front, participates in the retreat of the Russian army. After the death of the brothers, he returned to Moscow to his mother and sister, but did not stay there for a long time. The young man travels all over the south of Russia, lives in Odessa for two years, working in the Mayak newspaper, and then leaves Odessa, leaves for the Caucasus, also visiting northern Persia.
In 1923 he returned to the capital. For a couple of years he has been working as an editor at a telegraph agency and begins to print. He also spends the 1930s traveling around the country, releasing many essays and short stories. During the Great Patriotic War he became a military journalist, serving on the Southern Front. In August 1941 he completed his service to work on a play for the Moscow Art Theater, moved to Alma-Ata, where he sat down to write the play “Until the Heart Stops” and the novel “Smoke of the Fatherland”.
In the 1950s he lives in Moscow and Tarusa, becoming one of the compilers of the collections Literary Moscow and Tarusa Pages. After receiving worldwide recognition, travels to Europe, lives on the island of Capri. In 1966 he signed a letter from science and culture figures about the inadmissibility of the rehabilitation of Stalin. Dies July 14, 1968 in Moscow after a protracted asthma illness.
For children grade 3, grade 4, grade 5.
Biography by dates and interesting facts
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Goncharov’s childhood passed in a merchant family, but no wealth could overshadow the tragedy that happened in the eighth year of the life of Ivan Andreevich. Goncharov’s father died and only his mother and uncle were engaged in his upbringing
Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich (1892 - 1968), prose writer.
Born May 19 (31 n.p.) in Moscow in Granatny Lane, in the family of railway statistics, but, despite the profession, an incorrigible dreamer. The family loved the theater, sang a lot, played the piano.
He studied in Kiev in a classical gymnasium, where there were good teachers of Russian literature, history, psychology. I read a lot, wrote poetry. After the divorce of the parents, he had to earn a living and study, interrupted by tutoring. In 1912 he graduated from high school and entered the natural history department of Kiev University. Two years later he transferred to Moscow to the Faculty of Law.
The First World War began, but he, as the youngest son in the family (according to the then laws), was not accepted into the army. Even in the last grade of the gymnasium, having printed his first story, Paustovsky decides to become a writer, but believes that for this it is necessary to “go into life” in order to “know everything, feel everything and understand everything” - “without this life experience, there is no way to writing It was". It arrives as a counselor on a Moscow tram, then as a nurse on a rear ambulance train. Then he recognized and forever fell in love with the middle zone of Russia, its city.
Paustovsky worked at the Bryansk Metallurgical Plant, at the boiler plant in Taganrog, and even at a fishing farm on the Sea of \u200b\u200bAzov. In his free time, he began to write his first novel "Romance", which was published only in the 1930s in Moscow. After the beginning of the February Revolution, he left for Moscow and began working as a newspaper reporter, having witnessed all the events in Moscow during the days of the October Revolution.
After the revolution, he traveled around the country a lot, visited Kiev, served in the Red Army, fighting "with all sorts of inveterate chieftains", and went to Odessa, where he worked in the newspaper "Sailor". Young writers, among whom were Kataev, Ilf, Babel, Bagritsky and others, fell into this environment. Soon he was again taken over by the “muse of distant wanderings”: he lives in Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Yerevan, until finally returning to Moscow. For several years he has been working as an editor of GROWTH and begins to print. The first book was a storybook "Oncoming Ships", then the story "Kara-Bugaz". After the publication of this story, he forever leaves the service, and writing becomes his only favorite work.
Paustovsky discovers the reserved land - the Mescher, which he owes many of his stories. He still travels a lot, and every trip is a book. Over the years of his writing life, he traveled all over the Soviet Union.
During World War II he was a war correspondent and also traveled many places. After the war, he was in the West for the first time: Czechoslovakia, Italy, Turkey, Greece, Sweden, etc. The meeting with Paris was especially expensive and close for him.
Paustovsky wrote a series of books on creativity and on people of art: Orest Kiprensky, Isaac Levitan (1937), Taras Shevchenko (1939), The Tale of the Forests (1949), The Golden Rose (1956) - a tale about literature, about the "beautiful essence of writing."
In the last years of his life, he worked on a large autobiographical epic "Tale of Life".
K. Paustovsky died July 14, 1968 in Tarusa, where he was buried.
Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky was born on 19 (31) .5.1892 in Moscow. In addition to him, the family had three more children, two brothers and a sister. The writer’s father was a railway employee, and the family often moved from place to place: after Moscow, they lived in Pskov, Vilno, Kiev. In 1911, in the last grade of the gymnasium, Kostya Paustovsky wrote his first story, and it was published in the Kiev literary magazine "Lights".
Konstantin Georgievich changed many professions: he was a counselor and conductor of the Moscow tram, a worker at the metallurgical plants in Donbass and Taganrog, a fisherman, an orderly in the army during the First World War, an employee, a teacher of Russian literature, and a journalist. In the Civil War, Paustovsky fought in the Red Army. During World War II he was a war correspondent on the Southern Front.
During his great writing life, he has visited many parts of our country. “Almost every book of mine is a trip. Or rather, each trip is a book, ”said Paustovsky. He traveled the Caucasus and Ukraine, the Volga, Kama, Don, Dnieper, Oka and Desna, was in Central Asia, Altai, Siberia, Prionezhie, the Baltic.
But he especially fondly fell in love with Meschera — the fabulously beautiful land between Vladimir and Ryazan — where he came for the first time in 1930. Everything that attracted the writer from his very childhood was “dense forests, lakes, winding forest rivers, abandoned roads and even inns ". Paustovsky wrote that he "owes Meshchera many of his stories," Summer Days "and the small story" The Meshchera Side ". Per Paustovsky owns a cycle of stories for children and several fairy tales. They teach to love the native nature, to be observant, to see the unusual in the ordinary and to be able to fantasize, to be kind, honest, able to admit and correct one's own guilt. These important human qualities are so necessary in life.
Paustovsky’s books have been translated into many foreign languages.
He was awarded the Order of Lenin, two other orders and a medal.
The writer died - 07.7.1968; buried in the city of Tarusa, Kaluga region.
__________________________________________________
BARBAR NOSE
The lake near the coast was covered with heaps of yellow leaves. There were so
a lot that we could not fish. Fishing lines lay on the leaves and did not sink.
I had to go on an old boat to the middle of the lake, where they were blooming
water lilies and blue water seemed black as tar.
There we caught colorful perches. They fought and sparkled in the grass like
fabulous japanese roosters. We pulled out pewter and a ruff with
eyes like two little moons. Pikes caressed us as small as
needles, with teeth.
It was autumn in the sun and fog. Through the fleeting forests were visible
distant clouds and blue thick air. At night in the thickets around us
low stars moved and trembled.
A fire was burning in our parking lot. We burned it all day and night,
to drive the wolves away, they quietly howled along the far shores of the lake. Them
disturbed by the smoke of the fire and funny human cries.
We were sure that the fire frightened the animals, but one evening in the grass near
a bonfire began to sniff angrily at some beast. He was not visible. He is concerned
ran around us, rustled with tall grass, snorted and angry, but did not stick out
from grass even to ears.
The potato was fried in a pan, there was a sharp, tasty smell from it, and
the beast, obviously, came running on this smell.
There was a little boy with us. He was only nine years old, but he is good
suffered nights in the forest and the cold of autumn sunrises. Much better than us
adults, he noticed and told everything.
He was an inventor, but we adults loved his inventions very much. We do not
they could, and did not want to prove to him that he was telling a lie. everyday
he came up with something new: either he heard the fish whispering, then he saw
how the ants made a ferry through a stream of pine bark and cobwebs.
We pretended to believe him.
Everything that surrounded us seemed extraordinary: and the late moon,
shining over black lakes, and high clouds like mountains of pink
snow, and even the usual sea noise of tall pines.
The first boy heard the snort of the beast and hissed at us so that we
shut up. We are quiet. We tried not to even breathe, although the hand involuntarily
I was reaching for a double-barreled shotgun - who knows what kind of beast it could be!
After half an hour, the beast stuck out a wet black nose, similar to
pork piglet. The nose sniffed the air for a long time and trembled with greed. Then out of grass
a sharp muzzle appeared with black piercing eyes. Finally seemed
striped skin.
A small badger crawled out of the thicket. He held up his paw and carefully
looked at me. Then he sniffed squeamishly and took a step toward the potatoes.
She fried and hissed, spraying boiling fat. I wanted to scream
the animal that he will get burned, but I was late - the badger jumped to the pan and
put his nose in her ...
It smelled of burning skin. Badger screeched and rushed with a desperate cry
back to the grass. He ran and voted over the entire forest, broke bushes and spat on
indignation and pain.
Confusion began on the lake and in the forest. Frightened screamed without time
frogs, birds flared up, and at the very shore, like a cannon shot,
hit pood pike.
In the morning, the boy woke me up and told me that he himself had just seen,
how a badger heals its burnt nose. I did not believe it.
I sat down by the fire and half asleep listened to the morning voices of the birds. Far away
white-tailed waders whistled, ducks quacked, cranes grunted on dry
swamps - msharah, fish splashing, quietly cooing their necks. I didn’t want
move.
The boy pulled my hand. He was offended. He wanted to prove to me that he
did not lie. He called me to go see how a badger is being treated.
I reluctantly agreed. We carefully made our way into the thicket, and among the thickets
heather I saw a rotten pine stump. From him pulled mushrooms and iodine.
About a stump, a badger stood with his back to us. He picked up a stump and stuck it in
the middle of the stump, in wet and cold dust, a burnt nose.
He stood motionless and chilled his miserable nose, and ran around and
another small badger snorted. He worried and pushed our badger
nose in the stomach. Our badger snarled at him and kicked his fluffy hind legs.
Then he sat down and cried. He looked at us with round and wet eyes,
moaned and licked his sore tongue in a sore nose. He seemed to be asking for
help, but we couldn’t help him.
A year later, I met a badger with a scar on the shores of the same lake
nose. He sat by the water and tried to catch dragonflies rattling like tin with his paw.
I waved to him, but he sneezed angrily in my direction and hid in
thickets of lingonberries.
I have not seen him since.
STEEL RING.
Grandfather Kuzma lived with his granddaughter Varyusha in the village of Mokhovoe, near the forest itself.
The winter was harsh, with strong winds and snow. Throughout the winter, the fussy melt water never warmed up and did not drip from the tight roofs. At night in the forest howled wolves howled. Grandfather Kuzma said that they howl from envy to people: the wolf also wants to live in a hut, scratch himself and lie down by the stove, to warm the icy shaggy skin.
In the middle of winter, my grandfather came out with shag. Grandfather coughed violently, complained of poor health and said that if he dragged on a little more or less, he would immediately feel better.
On Sunday, Varyusha went for the shag for her grandfather to the neighboring village of Perebori. A railway passed by. Varyusha bought the shag, tied it in a cotton bag and went to the station to look at the trains. In Searches, they rarely stopped. Almost always, they rushed past with a clang and a roar.
Two fighters sat on the platform. One was bearded, with a cheerful gray eye. A locomotive roared. It was already visible how he, all in a pair, violently rushing to the station from a distant black forest.
See you soon! - said the fighter with a beard. - Look, girl, blow you train. Fly away to heaven.
The engine flew into the station on a grand scale. The snow spun and closed his eyes. Then they went to bang, to catch up with each other's wheels. Varyusha grabbed the lamppost and closed her eyes: as if indeed she had not been lifted above the ground and dragged away behind the train. When the train flashed, and the snow dust was still spinning in the air and landing on the ground, the bearded soldier asked Varyusha:
Is that in your bag? Not a shag?
Makhorka, - answered Varyusha.
Can you sell? Smoking is a big hunt.
Grandfather Kuzma does not order to sell, - Varyusha answered sternly. - This is for him from a cough.
Oh, ”said the fighter,“ a flower-petal in felt boots! ” It hurts seriously!
And take it as you need, ”said Varyusha and handed the soldier a bag. - Smoke!
The soldier poured a good handful of shag in his overcoat pocket, twisted a thick gypsy, lit a cigarette, took Varyusha by the chin and looked, chuckling, in all blue eyes.
Oh you, ”he repeated,“ pansies with pigtails! ” How should I thank you? Is this this?
A fighter took out a small steel ring from his overcoat pocket, blew shreds of salt and salt from it, rubbed it over his sleeve and put Varyusha on his middle finger:
Wear it in good health! This ring is absolutely wonderful. Look how it burns!
And why is he, uncle, so wonderful? - asked, flushed, Varyusha.
And because, - said the fighter, - that if you wear it on your middle finger, it will bring health. And to you and grandfather Kuzma. And you put it on this one, on the nameless one, ”the soldier pulled Varyusha by his cold, red finger,“ you will have tremendous joy. ” Or, for example, you want to see the white light with all its wonders. Put the rings on your index finger - you will certainly see!
What? - asked Varyusha.
And you believe him, ”another soldier boomed from beneath the raised collar of his greatcoat. - He is a sorcerer. Have you heard such a word?
I heard.
Well then! - the soldier laughed. - He's an old sapper. He didn’t even take mine!
Thank! - said Varyusha and ran to her in Mokhovaya.
The wind blew, a thick snow covered with thick snow. Varyusha touched everything
a ringlet, turned it and watched it shine from the winter light.
“What did the soldier forget to tell me about the little finger?” she thought. - What will happen then? Let me put a little ring on my little finger and try. ”
She put on a little ring on her little finger. He was thin, the ring on him could not resist, fell into deep snow near the path and immediately dived to the snowiest bottom.
Varyusha gasped and began to rake the snow with her hands. But there was no ringlet. Varyusha's fingers turned blue. They were so reduced by frost that they no longer bent.
Varyusha cried. The ring is gone! So, grandfather Kuzma will no longer have health, and she will not have great joy, and she will not see the white light with all its miracles. Varyusha stuck in the snow, in the place where she dropped the ring, the old spruce branch and went home. She wiped her tears with a mitt, but they still ran in and froze, and this made my eyes hurt and painful.
Grandfather Kuzma was delighted with the shag, smoked the whole house, and said about the ringlet:
Don’t grieve, daughter! Where it fell - there it lies. You ask Sidora. He is looking for you.
Old sparrow Sidor slept on a sixth, swelling like a ball. All winter Sidor lived in a hut near Kuzma on his own, as a master. He forced not only Varyushu, but also his grandfather to reckon with his character. He pecked the porridge directly from the bowls, and tried to tear the bread out of his hands and, when they drove him away, he was offended, ruffled and began to fight and tweet so angrily that the neighbors sparrows flocked under the eaves, listened, and then made a long noise, condemning Sidor for his bad temper . He lives in a hut, with warmth, in satiety, but all is not enough for him!
The next day, Varyusha caught Sidor, wrapped in a scarf and carried into the forest. Only the very tip of the spruce branch stuck out from under the snow. Varyusha planted it on Sidor's branch and asked:
Look, rummage! Maybe you will find!
But Sidor squinted his eyes, looked incredulously at the snow and squeaked: “Oh you! Oh you! I’ve found a fool! ... Look, you’re coming! ”Sidor repeated, fell off the branch and flew back to the hut.
So the ring was not found.
Grandfather Kuzma coughed more and more. By spring, he climbed onto the stove. Almost did not go down from there and increasingly asked for a drink. Varyusha served him cold water in an iron bucket.
Snowstorms circled over the village, carried huts. Pines got stuck in the snow, and Varyusha could no longer find the place in the forest where she dropped the ringlet. Increasingly, she, hiding behind the stove, quietly cried from pity for her grandfather and scolded herself.
Dureha! she whispered. - I was spoiled, dropped the ring. Here you have it! It is for you!
She punched herself on the crown of the head, punished herself, and grandfather Kuzma asked:
Who are you making noise with there?
With Sidor, answered Varyusha. - This has become unheard of! Everything strives to fight.
One morning, Varyusha woke up because Sidor was jumping on the window and tapping his beak on the glass. Varyusha opened her eyes and closed her eyes. Long drops fell from the roof, driving one another. Hot light beat in with the sun. Screaming jackdaws.
Varyusha looked out into the street. A warm wind blew into her eyes, ruffled her hair.
Spring is here! - said Varyusha.
The black branches gleamed, rustled, sliding from the roofs, wet snow, and it was important and cheerful that the raw forest was rustling behind the outskirts. Spring went through the fields like a young mistress. As soon as she looked at the ravine, it immediately began to gurgle and overflow with a stream in it. Spring went on and the clanging of streams became louder and louder with every step.
The snow in the forest darkened. First, brown conifers, flying around the winter, performed on it. Then a lot of dry twigs appeared - they were broken by a storm in December - then last year's yellow leaves turned yellow, thawed holes appeared and the first coltsfoot flowers bloomed on the edge of the last snowdrifts.
Varyusha found an old spruce branch in the forest - the one that she stuck in the snow, where she dropped the ring, and began to carefully rake off old leaves, empty cones thrown by woodpeckers, branches, rotten moss. A light flashed under one black leaf. Varyusha screamed and crouched. Here it is, steel-nose ring! It did not rust at all.
Varyusha grabbed him, put it on her middle finger and ran home.
From afar, running to the hut, she saw Grandfather Kuzma. He went out of the hut, sat on the rubble, and blue smoke from the shag rose above his grandfather directly to the sky, as if Kuzma was drying out in the spring sun and steam was smoking over it.
Well, ”said the grandfather,“ you, the pinwheel, jumped out of the hut, forgot to shut the door, and blew the whole hut with light air. And immediately the disease let me go. Now I’ll have a smoke, take a cleaver, prepare wood, we flood the stove and bake rye cakes.
Varyusha laughed, stroked her grandfather through shaggy gray hair, said:
Thanks a little ring! It cured you, Grandfather Kuzma.
All day Varyusha wore a ring on her middle finger in order to firmly drive away grandfather's disease. Only in the evening, going to bed, she removed the ring from her middle finger and put it on the ring finger. After that, tremendous joy was to happen. But she hesitated, did not come, and Varyusha fell asleep without waiting.
She got up early, dressed and went out of the hut.
A quiet and warm dawn occupied the ground. At the edge of the sky the stars still burned out. Varyusha went to the forest. At the edge of the forest she stopped. What does it ring in the forest, as if someone is carefully moving the bells?
Varyusha bent down, listened and clasped her hands: the white snowdrops swayed a little, nodded to the dawn, and each flower rang, as if there was a small bell-ringer beetle in it and beat its paw on the silver web. At the top of a pine tree a woodpecker struck - five times.
"Five hours! Varyusha thought. - What an early one! And quiet! ”
Immediately high on the branches in a golden dawn light, the Oriole sang.
Varyusha stood with her mouth open, listening, smiling. A strong, warm, gentle wind poured over her, and something rustled nearby. Hazel swayed, yellow pollen sprinkled from walnut earrings. Someone walked invisibly past Varyusha, carefully drawing branches. Cuckooed towards him, a cuckoo bowed.
“Who did this pass? But I didn’t make out! ”Thought Varyusha.
She did not know that this spring passed by her.
Varyusha laughed out loud, all over the forest, and ran home. And tremendous joy - such that you can’t reach it with her hands - rang, sang in her heart.
Spring flared up every day brighter, more fun. Such light poured from the sky that Grandfather Kuzma’s eyes became narrow, like slits, but chuckled all the time. And then, but the forests, meadows, and ravines immediately, as if someone had sprayed magic water on them, thousands of thousands of flowers bloomed and mottled.
Varyusha thought about putting a ring on her index finger to see the white light with all its miracles, but she looked at all these Flowers, at sticky birch leaves, at a clearer sky and hot sun, She listened to the roll call of roosters, the ring of water, the flashing of birds over the fields - and I did not put the rings on the index finger.
I’ll catch it, she thought. - Nowhere in the world can it be as good as a pass in Mokhovoy. What a delight what it is! It’s not in vain that Grandfather Kuzma says that our land is a true paradise and there is no other such good land in the world! ”
HARDS'S FEET
Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Urzhensky Lake and
brought a small warm hare wrapped in a torn cotton jacket. Hare
cried and often blinked with red eyes from tears ...
- Are you stupefied? - shouted the veterinarian. - Soon you will be mice to me
carry around!
“Don’t bark, this is a special hare,” Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. -
His grandfather sent, ordered to heal.
- What to treat for?
- His paws are burnt.
The veterinarian turned Vanya facing the door, pushed him in the back and shouted
after:
- Go ahead, go ahead! I do not know how to treat them. Fry it with a bow - grandfather will be
snack.
Vanya did not answer. He stepped into the canopy, blinked his eyes, pulled
his nose and buried himself in a log wall. Tears streamed down the wall. The hare is quiet
trembling under a greasy jacket.
- What are you, small? - asked Vanya the compassionate grandmother Anisya; she brought
to your veterinarian your only goat. - Why are you, heartfelt, the tears together
pouring? Aw what happened?
“He is burnt, grandfather's hare,” Vanya said quietly. - In a forest fire
paws burned himself, can not run. That's it, look, die.
“Don't die, kid,” Anisya mumbled. - Tell your grandfather if
he’s big hunt for a hare, let him carry him to the city to Karl
Petrovich.
Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the forests to Urzhenskoe Lake. He didn’t go, but
running barefoot on a hot sandy road. Recent forest fire has passed
side to the north near the lake itself. It smelled of fumes and dry cloves. She
large islands grew in the meadow.
The hare was groaning.
Vanya found fluffy on the way, covered with silver soft hair
leaves, pulled them out, laid them under a pine tree and unfolded a hare. The hare looked at
leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.
- What are you doing, gray? - Vanya asked quietly. - You would eat.
The hare was silent.
Unheard of heat stood over the forests that summer. Swirling in the morning
white clouds. At noon, the clouds swiftly rushed up to the zenith, and on
eyes were blown away and disappeared somewhere beyond the borders of the sky. A hot hurricane blew already
two weeks without respite. The resin flowing down the pine trunks has turned
in amber stone.
The next morning, the grandfather put on clean onuchi and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece
bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried a hare from behind. The hare is completely silent, only
occasionally shivered with his whole body and sighed convulsively.
A dry wind blew over the city a cloud of dust as soft as flour. Flew in it
chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw. From a distance it seemed like smoke was smoking over the city
silent fire.
The market square was very empty, sultry; horse-drawn horses dozing
beside a water booth, and straw hats were put on their heads.
Grandfather crossed himself.
- Not a horse, not a bride - the jester will take them apart! He said and spat.
Passers-by asked about Karl Petrovich for a long time, but no one really
didn't answer. We went to the pharmacy. Fat old man in pince-nez and in short
white coat angrily shrugged and said:
- I like it! Pretty strange question! Karl Petrovich Korsh -
Specialist in childhood diseases - for three years now he stopped taking
patients. Why do you need it?
Grandfather, stuttering from respect for the pharmacist and from timidity, spoke about the hare.
- I like it! the pharmacist said. - Interesting patients wound up in
our city. I like it great!
He nervously removed his pince-nez, rubbed it, put it on his nose again and stared at
grandfather. Grandfather was silent and stagnated. The pharmacist was silent too. Silence
became painful.
- Postal street, three! - suddenly in the hearts the pharmacist shouted and slammed shut
some disheveled thick book. - Three!
Grandfather with Vanya got to Postal Street just in time - because of Oka
a high thunderstorm came in. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon as
the sleepy strongman straightened his shoulders and reluctantly shook the ground. Gray ripples went
down the river. Silent lightnings stealthily, but swiftly and strongly beat in meadows;
far beyond the Polyans, a haystack already lit by them was already burning. Large raindrops
fell on a dusty road, and soon it became like a lunar surface:
every drop left a small crater in the dust.
Karl Petrovich played the piano something sad and melodic when in the window
grandfather's disheveled beard appeared.
A minute later, Karl Petrovich was already angry.
“I'm not a veterinarian,” he said and slammed the piano lid. Immediately in
the thunder grumbled in the meadows. “I have been treating children all my life, not hares.”
“That the child, that the hare is all one,” the grandfather muttered stubbornly. - All
one thing! Heal, show mercy! Our veterinarian has no such jurisdiction. He is with us
pranked. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him his life,
I must give thanks, and you say - quit!
A minute later, Karl Petrovich - an old man with gray ruffled eyebrows,
- I listened excitedly to the stumbling story of my grandfather.
Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. The next morning
grandfather went to the lake, and Vanya left Karl Petrovich to walk with a hare.
A day later, the whole Poshtova street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that
Karl Petrovich treats a hare, charred in a terrible forest fire and saved
some old man. Two days later, the whole small city already knew about it, and on
the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich,
He called himself an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked for a conversation about a hare.
The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in a cotton rag and carried him home. Soon
the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor took a long time
he sought from his grandfather to sell him a hare. He even sent letters with
stamps to answer. But the grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote
Professor letter:
The hare is not corrupt, living soul, let him live in freedom. When I stay
Larion Malyavin.
... This fall, I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on Lake Urzhen. Constellations
cold, like grains of ice, floated in the water. Noisy dry cane. Ducks
chaffinch in thickets and plaintively quacked all night.
Grandfather could not sleep. He sat by the stove and fixed a torn fishing net. Then
set the samovar - from it the windows in the hut were immediately fogged up and the stars from the fire
points turned into muddy balls. Murzik barked in the yard. He jumped into the dark
caressed his teeth and bounced off - he fought against the impenetrable October night. Hare
slept in the hallway and occasionally in a dream he loudly tapped with his hind paw on a rotten floorboard.
We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and indecisive dawn, and for
tea grandfather finally told me a story about a hare.
In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. Forests stood
dry as gunpowder. Grandfather came across a hare with a ragged left ear. Grandfather shot at
him from an old, wired gun, but missed. The hare fled.
Grandfather went on. But suddenly he was alarmed: from the south, from the side of Lopukhov,
strongly pulled the burn. The wind got stronger. The smoke was thick, it was already carrying a white veil
through the forest, was pulling bushes. It became difficult to breathe.
Grandfather realized that a forest fire had begun and that the fire was going straight at him. Wind
turned into a hurricane. Fire drove through the earth at an unheard-of speed. According to
grandfather, even the train could not get away from such a fire. Grandfather was right: during
hurricane fire went at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.
Grandfather ran over bumps, stumbled, fell, smoke eats away his eyes, and behind
a wide rumble and crackle of flame was already heard.
Death overtook his grandfather, grabbed his shoulders, and at this time from under his feet
grandfather jumped out a hare. He ran slowly and dragged his hind legs. Then only
grandfather noticed that they were charred by the hare.
Grandfather was happy about the hare, as if to his native. Like an old forest man, grandfather
I knew that animals better than humans can smell where fire comes from, and always
saved. They perish only in those rare cases when fire surrounds them.
Grandfather ran after the hare. He fled, cried with fear, and shouted: "Wait a minute,
honey, don’t run so fast! "
The hare brought his grandfather out of the fire. When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and grandfather
- both fell from fatigue. Grandfather picked up a hare and carried it home. The hare had
scorched hind legs and stomach. Then his grandfather cured him and kept it at home.
“Yes,” said the grandfather, looking at the samovar as angrily as if it were a samovar
was all the fault, - yes, but before that hare, it turns out, I was very guilty,
nice man.
- What are you guilty of?
- But you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will find out. Take it
lamp!
I took a lantern from the table and went out to the senza. The hare was sleeping. I bent over him with
a lantern and noticed that the rabbit’s left ear was torn. Then I understood everything.
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Slide captions:
Red Clover Prepared by a student of 3 "D" class
1. Perennial herbaceous plant of the moth (legume) family 40 cm high.
2. The stems are branched, numerous. The leaves are ternate, the lower ones are ovate, the upper ones are elliptical.
The flowers are small, lilac-red, collected in spherical inflorescences. The fruit is a single-seeded ovoid bean. It blooms in May - September.
Distributed in the European part of Russia, Siberia, the Far East, the Caucasus, Ukraine. It grows in flood meadows, clearings, bushes, on the edges of the forest.
3. Used for medicinal purposes: as a cold, antimicrobial, hemostatic. It is used in agriculture as animal feed, and for the benefit of the soil, enriches the soil with nitrogen and improves its structure
Interesting fact: the trefoil is a symbol of Ireland.
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Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich (1892-1968) Prepared by student 3 "D" class Turchin Vadim
Russian writer. Born in Moscow. In addition to him, the family had three more children, two brothers and a sister. The writer’s father was a railway employee, and the family often moved from place to place: after Moscow, they lived in Pskov, Vilno, Kiev. In 1911, in the last grade of the gymnasium, Kostya Paustovsky wrote his first story, and it was published in the Kiev literary magazine "Lights".
Konstantin Georgievich changed many professions: he was a counselor and conductor of the Moscow tram, a worker at the metallurgical plants in Donbass and Taganrog, a fisherman,
orderly in the army during the First World War, employee, teacher of Russian literature, journalist.
In the Civil War, Paustovsky fought in the Red Army. During World War II he was a war correspondent on the Southern Front.
During his great writing life, he has visited many parts of our country. “Almost every book of mine is a trip. Or rather, each trip is a book, ”said Paustovsky. He traveled the Caucasus and Ukraine, the Volga, Kama, Don, Dnieper, Oka and Desna, was in Central Asia, Altai, Siberia, Prionezhie, the Baltic. House in Odessa Paustovsky House-Museum in Tarus "Moscow In the former house of the forester of the Golitsyn estate - literary museum of KG Paustovsky.
But he especially fondly fell in love with Mescher - a fabulously beautiful land between Vladimir and Ryazan - where he came for the first time in 1930.
Per Paustovsky owns a cycle of stories for children and several fairy tales. They teach to love the native nature, to be observant, to see the unusual in the ordinary and to be able to fantasize, to be kind, honest, able to admit and correct one's own guilt. These important human qualities are so necessary in life. In this picture, Paustovsky with the cat Barsik.
He wrote what he saw, about those whom he was watching, and of course about those whom he sincerely loved.
Get acquainted with his works
