Evgeny Permyak - biography of the hero of the day. Nonsense - Ukrainian folk tale in Russian Permyak Evgeny Andreevich short biography

The real name of Evgeny Andreevich Permyak (1902–1982) is Wissov. He was born in the Urals in the family of a postal employee. He spent his childhood in Votkinsk with his grandmother, studied at the parochial school, then at the gymnasium, mastered several crafts. He spent his youth in Perm, here he graduated from the pedagogical faculty of the university.

And although the main literary life The writer went far from the Urals, but he had the right to say: "No one has ever left and will never leave his land, no matter how far he may be from it."

And indeed, in all the books of Evgeny Permyak, if not the Urals itself with its fabulous treasures, then people of the “Ural character” are present: hardworking, jack-of-all-trades, proud of their skills. Yevgeny Andreevich himself was like that: he loved and knew how to work with an ax, a shovel, he knew how to make all sorts of tricky devices - home-made products that make farming easier.

But the "Ural character" of the writer most of all manifested itself in his books. He began to write early, in the mid-30s, after graduating from university. And his first composition was plays. He came to the theater in his student years, organized the "Live theatrical newspaper". For this "newspaper" Yevgeny Permyak composed feuilletons, satirical scenes, couplets and ditties - everything that made the performances of the "live newspaper" topical, needed by the audience.

Evgeny Andreevich wrote many plays. Some of them had an enviable theatrical fate and went to theaters not only in the Urals, but also in Moscow, Leningrad, and Odessa. In Sverdlovsk, he met Pavel Bazhov and composed several plays based on his fairy tales. And yet, it was not in this form of literary creativity that the strongest aspects of Permyak's writing talent were manifested.

How children's writer He became famous in the late 1940s. Readers liked the popular science stories and literary tales of Permyak. The heroes of his books are ordinary people, they study and work, grieve and rejoice, do not boast of exploits and are not afraid of dangers.

The tale style of the writer goes back to the traditions of N.S. Leskov and P.P. Bazhov. Folklore images fairy tales are understandable to children of all ages. Hard work, kindness, originality, inner beauty common man delight not only the child, but also the adult. And the language of fairy tales is extremely simple and devoid of pretentiousness.

What is the secret of mastery? How to become a true master of your craft? What is the price of human labor? How to become independent? The kid learns to answer these and other questions if he reads the literary tales of Evgeny Permyak together with his parents. Short stories about naughty and inquisitive girls and boys sound very modern and instructive.

Evgeny Permyak wrote for readers of all ages. But most of all - for children. He has always had a teacher, a mentor. After all, it was probably not without reason that Permyak did not go to study anywhere, but at the Faculty of Education. There was never boring teachings, dull edification, reproach in the writer's books. This happens, said Evgeny Andreevich, only with bad teachers, it would be better if they went to study for someone else ...

Most of all Evgeny Permyak loved to write fairy tales. He considered them the basis of literature for children. In his fairy tales there is the most real life, it is only clothed in the form of a fairy tale, where evil and good characters act, where there is always a struggle between them and where the kindest, most intelligent and skillful always wins.

Evgeny Permyak created a special type of " cognitive fairy tale". It is enough to read the titles of fairy tales alone to understand what he wants to tell his readers about: “How Fire got married to Water”, “How a samovar was harnessed”, “Who grinds flour”, “False fiction about Iron Mountain”, “A parable about steel and cast iron", "The Tale of the Big Bell", "Chatty Lightning"...

In the tales of Evgeny Andreevich, the most seemingly ordinary and familiar things acquired a fabulous, magical image. And it became clear what makes fire, water, a piece of ore, a simple stone a miracle ... This is a miracle - human labor. In his fairy tales, Evgeny Permyak was able to tell about the most complex phenomena. "The Tale of the Country of Terra Ferro" is a book about the importance of iron in human life. But it is also about the history of our country, about the fight against dark forces, Rot and Rust...

Evgeny Andreevich Permyak died in 1982. The result of his 80-year life is great and instructive. His books are widely known not only in our country, but also in many countries of the world, they have been translated into many languages. And with them the life of the old and wise mentor continues.

OH!

Nadia didn't know how to do anything. Grandmother Nadya dressed, put on shoes, washed, combed her hair.

Mom Nadya was fed from a cup, fed from a spoon, put to bed, lulled.

Nadia heard about kindergarten. It's fun for friends to play there. They dance. They sing. They listen to stories. Good for kids in kindergarten. And Nadenka would have been fine there, but they didn’t take her there. Not accepted!

Nadia cried. Mom cried. Grandma cried.

Why didn't you take Nadya to kindergarten?

And in kindergarten they say:

How can we accept her when she can't do anything.

Grandma caught on, mom caught on. And Nadia caught on. Nadia began to dress herself, put on her own shoes, wash herself, eat, drink, comb her hair, and go to bed.

As they found out about this in kindergarten, they themselves came for Nadia. They came and took her to the kindergarten, dressed, shod, washed, combed.

ABOUT NOSE AND LANGUAGE

Katya had two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, and one tongue and one nose too.

Tell me, grandmother, - Katya asks, - why do I have only two, but one tongue and one nose?

And therefore, dear granddaughter, - answers the grandmother, - so that you see more, hear more, do more, walk more and talk less, and don’t stick your snub-nosed nose where you shouldn’t.

That, it turns out, is why there is only one tongue and nose.

HOW MASHA GOT BIG

Little Masha really wanted to grow up. Very. And how to do it, she did not know. I've tried everything. And I walked in my mother's shoes. And sat in my grandmother's hood. And she did her hair, like Aunt Katya's. And tried on beads. And she put on a watch. Nothing worked. They just laughed at her and made fun of her.

Once once Masha decided to sweep the floor. And swept. Yes, she swept it so well that even my mother was surprised:

Masha! Are you really getting big?

And when Masha washed the dishes clean and dry and wiped them dry, then not only mother, but also father was surprised. He was surprised and said to everyone at the table:

We did not even notice how Maria grew up with us. Not only sweeps the floor, but also washes dishes.

Now everyone calls little Masha big. And she feels like an adult, although she walks in her tiny shoes and in a short dress. No hair. Without beads. No watch.

It's not like they make the little ones big.

CURRANT

Tanyusha heard a lot about cuttings, but she did not know what it was.

One day my father brought a bunch of green twigs and said:

These are currant cuttings. Let's plant currants, Tanyusha.

Tanya began to examine the cuttings. The sticks are like sticks - slightly longer than a pencil. Tanya was surprised:

How will currants grow from these sticks when they have neither roots nor twigs?

And the father replies:

But they have kidneys. Roots will come out of the lower kidneys. But from this, the upper one, a currant bush will grow.

Tanya could not believe that a small bud could become a big bush. And I decided to check. She decided to grow currants herself. In the front garden. In front of the hut, under the very windows. And there burdocks with burdock grew. Yes, they are so tenacious that you will not immediately weed them out.

Grandma helped. They pulled out burdocks and burdocks, and Tanyusha began to dig up the earth. It's not an easy job. First you need to remove the sod, then break the clods. And the turf near the ground is thick and hard. And the clods are hard.

Tanya had to work a lot while the earth was subdued. It became soft and fluffy.

Tanya marked out the dug-up earth with a string and pegs. She did everything as her father ordered, and planted currant cuttings in rows. She sat down and waited.

The long-awaited day has come. Sprouts hatched from the buds, and soon the leaves appeared.

By autumn, small bushes rose from the sprouts. And a year later they bloomed and gave the first berries. A small handful from each bush.

Tanya is satisfied that she herself grew currants. And people rejoice, looking at the girl:

That's what a good "currant" the Kalinnikovs are growing. Persistent. Working. Black-eyed, with a white ribbon in her braid.

HURRY KNIFE

Mitya planed a stick, planed and threw it away. Oblique stick turned out. Uneven. Ugly.

How is it so? - asks Mitya's father.

The knife is bad, - Mitya answers, - it cuts askew.

No, - says the father, - the knife is good. He's just hasty. He needs to learn patience.

But as? - asks Mitya.

And so, - said the father.

He took a stick and began to whittle it slowly, gently, carefully.

Mitya understood how patience should be taught to a knife, and he too began to whittle away quietly, gently, carefully.

For a long time the hurried knife did not want to obey. He was in a hurry: at random, at random he strove to wag, but it didn’t work out. Mitya made him be patient.

Knife sharpened well. Smooth. Beautiful. Obediently.

FIRST FISH

Yura lived in a large and friendly family. Everyone in this family worked. Only one Yura did not work. He was only five years old.

Once Yurina's family went to fish and cook fish soup. They caught a lot of fish and gave them all to my grandmother. Yura also caught one fish. Ruff. I also gave it to my grandmother. For the ear.

Grandma cooked the ear. The whole family sat down on the shore around the bowler and let's praise the ear:

That's why our fish soup is tasty because Yura caught a huge ruff. Because our ear is fat and rich, because the ruff is fatter than catfish.

And even though Yura was small, he understood that adults were joking. Is there a lot of fat from a tiny ruff? But he was still happy. He rejoiced because his small fish was also in the big family ear.

HOW MISHA WANTED TO OUTSTICATE MOM

Misha's mother came home after work and threw up her hands:

How did you, Mishenka, manage to break off the wheel of a bicycle?

It, mother, broke off by itself.

And why is your shirt torn, Mishenka?

She, mother, broke herself.

Where did your second shoe go? Where did you lose it?

He, mother, lost himself somewhere.

Then Misha's mother said:

How bad they are! They, the scoundrels, need to teach a lesson!

But as? Misha asked.

It’s very simple,” Mom said.

If they have learned to break themselves, tear themselves apart and get lost on their own, let them learn to mend themselves, to sew themselves up, to be themselves. And you and I, Misha, will sit at home and wait until they do all this.

Misha sat down by the broken bicycle, in a torn shirt, without a shoe, and thought hard. Apparently, this boy had something to think about.

WHO?

Somehow three girls argued about which of them would be the best first grader.

I will be the best first grader, - says Lucy, - because my mother has already bought me a school bag.

No, I'll be the best first grader, - said Katya.

My mother sewed a uniform dress with a white apron for me.

No, I... No, I am, Lenochka argues with her friends.

I not only have a school bag and a pencil case, not only a uniform dress with a white apron, they gave me two more white ribbons in pigtails.

The girls argued like that, they argued - they hoarse. Run to a friend. To Masha. Let her say which of them will be the best first grader.

They came to Masha, and Masha is sitting at the primer.

I don’t know, girls, who will be the best first-grader, - Masha answered. - I have no time. I have to learn three more letters today.

What for? the girls ask.

And then, in order not to turn out to be the worst, the last first-grader, - Masha said and began to read the primer again.

Lyusya, Katya and Lenochka fell silent. They no longer argued who would be the best first-grader. And so clear.

THE MOST TERRIBLE

Vova grew up as a strong and strong boy. Everyone was afraid of him. Yes, and how not to be afraid of this! He beat his comrades. Shot at the girls with a slingshot. He made faces for adults. Dog Cannon stepped on the tail. Cat Murzey pulled out his mustache. I drove a prickly hedgehog under the closet. He was even rude to his grandmother.

Vova was not afraid of anyone. There was nothing scary for him. And he was very proud of this. Proud, but not for long.

The day came when the boys did not want to play with him. They left him and that's it. He ran to the girls. But the girls, even the kindest ones, also turned away from him.

Then Vova rushed to Pushko, who ran out into the street. Vova wanted to play with the cat Murzey, but the cat climbed onto the closet and looked at the boy with unkind green eyes. Angry.

Vova decided to lure the hedgehog out from under the closet. Where there! The hedgehog moved to another house a long time ago.

Vova came up to his grandmother. The offended grandmother did not even raise her eyes to her grandson. An old woman sits in a corner, knitting a stocking and wiping her tears.

The most terrible of the most terrible that only happens in the world has come: Vova was left alone.

One is alone!

PICHUGIN BRIDGE

On the way to school, the guys liked to talk about exploits.

It would be nice, - says one, - to save a child in a fire!

Even the biggest pike to catch - and that's good - dreams of the second. - They'll know about you right away.

It's best to fly to the moon, - says the third boy.

Then all countries will know.

But Syoma Pichugin did not think of anything like that. He grew up as a quiet and silent boy.

Like all the guys, Syoma liked to go to school by a short road across the river Bystryanka. This small river flowed in steep banks, and it was very difficult to jump over it. Last year, one schoolboy missed the other side and fell off. I even lay in the hospital. And this winter, two girls were crossing the river on the first ice and stumbled. Get wet. And there was a lot of screaming too.

The children were forbidden to walk on the short road. And how long will you go when there is a short one!

So Sema Pichugin conceived the idea of ​​dropping an old willow from this bank to that one. His ax was good. Accurate by grandfather. And he began to cut their willow.

This turned out to be no easy task. The willow was very thick. You can't grab two. Only on the second day the tree collapsed. It collapsed and lay across the river.

Now it was necessary to cut off the branches of the willow. They got underfoot and interfered with walking. But when Syoma chopped them off, it became even more difficult to walk. Nothing to hold onto. Look, you'll fall. Especially if it's snowing.

Syoma decided to fit a railing of poles.

Grandpa helped.

It's a good bridge. Now not only the children, but also all other residents began to walk from village to village by a short road. Just a few people will go around, they will definitely tell him:

But where are you going seven miles away to slurp jelly! Go straight across the Pichugin bridge.

So they began to call him Semin's last name - Pichugin Bridge. When the willow rotted and it became dangerous to walk on it, the collective farm threw a real footbridge. From good logs. And the name of the bridge remained the same - Pichugin.

Soon this bridge was also replaced. They began to straighten the highway. The road passed through the river Bystryanka, along the very short path along which the children ran to school.

The big bridge was built. With cast iron railings. This could be given a big name. Concrete, let's say... Or something else. And it is still called in the old way - Pichugin Bridge. And it doesn’t even occur to anyone that this bridge can be called something else.

This is how it happens in life.

WHAT HANDS ARE FOR

Petya and grandfather were great friends. They talked about everything.

The grandfather once asked his grandson:

And why, Petenka, do people need hands?

To play ball, - answered Petya.

And for what? - asked the grandfather.

To hold a spoon.

To pet the cat.

To throw stones into the river ...

All evening Petya answered grandfather. Answered correctly. Only by his own hands he judged all the others, and not by his mother's, not by his father's, not by labor, working hands, by which all life, the whole wide world is held.

Evgeny Andreevich Permyak

Evgeny Andreevich Permyak was born on October 31, 1902 in Perm. This city also played an important role in creative biography: not without reason the writer of his real name - Wissov - preferred the pseudonym Permyak.

Evgeny Vissov's father, a petty postal clerk, died of consumption when his son was three years old. It was not easy for a mother to raise her son alone, so most of his childhood and youthful years took place in Votkinsk, in the company of grandmother, grandfather and aunt, mother's sister, who surrounded the boy with care, warmth and attention.

In Votkinsk, Zhenya studied at a parochial school, progymnasium and gymnasium, where, along with educational disciplines, industrial training was also conducted. Wissow mastered five trades: carpentry, plumbing, shoemaking, blacksmithing and turning. It is quite possible that at that time the young man did not at all think that he would have to master another very important craft - writing. In Votkinsk, a young man took up his pen. His first rabselkor notes and poems were signed with the pseudonym "Master Nepryakhin".

In 1930, Evgeny Permyak graduated from the Pedagogical Faculty of Perm University. Soon he moved to Moscow, starting writing career as a playwright. His plays "The Forest is Noisy" and "The Roll" were played in almost all theaters of the country. During the Great Patriotic War, Permyak, along with Moscow writers, was in Sverdlovsk. At this time, he became very friends with Pavel Petrovich Bazhov, helped him lead the local writers' organization. According to the books of P.P. Bazhova Evgeny Andreevich wrote the plays "Ermakov's Swans", "Silver Hoof". Subsequently, Permyak dedicated the book "Dolgovsky Master" to Bazhov.

"A native of the Urals, Evgeny Permyak brought to literature his experience, his work biography, which largely determined the creative identity of the writer. He did not need to invent heroes. His books are inhabited by living people snatched from life itself. They passed through the writer's heart, endowed with its joys and pains, live in labor and struggle, do not boast of a feat and do not seek an easy share," wrote Moscow publicist and writer Viktor Gura.

Yevgeny Permyak worshiped the greatness of labor and sang about it in his novels, short stories and fairy tales. Yevgeny Permyak devoted his entire life to searching for the "mystery of the price" of human labor. Almost all of the writer's books are about working people, masters of their craft, about their talent, creative search, spiritual wealth. And always in all the works of Yevgeny Permyak "sings" a living folk word.

Boris Stepanovich Zhitkov

Boris Zhitkov was born on August 30 (September 11), 1882 in Novgorod; his father was a mathematics teacher at the Novgorod Teachers' Institute, his mother was a pianist. He spent his childhood in Odessa. He received his primary education at home, then graduated from high school. During his studies, he became friends with K. I. Chukovsky.

After the gymnasium he entered the natural department of the Novorossiysk University, which he graduated in 1906. After the university he made a career as a sailor and mastered several other professions. He worked as a navigator on a sailing ship, was the captain of a research vessel, an ichthyologist, a metalworker, a shipbuilding engineer, a teacher of physics and drawing, the head of a technical school, and a traveler. Then from 1911 to 1916 he studied at the shipbuilding department of the St. Petersburg Polytechnic Institute. From 1917 he worked as an engineer in the Odessa port, in 1923 he moved to Petrograd.

In 1924 Zhitkov began to publish and soon became a professional writer. From 1924 to 1938 he published about 60 children's books. Boris Zhitkov collaborated with many children's newspapers and magazines: "Lenin sparks", "New Robinson", "Hedgehog", "Chizh", "Young naturalist", "Pioneer". Worked as a correspondent in Denmark. Wide life experience and impressive knowledge in many fields of activity are reflected in the writer's narratives about science. Zhitkov wrote about different professions. In his works, he also sang such traits as competence, diligence, and most importantly, a sense of responsibility. Love for the sea and other countries was his greatest source of inspiration. The heroes of Zhitkov often find themselves in extreme situations: the cycle “On the Water”, “Above the Water”, “Under the Water”, “The Salerno Mechanic”, etc.

Zhitkov's works are full of action, he often uses the form of conversation with the reader, he always writes figuratively and clearly. The task of Zhitkov's creativity is to communicate useful information to children and to educate them in the best human qualities.

And a playwright. Evgeny Andreevich turned in his work both to serious literature, reflecting social reality and the relationship of people, and to children's literature. And it was the latter that brought him the greatest fame.

Evgeny Permyak: biography

Permyak is the pseudonym of the author, his real name was Wissov. Evgeny Andreevich Vissov was born in 1902, on October 31, in the city of Perm. However, in the very first year of his life he was sent with his mother to Votkinsk. In childhood, the future author returned to his native city, visited relatives, but the visits were short and rare. For most of childhood and early years little Zhenya spent in Votkinsk.

Even before Zhenya went to school, he had to visit the Votkinsk plant more than once, where his aunt worked. The writer himself said that he had previously looked into the primer, and made friends with the tools even before he got acquainted with the multiplication table.

Job

In Votkinsk, Evgeny Permyak graduated from high school, and then joined the Kupinsky meat station as a clerk. Then he managed to work at the Perm candy factory "Record". At the same time, he tried to get a job as a proofreader in the newspapers Krasnoye Prikamye and Zvezda. He published articles and poems, signing as "Master Nepryakhin". He was appointed to the director's place in the drama club at the workers' club. Tomsky.

Soon in Votkinsk, Eugene also received a correspondent ticket (1923), which was issued in the name of Vissov-Nepryakhin.

Higher education

In 1924, Evgeny Permyak (then still Wissov) entered the Perm University at the socio-economic department of the pedagogical faculty. He explained his desire to get a higher education by the fact that he wants to work in public education. Having entered the university, Eugene plunged headlong into social activities. He was engaged in various club work, took part in the organization of the circle of the so-called Living Theatrical Newspaper (ZHTG), which was very popular in those years.

Already later, in 1973, Evgeny Permyak will fondly remember the years spent at the university. He will devote a special place to memories of ZhTG, will tell that the students called it "Forge". The name is due to the fact that it was the only one in the Urals. And it was he who became the place where chemists, doctors, teachers, etc. were "forged".

Newspaper release

Each release of a new issue of the Forge became a real sensation for the university. First, because the newspaper has always been topical. Secondly, criticism in it has always been bold and very merciless. And thirdly, it was always very spectacular. The fact is that ZhTG was a newspaper that was presented only on stage. Therefore, the audience could also enjoy music, songs, dances and recitatives. A large university hall gathered for each graduation, and there were no empty seats. In addition, the newspaper often went out with issues. The Live Newspaper was very popular.

Permyak, and he himself as a writer, were then unknown. But his social activities did not go unnoticed. Often the student was sent to the All-Union Congress of Club Workers, held in Moscow, where he represented his PSU.

However, despite all this, student life itself was not easy. Despite the scholarship and small fees for articles in newspapers, there was still very little money. Therefore, Wissow moonlighted. Only one place of his work during this period is known for certain - a water utility, where he served as a water supply controller throughout the summer of 1925.

Capital

After graduating from the university, Evgeny Andreevich went to the capital, where he began his career as a playwright. Very soon he gained recognition thanks to the plays “Roll”, “The Forest is Noisy”. They were staged and went on almost all stages of the country.

During the Great Patriotic War, the writer was evacuated to Sverdlovsk. He spent all the war years in this city. In those years, many other famous writers were also evacuated there: Agniya Barto, Lev Kassil, Fedor Gladkov, Olga Forsh, Ilya Sadofiev, and others. Permyak was familiar with many of them.

In those years, the stories of Yevgeny Permyak also became known. Therefore, it is not surprising that P.P. Bazhov, who headed the Sverdlovsk organization of writers, often invited Yevgeny Andreevich to visit him. Soon their conversations about the craft of writing grew into friendships.

Evgeny Permyak: stories for children and other works

The years lived in Votkinsk, Perm and Sverdlovsk were reflected in such works of the writer as:

• "High steps";
• "The ABC of our life";
• "Childhood of Mauritius";
• "Grandfather's piggy bank";
• "Solvinskie memorii";
• "Memorial knots".

Permyak paid much attention to the theme of labor, it manifested itself especially sharply in the novels:

• "Last frost";
• "Tale of gray wolf»;
• "The Kingdom of Quiet Luton", etc.

In addition, Permyak wrote a number of books for children and young men:

• "Grandfather's piggy bank";
• "Who to be?";
• "Lock without a key";
• "From the fire to the boiler", etc.

But the writer's tales are the most popular. The most famous of them:

• "Magic colors";
• "Someone else's gate";
• "Birch Grove";
• "Cunning rug";
• "Lost Threads";
• "About the hurried marten and the patient tit";
• "Candle";
• "Deuce";
• "Who grinds flour?";
• "Dissatisfied man";
• "Small galoshes";
• "Golden Nail";
• "For all the colors of the rainbow";
• "Kite".

Features of creativity

Evgeny Permyak paid the main attention to the pressing problems of society. The writer's books have always reflected the problems of his contemporary time. Even his fairy tales were close to reality and full of political overtones.

In ideological and artistic terms, the novels were based on a clash of events and characters that reflect the spirit of the times. For Permyak, modernity was not a background, but the main content that determined the conflicts of the narrative and formed a whole system. The author combined in his work topicality, lyricism and at the same time satire. For this, he was often reproached for his publicism and excessive sharpness of characters and situations. However, Permyak himself considered this a merit of his works.

If we talk about all our childhood, a week, perhaps, will not be enough. And so, something - please. For example, there was...

We were late at school because we were finishing up the wall paper. By the time we left, it was already getting dark. It was warm. Large, fluffy snow fell. Apparently, that's why Tonya and Lida danced the dance of snowflakes on the way. My younger brother, who was waiting for me to go along, laughed at them:

Jumping like first graders!

The snow was falling thicker and thicker. It became impossible to dance. Snow piled up to half the felt boots.

Wouldn't get lost! - warned us, as the most far-sighted, my younger brother.

Yes, you coward! Linda retorted. We'll be home in fifteen minutes.

The snowfall meanwhile intensified. I also became worried, knowing how cruel our Siberian steppe blizzards are. It happened that people lost their way, being near their homes. I advised to speed up, but this was no longer possible due to the deep layer of snow that covered the road.

It got even darker. There was some kind of white snowy darkness. And then what I feared began. The snowflakes suddenly started spinning... They started spinning in such a dance that in a few minutes a real blizzard began, which soon turned into a big snowstorm.

The girls covered their faces with scarves. Fedya and I lowered our ears at our hats. The narrow path that led to our village kept disappearing under our feet. I went first, trying not to lose the road roll under my feet. Less than a mile from home was left. I believed that we would get out safely.

In vain.

The road is gone. As if someone very unkind from my grandmother's fairy tale stole it from under her feet. Maybe Crazy Snowstorm... maybe the evil old man Buran Buranovich.

Here, I told you! - Fedya reproached us.

Lida was still invigorated, and Tonya was almost crying. She had already been in a snowstorm with her father. She spent the night in the snowy steppe. But then the sleigh had a spare warm sheepskin coat, and Tonya, covered with it, slept through the night safely. And now?

Now we are already exhausted. I didn't know what to do next. The snow was melting on my face, and it made my face icy. The wind whistled in every way. The wolves wondered.

“Who are you afraid of? Blizzards? Do you feel like screaming? Who will hear you with such a wind! Maybe you're hoping the dogs will find you? In vain. What dog will go to the steppe in such weather! There is only one thing left for you to do: bury yourself in the snow.”

We've lost our way. We can run out of energy and freeze. Let's burrow into the snow like the nomads do.

Apparently, I announced this so firmly that no one objected to me. Only Tonya asked in a weeping voice:

And I answered:

Just like partridges.

So saying, I was the first to start digging a well in the deep February snow. I started to dig it first with a school bag, but the bag turned out to be thick; then I took out a geographical atlas in a strong cardboard cover from my bag. Things moved faster. My brother replaced me, then Tonya.

Tonya even cheered up:

How warm! Try it, Linda. Warm up.

And we took turns digging a well in the snow. After the well reached our height, we began to break through the cave in its snowy side. When a snowstorm sweeps the well, we will find ourselves under the snowy roof of a dug cave.

Having dug out a cave, we began to accommodate in it. The wind soon covered the well with snow, not blowing into the cave. We were under the snow, as in a hole. Like a grouse. After all, they, too, rushing from a tree into a snowdrift and “drown” in it, then make snow passages and feel there in the most magnificent way.

Sitting on our school bags, warming the small space of our closet with our breath, we felt quite comfortable. If all this had a candle stub, we could see each other.

I had with me a piece of lard left over from breakfast. And if there were matches, I would make a wick out of a handkerchief and we would have a lamp. But there were no matches.

Well, we were saved, - I said.

Then Tonya unexpectedly announced to me:

Kolya, if you want, I'll give you my Topsik.

A tame gopher was called a topsyk.

I didn't need a gopher. I hated gophers. But I was very pleased with Tonino's promise. I understood what caused this generous impulse of the soul. Yes, and everyone understood. No wonder Linda said:

You, Nikolai, now we have strength! Man!

I felt really strong and began to tell my grandmother's tales. I began to tell them because I was afraid to fall asleep. And when I fall asleep, the rest will fall asleep. And it was dangerous. You can freeze. One by one I told, probably thirty, and maybe even more fairy tales. When the whole stock of grandmother's tales came out, I began to invent my own. But, apparently, the fairy tales I invented were boring. A light snoring was heard.

Who is this?

This is Tonya, - answered Lida. - She fell asleep. I also want to sleep. Can? I'll take a nap for just one minute.

No no! I forbade. - Is it dangerous. This is deadly.

Why? Look how warm!

Then I found myself and lied so successfully that after that no one even wanted to doze off. I said:

Wolves attack sleeping people. They are just waiting to hear how a person snores.

Having said this, I cited a lot of cases that I invented with such speed that I can’t even believe now how I could do it ...

Now others have spoken. In turn.

Time passed slowly, and I didn't know if it was midnight or maybe it was dawn. The well dug by us has long been swept up by a blizzard.

Nomadic shepherds, finding themselves in the same position, put up a tall six-wheeler out of the snow. They specially took it to the steppe in case of a snowstorm, so that later they could be found, dug up.

We had no pole, and we had nothing to hope for. Only for dogs. But even they would not have smelled us through the thickness of the snow.

My bacon has long been divided and eaten, like Lidin's slice of bread.

It seemed to everyone that morning had already come, and I wanted to believe that the blizzard was over, and I was afraid to break through to the top. This meant filling the cave with snow, getting wet, and, perhaps, finding yourself again in a white snowy haze. But each of us understood the trouble we had caused to everyone. Perhaps they are looking for us, they call us in the steppe ... And I imagined my mother, who screams through the wind:

"Kolyunka ... Fedyunka ... Respond! .."

Thinking about this, I began to break through to the top. The snowy roof over us was not so thick. We saw the waning moon and the fading stars. Some kind of drowsy, as if sleepy, pale dawn was breaking.

Morning! - I shouted and began to make steps in the snow in order to get out the rest.

Late snowflakes were falling from the sky. I immediately saw our windmill. The smoke from the chimneys rose in thin, as if tightly stretched, strings. People woke up. Or maybe they didn't sleep that night.

Soon we saw our guys. They happily ran to us and shouted:

Alive! All four! Alive!

We rushed towards them. I did not hesitate and listen to what they said about that night, about me, Tonya and Lida. I ran to our house.

There was no sleigh in the yard, which means that the father has not returned yet. Opening the door, leaving Fedyunka far behind me, I rushed to my mother. He rushed and ... what happened, it happened ... and wept.

What are you talking about? asked my mother, wiping my tears with her apron.

And I said

About you, mom ... You must have lost your head without us.

The mother chuckled. She freed herself from my embrace and went to Lenochka's bed. This is our little sister. She came over and straightened the blanket. And she said to her: "Sleep." Although she was already asleep and there was no need to adjust the blanket. Then she went up to Fedyunka, who came to the rescue, and asked:

Did the boots get wet?

No, he replied. - There was an atlas under the felt boots. The short fur coat is wet. I want to have...

Change your shoes and quickly at the table, - said the mother, without asking anything about the past night.

“Does she love us? - I thought for the first time. - Does he love? Maybe this howler Lenochka has one light in her eye?

When we had eaten two plates of hot cabbage soup, mother said:

I sent, lie down. You won't go to school. Need to sleep.

I couldn't sleep, but I wanted to sleep. I lay until noon in a dark room with closed shutters.

We were invited to dinner. Father arrived. He already knew everything from Lida and Tony. He praised me. He promised me to buy a small but real gun. He marveled at my resourcefulness.

Mother said:

The boy is thirteen years old. And it would be funny if he lost his head in a snowstorm and did not save himself and his comrades.

Anyuta! .. - the mother's father remarked reproachfully.

And my mother interrupted my father and said:

Come on eat! The porridge is cold. Enough talking talk! They need to take lessons. They wandered the night, they lost the day...

After dinner, Tonya brought me Topsika. I didn't take it.

Lida's mother, Marfa Yegorovna, appeared with a big goose, and, bowing low to her mother, said:

Thank you, Anna Sergeevna, for raising such a son! Saved two girls. Tonka has sisters, but I have only one Lidka...

When Marfa Yegorovna had finished her lamentations, mother said:

Aren't you ashamed, Martha, to present my fool Kolka as a hero! - and, turning, flatly refused to take the gander.

In the evening we stayed with my grandmother alone. Mother went to the station, to the paramedic. She said that she was mad - her head hurts.

With my grandmother, it was always easy and simple for me.

I asked her:

Grandma, at least tell me the truth: why does mother dislike us so much? Are we really that worthless?

You fool, no one else! Grandma replied. “Mother didn’t sleep all night. She roared like crazy ... With a dog, she was looking for you in the steppe. She got frostbite on her knees ... Only you, look, not a gugu about it! What it is, such and it is necessary to love. I love her…

The mother soon returned. She told her grandmother:

The paramedic gave powders for the head. He says nonsense. It will pass in a month.

I rushed to my mother and hugged her legs. Through the thickness of her skirts, I felt that her knees were bandaged. But I didn't even show it. I have never been so kind to her. I have never loved my mother so much. Shedding tears, I kissed her chapped hands.

And she just, as if by the way, like a calf, stroked my head and left to lie down. Apparently, it was difficult for her to stand.

Our loving and caring mother raised and hardened us in a cold hall. She looked far away. And nothing bad came of it. Fedyunka is now twice a Hero. And about myself I could say something, but my mother strictly bequeathed to say as little as possible about myself.

Grandpa's character

On the shores of the large Siberian lake Chany there is an ancient village of Yudino. There I often lived in the house of the old fisherman Andrey Petrovich. The old man was widowed and was alone in a large family until a grandson was born. Also Andrei and also Petrovich.

All the old man's feelings, all his love now began to belong to the boy, who, as it were, began the second life of Andrei Petrovich. In the grandson, the grandfather recognized his features, his character. He called it that - "grandfather's character."

Andrei Petrovich himself raised his grandson. I remember he told him:

"If you can't, don't take it. And if you already took it - do it. Die but do!"

The grandson was six at the time.

It was a frosty winter. Once I went to the Saturday market with little Andrey. The people - black-black. They brought to the market meat, and wheat, and firewood, and everything that these lands are rich in.

The boy was struck by a huge frozen pike. She was stuck with her tail in the snow. I don’t know how much this pike weighed, only its length was a good one and a half Andryusha’s height.

How do they catch such pikes? Andrey asked me carefully.

And I said that for catching big pikes they take a strong cord, make a leash of soft twisted wire. He also said that for a large live bait bait, the hook should be larger, stronger, so that a strong fish does not break or bend it.

I forgot about this conversation and remembered only after something happened that surprised me.

Andrey Petrovich and I sat and twilighted in the upper room. The old man kept looking out the window. Waiting for grandson.

Little Andrei, like many others of his age, often fished on the lake. The boys made holes in the ice and lowered their simple fishing tackle into them. Without luck, the guys did not return home. Lake Chany is very rich in fish. For anglers here is a real expanse.

Did something happen to him? - the old man got worried. - Should I run to the lake?

I volunteered to go there together with Andrey Petrovich. Get dressed and go out on the ice. The lake is a hundred steps away. Frost at twenty - twenty-five degrees. Silence and snow. Nobody.

Suddenly I noticed a black dot:

Isn't he?

It’s not like him, - said the old man, and we went to the black dot, which soon turned out to be Andrei Petrovich’s grandson.

We saw the boy in icy tears. His hands were cut to the blood with a fishing line. He clearly froze his nose and cheeks. The old man ran up to him and began to rub the boy's face with snow. I took the cord from his hands. Everything became clear to me right away: the boy caught a pike, which he could not pull out.

Let's run, granddaughter, home, - his grandfather hurried.

What about a pike? How about a pike? the boy pleaded.

In the meantime, I pulled out the pike. The tired fish did not resist. It was one of those pikes that are brought to the market, not so much for profit, but for a look. Their meat is tasteless and tough. The pike did not fight for a long time in the cold.

Grandfather looked proudly at the huge fish, then at his grandson and said:

A tree is not up to the shoulder ... Well, you didn’t know that a robber would hit harder than you ... How long ago did she get caught?

And the boy replied:

Andrei Petrovich smiled through his beard:

So you've been messing around with her for four hours.

For a long time! - answered, cheered up, Andryusha. - And there was nothing to tie to.

The old man, having wiped the boy's face and hands, tied him like a handkerchief with his scarf, and we went to the house. I pulled the sleeping pike along the snow on a cord.

At home, Andryusha was undressed, took off his shoes, rubbed with drugs, bandaged his scarred hands. He soon fell asleep. Slept restlessly. He had a slight fever. He raved in his sleep:

You won’t leave, toothy, you won’t leave! .. I have a grandfather’s character.

Andrei Petrovich, sitting on a distant bench in the upper room, imperceptibly wiped away his tears.

By midnight the boy had calmed down. The fever subsided. There was an even, calm children's sleep.

The old man never closed his eyes that night. And in the morning, when Andryusha woke up, the old man said to him:

And yet you, Andrey Petrovich, remember your grandfather's command poorly! Not by his strength, he planned to catch a fish. Hook, look what you tied - like an anchor ... So, it was you who planned to cut down a tree that was not on the shoulder. It's bad, it's bad...

The boy, looking down, remained silent. And the grandfather continued to inspire:

Well, the first slip doesn't count. She seems to be considered a science. From now on, just don’t catch such pikes that others need to pull out for you. It's embarrassing. The people ridicule those who don’t put the bag on their backs, that they swing the bag not on the fist ... And the fact that you didn’t give up on her is right.

Here the two Andrei Petrovich exchanged smiles, then embraced.

The pike lay in a snowdrift, powdered with snow. When Saturday came, Andrey Petrovich took her out to the market and stuck her tail into the snow. He asked too much for it, because he did not want to sell this wonderful fish at all. He needed to tell people what the character of his grandson, Andrei Petrovich Shishkin, was six years old, who already knew eleven letters and could count up to twenty without a misfire.

Pichugin Bridge

On the way to school, the guys liked to talk about exploits.

It would be nice, - says one, - to save a child in a fire!

Even the biggest pike to catch - and that's good - dreams of the second. - They'll know about you right away.

It's best to fly to the moon, - says the third boy. - Then all countries will know.

But Syoma Pichugin did not think of anything like that. He grew up as a quiet and silent boy.

Like all the guys, Syoma liked to go to school by a short road across the river Bystryanka. This small river flowed in steep banks, and it was very difficult to jump over it. Last year, one schoolboy did not make it to the other side and fell off. I even lay in the hospital. And this winter, two girls were crossing the river on the first ice and stumbled. Get wet. And there was a lot of screaming too.

The children were forbidden to walk on the short road. And how long will you go when there is a short one!

So Syoma Pichugin conceived the idea of ​​dropping an old willow from this bank to that one. His ax was good. Accurate by grandfather. And he began to cut their willow.

This turned out to be no easy task. The willow was very thick. You can't grab two. Only on the second day the tree collapsed. It collapsed and lay across the river.

Now it was necessary to cut off the branches of the willow. They got underfoot and interfered with walking. But when Syoma chopped them off, it became even more difficult to walk. Nothing to hold onto. Look, you'll fall. Especially if it's snowing. Syoma decided to fit a railing of poles. Grandpa helped.

It's a good bridge. Now not only the children, but also all other residents began to walk from village to village by a short road. Just a few people will go around, they will definitely tell him:

But where are you going seven miles away to slurp jelly! Go straight across the Pichugin bridge.

So they began to call him Semin's last name - Pichugin Bridge. When the willow rotted and it became dangerous to walk on it, the collective farm threw a real bridge. From good logs. And the name of the bridge remained the same - Pichugin.

Soon this bridge was also replaced. They began to straighten the highway. The road passed through the river Bystryanka, along the very short path along which the children ran to school. The big bridge was built. With cast iron railings. This could be given a big name. Concrete, let's say ... Or something else. And it is still called in the old way - Pichugin Bridge. And it doesn’t even occur to anyone that this bridge can be called something else.

This is how it happens in life.

Reliable person

The son of a brave test pilot Andryusha Rudakov sat at the first desk and in the first class. Andryusha was a strong and courageous boy. He always defended those who were weaker, and for this, everyone in the class loved him.

Next to Andryusha sat a little thin girl Asya. The fact that she was small and weak could still be forgiven, but the fact that Asya was a coward - Andryusha could not come to terms with this. Asya could be frightened by making her scary eyes. She was afraid of every dog ​​she met, ran away from the geese. Even the ants frightened her.

It was very unpleasant for Andryusha to sit at the same desk with such a coward, and he tried his best to get rid of Asya. And she wasn't transplanted.

Once Andryusha brought a large spider in a glass jar. Seeing the monster, Asya turned pale and immediately ran to another desk.

This is how it started… For two days Asya sat alone, and the teacher Anna Sergeevna did not seem to notice this, and on the third day she asked Andryusha to stay after school.

Andryusha immediately guessed what was the matter, and when everyone left the class, he, feeling guilty, said to the teacher in embarrassment:

I didn't bring the spider for nothing. I wanted to teach Asya not to be afraid of anything. And she got scared again.

Well, I believe you, - said Anna Sergeevna. - Whoever knows how, he helps his comrades grow, and I called you to tell one little story.

She seated Andryusha in his place at the desk, and she herself sat next to Asino.

Years ago there was a boy and a girl in the same class. We sat like we are sitting now. The boy's name was Vova, and the girl's name was Anya. Anya grew up sickly child, and Vova grew up as a strong and healthy boy. Anya was often ill, and Vova had to help her learn her lessons. Once Anya hurt her leg with a nail. Yes, she hurt me so much that she couldn’t come to school: you can’t put on a shoe, or a felt boot. And it was already the second quarter. And somehow Vova came to Anya and said: "Anya, I'll take you to school on a sled." Anya was delighted, but opposed: “What are you, what are you, Vova! It will be very funny! The whole school will laugh at us ... "But the persistent Vova said:" Well, let them laugh! From that day on, Vova brought and took Anya on a sledge every day. At first, the guys laughed at him, and then they themselves began to help. By spring, Anya recovered and was able to move to the next class together with all the guys. On this I can end the story, if you do not want to know who Vova and Anya became.

And by whom? Andryusha asked impatiently.

Vova became an excellent test pilot. This is your father, Vladimir Petrovich Rudakov. And the girl Anya is now your teacher Anna Sergeevna.

Andryusha lowered his eyes. So he sat at his desk for a long time. He vividly introduced the sleigh, the girl Anya, who has now become a teacher, and the boy Vova, his father, whom he so wanted to be like.

The next morning Andryusha stood at the porch of the house where Asya lived. Asya, as always, appeared with her grandmother. She was afraid to go to school alone.

Good morning, Andryusha said to Ashina's grandmother. Then he greeted Asya. - If you want, Asya, let's go to school together.

The girl looked frightened at Andryusha. He deliberately speaks so affably, one can expect everything from him. But the grandmother looked into the boy's eyes and said:

With him, Asenka, it will be more convenient for you than with me. He will fight off the dogs and the boys will not be offended.

Yes, - Andryusha said quietly, but very firmly.

And they went together. They walked past unfamiliar dogs and hissing geese. They did not give way to the peppy bully goat. And Asya was not afraid.

Next to Andryusha, she suddenly felt strong and courageous.

Warbler

At the agronomist in the collective farm "Lenin's sparks" son Slavik was growing up. When the boy was six years old, he told his father:

Dad, I also want to be an agronomist. I, like you, want to grow good wheat.

It's very nice, - agreed the father. - Let me take you the field.

And the agronomist gave his son a field in the front garden in front of the windows of the house where they lived. The field seemed very small to the boy. It was one meter long and one meter wide - a square meter.

It's not a problem, said the father. - And in this field you can grow the famous wheat.

Soon the boy was shown how to loosen the earth, how deep to sow a small arable land with wheat grain, and how to care for it.

When shoots appeared, Slavik was very happy. He carefully weeded them, and when the earth dried up, he watered his tiny field from a small watering can.

It's time to harvest. Slavik, together with his father, cut the ears, and then took up threshing. They threshed at home, on the table. They threshed with a pencil, knocking out grain from each spikelet.

There were a lot of grains. They could sow the entire land of the front garden. But the father said:

Let's sow only the best seeds.

And Slavik began to select the best grains of wheat - the largest, most pot-bellied. It was not easy to sort through the entire crop. Slavik spent more than one hour winter evenings for grain sorting. I took the best for seeds, and fed the rest to the ducks.

Spring came. In the spring, Slavik again sorted out the selected seeds and again, together with his father, loosened and fertilized his small field. Now my father worked less and indicated less.

The shoots are merrily green. The stems rose up. And it is clear why: the field was sown with the best of the best seeds. And when large ears of corn appeared and began to fill with heavy grain, Slavik sat for hours at his field. He couldn't wait for the harvest. I really wanted to know what the grain would be like this year.

But one day it started to rain with a big hail. And Slavik cried. He was afraid that the hail would destroy the crop, and there was nothing to close the field. But the grandmother threw a large father's umbrella through the window, and the boy opened it over the field. The hail whipped Slavik painfully, because he himself was not under an umbrella. He held an umbrella at arm's length over his field. Tears rolled down from Slavik's eyes. But Slavik did not give in to the hail, did not leave the field.

You are a real man, - his father told him. - Only in this way it was possible to protect expensive seeds.

Slavik gathered a wonderful harvest for the second autumn.

Now he already knew how to dry the ears, how to thresh them, lightly tapping them with a pencil. Without waiting for his father's advice, Slavik selected the largest grains. They couldn't be compared to last year. Those were much smaller and lighter.

In the third year, Slavik sowed the field on his own. He fertilized the land well. Well loosened and sowed two square meters. He was already moving into the second grade, and he was able to cope with such an experienced field. And he did it. In addition, a school friend helped him.

Having threshed enough wheat in autumn, the boy invited friends from his class to sort the grains, and they suggested to Slavik to sow a large field.

No sooner said than done. In the spring, the children fenced off a large field in the school garden - a field ten meters long and two meters wide.

The guys elected Slavik the chief agronomist and obeyed him in everything. Painstakingly loosened the earth and weeded weeds.

In summer, the wheat began to sprout even better than in previous years. It bobbed so that the old collective farmers paid attention to it. What a joy it was!

Once the chairman of the collective farm said jokingly to Slavik:

Comrade chief agronomist, sell the crop for seeds to the collective farm.

Slavik blushed. It seemed to him that the chairman was laughing at his field. The chairman didn't laugh. In the autumn he came to thresh the harvest. Harvest was now threshed by almost the entire class of Slavik. Threshed in thirty-two pencils.

Come on, young seed growers, let's sow a large field with this good grain. Together, - suggested the chairman.

The guys agreed. And then came the fifth year. The guys went to sowing together with the collective farmers. And soon the fifth harvest was taken. Now it was no longer possible to thresh even with a thousand pencils. They threshed on the current, in the old fashioned way, hitting the wicker box with ears of corn. They were afraid to damage the grains.

In the sixth year, a huge field was sown. And on the seventh and eighth, the fields of neighboring collective farms were sown with new, pure-grade wheat grain. They came for him from afar. But it was unthinkable to provide everyone with the seeds of this new, productive variety of wheat. They gave me a handful of seeds, two at a time. Visitors thanked and for it.

... When I arrived at the Leninskie Iskra collective farm, they showed me this excellent wheat and said:

This is a new variety of wheat. This variety is called "warbler".

Then I asked why this wheat was called that and where the name came from. Maybe from the word "glory" or "glorious"?

No, no, no, the chairman replied. - She is called so on behalf of Vyacheslav, who in childhood was called Slavik, but simply - Slavka. I will introduce you.

And I was introduced to a tall, blue-eyed, shy young man. He was very embarrassed when I began to ask him about wheat, and then told the story of this wheat, starting with the first harvest in the front garden.

different flowers

Romasha Vaganov cared about everything. He took everything to heart. He tried to put his hands everywhere.

The village of Nikitovo grew before his eyes. He remembers how the first house was laid in the feather grass steppe. And now three streets are flaunting, and two more are planned. Nikitovo will be a small state farm town. So it can be called now. The village has a school, a post office, two shops, a kindergarten, but no flowers. Almost not. You can’t count the lanky mallows and tiny daisies that grow in two or three front gardens as flowers. Flowers are roses, peonies, tulips, dahlias, daffodils, phloxes and others that “bloom” so elegantly on the pages of books about flowers and floriculture. It must be said that there were enough such books in the village store, but not a bag of flower seeds. Probably, the store is not up to the seeds, because the most important goods barely have time to deliver. The store manager said:

Don't break me...

He is right, of course. He has enough worries without flower seeds, but still he has not forgotten his dear nephew Stasik. I gave him seeds. Different. Stasik himself spoke about this at school. Stasik, though not a bad boy, likes to show off.

Of course, Romasha could have asked Stasik Polivanov for seeds, but somehow his tongue didn’t turn around. Stasik does not like to share with others. He is not that greedy, but some too thrifty. The soccer ball and he regrets, although one cannot even play the simplest football alone. At least two, yes it is necessary: ​​one ball drives into the goal, and the other protects the goal. Therefore, the guys in the class tried not to ask Stasik for anything. Romash waved his hand at Stasik and went to his grandfather. Grandfather's name was also Roman. The two Romans are sitting in the heated kitchen, conferring about flowers. They conferred, conferred, came up with different moves and exits, and then the grandfather said:

Romka, the world hasn't converged like a wedge. And is it really all about Staska's seeds rested? The world is big. How few people live among us who have nowhere to put flower seeds!

That's right, grandfather, - said Romasha, - but how do you know who has extra seeds.

Why, you are a literate person, - says the grandfather, - click the cry that, they say, so and so, in the good village of Nikitovo everything is there, but with flowers it turns out to be embarrassing.

And how can I call the call, - the grandson asks, - on the radio?

You can also on the radio, but through the newspaper or rather. Everyone will read. And at least one person will respond.

Romash wrote a letter for a long time. Grandfather read what was written with two glasses. Corrected. advised. Prompted. And finally, a short and good note. Romash did not ask anyone for anything in it, but told what he had. Pro new school, about electric lighting, about wide streets, about good houses ... I did not invent anything. Together with my grandfather, I found the exact word for everything, and then switched to flowers. He didn’t complain, but simply said: “It just so happened that we didn’t have time for flowers while we were in the young virgin village of Nikitov. They could hardly cope with other things. ” And then at the very end he wrote:

“It would be nice if someone sent us at least some flower seeds. They wouldn't let a single seed go to waste."

He signed his name and surname Romash, indicated the address of the village, re-read what was written, checked it to the comma and sent it by registered mail to “ pioneer truth».

And suddenly, yes, they actually print it! And if they don’t print it, they will still write an answer and say where it is best for him to turn. Time is still on. Outside the window, blizzards are still sweeping, but the snow does not even think of melting.

Almost every day, the grandfather and grandson remember the letter, count the days, wait for an answer.

And then, as happens, they forgot about the letter. Romashi has school affairs. And Roman Vasilievich has even more work to do with the approach of spring. Checking the repair of tractors and preparation for sowing. Seed germination test. Conversations with young machine operators. And deputy affairs - by itself. They don't stop all year round. An old man has a restless old age, but a cheerful one - in public from morning to evening.

Meanwhile, Romashi's letter was read in the editorial office, praised and printed. Romash did not even know, having received the issue of Pionerskaya Pravda, that his note flaunts in a frame with flowers. He, as always, came to school, put his bag in the desk and decided to run to a corner of wildlife, to check how the hedgehogs feel. Stasik stopped him in the corridor.

Will they send you think? - he asked.

What are you talking about?

About the newspaper.

In the hands of Stasik was the newspaper "Pionerskaya Pravda" with a note. Romasha wanted to take the newspaper, but Stasik, true to himself, said:

I haven't read the whole thing yet...

Romasha did not have time to tell Stasik what needed to be said, when three newspapers ended up in his hands at once.

What a joy to read the words written by you in the newspaper! It does not matter that the note was shortened a little. But in bold letters they attributed a very good treatment from the editors. The editors hoped that schoolchildren from the village of Nikitovo would not be left without flower seeds this year. And the hopes of the editors were justified.

In less than a day, three telegrams arrived at once about sending seeds. Then came the letters. Never before have so many letters, parcels and parcels arrived at the Nikitovsky post office. Romash did not even imagine that millions of children read Pionerskaya Pravda. Neither did his grandfather. Boxes with bulbs, rhizomes, cuttings, layering began to arrive. All this had to be stored somewhere. Joy turned into fear. Part of what they sent was put away at school, and then the guys were forced to turn to the management of the state farm.

We did not know that this would happen, - Romash complained to the director of the state farm. - And grandfather says that this is just the beginning, that then there will be even more. What to do, Nikolai Petrovich?

Nikolai Petrovich was one of those directors who have enough time and attention for everything, for whom every issue, whatever it may be, must be resolved. And he said to Romasha:

What have you done, comrade Vaganov? He struck the bell, but did not think about the consequences of his ringing. And he involved his grandfather, and asked the mail to work ... Not according to plan, brother, this is not planned.

Romash did not make excuses.

Nikolai Petrovich, firstly, proposed the creation of a commission for the distribution of seeds and proposed Romash as the chairman of the commission.

And so the distribution began. Residents of Nikitov were the first to receive flower gifts. Everything showed that the seeds distributed were in good hands.

And everyone, and everyone had flowers. They dazzled in the front gardens in front of the windows, in the school garden and on the village square. They bloomed near the post office and at the store. They also appeared in clay pots on the windowsills of houses. And everyone was talking about flowers.

Only Stasik remained silent. Flowers did not please him. They either laughed at him or reproached him, and Stasik tried to bypass them. But this could not be done. It was impossible to do this at all, not because Stasik met with flowers everywhere, but because no one managed to get away from his memory, from his conscience. Stasik did not leave them either.

The guys have already forgotten that Stasik spared the flower seeds for them, but he remembers and will never forget this.

rotten swamp

An old man from the Ural gold miners of the past and ancient years told this story about the Rotten Swamp like this.

* * *

Such a rhetorician has not yet been born who could have told everyone about our Urals. Because almost every day new miracles. The edge is like this. If you go for mushrooms, you will find gold. And tracking with us is not just like that, but in the blood. Hereditarily. From an early age. The other is still neither "a", nor "be", nor "crow", and he is already looking closely. Looking for. He will find a grouse feather - and then he does not leave it without attention. And about all sorts of other finds and say nothing. If you look at it, even the most seedy flower does not bloom in vain, and the magpie does not chirp in vain. And real seekers delve into all this.

This is how Vasyatka Kopeikin grew up. When his grandmother Avdotya lived, in an old house near the rotten swamp. Vasyatka's grandmother was very weak in her legs, and her mind was so bright that half of the neighborhood went to her for advice. And she also healed. According to the old rules, such a person would have to be attributed to witches or, at the very least, counted as healers. And it is glorified in folk medicine. And she has the right herb for coughing, and mushroom infusion for dizziness ... And all sorts of different things, up to snake venom, to bee stings.

treated good people grandmother Avdotya. I just couldn't heal myself. Sitting all year round. I went to the garden in a wheelchair. Moscow awarded her a stroller. For herbs. For the roots. And her grandson was looking for herbs-roots. She told - what, how and where, and he collected healing riches and even discovered new ones. The grandmother is not overjoyed at him, and the neighbors praised the guy. Not all, of course.

Another explorer-discoverer lived in the village. Gavrik Kozyrev. Big swing guy. In a dream, I saw the noble treasures of the earth. He did not spare his legs in search. His little dog used to stick out his tongue from fatigue, and he pulled her further. And wherever Gavrik Kozyrev has not been, but he has not discovered anything of the kind, he has not found anything. But I wanted to. And I wanted so much that I was ready to turn myself inside out, if only there was a treasure. And not just limestone, say, or some kind of dye, but oil, emerald placers and, at worst, coal ...

Why exchange yourself for trifles - find a bear's lair or, even more ridiculously, dig up medicinal roots, like Vasyatka Kopeikin. One last name is worth it. Live label. Kopeikin, he is Kopeikin, not Pyatakov. Not Grivennikov. Whether business Gavrila Kozyrev!

Gavrik Kozyrev walks as a trump card, promises mountains of gold to his mother and father. And Vasyatka Kopeikin is busy with his penny business. He delves into everything, learns everything, winds it on his mustache, rewinds it from his mustache to mind-mind. Ponders. Thinks. Understands.

Once an old forester told Vasyatka a completely inappropriate visit about the Rotten Swamp. He told me that in ancient, pre-ancient times, a golden-horned lame deer ran here. Treated my leg. The forester spoke magically. Chant.

And then somehow the old woman, alone, also mumbled a fairy tale. Again about the same swamp. As if not one deer, but also other sick forest animals were healed.

Funny. And I can't believe it. And it's a shame to get it out of my head. And then the shepherd turned up. One for one. He told how a cow in his herd became debilitated and how she rushed in the Rotten Swamp, ran away from the herd and, like that lame deer, basked in its rotten slurry.

Is it really true? Vasyatka is surprised.

And the shepherd to him:

Yes, there she is, horny. Previously, I could barely drag my legs, but now at least plow on it.

Vasyatka heard this and ran to Gavrik Kozyrev. He told him about the miracles in the swamp and asked:

What if this is the real truth?

Gavryushka Kozyrev laughed out loud and said:

Oh, you, Kopeikins-Polushkins ... Grosheviks. You can’t get out of your swamp mud, you believe in various empty talk ... - and he went, went and said all sorts of offensive words.

But Vasyatka does not listen, he thinks about his own.

He thought and thought and thought up so that he almost suffocated with joy. He ran to his grandmother and told her everything, starting with the golden-horned deer, and began to beg her:

Come on, baby, I'll drag the swamp slurry-mud into a big tub, and you put your feet in it. And suddenly yes...

An attempt is not torture, says the grandmother. - Let's…

Grandmother Avdotya heals her feet in the swamp mud during the day. Another heals. Nothing-nothing. But he thinks to himself that dirt is not ointment. You have to endure. The deer went to the swamp for more than one day. And the polled cow also ran there for more than one week.

Not so few days passed, the grandmother felt warmth in her legs, and a month later - strength. She herself pulled her legs out of the tub and went along the upper room.

Vasyatka screamed. He fell on his knees in front of his grandmother. Embraced her. Washes the swamp slurry with tears. And grandmother also roars through her happiness. She rejoices not only at walking legs - she admires the sighted mind of her grandson. He sees himself in him. And then…

And then everything went according to plan. Scientists have come to the Rotten Swamp. Not to check the fairy tale about the golden-horned deer, not to marvel at the polled cow, when, in front of everyone, Vasyatka's sitting grandmother went on her legs to pick mushrooms.

They cleared the swamp, staked it out, surrounded it with a fence. Houses began to rise. And a rich folk health resort grew up. They gave her a glorious name, but the people call her in the old way - Rotten Swamp. And whoever comes here to leave their ailments in the swamp, takes away a good rumor about Vasyatka Kopeikin.

And recently one good master that here he returned his legs to himself, he decided to retell this true story with paints. I decided to decorate the walls of the folk health resort with a rare fabulous painting. His gifted brush did not bypass anyone. Everyone found a place. And the golden-horned deer in the swamp. And a polled cow. And good grandmother Avdotya. And, of course, to the diligent tracker Vasya Kopeikin ...

Now he is already Vasily Kuzmich. He went out into big people, but the temper is the same. No fluff is missed. Gets into every little detail. For this they love him. And in rumor they honor, and in fairy tales they glorify ...

someone else's gate

Alyosha Khomutov grew up as a diligent, caring and hardworking boy. He was very loved in the family, but most of all Alyosha was loved by his grandfather, loved and, as best he could, helped him grow a good man. The grandfather did not indulge his grandson, but he did not refuse what he could not refuse.

Ask Alyosha to teach him how to set traps for ferrets - please. Is it difficult for grandfather to show how these traps are set! Alyosha decides to cut firewood - you are welcome! The grandfather holds on to one handle of the saw, the grandson to the other. The guy will suffer, but he will learn.

So it is in everything ... Whether the kid decides to paint the porch, whether to grow cucumbers on the window in a box - grandfather did not refuse anything. He demanded only one thing from his grandson:

If you take on a task, see it through to the end. And if you see that the matter is not up to you, wait until you grow up.

This is how Alyosha lived. He pleased everyone in his large family and he himself was happy, he felt like a real person, and others called him the same.

It is good to live in the world when people praise you, when you succeed in everything. Even on a cloudy day, the soul is light and cheerful. But somehow something happened to the lucky Alyosha that I had to think about ...

And it all started with the fact that he and his grandfather went to the forest to get black grouse. And the road went through a garden nursery where young trees were grown. The nursery was well fenced. Because the herd can wander and trample the seedlings. And now there are so many moose that they even come to the village as if they were coming home. And there is nothing to say about hares - they will gnaw the bark of young apple trees or pears - and the end.

Alyosha came with his grandfather to the nursery and sees that the gate is open. The gate slams in the wind. The latch at the gate came off. Alyosha noticed this and said to his grandfather like an adult:

The owners, also to me ... It's an empty business - to screw the latch on three screws, but they don't want to ... Because someone else's latch and this gate is a draw.

What can I say, Alyoshenka, - grandfather supported the conversation, - and it would not be bad to grease the hinges at the gate with lard, otherwise, just look, the rust will eat them up and the gate will fall to the ground ...

And she’ll fall down, - Alyosha confirmed, - she’s barely holding on anyway. It’s bad, grandfather, to be someone else’s gate ...

Yes, it’s much worse to be someone else’s gate, - the grandfather again agreed with his grandson, - whether it’s our gate. And it was painted with blue paint by you, and the loops are greased with clean interior lard, and the heck of it is “tribble-talk”, like music ... Its own, it is its own.

Then the grandfather looked at his grandson, smiled at something and walked on. They walked for some time - maybe a kilometer, maybe two - and decided to sit on a bench in a forest clearing.

And whose, grandfather, is this bench? Alyosha suddenly asked.

A draw, - answered the grandfather, - someone else's. Some man took and dug two posts and nailed a board to them. Here is the bench. Who needs rest. No one knows this man, but everyone says thanks to him ... Only soon this bench, too, will, in any way, end. The poles were propped up on her. Yes, and the board is black-black. Well, it's someone else's bench, and no one cares about it. Not like ours at the gate, well-groomed and painted ...

Here the grandfather looked at Alyosha again, patted him on the rosy cheek, and again smiled at something.

That day they caught three black grouse. Alyosha tracked down two of them. At home, the noise-din was higher than the ceiling.

This is how the hunter grows with us! - praises Alyosha's mother. - Anyone can shoot a black grouse, but a rare one knows how to track it down.

It was a merry supper that Sunday evening, but for some reason Alyosha was silent and thought about something.

Tired, perhaps, dear son? - asked Alyosha's father.

Maybe he didn't get along with his grandfather? - asked the grandmother.

No, no, - Alyosha waved it off, - I was not tired and got along with my grandfather. He even got along very well.

It's been a week, maybe two. Again, the old and the young were sent to the forest. They decided to stuff the hare.

Grandfather and grandson set out on the first snow to hunt. Again we went through the garden nursery. Grandfather looks - and does not believe his eyes. At someone else's gate, not only the latch is screwed on good screws, not only the hinges are greased with white fat, but the paint on the gate is like the sky in the month of May.

Alyosha, look, - points out the grandfather, - no way, at someone else's gate, relatives were found.

They walked again along the old road and came out to a clearing. We got to the bench where we rested last time, but the bench is unrecognizable. New posts were dug in, the board was painted with the same blue paint as the gate, and even the back of the bench appeared.

Here you are, - the grandfather was surprised, - the owner was found at a draw bench. If I had known this master, I would have bowed to him from the waist and shook his hand.

Then the grandfather again looked into Alyosha's eyes and asked:

And you do not know this master, granddaughters?

No, - Alyosha answered, - I don't know him, grandfather. I only know that in the spring our children want to renovate the school fence. Completely squinted. She is also a stranger, but ours.

It's good, - said the grandfather.

What's good? Alyosha asked.

It’s good that you don’t know the master who repaired the bench and counted someone else’s gate as his own ... And with regards to the school fence, ”said the grandfather, spreading his arms,“ I can’t even find words ... Apparently, Alyosha, a time is coming when everything turns out to be ours and ours ...

The grandfather again looked into his grandson's eyes.

Behind the forest at this time the late winter sun rose. It illuminated the smoke of a distant factory. Alyosha admired the golden, sun-colored smoke. Grandfather noticed this and spoke again:

And the factory, Alyosha, which smokes, also seems like a stranger, if you look at it without thinking ... But it is ours, like all our land and everything that is on it.

Syoma and Senya

Syoma and Senya are comrades. They were friends before school. And now always together. Reliable October. They were even trusted with calves. In general, they were in good standing at the Novo-Tselinny state farm.

So this time, almost a thousand chickens were assigned to guard them, because it was a hard time, harvesting. Heat in the steppe. Dry around. Grain, and look, it will begin to crumble. All the adults worked day and night to get the bread out as quickly as possible. Even the birds went out into the field. So Syom and Senya had to take volunteers.

No matter how carefully you harvest the crop, some grains from the ears are still falling off. Do not disappear for them. So the chickens are driven out to the compressed field to feed - to pick up grain.

Pioneer Gavryusha Polozov was placed in charge of the Octobrists. The boy was good. He has already been elected to the council of the detachment three times. And he loved the kids. Didn't get bullied. He did not boast that he was a pioneer.

Syoma and Senya also loved their older friend. They listened to him as the chief commander over them and over the chickens. We talked with him about our affairs and, of course, about how they could become pioneers as soon as possible.

Gavryusha argued as follows:

The time will come - and you will be accepted. And you will become as good pioneers as you were good Octobrists.

And Syoma and Senya are in a hurry. I would like them to be accepted into the pioneer detachment in the fall, at the beginning of the school year. Syoma even said to Gavryusha:

Gavryusha replied to this:

Here the cunning Senya narrowed his eyes and said:

What are you telling us, Gavryusha! Aunt Zina joined the party in the spring, so she was given recommendations and guarantees. We already know...

Gavryusha laughed and said:

Look where you have enough! .. A pioneer detachment is a completely different matter.

Of course, it’s different, - Seryozha agreed. - And if you figure it out, it's the same, only less ... Give us recommendations! We won't let you down.

As soon as he said this, the old red rooster became worried: “Something like that? Does that mean something? Ku-dah-dah! .. Something is wrong ... Ku-dah! .. Kudah! .. "

Gavryusha was worried. The old rooster never fussed in vain. Therefore, they kept him to warn the danger. Are there any chicken enemies in the steppe? .. Even if you take the same fox, it will sneak up and you won’t hear ...

“Wh-what?” - the rooster did not let up.

Guys, it smells like smoke from somewhere! - said Gavryusha.

Syoma and Senya also jumped up after Gavryusha. First they sniffed, then they looked around.

Steppe is on fire! Senya screamed. - Out! See.

Everyone saw smoke and fire. The stubble burned. Fire and smoke moved towards the guys. Syoma and Senya rushed to the chickens. Gavryusha wanted to run after the adults to the far section. Yes, where is it! .. A strip of fire, driven by the wind, moved towards the guys, towards the chicken herd very quickly. Gavryusha would not have had time to run halfway to the far section, even if he had rushed there with an arrow.

Gotta get the chickens out! he called to Syoma and Sena. And, seeing that the guys were running around the steppe, driving away the scattered chickens, he rushed to their aid.

Hens, carried away by the search for grain, not sensing trouble, did not obey the guys. Then Senya took off his shirt and began to wave it. The rest did the same. Gavryusha whistled. Syoma began to throw clods of earth at the chickens. The chicken run began. The chickens began to run in all directions. Some ran towards the fire.

I had to make a run again and turn the young hens towards the river, where, wailing, as if calling the rest, an old red rooster ran, leading a good hundred hens with him.

The chickens running towards the fire stopped. It smelled of smoke.

Drive them to the river! To the river! .. - Gavryusha shouted heart-rendingly.

And the guys, not remembering themselves, drove a chicken herd to the river. They understood that the river would block the path of the steppe fire. Across the river, the chickens will be safe. But how to transport them across the river?.. Two, three, even a dozen chickens can be caught and moved or even transferred, and yet there are a thousand of them!

The beach is getting closer and closer. But closer and closer the fire. Let him not be afraid of swift-footed guys, but for crazed chickens this is certain death.

The fire is very close, but the river is even closer. Gavryusha whistled deafeningly. The rooster, doubly frightened by the fire and the whistle, took off like a helicopter and safely flew over the river. It was followed by two or three dozen chickens. Fright restored to them the long-forgotten ability to fly. Another two or three dozen chickens took off. Some, not reaching the opposite bank, ended up in the river. Some swam in fright, others, having touched the bottom, ran like crazy through the ford.

Already a good hundred chickens have been saved. Finding themselves safe on the other side, they ran on without stopping. They were old, two or three year old chickens. Young people did not want to take off. Water frightened them no less than fire. One young cockerel, having lost his mind, preferred to rush into the fire.

Gavryusha looked around. The fire advanced in an uneven, broken line. The boy decided to chase the chickens along the bank to the footbridge. He hoped that they would have time to slip through where the fire lagged behind, where the river made a bend. And the guys, waving in three shirts, drove the chickens along the shore to the bridge.

On the left is fire, on the right is water. Between them is a rapidly rushing white cloud of chickens. They ran with their mouths open, driven by the whistle, jumped over each other. Some, unable to withstand the run, flew across the river, where the old cock, who had already come to his senses, screamed heart-rendingly: “Where are you going, where are you going? Here-yes, here-yes!” - as if actually pronouncing these words. And young people believe him. Flights have become more frequent. It does not matter that many chickens are already afloat.

“They won’t drown,” Syoma thinks, “they will swim to the first shoal or to a snag and come ashore.”

Now the fire is already very close, but the fastest chickens are the first to run across the bridge.

From the fire and the guys are hot. It smelled of burnt fur.

Semka, jump into the water! Senya screams. - He burned his hair.

Jump yourself, - he answers, covering his head with a shirt.

The fire devoured only three pullets. He blocked their way in front of the bridge. The guys saw them from the river. Before burning down, the chickens flew so high that they could fly over more than one such river.

This is what cowardice leads to! - said Syoma, cooling the burns with water.

* * *

On the first of September, Syoma and Senya went to school. And the next day they were accepted into the pioneer detachment. Solemnly. With the entire school team.

They became the first pioneers in their class.

After collecting them home, they were escorted by the counselor Gavryusha Polozov. Embracing both, he said:

It turns out that guys, there are recommendations for pioneer detachments ... And, it turns out, there are guarantees ...

Having said this, Gavryusha pointed to Syoma's scorched eyebrows and to the red spot of the dying burn on Senya's arm.

Palm

On the coast of the Black Sea, not far from Yalta, there is a cheerful building of the dining room of the pioneer camp.

When it is time for breakfast, lunch or dinner and the horn invites the noisy population to the table, Palma appears. This is a very attractive large dog. Stately, black, with red tan marks, she draws the attention of everyone. The palm tree is the common favorite of the children. Her gaze is soft and kind. She waving her tail affably and willingly allows her children to pet her.

How can you not save a bone, cartilage or a half-eaten cutlet for such a cute dog!

The palm tree, slowly and gratefully licking its lips, eats all the best of what is thrown to it, and then goes to doze in the coastal bushes of the wild olive tree. Sometimes Palma bathes in the sea, and then dries, stretching out on the golden sand, like a real resort.

The dog felt very free among the children who welcomed her and always, with her tail down, went away as soon as the old fisherman appeared on the shore. The old man lived near the camp, and the launch always came for him.

One day at bathing time, when Palma was basking in the sun, a fisherman appeared. Sensing his approach, the dog opened its eyes and, rising, left the shore. The pioneers decided to find out what was the matter, why Palma dislikes or fears the kind old man so much, and asked him about it.

She is ashamed of me,” replied the fisherman. Apparently she still has a conscience. Though a dog, but still a conscience.

The guys surrounded the old man and asked why Palma should be ashamed.

The old man looked from under his arm into the sea and, seeing that the barge was still far away, began to tell.

In our village, behind that mountain, there lived, and still lives, a respected fisherman and good hunter Pyotr Tikhonovich Lazarev. One autumn, in the wind and rain, Lazarev was walking along the seashore. Hears - someone whines. Has stopped. Looked around. He sees a puppy in the grass under a palm tree. He bent down and looked at the puppy. I liked it. I put it in my bosom, brought it home and called it Palma ...

The guys around the old man fell silent. Everyone wanted to know what would happen next. And the old man, having lit an extinct pipe, did not keep himself waiting.

He fed Lazarev Palma, taught him the guard business and set him up for hunting. It turned out to be a smart dog. She even took notes to the fishermen. You never know ... And there is a need for this. The whole village loved the dog. And every fisherman knew her by name. And then… then something happened to the dog. A day at home - two days running somewhere. What's happened? Lazarev decided to follow the dog. And followed. She sits near your dining room, licks her lips, begging for bones with an affectionate look, waving sweet scraps with her tail.

"What are you, Palma? - Pyotr Tikhonovich asks her. - Al at home from hand to mouth live? Aren `t you ashamed!"

Dog here and there. She whined guiltily. She crawled to the owner - they say, I'm sorry. And follow him home.

Day, two, three lived at home, and then no and no it.

Lazarev again to the dining room. Palma wanted to sneak away, but it was not there. Lazarev her by the collar and on the string. How else? If you don’t understand kind words, then get a penalty. He tied her up and said: “Look, gulyon! Change your mind!" And she deaf to these words. Moreover, the leash has gnawed - and go to free bread, to an easy life.

The next morning, Lazarev came to the camp, saw the ungrateful traitor - and to her. And she bares her teeth, growls. And at whom, you ask, is he growling? On the one who didn’t let her die in windy autumn weather, who fed her with a nipple, taught her to the hunting craft, and assigned her to guard work! He is her by the collar, and she is by his hand - grab it! And to the bone.

Lazarev was taken aback. And not so much from pain, but from surprise and resentment. He washed the wound with sea water and said:

“Live, Palma, as you know. You will not be happy, homeless reveler!

The tube went off again. The old man fired it up again. Then he looked in the direction of the approaching longboat and said:

The next day, the old man's story about Palma became known in all the tents of the camp.

It's breakfast time. Gorn invited to the table, and, as always, a beggar appeared. She habitually sat down near the entrance to the dining room, waiting for free delicacies. Licking her lips in advance, Palma knew by smell that today she would get enough lamb bones.

And so breakfast is over. Her acquaintances appeared at the door, but their hands were empty. None of them took out a bone or cartilage from her. Nothing. The guys passing by did not even look at her. They, not in agreement, but as if in agreement, paid the loafer dog with contempt. And only one girl wanted to throw a bone to Palma, but she was told:

Nastya, why are you going against everyone?

And Nastya, holding the bone in her fist, went to the sea, and then threw it to the fish, crabs, sea ​​urchins- to anyone, as long as it does not go to a dog that has betrayed its duties.

Balkunchik

In the Crimea, between the villages of Planerskoye and Shchebetovka, they blocked a raw beam with a dam, and it turned out to be an excellent rate.

Hearing that there were fish in this reservoir, we went to try our luck. Talking about this and that and, of course, about large fish, we reached the rate.

Silence. Not a soul.

Suddenly, someone's striped vest flashed through the bushes.

Hello Comrade Captain! my companion called out to a boy of about twelve years old.

Hello, he replied.

On holidays, I help my uncle graze cattle and fish.

And successful? my friend asked.

Still would! You can't catch fish here.

What kind of fish is here? I asked.

Balkans, he replied.

Balkunchiki? I asked.

Yes. Fat-prezhiry balkans. Even on clean water you can fry.

We exchanged glances. None of us have not only seen a fish with that name, but have not heard of it. But I didn’t want to confess - fishing pride did not allow it. Then we went around.

My friend asked:

Are there large balconies?

Not good. But a lot. Now you will see. I'm going to pull out.

Here our new acquaintance put his hand up to the very neck into the water and got the end of the line, to which, as it turned out, the top was tied.

Now look! - he shouted and with a jerk pulled out the top, built of wire and fine metal mesh.

The top was teeming with fish. We saw the most common carp.

Are these balconies? my friend asked.

Well, of course! - the lucky fisherman answered proudly, choosing a fish from the top.

The boy put large carp in a canvas bag, and a trifle in a bucket of water.

No-no ... - objected, smiling, the boy. - In other bets, crucians are crucians. And these are balconies.

But why, - my friend asked, - are they called that?

And the boy replied:

According to grandfather Balkun. He died that summer. And in the fifty-third year, grandfather Balkun brought fifteen caviar crucians in a bucket. Golden. And he let me in here, in rates. From those crucians, balkunchiki began to be born. Thousands went. Just have time to cast ... Balkans peck well at the bait from the other side. In the evening. You can't leave without thirty grand.

Talking to us, the boy loaded the top, busily hid the end of the line in the bottom, and began to explain his departure.

No matter how they fell asleep, - he pointed to a bucket of change. - I need to carry them through two mountains ... Do you have red worms? he asked as he left.

Yes, - I answered and asked: - Why do you need to carry this trifle over two mountains?

What do you mean why? Our link put forward an obligation - to relocate five hundred balkans to a new pond. Three hundred and something have already been relocated, but here there are forty of them. This means that only one hundred and sixty will remain ... Well, I went, otherwise one balkunk had already turned over. Nothing, it will go away. They are alive...

The boy waved his hand at us and disappeared.

Soon I saw him climbing the hill with ease. He carried the bucket alternately with his right and then with his left hand.

Apparently, a bucket filled almost to the brim with water was not an easy load for him.

But he was in a hurry. He wanted to settle a trifle in the new pond as soon as possible.

Late in the evening my comrade was returning with a large catch of Balkans.

And I, without touching the rod, also carried away my so happily caught bastard, which has now become this story.

A story about an old man who glorified his name with fifteen crucian carp, disinterestedly put into a nameless pond for grandchildren and reflection. A story about a caring little heir, of which we already have many, many, and not only in the Crimea ...

First bow

I am six or seven years old. I just arrived here yesterday. The words of my mother are still ringing in my ears: "Obey in everything Kotyu." Kitty is my aunt. She is an old maid. She is almost forty years old. And I'm her favorite, her only nephew.

Auntie lived in her house, like most of the workers of this Kama plant. At the house there is a yard, a garden. Here, as my aunt says, my childhood began. I vaguely remember this. But everything that happened after that will never be erased from my memory.

So…

I am six or seven years old. I am standing in the yard of my aunt's house. Poplar blossoms with white fluff. Only fluff and fluff - and not a single familiar boy.

This morning I experienced for the first time the most terrible of the most terrible - loneliness. But it did not last long, maybe an hour, maybe ten minutes. But for me, impatient and hurried, even these minutes seemed painful.

Meanwhile, I did not know this then, in the gap of the neighbor's fence, four "Indian" eyes were vigilantly watching me. Two of them belonged to Sanchik Petukhov, and the other two belonged to his brother Petya.

Apparently, impatience and haste were characteristic not only of me. Petya and Sanchik knew about my arrival several days in advance. The appearance of a new boy in a neighboring yard is not such a frequent and ordinary occurrence. It was necessary to get to know the newcomer, then either accept him as the third Indian, or declare him a pale-faced enemy. The order is not new. So did all the boys who played Indians in our age. Either you are with us or you are against us.

But how do you get to know each other? Shout: “Come to us” or “Let's climb over to you” ... This is not an Indian way of dating. Therefore, an arrow was fired through the gap in the fence. She flew in front of me in four steps and dug into the log wall of the house. I ran to the arrow. It went quite deep into the tree, and I pulled it out with some effort.

This is our arrow! - heard from the fence.

And I saw two boys.

Who are you? I asked.

They have replyed:

Indians! - and in turn asked: - Who are you?

No one yet, - I said, giving the guys an arrow.

Do you want to be an Indian? one of them asked.

Of course I want to, - I said joyfully, although I did not know what it meant to be an Indian, but I believed that it was very good.

Then climb over the fence, they suggested.

Very high, - I timidly confessed then. - You'd better get me through the gate.

And led to the rooster yard. I have crossed the threshold of a new life for me.

In the Indian language, Sanchik was called - San, and Petya - Pe-pe. I haven't been given a new name yet because I haven't earned the right to be called a hunter. To do this, it was necessary first of all to make a bow and ten arrows with your own hands, and then to hit at least three of them into a potato the size of a fist, suspended on a thread.

Conditions are not easy. But not to remain pale-faced and not to lose the boys so happily found behind the neighboring fence.

I agreed. And I was given a knife. For the first time in my life I held in my hands this simple and, as it turned out later, powerful tool. It was so sharp that it cut through the branch as easily as if it were a faucet instead of a tree. They could cut a float out of pine bark, trim a rod, cut shingles for a snake, sharpen a board, stick a splinter into it, and then call this structure a ship.

And I wanted to get my own knife. My aunt was horrified, but the father of my new acquaintances said:

It's time for him to walk around with bandaged fingers!

This terrified my aunt even more, but my tears got the better of me. I came back the next day with a bandaged finger. But I knew that the knife does not like the hasty.

The wound soon healed, and we went to the cemetery hill, where heather grew - this name was called juniper. San and Pe-pe, who built more than one bow, helped me choose a good stem. The dense wood did not give in well to the knife, and not without difficulty and not without the help of San, I cut out the future bow from the juniper bush.

Now it had to be processed. It came easily, but not quickly. But the happy moment came. The bow is bent. A bowstring from a harsh lace woven by me rings. She is so tight and so melodious. Now it's up to the arrows. They are not difficult to make: for this you need to chip a straight-layer board, and then cut out round sticks. But a round stick is not an arrow yet. Arrows do not happen without a tip - without a spear, as San and Pe-pe called it. And for this it was necessary to cut triangles out of tin, and then with the help of a hammer, a large nail and an iron tile that replaced the anvil, make spears.

It's just in the hands of San and Pe-pe. It is very difficult in my hands. The hammer strikes sometimes too far, sometimes too hard and flattens the tin triangle. But spears must be made. Hour after hour, the hammer, like a grumpy knife, becomes more obedient. The second tip is better than the first, and the third is better than the second. But they are all very bad. They are far from copies of Pe-pe, and even more so San. Still, they can be planted on arrows.

Potato hanging on a string. Seven Indian steps are measured, two of our normal steps each.

Silence sign. Even chickens are driven out of the yard.

And I shoot. Past... Past... Past... Finally the fourth arrow pierces the potato and spins along with it... The fifth - past. But the sixth and seventh - along with the fourth arrow.

Enough, - said San, - now you are an Indian hunter named Zhuzha.

It was a great honor for me, and I was proud of myself that day, having come home with my bow and arrows.

It was a very happy day in my childhood. And I remember how, after returning home, I looked at my hands for a long time. It was they, my dear hands with ugly short fingers and a wide palm, that made me happy. It is they, and not something else, and I even decided to wash them with soap without reminding my aunt. They well deserve such attention from me.

Chizhik-Pyzhik

In the fall, Mavrik begged his grandmother to buy him a chizhik, and his grandmother bought it.

Here is your Chizhik-Pyzhik, - she said and put a large wooden cage on the table. - Take care of him. Don't forget to feed and drink. And spring will come - let it out.

Mavrik was delighted: now Chizhik-Pyzhik will not have to freeze in the wind and fly tired from place to place to get food.

Mavrik cleaned the cage every week. He regularly changed the water in the drinker and poured plenty of grains into the feeder.

Chizhik lived in warmth and cold all the long winter. And when spring came, it was time to let the forest dweller out. And Mavrik took the cage with Chizhik-Pyzhik across the city by bus. And then walk to the forest. I took a liking to a stump in the forest, put a cage on it and opened the door. And he stepped aside:

Fly, Chizhik-Pyzhik, fly free!

Chizhik jumped onto the threshold of the door, dusted himself off and ... back into the cage.

Well, why don't you fly, stupid?

And then Chizhik seemed to understand what they wanted from him, flapped his wings and fluttered out of the cage. He flew up to a tall bush, from there to a small birch. He looked around and began to clean the feathers with his beak. And then I heard a chizhin call and flutter-flutter - from branch to branch, from tree to tree - I got to the birch thicket.

Soon Chizhik-Pyzhik got hungry. He began to look for a familiar feeder. Until the very darkness I searched, but where can you find it in the forest.

Night came, and although it was not very cold, Chizhik was still chilly. He was all fluffed up, his ruffled feathers looked like a fur coat. But nothing helped. Hungry, shivering from the cold, he could hardly wait for the morning.

And in the morning I saw how the birds get food, and remembered the forgotten. He also went to look for food for himself, but the wings did not obey him well.

Something happened to his strong, light wings. He used to fly far and high. And now he could barely fly from tree to tree. Retirement for the winter.

Chizhik felt bad, scared. Neither to get food, nor to escape from a predator. And then a flock of chizhina gathered to fly away to their native nesting places. Chizhik-Pyzhik went with her, but soon got tired, broke away from the flock and, exhausted, fell into the grass. This is just what the cunning fox was waiting for ...

In the meantime, summer has arrived. Mavrik thought that Chizhik-Pyzhik had long ago acquired a nest and chicks, but still hoped that his pet would return to spend the winter with him. And he waited for him to knock on the window with his little beak.

But autumn passed, and winter came. But Chizhik-Pyzhik did not fly. Apparently, he did not find the house where he once lived with the boy and where delicious food was waiting for him.

Maurice thought so. It never occurred to him that Chizhik-Pyzhik had long been gone.

How was Mauritius to know that forest birds - siskins, tits, goldfinches - after living in a cage even a little, then die, finding themselves in the wild.

Grandpa's glasses

My grandfather had a grandson. Not so hot what a gem - a guy and a guy. Only the old man loved his grandson very much. And how not to love when he is a grandfather's portrait, grandmother's smile, filial blood, daughter-in-law's eyebrow and her own blush.

Father, mother at work, and grandson with grandfather.

The old man himself sewed felt boots for the whole family and made shoemakers at home. The grandson is spinning around his grandfather - he wants to know what's what. Helps grandfather with his eyes. And he refuses to help with his hands.

Let's say, grandfather will wax a thread, but he cannot wax a bristle at its end.

Give, grandfather, I will rise. You don't see well.

Will you rise, grandson? The matter is simple, but difficult.

An hour, two, three, the grandson beats, but he will learn. Always like this.

Oh, grandfather glasses! the old man will say. - With you and without eyes, it’s not scary to remain. I'll see.

Somehow they propped it up at the old hut of the crown. Need to change.

Come on, grandson, let's change the crowns ourselves.

Come on, - the grandson answers. - Only I, grandfather, never did it.

It doesn't matter, replies the grandfather. - There would be eyes, and hands with good eyes whatever you want to do. Get the saw. We will sharpen. Let's give a good set of teeth.

The grandson brought a saw and is afraid that the grandfather would not hurt his hand.

I myself, grandfather. Only you show me how to set the teeth, how to hold the file at the point.

Grandfather showed me how to give teeth a divorce, how to hold a file. The grandson hurried - he got hurt a little. And grandfather bandages his finger and says:

The ax-saw does not spare the hurried. And we will deceive them with patience and outwit them with skill.

The grandson deceived the saw with patience, the ax outwitted it with dexterity. I turned it so that they go into a tree like a knife into butter.

Let's go now, grandson, to cut down trees in the forest for crowns. Just save me, Vasya, in the forest from death.

From what death, grandfather?

Do you know how harmful trees are? You bring down from yourself, and they will fall on you. I'm afraid that some tree will slam me. I started to see even worse.

Nothing, grandpa. But I will look into both eyes.

They came to the forest. Grandfather began to show how he washed down to chop, where the slope of the tree is, how to fell a tree in the wind.

The grandson does a good job - he protects his grandfather. Watchful, with the mind of the tree knocks down, protects the legs.

It's time to bring the crowns. Grandfather again complains about his eyes:

Vasenka, now you have become my glasses at all. Look, I'll tell you.

Grandfather told me how to measure a log, how to choose a groove in a log, how to cut a corner into a paw.

The grandson is trying. What Grandpa says, he does. And the old man checks by touch with his hands where and what is wrong - he points out.

The grandson brought the crowns, paved the grooves with new moss, caulked. Vasya's mother and father were amazed.

How can you do all this, son?

And Vasya to them:

Yes, it's not me, but my grandfather.

Some time passed, grandfather began to complain about his eyes more than ever.

I, Vasily, cannot live without work. Hands go blind without work, the soul grows old, the heart stops.

And the grandson clung to his grandfather and let's reassure him:

Don't worry, grandpa. I see two. My eyes are enough for both of us. Let's work. Just talk and I'll see for myself.

Grandfather and grandson work. They look with two eyes, work with four hands. The stoves are shifted, the pipes are taken out, the frames are glazed, the floors are laid, the roofs are covered with wood chips. Grab a master. Somehow they screwed the canopies to the frames, and the grandson lost the screwdriver. Searched, searched - can not find. And his grandfather:

Yes, there she is, Vasenka, in the shavings.

How did you, grandfather, see her?

It can be seen, grandson, eyes from work began to see clearly.

Maybe it happens like that, only I have not heard that in old age the eyes begin to see better.

Another week passed, another. The grandfather and grandson took the fine work. An old pattern in a manor house for a collective farm tea house was hired to correct it.

You, - says the grandson, - sit, grandfather, it’s not in your eyes, but I’ll make veins in the leaves.

The grandson began to write out the veins with a brush, and the grandfather said:

Vaska, what are you? Veins should be given to the leaves with all their living force, and you bring them out thinner than a hair.

Vasily got down from the scaffold and asked:

How is it that you, grandfather, can see the veins on the sheets from the floor when I look at them badly?

And grandfather is not lost and says:

Still young, then a master. You can't work without your grandfather's glasses.

Then the grandson asks:

So who are the glasses for whom? Are you for me or am I for you?

And this is for you, granddaughters, to know better. The big one has grown. Then Vasily understood about grandfather's blindness. Hug the old man

You are sly with me, grandfather. What a sly one! And the old man to this, without hiding, answers:

If there is no cunning grandfather, then how can a smart and hard-working grandson grow up?

Many years have passed. Loudly Vasily began to work. In full force, his labor glory blossomed. They began to call Vasily Petrovich, rare master called. When Vasily Petrovich grew old, he himself began to put on cunning "grandfather's glasses" for young masters. To see your work deeper and look at your work more broadly.

Stubborn firewood

Andryusha Usoltsev was ill a lot in childhood, and by the age of twelve the illnesses left him and he began to catch up with his peers. Catch up - in growth, in running, in blush and endurance.

The grandson is growing well for everyone, but he doesn’t show his father’s character, - Andryushin’s grandmother lamented. - Not only, apparently, with white curls went to his mother, but also with a soft heart, compliance.

For the granddaughter, this is all a treasure, but for the grandson, the grandmother would like a thicker dough, more abruptly burrows. No wonder they nicknamed her favorite "mama's flower."

And, remaining alone in the house with Andryusha, Varvara Yegorovna, as if by the way, began to tell:

Your father, Andrei, harrowed at the age of twelve. For what he grabbed - he did not let go. I did not run from the arable land or from the battlefield. Born into grandfather Andrian. Character like a birch bough. Even though you are his cleaver, even though you are his wedge, but he cracks, does not prick. Serious firewood ... And in my early years, I also didn’t get sick with anything. Seventy-seven ailments. And scrofula, and rubella, and anemone. And then straightened out...

The old woman looked at the quiet, thoughtful grandson, encouraged:

Well, you'll show yourself. And white hair turns black. And a narrow palm can become wider ... Now they are getting quieter: they give a lot of lessons.

Listening to his grandmother, Andryusha felt resentment for his mother. Although he was not pleased with his narrow palms and thin fingers, he did not regret it. These were my mother's hands. And Andryusha loved everything in his mother, even her ugly maiden name - Nedopekina.

You never know what offensive names were given under the kings ordinary people. But the name of the mother was the most beautiful in the whole world - Eugene. And look for a patronymic too - Ilyinichna. And with her thin fingers, the mother managed to milk three cows, while others milked two. She is not such a “nedopyokina” as her grandmother saw.

“No, grandmother,” Andrey thought, “you shouldn’t love your mother less than your father.”

Three days ago, leaving for the district hospital, his mother kissed Andryusha for a long time and ordered him to be more affectionate with his grandmother. Andryusha was not rude to her. Only he missed his mother, because they never parted. And then there are two divisions. The second is with my father. For a year now, splinters have been hampering my father. And now he got rid of them. Recovered. Andryushin's mother followed him. But they are discharged from the hospital not at the request of the patient, but when possible. So they lingered, and the chopped firewood ran out. Five logs left for two stoves. Varvara Yegorovna was at a time when chopping wood was difficult for her, and not to her face. It's not a woman's business. And she said

Andryusha, you should run to the Nedopekins, call Uncle Tikhon. Let him chop wood for us so that we don't have to look back to heat it. On the street, what a frost is doing. And the father will return - it is necessary to drown well.

Now, grandma. - And, throwing on a fur coat, Andryusha ran away.

It was evening outside. The old woman dozed off on the couch. And when I woke up, it was already dark outside the window. "It's possible she slept for an hour," thought Varvara Yegorovna, and remembered the firewood. Neither Andrei, nor firewood, nor Tikhon.

Where could the guy go?

Hearing a dull thud outside the window, she threw back the curtain. She looked at the yard.

An electric light burned brightly on a pole. They added it last year so as not to stumble. With such illumination, Varvara Yegorovna could see not only the wood splitter, but also the branches on the wood. And firewood, I must say, this year turned out to be twisted, oblique. Bitch on a bitch, and even with a twist. It was the same harmful firewood that is easier to cut with a rip saw than to split. Andryusha, having taken off his sheepskin coat, was trying to pull out an ax planted in a heavy birch round. Steam poured from the boy. And the grandmother wanted to knock on the window and call her grandson. But something stopped her. And she began to look at Andryusha's struggle with the birch block.

As soon as he tried, the ax seemed to be frozen into a tree. Leaving the stubborn kruglyash, Andrey went to the woodpile and chose the second one - easier.

"Thinks," thought the grandmother.

The grandson began with all his might to hit the butt of the planted ax with the kruglyash he had brought. In vain. Kruglyash only beat off his hands, but the ax remained the same as it was.

It's a pity, - Varvara Yegorovna said to herself, - perhaps he can't overcome this block of wood. Today he will not overcome a birch chock, tomorrow he will retreat from another ...

But the grandson made more and more attempts to pull out the ax and, when he lost all hope, he decided to lift the damned log over himself and hit another log with his butt.

More will break! - Varvara Yegorovna was frightened and again wanted to knock on the window. But the knotty log shattered in half. Yes, it scattered so well that the old woman shouted:

Aha! The cursed has broken...

Andryusha, not wanting to, bewitched his grandmother to the window glass. After wiping his forehead, spitting into his hands in the same way as his father did, the boy raised the ax over the log, which had been placed standing up. Hit. The ax slid to the side. The log, swaying, fell. Andryusha put down the log again and struck again with the axe. The log has cracked. It seemed to Grandmother that she did not so much guess about this crack as she distinguished it.

The log rose overhead ... Blow ... Good luck! Things went well. Now it was easier to split halves into quarters, quarters into octopuses. Now you could rest. Run. Make two or three free movements with inhalation and exhalation, as in exercise.

Another hour passes. With varying degrees of success, Andryusha fights with firewood. Some scatter so loudly that it can be heard through double frames. Other knotty, crooked logs oppose each other, but Andryusha did not return any of the stubborn logs to the woodpile.

The pot of milk noodles has long been taken out of the Russian stove, the plate has long been placed on the table, and not without intent, the father's spoon has been placed in front of it.

Finally the door opens. The cold white steam breathed into the hut. On the threshold is a red-cheeked wood splitter with a blue bump on his forehead. Grandma doesn't want to notice the bruise. She sees only ruddy cheeks and blue eyes.

Andryusha laid firewood near the stove - exactly as his father always did. Not a throw, but log after log, one to one.

Putting the firewood in this way, he said to his grandmother:

Sink, mother, don't look back. Five or six burdens were left in the yard. Enough until Saturday...

He brushed his felt boots with a broom, hung up his sheepskin coat and asked:

What do we have in the oven, grandma?

Andrey has never eaten hated milk noodles with such relish.

When Andryusha had finished his supper, the grandmother took out an old silver fifty kopeck piece from the chest and began to lightly rub the blue bump, saying:

Serious firewood has now hit us ... Even if you are their cleaver, even a wedge. They crack, but don't wobble. As soon as Tikhon manages with them, I don’t understand ...

Andrew replied to this:

Nedopekins - they are also with character, grandmother, although their last name is not as famous as ours and you.

The old woman turned away to hide her smile and pretended not to hear what her grandson said. Andrei went to the upper room to finish his lessons.

Andryusha's father and mother arrived late in the evening. There was no end to joy. The mother was the first to notice the bruise:

Where did you get it, Andryushenka?

Don’t ask better, ”grandmother intervened and added quietly:“ Mommy’s flowers have given a good ovary today. Thank you for the grandson, Evgenia.

Evgeny Permyak is the pseudonym of Evgeny Andreevich Vissov. He was born on October 31, 1902 in Perm, but in the very first days after birth, he was brought to Votkinsk with his mother. Over the years, Zhenya Wissov lived for a short time in Perm with relatives, but most of his childhood and youth were spent in Votkinsk.

“The years spent with my aunt at the Votkinsk plant,” the writer recalled, “can be called the primary source of my childhood and adolescence ... I looked into the open-hearth furnace earlier than into the primer. I generally made friends with an ax, hammer, chisel, and tools before meeting multiplication table.

In Votkinsk, E. Vissov graduated from a secondary school, then served as a clerk at the Kupinsky meat station, worked at the Record candy factory in Perm. At the same time, he tried as a public correspondent in the newspapers "Zvezda", "Krasnoe Prikamye" (Votkinsk), signed his rabselkor correspondence and poems with the pseudonym "Master Nepryakhin"; was the director of the drama circle in the working club named after Tomsky.

In the State Archives of the Perm Region, the first correspondent ticket of Evgeny Andreevich is stored, which states that "the ticket was issued to Comrade Evgeny Andreevich Vissov-Nepryakhin, that he was entrusted with the editorial work of a correspondent for the city of Votkinsk. All responsible, professional, party and Soviet workers are invited to provide comrade "Full assistance to Vissov-Nepryakhin. Comrade Vissov-Nepryakhin, as a representative of the local press, has the right to be at all open meetings, institutions and conferences. In the interests of the cause, all institutions and organizations are pleased to render full assistance to Comrade Vissov-Nepryakhin. September 15, 1923 G.". Official paper, but what a style!

In 1924, Evgeny Vissov entered the Perm University, the Faculty of Education, the socio-economic department. In the application form for admission to the question "What determines the decision to enter PSU?" he wrote: "I have a desire to work in the field of public education in the sector of the economy." At the university, he plunged headlong into social work: he was engaged in club work, actively participated in the organization of the Living Theatrical Newspaper (ZhTG) circle, which was popular at that time.

Here is what Evgeny Andreevich wrote, addressing Perm students on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the Komsomol organization of PSU in 1973: loudly, but precisely: "Forge". Perm University in those years in the Urals was perhaps the only higher educational institution. And, without exaggeration, it was a forge of teachers, doctors, agronomists, chemists and pharmacists. ZhTG "Forge" was created soon after Perm's first working live newspaper "Rupor" in the communal club. "Forge" ... was the best newspaper in the city. And this is understandable. There were great opportunities for selecting those who wanted to work in ZhTG. For those who are not entirely clear what they were ZhTG, I will say in a nutshell: The Living Theatrical Newspaper differed from the printed and wall newspapers mainly by the means of "reproducing" newspaper material. And the main means was theatricalization. ZhTG material from the front line to the chronicle, from the feuilleton to the announcements, was "played out" in faces, "theatricalized" . Sometimes there was oral reading, which we now see on the television screen, and sometimes (and most often) it was performed in the form of skits, couplets, ditties with dancing, etc. (well, why not a modern KVN! Author's note).

The release of the issue of "Forge" at the university was a small sensation. Firstly, this is the most "topical malice" of the day. Secondly, the courage, and sometimes the ruthlessness of criticism. And finally, the spectacle! Recitative. Singing. Dancing and ... even in some way "acrobatics" and, of course, music. Sometimes even a small orchestra. And if at the university at the ZHTG graduation it was more crowded in the hall, then one can imagine what was done at the exit ZHTG graduations. She was pursued. They demanded almost through the district committee... The living newspaper, like any other world, belongs to the category of undying phenomena. And a newspaper as a newspaper, as a public agitator, propagandist and organizer, is an absolutely unshakable phenomenon.

As a delegate from PSU, Evgeny Vissov traveled to Moscow to the All-Union Congress of Club Workers in 1925, to the All-Union Conference of Living Newspapers in 1926.

Student life was not easy, and although E. Wissov received a scholarship and small royalties from newspapers, there was not enough money. I had to work hard. And here in personal file student Vissov-Nepryakhin, we come across a document stating that he was "dismissed from service at the Vodokanal Administration on October 1, 1925, where he received a salary of 31 rubles per month ..." Unfortunately, the documents on his admission and work in the Perm Vodokanal are not found. The only thing that became known: Evgeny Andreevich was a water supply inspector, earning a living during the summer holidays in 1925. The ways of the Lord are inscrutable! Perhaps his experience as a water utility was to some extent reflected in the writer's work?

After graduating from the university, Evgeny Andreevich left for the capital, starting his writing career as a playwright. His plays "The Forest Noises" and "The Roll" were shown in almost all theaters of the country, but the Urals did not forget. When did the Great Patriotic War, he was evacuated to the city of Sverdlovsk, where he lived all the war years. Fyodor Gladkov, Lev Kassil, Agniya Barto, Anna Karavaeva, Marietta Shaginyan, Evgeny Permyak, Ilya Sadofiev, Olga Forsh, Yuri Verkhovsky, Elena Blaginina, Oksana Ivanenko, Olga Vysotskaya and many others arrived in Sverdlovsk at that time. A large family of writers gathered.

At that time, the Sverdlovsk Writers' Organization was headed by P.P. Bazhov. E.A. Permyak often visited Pavel Petrovich and not only for writing, but also just for friendly gatherings. Here is what P.P. Bazhov’s grandson Vladimir Bazhov writes, recalling those times: “Visiting grandfather on New Year the writer Yevgeny Permyak came with his wife and daughter Oksana. Evgeny Andreevich liked to surprise with something unusual. That evening he brought a pack of pictures drawn by his daughter under his direction. In each drawing, someone from the family of P. P. Bazhov or E. A. Permyak was drawn with colored pencils. The tree was very cheerful and unforgettable. Oksana and I recited poems and danced to the friendly laughter of adults. In general, Evgeny Permyak was reputed to be cheerful and cheerful person. Of all the people who were at that time in my grandfather's house, I remember him the most."

Life in Perm, Votkinsk, Sverdlovsk was reflected in the writer's books: "The ABC of our life", "High steps", "Grandfather's piggy bank", "Childhood of Mavrik", "My land", "Memorial knots", "Solva memoria". He is the author of collections of fairy tales and popular science books for children and youth "Whom to be?" (1946), "Grandfather's piggy bank" (1957), "From the fire to the boiler" (1959), "The lock without a key" (1962) and others, which affirm the great importance of labor. The writer is faithful to this theme in his novels: "The Tale of the Gray Wolf" (1960), "The Last Frost" (1962), "The Humpbacked Bear" (1965), "The Kingdom of Quiet Luton" (1970) and others.

“I am books. Let them know and judge me by them. And cards, pictures, articles are all wind-breeze, moreover, changeable. Books and only books determine the writer’s place in the writer’s system. And there is no power in a positive and negative sense , except for books that could glorify the writer or cross out, "- these are the lines from the letter of the writer N.P. Suntsova, head of the city children's library No. 1 in Votkinsk. Almost all of the writer's works are about working people, masters of their craft, about their talent, creative search, and spiritual wealth.

Evgeny Permyak's books have been translated into many languages ​​and published in many countries. He was awarded 2 orders and medals.

Info: Styazhkova L. Oct. 2005