Paustovsky biography is complete and detailed. Brief biography of Paustovsky most important
Konstantin Paustovsky is a classic in the literature of the twentieth century. All works are read with pleasure by adults, and children embody 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. He studied in Kiev in a classical gymnasium. His parents divorced and he had to work as a teacher.
After graduating from high school, he entered the Kiev University at the Faculty of Law, but dreamed of becoming a writer. For himself, he decided that for writing, you need to "go into life" and gain life experience. In Moscow, he works as a carriage driver, then gets a job as an orderly on a rear train, replaces a lot different professions, was even a fisherman on the Sea of Azov.
In his free time, he wrote short stories. During the revolution, he worked in Moscow as a reporter for a newspaper and described events. During Patriotic War he is a war correspondent. After the war, Paustovsky was engaged in literary activities and wrote: novels, short stories, as well as stories and fairy tales for children. The book "Stories and tales about animals and nature." Famous stories included:
- 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 Georgy Maksimovich Paustovsky and Maria Grigoryevna Paustovskaya, had two brothers and a sister. In 1904 he entered the Kiev gymnasium. Geography and literature were my favorite subjects at the gymnasium.
In 1912, having changed his place of residence and schools many times, the young man began his studies at the Faculty of History and Philology of Kiev University, finishing 2 courses. After the outbreak of the First World War, he was transferred to Moscow University, but soon left it and began to work. Having changed many professions, he gets a job as a nurse at the front, participates in the retreat of the Russian army. After the death of his brothers, he returns to Moscow to his mother and sister, but does 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 worked as an editor in a telegraph agency and began to publish. He also spends the 1930s traveling around the country, releasing many essays and stories. During the Great Patriotic War, he became a military journalist and served on the Southern Front. In August 1941, he completed his service in order 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 lived in Moscow and Tarusa, becoming one of the compilers of the collections Literary Moscow and Tarusa Pages. After receiving worldwide recognition, he travels around Europe, living on the island of Capri. In 1966, he signed a letter from scientists and cultural figures about the inadmissibility of Stalin's rehabilitation. Dies July 14, 1968 in Moscow after a protracted illness with asthma.
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 prosperity could overshadow the tragedy that happened in the eighth year of Ivan Andreevich's life. Goncharov's father died and only his mother and uncle were involved in his upbringing
Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich (1892 - 1968), prose writer.
Born on May 19 (31 n.s.) in Moscow in Granatny Lane, in the family of a railway statistician, but, despite his 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, and psychology. I read a lot and wrote poetry. After the divorce of his parents, he had to earn his own living and study, interrupted by tutoring. In 1912 he graduated from the gymnasium and entered the Faculty of Natural History of Kiev University. Two years later he transferred to the Moscow Faculty of Law.
The first World War but its like younger son in the family (according to the laws of that time) they were not taken into the army. Even in the last grade of the gymnasium, having printed his first story, Paustovsky decides to become a writer, but he 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". He enters as a leader on a Moscow tram, then as an orderly on a rear sanitary train. Then he knew and forever loved middle lane Russia, its cities.
Paustovsky worked at the Bryansk metallurgical plant, at the boiler plant in Taganrog, and even in a fishing artel on the Sea of Azov. In his free time, he began writing his first story, Romantics, which was published only in the 1930s in Moscow. After the beginning of the February Revolution, he left for Moscow, began working as a reporter in newspapers, being a witness to all the events in Moscow during the days of the October Revolution.
After the revolution, he traveled a lot around the country, visited Kiev, served in the Red Army, fighting "with all sorts of inveterate chieftains", went to Odessa, where he worked in the newspaper "Sailor". Here he fell into the midst of young writers, among whom were Kataev, Ilf, Babel, Bagritsky and others. Soon he was again possessed by the "muse of distant wanderings": he lives in Sukhumi, Tbilisi, Yerevan, until he finally returns to Moscow. For several years he worked as an editor for ROSTA and began to publish. The first book was a collection of short stories "Oncoming Ships", then the story "Kara-Bugaz". After the publication of this story, he leaves the service forever, and writing becomes his only favorite work.
Paustovsky discovers for himself the reserved land - Meshchera, to which he owes many of his stories. He still travels a lot and every trip is a book. During the years of his writing life, he traveled all over the Soviet Union.
During the Great Patriotic War he was a war correspondent and also traveled to 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 dear and close to him.
Paustovsky wrote a series of books about creativity and people of art: "Orest Kiprensky", "Isaac Levitan" (1937), "Taras Shevchenko" (1939), "The Tale of the Forests" (1949), "Golden Rose" (1956) - a story about literature, about "the beautiful essence of writing."
V last years life worked on a large autobiographical epic "The Tale of Life".
K. Paustovsky died on July 14, 1968 in Tarusa, where he was buried.
Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky was born on May 19 (31), 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, Vilna, 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 Ogni.
Konstantin Georgievich changed many professions: he was a leader and conductor of the Moscow tram, a worker at 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. During the Civil War, Paustovsky fought in the Red Army. During the Great Patriotic War he was a war correspondent on the Southern Front.
During his long life as a writer, he traveled to many parts of our country. “Almost every book I write is a trip. Or, rather, every 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, Onezhye, the Baltic.
But he especially fell in love with Meshchera - a fabulously beautiful region between Vladimir and Ryazan - where he first arrived in 1930. There was everything that attracted the writer from childhood - “deep forests, lakes, winding forest rivers, abandoned roads and even inns ". Paustovsky wrote that he “owes many of his stories to Meshchera, “Summer Days” and the short story “Meshcherskaya Side”. Peru Paustovsky owns a cycle of stories for children and several fairy tales. They teach to love their 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 their 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 - 14.7.1968; buried in the city of Tarusa, Kaluga region.
__________________________________________________
badger nose
The lake near the shores was covered with heaps yellow leaves. Their was so
a lot that we couldn't fish. The fishing lines lay on the leaves and did not sink.
I had to go on an old canoe to the middle of the lake, where
water lilies 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 tin roaches and ruffs with
eyes like two small moons. Pikes caressed at us small, like
needles, teeth.
It was autumn in the sun and fog. Through the overflowing forests were visible
distant clouds and blue thick air. At night in the thickets around us
low stars stirred and trembled.
We had a fire in the parking lot. We burned it all day and all night long
to drive away the wolves, they howled softly along the far shores of the lake. Their
disturbed by the smoke of the fire and cheerful human cries.
We were sure that the fire frightened the animals, but one evening in the grass
some animal began to sniff angrily at the fire. He was not visible. He is anxious
ran around us, rustled the tall grass, snorted and got angry, but did not stick out
grass even ears.
Potatoes were fried in a frying pan, a sharp tasty smell came from it, and
the beast obviously ran to this smell.
was with us little boy. He was only nine years old, but he was well
endured spending the night in the forest and the cold of autumn dawns. Much better than us
adults, he noticed and told everything.
He was an inventor, but we adults loved his inventions very much. We don't
could, and did not want to prove to him that he was telling a lie. Every day
he came up with something new: he heard the whispering of the fish, then he saw
how ants made a ferry across a stream of pine bark and cobwebs.
We pretended to believe him.
Everything that surrounded us seemed unusual: and the late moon,
glittering over black lakes, and high clouds, like mountains of pink
snow, and even the usual sea noise of tall pines.
The boy was the first to hear the snort of the beast and hissed at us to
fell silent. We quieted down. We tried not even to breathe, although the hand involuntarily
reached for the double-barreled shotgun - who knows what kind of animal it could be!
Half an hour later, the beast stuck out a wet black nose from the grass, similar to
pig snout. The nose sniffed the air for a long time and trembled with greed. Then from the grass
a sharp muzzle with black piercing eyes appeared. Finally seemed
striped skin.
A small badger crawled out of the thickets. He folded his paw and carefully
looked at me. Then he snorted in disgust and took a step towards the potatoes.
She fried and hissed, splashing boiling lard. I wanted to scream
to the animal that he would burn himself, but I was too late - the badger jumped to the frying pan and
stuck his nose in...
It smelled like burnt leather. The badger squealed and with a desperate cry rushed
back to the grass. He ran and shouted for the whole forest, broke bushes and spat from
resentment and pain.
Confusion began on the lake and in the forest. Without time, the frightened yelled
frogs, the birds were alarmed, and near the shore, like a cannon shot,
hit by a pood pike.
In the morning the boy woke me up and told me what he had just seen
like a badger heals his burnt nose. I didn't believe.
I sat down by the fire and half-awake listened to the morning voices of the birds. away
white-tailed waders whistled, ducks quacked, cranes cooed on dry
swamps - msharah, fish splashed, turtledoves cooed softly. I didn't feel like
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 the 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. He smelled of mushrooms and iodine.
Near the stump, with its back to us, stood a badger. He opened the stump and put it in
the middle of the stump, into wet and cold dust, a burnt nose.
He stood motionless and cooled his unfortunate nose, and ran around and
snorted another little badger. He got excited and pushed our badger
nose to stomach. Our badger growled at him and kicked with his furry hind legs.
Then he sat down and wept. He looked at us with round and wet eyes,
groaned and licked his sore nose with his rough tongue. He seemed to be asking for
help, but there was nothing we could do to help him.
A year later, on the shores of the same lake, I met a badger with a scar on
nose. He sat by the water and tried to catch the dragonflies rattling like tin with his paw.
I waved to him, but he sneezed angrily in my direction and hid in
lingonberry bushes.
Since then I have not seen him again.
STEEL RING.
Grandfather Kuzma lived with his granddaughter Varyusha in the village of Mokhovoe, near the forest.
The winter was harsh, strong wind and snow. During the whole winter it never got warmer and no fussy melt water dripped from the boarded roofs. Cold wolves howled in the forest at night. Grandfather Kuzma said that they howl with envy of people: the wolf also wants to live in a hut, scratch and lie down by the stove, warm the icy shaggy skin.
In the middle of winter, my grandfather got a shag. Grandfather coughed heavily, complained of poor health and said that if he had dragged on once or twice, he would immediately feel better.
On Sunday, Varyusha went to buy shag for her grandfather in the neighboring village of Perebory. passed by the village Railway. Varyusha bought shag, tied it in a cotton bag and went to the station to look at the trains. They rarely stopped at Perebor. Almost always they rushed past with a clang and a roar.
There were two fighters on the platform. One was bearded, with a cheerful gray eye. The steam locomotive roared. It was already visible how he, all in a couple, violently rushes to the station from the distant black forest.
Fast! - Said the fighter with the beard. - Look, girl, the train will blow you away. Fly under the sky.
The locomotive rushed into the station. The snow swirled and covered my eyes. Then they went to tapping, to catch up with each other's wheels. Varyusha grabbed a lamppost and closed her eyes: as if she really had not been lifted above the ground and dragged behind the train. When the train sped by, and the snow dust was still whirling in the air and settling on the ground, the bearded soldier asked Varyusha:
What's that in your bag? Not shag?
Makhorka, - answered Varyusha.
Maybe sell? Smoking is a big deal.
Grandfather Kuzma does not order to sell, - Varyusha answered sternly. - It's for his cough.
Oh, you, - said the fighter, - a flower-petal in felt boots! Painfully serious!
And you take as much as you need, ”Varyusha said and handed the bag to the fighter. - Smoke it!
The fighter poured a good handful of shag into the pocket of his overcoat, rolled up a thick cigarette, lit a cigarette, took Varyusha by the chin and looked, chuckling, into those blue eyes.
Oh, you, he repeated, pansies with pigtails! How can I thank you? Is it this?
The fighter took out a small steel ring, blew crumbs of shag and salt off him, rubbed it on the sleeve of his overcoat and put Varyusha on his middle finger:
Wear it in good health! This ring is absolutely amazing. Look how it burns!
And why is he, uncle, so wonderful? - asked, flushed, Varyusha.
And because, - the fighter answered, - that if you wear it on the middle finger, it will bring health. And you and grandfather Kuzma. And if you put it on this one, on the nameless one, - the fighter pulled Varyusha by the chilled, red finger, - you will have great joy. Or, for example, you want to see the white world with all its wonders. Put a ring on forefinger- you will definitely see!
Like? Varyusha asked.
And you believe him, - boomed another fighter from under the raised collar of his overcoat. - He's a sorcerer. Have you heard such a word?
I heard.
Well, that's it! - the fighter laughed. - He's an old sapper. Even the mine did not take him!
Thanks! - said Varyusha and ran to her place in Mokhovoe.
The wind picked up and heavy snow fell. Varyusha touched everything
ringlet, turned it and watched how it glittered from the winter light.
“Well, the fighter forgot to tell me about the little finger? she thought. - What will happen then? Let me put a ring on my little finger, I'll try.
She put a ring on her little finger. He was thin, the ring could not hold on to him, fell into deep snow near the path and immediately dived to the very snowy bottom.
Varyusha gasped and began to rake the snow with her hands. But there was no ring. Varyusha's fingers turned blue. They were so cramped from the cold that they could no longer bend.
Varyusha cried. The ring is missing! This means that grandfather Kuzma will not be healthy now, and she will not have great joy, and she will not see the world with all its miracles. Varyusha stuck in the snow, in the place where she dropped the ring, the old spruce branch n went home. She wiped her tears with a mitten, but they still ran and froze, and this was prickly and painful to her eyes.
Grandfather Kuzma was delighted with the shag, smoked the whole hut, and said about the little ring:
Don't worry, daughter! Where it fell, it lies there. You ask Sidor. He will find you.
The old sparrow Sidor was sleeping on the hearth, swollen like a balloon. All winter Sidor lived in Kuzma's hut on his own, like a master. With his character, he forced to reckon not only Varyusha, but also the grandfather himself. He pecked porridge directly from the bowls, and tried to snatch the bread out of his hands, and when he was driven away, he was offended, ruffled and began to fight and chirp so angrily that the neighbor's sparrows flew 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, and everything is not enough for him!
The next day, Varyusha caught Sidor, wrapped him in a scarf, and carried him into the forest. Only the very tip of a spruce branch stuck out from under the snow. Varyusha put Sidor on a branch and asked:
You look, dig! Maybe you will find it!
But Sidor squinted his eyes, looked incredulously at the snow, and squeaked: “Look! Look you! I found a fool! ... Look at you, look at you! - Sidor repeated, fell off the branch and flew back to the hut.
The ring was never found.
Grandfather Kuzma coughed more and more. By spring, he climbed onto the stove. He almost did not go down from there and more and more often asked for a drink. Varyusha served him cold water in an iron ladle.
Blizzards circled over the village, brought the huts. The pines were stuck in the snow, and Varyusha could no longer find in the forest the place where she had dropped the ring. More and more often, hiding behind the stove, she wept quietly from pity for her grandfather and scolded herself.
Fool! she whispered. - I got carried away, dropped my ring. Here's to you for it! It is for you!
She beat herself on the top of the head with her fist, punished herself, and grandfather Kuzma asked:
Who are you making noise with?
With Sidor, - answered Varyusha. - This has become silly! Everyone wants to fight.
One morning Varyusha woke up because Sidor was jumping on the window and banging his beak on the glass. Varyusha opened her eyes and closed her eyes. From the roof, overtaking each other, long drops fell. Hot light beat in the sun. Jackdaws yelled.
Varyusha looked out into the street. A warm wind blew into her eyes, tousled her hair.
Here comes spring! Varyusha said.
Black branches shone, sleet rustled, sliding down from the roofs, and importantly and cheerfully rustled beyond the outskirts. damp forest. Spring walked through the fields like a young mistress. She had only to look at the ravine, as a stream immediately began to gurgle and overflow in it. Spring came and the sound of the streams grew louder and louder with every step she took.
The snow in the forest darkened. At first, brown needles that had flown over the winter appeared on it. Then many dry branches appeared - they were broken by a storm back in December - then last year's fallen leaves turned yellow, thawed patches appeared and on the edge of the last snowdrifts the first coltsfoot flowers bloomed.
Varyusha found an old spruce branch in the forest - the one that she stuck in the snow, where she dropped a ring, and began to carefully rake off old leaves, empty cones thrown by woodpeckers, branches, rotten moss. A light gleamed under one black leaf. Varyusha screamed and sat down. Here it is, a steel-nose ring! It hasn't rusted at all.
Varyusha grabbed it, put it on her middle finger and ran home.
Still from a distance, running up to the hut, she saw grandfather Kuzma. He left the hut, sat on a mound, and the blue smoke from the shag rose above his grandfather straight to the sky, as if Kuzma was drying out in the spring sun and steam was smoking over him.
Well, - said the grandfather, - you, the turntable, jumped out of the hut, forgot to close the door, and blew the whole hut with light air. And immediately the disease let me go. Now I’ll smoke, take a cleaver, prepare firewood, we’ll fire up the stove and bake rye cakes.
Varyusha laughed, stroked her grandfather's shaggy gray hair, and said:
Thanks ringlet! It cured you, grandfather Kuzma.
All day Varyusha wore a ring on her middle finger in order to firmly drive away her grandfather's illness. Only in the evening, when she went to bed, she took off the ring from her middle finger and put it on her ring finger. After that, a great joy should have happened. But she hesitated, did not come, and Varyusha fell asleep without waiting.
She got up early, dressed and left the hut.
A quiet and warm dawn broke over the earth. The stars were still burning at the edge of the sky. Varyusha went to the forest. She stopped at the edge. What is it ringing 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 tinkled, as if a small bell ringer beetle was sitting in it and beating the silver web with its paw. At the top of a pine tree, a woodpecker struck - five times.
"Five hours! thought Varyusha. - Early something what! And silence!
Immediately, high on the branches in the golden light of the dawn, an oriole sang.
Varyusha stood with her mouth open, listening and smiling. A strong, warm, gentle wind washed over her, and something rustled nearby. Hazel swayed, yellow pollen rained down from walnut earrings. Someone walked unseen past Varyusha, carefully moving branches away. A cuckoo cuckooed towards him, bowed.
“Who went through this? And I didn’t even see it!” thought Varyusha.
She did not know that this spring had passed her by.
Varyusha laughed loudly, through the whole forest, and ran home. And a tremendous joy - such that you can’t wrap your arms around it - 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 they laughed all the time. And then, in the forests, in the meadows, in the ravines, at once, as if someone had sprinkled magic water on them, thousands of thousands of flowers bloomed and dazzled.
Varyusha thought about putting a ring on her index finger to See the white world with all its wonders, but she looked at all these Flowers, at the sticky birch leaves, at the clearer sky and the hot sun, She listened to the call of roosters, the sound of water, the whistling of birds over the fields - and I didn't put a ring on my index finger.
I can do it, she thought. - Nowhere in the world can it be as good as at the pass in Mokhovo. It's such a charm! No wonder Grandpa Kuzma says that our land true paradise and there is no other such good land in the world!”
HARE PAWS
Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Lake Urzhensk and
brought a small warm hare wrapped in a torn cotton jacket. Hare
crying and often blinking eyes red from tears ...
— Are you crazy? shouted the vet. - You will soon have mice to me
carry, bastard!
“Don’t bark, this is a special hare,” Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. —
His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.
- From what to treat something?
- His paws are burned.
The veterinarian turned Vanya to face the door, pushed him in the back and shouted
following:
— Get on, get on! I can't heal them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will
snack.
Vanya did not answer. He went out into the hallway, blinked his eyes, pulled
nose and stuck in log wall. Tears flowed down the wall. hare quietly
trembling under a greasy jacket.
What are you, little one? the compassionate grandmother Anisya asked Vanya; she brought
to the veterinarian his only goat. - What are you, hearty, tears together
are you pouring? Ay what happened?
“He is burnt, grandfather hare,” Vanya said quietly. — On a forest fire
I burned my paws, I can't run. Here, look, die.
"Don't die, little one," Anisya muttered. - Tell your grandfather if
he has a great desire for a hare to go out, let him carry him to the city to Karl
Petrovich.
Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the woods to Lake Urzhenskoe. He didn't go, but
running barefoot on a hot sandy road. The recent forest fire has passed
facing north near the lake. There was a smell of burning and dry cloves. She
grew in large islands in glades.
The hare moaned.
Vanya found on the way fluffy, covered with silver soft hair
leaves, pulled them out, put them under the pine tree and turned the hare around. The hare looked at
leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.
What are you, grey? Vanya asked quietly. - You should eat.
The hare was silent.
Unheard-of heat stood that summer over the forests. Strings floated in the morning
white clouds. At noon, the clouds were rapidly rushing up to the zenith, and on
eyes drifted away and disappeared somewhere beyond the sky. A hot hurricane was already blowing
two weeks without a break. The resin flowing down the pine trunks turned into
into an amber stone.
The next morning, grandfather put on clean onuchi and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece of
bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried the hare from behind. The hare is completely quiet, only
occasionally trembled all over and sighed convulsively.
Dry wind blew a cloud of dust over the city, soft as flour. I flew in it
chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw. From a distance it seemed that smoke was over the city
quiet fire.
The market square was very empty, sultry; cab horses slumbered
near the water booth, and they were wearing straw hats on their heads.
Grandfather crossed himself.
- Not a horse, not a bride - the jester will sort them out! he said and spat.
Passers-by were asked for a long time about Karl Petrovich, but no one really did anything
didn't answer. We went to the pharmacy. A fat old man in pince-nez and short
White robe shrugged angrily and said:
- I like it! Pretty weird question! Karl Petrovich Korsh -
specialist in children's diseases - three years since he stopped taking
patients. Why do you need him?
Grandfather, stuttering from respect for the pharmacist and from timidity, told about the hare.
- I like it! said the pharmacist. - Interesting patients wound up in
our city. I like this wonderful!
He nervously took off his pince-nez, wiped it, put it back on his nose, and stared at
grandfather. Grandfather was silent and stomped on the spot. The pharmacist was also silent. Silence
became burdensome.
— Post street, three! the pharmacist suddenly shouted in his hearts and slammed
some disheveled thick book. - Three!
Grandfather and Vanya made it to Postal Street just in time - because of the Oka
there was a big thunderstorm. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon like
the sleepy strong man straightened his shoulders and reluctantly shook the ground. The gray ripples have gone
down the river. Noiseless lightnings surreptitiously, but swiftly and strongly struck the meadows;
far beyond the Glades, a haystack, lit by them, was already burning. Large drops of rain
fell on the dusty road, and soon it became like the surface of the moon:
each drop left a small crater in the dust.
Karl Petrovich was playing something sad and melodious on the piano when
grandfather's disheveled beard appeared.
A minute later Karl Petrovich was already angry.
“I'm not a veterinarian,” he said, and slammed the lid of the piano shut. Immediately in
thunder growled in the meadows. - All my life I have been treating children, not hares.
“What a child, what a hare, it’s all the same,” grandfather muttered stubbornly. - Everything
one! Lie down, show mercy! Our veterinarian has no jurisdiction over such matters. He is with us
konoval. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him my life,
gratitude should show, and you say - quit!
A minute later, Karl Petrovich - an old man with gray tousled eyebrows,
- worried, listened to the stumbling story of his grandfather.
Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. In the next morning
grandfather went to the lake, and left Vanya with Karl Petrovich to go after the hare.
A day later, the whole Pochtovaya Street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that
Karl Petrovich is treating a hare that was burned in a terrible forest fire and saved
some old man. Two days later everyone knew about it small city, and on
On the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich,
He introduced himself as an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked for a talk about a hare.
The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in a cotton rag and carried him home. Soon
the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor
sought from his grandfather to sell him a hare. He even sent letters
stamps in response. But my grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote
letter to the professor
The hare is not corrupt, a living soul, let him live in the wild. At this I remain
Larion Malyavin.
... This autumn I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on Lake Urzhenskoe. constellations,
cold as grains of ice floated in the water. Noisy dry reeds. ducks
shivered in the thickets and plaintively quacked all night.
Grandpa couldn't sleep. He sat by the stove and repaired a torn fishing net. Later
put a samovar - from it the windows in the hut immediately fogged up and the stars from fiery
dots turned into muddy balls. Murzik was barking in the yard. He jumped into the darkness
chattered his teeth and bounced off - he fought with the impenetrable October night. Hare
slept in the hallway and occasionally in his sleep he loudly pounded with his hind paw on a rotten floorboard.
We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and hesitant dawn, and for
tea, grandfather finally told me the story of the hare.
In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. Forests stood
dry as powder. Grandfather got a hare with a torn left ear. grandfather shot at
him from an old, wired gun, but missed. The hare got away.
Grandpa went on. But suddenly he became alarmed: from the south, from the direction of Lopukhov,
strongly drawn fumes. The wind got stronger. The smoke thickened, it was already carried by a white veil
through the forest, engulfing the bushes. It became difficult to breathe.
Grandfather realized that a forest fire had started and the fire was coming straight at him. Wind
turned into a hurricane. Fire drove across the ground at an unheard of speed. According to
grandfather, even a train could not escape such a fire. Grandfather was right: during
Hurricane fire was moving at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.
Grandfather ran over the bumps, stumbled, fell, the smoke ate out his eyes, and behind
a wide rumble and crackling of the flames could already be heard.
Death overtook grandfather, grabbed him by the shoulders, and at that 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 burned on the hare.
Grandfather was delighted with the hare, as if it were his own. Like an old forest dweller, grandfather
knew that animals are much better than a man they smell where the fire comes from, and always
are saved. They only die in rare cases when the fire surrounds them.
The grandfather ran after the rabbit. He ran, crying with fear and shouting: "Wait,
darling, don't run so fast!"
The hare brought grandfather out of the fire. When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and grandfather
Both collapsed from exhaustion. Grandfather picked up the hare and carried it home. The rabbit had
scorched hind legs and stomach. Then his grandfather cured him and left him.
“Yes,” said grandfather, looking at the samovar as angrily, as if the samovar
I was to blame for everything - yes, but in front of that hare, it turns out that I was very guilty,
nice man.
- What did you do wrong?
- And you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will know. take
lamp!
I took a lantern from the table and went out into the vestibule. The hare was sleeping. I bent over him
flashlight and noticed that the hare's left ear was torn. Then I understood everything.
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Red clover Prepared by a student of the 3rd "D" class
1. Perennial herbaceous plant moth family (legumes) 40 cm high.
2. Stems branched, numerous. The leaves are trifoliate, the lower ones are ovate, the upper ones are elliptical.
The flowers are small, purple-red, collected in spherical inflorescences. The fruit is a one-seeded ovoid bean. Blooms in May - September.
Distributed in the European part of Russia, Siberia, the Far East, the Caucasus, Ukraine. Grows in water meadows, clearings, thickets of shrubs, on the edges of the forest.
3. Applied in medicinal purposes: as anti-cold, antimicrobial, hemostatic. Applied in agriculture, as animal feed, and for the benefit of the soil, enriches the soil with nitrogen and improves its structure
Interesting fact: the shamrock is the 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, Vilna, 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 Ogni.
Konstantin Georgievich changed many professions: he was a leader and conductor of the Moscow tram, a worker at metallurgical plants in the Donbass and Taganrog, a fisherman,
an orderly in the army during the First World War, an employee, a teacher of Russian literature, a journalist.
During the Civil War, Paustovsky fought in the Red Army. During the Great Patriotic War he was a war correspondent on the Southern Front.
During his long life as a writer, he traveled to many parts of our country. “Almost every book I write is a trip. Or rather, every 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, Onezhye, the Baltic. House in Odessa House-Museum of Paustovsky in Tarusa" Moscow former home the forester of the Golitsyn estate - the literary museum of K.G. Paustovsky.
But he especially fell in love with Meshchera - a fabulously beautiful region between Vladimir and Ryazan - where he first came in 1930.
Peru Paustovsky owns a cycle of stories for children and several fairy tales. They teach to love their 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 their 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 observed, and of course about those whom he sincerely loved.
Check out his works
