Read Taras and a lot of my mother’s Siberian. Children's fairy tales online. Other tales of Mamin-Sibiryak

Rainy summer day. I love wandering through the forest in this weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead where I can dry myself and warm up. And besides, summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather there is dirt, but in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet of last year’s fallen leaves and fallen pine and spruce needles. The trees are covered with raindrops that rain down on you every time you move. And when the sun comes out after such rain, the forest turns so brightly green and burns with diamond sparks. Something festive and joyful is around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached Svetloye Lake, to a familiar watchman at the fishing lake, Taras. The rain was already thinning. On one side of the sky, gaps appeared, a little more - and the hot summer sun would appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came out onto a sloping cape that jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here there was not a lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the salmon was nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the bay. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out like a green cap opposite the lake.

My appearance on the cape evoked a guard call from the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: “Who is coming?” I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary intelligence and faithful service...

From a distance the fisherman's hut seemed like a large boat turned upside down; it was a hunched old wooden roof overgrown with cheerful green grass. All around the hut there was a thick growth of fireweed, sage and “bear pipes”, so that the person approaching the hut could only see his head. Such thick grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was almost approaching the hut, a motley little dog flew head over heels from the grass at me and burst into desperate barking.

- Sobol, stop... Didn’t recognize it?

Sobolko paused in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He approached carefully, sniffed my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony began to wag his tail guiltily. They say I’m guilty, I made a mistake, but still I have to guard the hut.

The hut turned out to be empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some fishing equipment. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a faintly smoking fire, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the lake one could see Taras’s entire household: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging gear. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers could fit in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Despite any weather, he heated the Russian stove every day and slept on the floors. This love of warmth was explained by Taras’s venerable age: he was about ninety years old. I say “about” because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to make a fire. He hovered around me a lot, sensing some kind of profit. The fire flared up cheerfully, sending a blue stream of smoke upward. The rain has already passed. Torn clouds rushed across the sky, dropping rare drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under whose rays the wet grass seemed to smoke. The water in the lake stood quietly, as it does only after rain. It smelled of fresh grass, sage, and the resinous aroma of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s as good as it can be in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloe Lake was blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged edge. Wonderful corner! And it’s not for nothing that old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he wouldn’t have lived even half of it, because in the city you couldn’t buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that covered here. It’s good on Saimaa!.. A bright light burns merrily; The hot sun begins to burn, it hurts your eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with the wonderful freedom of the forest. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camp kettle with water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still not there.

-Where should he go? — I thought out loud. - The gear is inspected in the morning, and now it’s noon... Maybe I went to see if anyone was fishing without asking... Sobolsk, where did your owner go?

The smart dog just wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called “fishing” dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears and a curved tail, he, perhaps, resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to “bark” at a wood grouse, or track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. You need to see such a dog in the forest to fully appreciate all its advantages.

When this “man’s best friend” squealed joyfully, I realized that he had spotted his owner. Indeed, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot in the channel, skirting the island. This was Taras... He swam, standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar - real fishermen all swim like this on their one-wood boats, called, not without reason, “gas chambers”. As he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging the beautifully swimming bird on. - Go, go... Here I will give you - to sail away to God knows where... Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the salmon, went ashore, shook itself and, swaying heavily on its crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

Old man Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. All summer he walked barefoot and without a hat. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. The tanned, broad face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he wore only a shirt made of peasant blue canvas.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, master!

-Where is God coming from?

- But I swam after the Reception, after the swan... He kept spinning around in the channel, and then suddenly disappeared... Well, I’m after him now. I went out into the lake - no; swam through the creeks - no; and he swims behind the island.

- Where did you get it from, the swan?

- And God sent it, yes!.. Here the hunters from the gentlemen came; Well, the swan and the swan were shot, but this one remained. Huddled in the reeds and sitting. He doesn’t know how to fly, so he hid as a child. Of course, I set my nets near the reeds, and I caught him. If one goes missing, the hawk will be eaten, because there is no real meaning in it yet. Left an orphan. So I brought it and am holding it. And he got used to it too... Now, soon it will be a month since we have been living together. In the morning at dawn he will rise, swim in the channel, feed, and then go home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. A smart bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as if talking about a loved one. The swan hobbled to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.

“He’ll fly away from you, grandpa...” I remarked.

- Why does he need to fly? And it’s good here: you’re full, there’s water all around...

- And in winter?

- He will spend the winter with me in the hut. There is enough space, and Sobolko and I have more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my lake, saw a swan and said the same thing: “It will fly away if you don’t clip its wings.” But how can you cripple God’s bird? Let her live as the Lord told her... A man was given one thing, but a bird another... I can’t understand why the Lord shot the swans. After all, they won’t even eat it, but just for mischief...

The swan clearly understood the old man’s words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- How is he and Sobolko? - I asked.

“At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it.” Now the swan will take a piece from Sobolka another time. The dog will growl at him, and the swan will growl at him. It's funny to look at them from the outside. Otherwise they will go for a walk together: the swan on the water, and Sobolko along the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, but it was not the same craft: he almost drowned. And when the swan floats away, Sobolko looks for him. He sits on the bank and howls... They say, I, the dog, am bored without you, dear friend. So the three of us live together.

I loved the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. I had to while away many summer nights on Saimaa, and every time you learn something new. Previously, Taras was a hunter and knew places around fifty miles, knew every custom of forest birds and forest animals; and now he could not go far and knew only his fish. Sailing on a boat is easier than walking with a gun through the forest, and especially through the mountains. Now Taras kept the gun only out of old memory and just in case a wolf ran in. In winter, wolves looked at the salmon and had long been sharpening their teeth on Sobolko. Only Sobolko was cunning and did not give in to the wolves.

I stayed at Saimaa for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set up our nets for the night. Svetloye Lake is good, and it’s not for nothing that it’s called Svetloe – the water in it is completely transparent, so you can sail on a boat and see the entire bottom at a depth of several fathoms. You can see colorful pebbles, yellow river sand, and algae, and you can see how the fish move in a “fleece,” that is, in a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it was adjacent to the mountains on only one side, and on the other it went “out into the steppe,” where blessed Bashkiria began. All around the Svetloe Lake lay the most peaceful places, and from it came a brisk mountain river that spread across the steppe for a thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty miles long, and about nine miles wide. The depth reached fifteen fathoms in some places... A group of wooded islands gave it special beauty. One such island was located in the very middle of the lake and was called Goloday, because when fishermen found it in bad weather, they often went hungry for several days.

Taras has lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a stray. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetloye for whole years.

“Aren’t you bored, grandpa?” - I asked when we were returning from fishing. — It’s terribly lonely in the forest...

- Alone? The master will say the same... I live like a prince here. I have everything... All kinds of birds, fish, and grass. Of course, they don’t know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices another time to look at God’s creation... Each one has its own order and its own mind. Do you think it’s in vain that a fish swims in the water or a bird flies through the forest? No, they have no less worries than we do... Evon, look, the swan is waiting for Sobolko and me. Ah, the prosecutor!..

The old man was terribly pleased with his foster child, and all conversations in the end came down to him.

“A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Lure him with food and don’t give him anything, next time he won’t come. It also has its own character, even though it’s a bird... He also carries himself very proudly with Sobolko. Just a little bit, now he’ll hit you with his wing, or even his nose. It is known that the dog wants to make trouble next time, he tries to catch his tail with his teeth, and the swan hits him in the face... This is also not a toy to grab by the tail.

I spent the night and got ready to leave the next morning.

“Come back in the fall,” the old man says goodbye. “Then we’ll fish the fish with a spear... Well, we’ll also shoot hazel grouse.” Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandpa, I’ll come sometime.

When I was leaving, the old man returned me:

- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko...

Indeed, it was worth admiring the original painting. The swan stood with its wings spread, and Sobolko attacked him with squeals and barks. The clever bird stretched out its neck and hissed at the dog, as geese do. Old Taras laughed heartily at this scene, like a child.

The next time I came to Svetloe Lake was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. Here and there there were still yellow leaves on the birch trees. The spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow like a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, tired of the summer's hectic work, was now resting. The light lake seemed larger because the coastal greenery was gone. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave crashed noisily onto the shore...

Taras's hut stood in the same place, but seemed higher because the tall grass surrounding it was gone. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and affectionately wagged his tail from afar. Taras was at home. He was repairing a net for winter fishing.

- Hello, old man!..

- Hello, master!

- Well, how are you doing?

- Nothing... In the fall, around the first snow, I got a little sick. My legs hurt... This always happens to me in bad weather.

The old man really looked tired. He seemed so decrepit and pathetic now. However, it turned out that this was not due to illness at all. Over tea we started talking, and the old man told his grief.

- Do you remember, master, the swan?

- Adopted child?

“He’s the one... Oh, what a beautiful bird he was!

- Killed by hunters?

- No, he left on his own... That’s how offensive it is to me, master!.. It seems like I didn’t look after him, didn’t I hang around!.. He fed me from my hands... He came to me and followed my voice. He swims on the lake, I click on him, and he swims up. Scientist bird. And I’m quite used to it... yes!.. It’s already a sin in the frost. During the flight, a flock of swans descended onto Svetloye Lake. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let God’s bird gather its strength: it’s not a close place to fly... Well, and then sin came out. My fosterling at first avoided the other swans: he would swim up to them and back. They cackle in their own way, call him, and he goes home... They say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. That means they all talk in their own way, in a bird’s way. Well, and then, I see, my foster child is sad... It’s the same as a person is sad. It will come ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. But how pitifully he screams... It makes me sad, and Sobolko, the fool, howls like a wolf. It is known, a free bird, the blood took its toll...

The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.

- Well, so what, grandfather?

- Oh, and don’t ask... I locked him in the hut for the whole day, and he pestered me here too. He will stand on one leg right next to the door and stand until you drive him away. Only he won’t say in human language: “Let me go, grandfathers, to my comrades. They’ll fly to the warmer side, but what am I going to do with you here in the winter?” Oh, you, I think, are a task! Let him go - he will fly away after the herd and disappear...

- Why will it disappear?

- But what about?.. They grew up in freedom. They, young ones, were taught to fly by their father and mother. After all, what do you think about them? When the swans grow up, father and mother will first take them out onto the water, and then begin to teach them to fly. Gradually they learn: further and further. I saw with my own eyes how young people are trained to fly. First they teach separately, then in small flocks, and then they gather together into one large herd. It looks like soldiers being drilled... Well, my foster child grew up alone and, for all intents and purposes, never flew anywhere. Swimming on the lake - that's all there is to it. Where should he fly? He will become exhausted, fall behind the herd and disappear... Unaccustomed to long-distance flight.

The old man fell silent again.

“But I had to let him out,” he said sadly. “Anyway, I think if I keep him for the winter, he’ll become sad and wither away.” This bird is so special. Well, he released it. My Foster came to the herd, swam with him for a day, and in the evening went home again. So he sailed for two days. Even though he’s a bird, it’s hard to part with his home. It was he who swam to say goodbye, master... The last time he sailed from the shore about twenty fathoms, he stopped and how, my brother, he shouted in his own way. Say: “Thank you for the bread, for the salt!..” I was the only one who saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, we were both very sad. I’ll ask him: “So much, where is our foster child?” And Sobolko is now howling... That means he’s sorry. And now to the shore, and now to look for my dear friend... At night I kept dreaming that the Foster was here rinsing by the shore and flapping its wings. I go out - there is no one...

That's how it turned out, master.

It was on such a rainy day that I approached Svetloe Lake, to the familiar watchman at the fishing sama (parking lot) Taras. The rain was already thinning. On one side of the sky, gaps appeared, a little more - and the hot summer sun would appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came out onto a sloping cape that jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here there was not a lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the salmon was nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the bay. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out like a green cap opposite the salmon.

From a distance the fisherman's hut seemed like a large boat turned upside down - it was a hunched old wooden roof overgrown with cheerful green grass. All around the hut there was a thick growth of fireweed, sage and “bear pipes”, so that the person approaching the hut could only see his head. Such thick grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.

When I was getting very close to the hut, a motley little dog flew head over heels from the grass at me and burst into desperate barking.

- Sobol, stop... Didn’t recognize it?

Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He approached cautiously, sniffed my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony began to wag his tail guiltily. They say I’m guilty, I made a mistake, but still I have to guard the hut.

The water in the lake stood quietly, as it does only after rain. It smelled of fresh grass, sage, and the resinous aroma of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s as good as it can be in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloe Lake was blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged edge. Wonderful corner! And it’s not for nothing that old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he wouldn’t have lived even half of it, because in the city you couldn’t buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that covered here. Good on Saimaa! A bright light burns merrily; The hot sun begins to burn, it hurts your eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with the wonderful freedom of the forest. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camp kettle filled with water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still not there.

-Where should he go? — I thought out loud. — The gear is inspected in the morning, and now it’s noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was fishing without asking. Sobolko, where did your master go?

The smart dog just wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called “hunting” dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, a curved tail, he probably resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to “bark” at a wood grouse, or track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. You need to see such a dog in the forest to fully appreciate all its advantages.

When this “man’s best friend” squealed joyfully, I realized that he had spotted his owner. Indeed, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot in the channel, skirting the island. This was Taras. He swam on his feet and deftly worked with one oar - this is how real fishermen all sail in their one-tree boats, which are called, not without reason, “gas chambers.” As he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging the beautifully swimming bird on. - Go, go. Here I will give it to you - sail away to God knows where. Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the salmon, went ashore, shook itself and, swaying heavily on its crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

- Hello, Taras!

- Hello, master!

-Where is God coming from?

- But I swam after Priemysh, after the swan. Everything was spinning around in the channel, and then suddenly it disappeared. Well, I'm following him now. I went out into the lake - no; swam through the creeks - no; and he swims behind the island.

- Where did you get it from, the swan?

- God sent it, yes! Here gentlemen hunters came; Well, the swan and the swan were shot, but this one remained. Huddled in the reeds and sitting. He doesn’t know how to fly, so he hid as a child. Of course, I set my nets near the reeds, and I caught him. If one goes missing, the hawk will be eaten, because there is no real meaning in it yet. Left an orphan. So I brought it and am holding it. And he got used to it too. Now it will soon be a month that we have been living together. In the morning at dawn he gets up, swims in the channel, feeds, and then goes home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. A smart bird, in a word, knows its own order.

The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as if talking about a loved one. The swan hobbled to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.

“He will fly away from you, grandfather,” I remarked.

- Why does he need to fly? And it’s good here: full, water all around.

- And in winter?

- He will spend the winter with me in the hut. There is enough space, and Sobolko and I have more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my lake, saw a swan and said the same thing: “It will fly away if you don’t clip its wings.” How can you mutilate God's bird? Let her live as the Lord told her... A man is given one thing, but a bird another... I can’t understand why the Lord shot the swans. After all, they won’t even eat it, just for mischief.

The swan clearly understood the old man’s words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.

- How is he and Sobolko? - I asked.

“At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it.” Now the swan will take a piece from Sobolka another time. The dog will growl at him, and the swan will grumble at him. It's funny to look at them from the outside. Otherwise they go for a walk together: the swan on the water, and Sobolko on the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, but it was not the same craft: he almost drowned. And when the swan floats away, Sobolko looks for him. He sits on the bank and howls. They say, I, the dog, am bored without you, dear friend. So the three of us live together.

I love the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. I had to while away many summer nights on Saimaa, and every time you learn something new. Previously, Taras was a hunter and knew places around fifty miles, knew every custom of forest birds and forest animals; and now he could not go far and knew only his fish. Sailing on a boat is easier than walking with a gun through the forest, and especially through the mountains. Now Taras kept the gun only out of old memory and just in case a wolf ran in. In winter, wolves looked at the salmon and had long been sharpening their teeth on Sobolko. Only Sobolko was cunning and did not give in to the wolves.

I stayed at Saimaa for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set up our nets for the night. Svetloye Lake is good, and it’s not for nothing that it’s called Svetloye, because the water in it is completely transparent, so you sail on a boat and see the entire bottom at a depth of several fathoms. You can see colorful pebbles, yellow river sand, and algae, and you can see how the fish move in a “fleece,” that is, in a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty. Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it was adjacent to the mountains on only one side, and on the other it went “out into the steppe,” where blessed Bashkiria began. All around the Svetloe Lake lay the most peaceful places, and from it came a brisk mountain river that spread across the steppe for a thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty miles long and about nine miles wide. The depth reached fifteen fathoms in some places. A group of wooded islands gave it special beauty. One such island was located in the very middle of the lake and was called Goloday, because when fishermen found it in bad weather, they often went hungry for several days.

Taras has lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a bastard. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetloye for whole years.

“Aren’t you bored, grandpa?” - I asked when we were returning from fishing. “It’s scary for someone to be alone in the forest.”

- Alone? The master will say the same. I live here like a prince. I have everything. And all kinds of birds, and fish, and grass. Of course, they don’t know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices to look at God’s creation another time. Each one has its own order and its own mind. Do you think it’s in vain that a fish swims in the water or a bird flies in the forest? No, they have no less worries than we do. Evon, look, the swan is waiting for Sobolko and me. Ah, the prosecutor!

The old man was terribly pleased with his Stepchild, and all conversations ultimately centered on him.

“A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Lure him with food and don’t give him anything, next time he won’t come. It also has its own character, despite being a bird. He also behaves very proudly with Sobolko. Just a little bit, now he’ll hit you with his wing, or even his nose. It is known that the dog wants to make trouble next time, tries to catch him by the tail with his teeth, and the swan in his face. This is also not a toy to be grabbed by the tail.

I spent the night and got ready to leave the next morning.

“Come back in the fall,” the old man says goodbye. “Then we’ll fish the fish with a spear.” Well, let's shoot hazel grouse. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.

- Okay, grandpa, I’ll come sometime.

When I was leaving, the old man returned me:

- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko.

The next time I came to Svetloe Lake was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. Here and there there were still yellow leaves on the birch trees. The spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow like a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, tired of the summer's hectic work, was now resting. The light lake seemed large because the coastal greenery was gone. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave crashed noisily onto the shore.

- Hello, old man!

- Hello, master!

- Well, how are you doing?

- Never mind. In the fall, around the first snow, I got a little sick. My legs hurt. This always happens to me in bad weather.

The old man really looked tired. He seemed so decrepit and pathetic now. However, it turned out that this was not due to illness at all. Over tea we started talking, and the old man told his grief.

- Do you remember, master, the swan?

- Adopted child?

- He is. Oh, what a beautiful bird it was! But Sobolko and I were left alone again. Yes, the foster child is gone.

- Killed by hunters?

- No, he left on his own. That's how offensive it is to me, master! It seems like I didn’t look after him, didn’t I hang around! Hand fed. He came towards me and followed my voice. He swims on the lake, I click on him, and he swims up. Scientist bird. And I’m quite used to it. Yes! It's already a frosty day. During the flight, a flock of swans descended onto Svetloye Lake. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire. Let God's bird gather its strength: it is not a close place to fly. Well, here comes the sin. My fosterling at first avoided the other swans: he would swim up to them and then back. They cackle in their own way, call him, and he goes home. They say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. Everyone, therefore, talks in their own way, in a bird’s way. Well, then, I see, my foster child is sad. It’s all the same how a person grieves. He will come ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Why, he screams so pitifully. It will make me sad, and Sobolko, the fool, howls like a wolf. It is known that he is a free bird, and the blood took its toll.

The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.

- Well, so what, grandfather?

- Oh, don't ask. I locked him in the hut for the whole day, and then he pestered me. He will stand on one leg right next to the door and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only he won’t say in human language: “Let me go, grandfathers, to my comrades. They’ll fly to the warmer side, but what am I going to do with you here in the winter?” Oh, you, I think, are a task! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear.

- Why will it disappear?

- What about it? They grew up in freedom. They are young, whose father and mother taught them to fly. After all, what do you think about them? When the swans grow up, their father and mother will first take them out onto the water and then begin to teach them to fly. Gradually they learn: further and further. I saw with my own eyes how young people are trained for the flight. First they teach separately, then in small flocks, and then they gather together into one large herd. It looks like soldiers being drilled. Well, my foster child grew up alone and almost never flew anywhere. Swimming on the lake - that's all there is to it. Where should he fly? He will become exhausted, fall behind the herd and disappear. Unaccustomed to long summers.

The old man fell silent again.

“But I had to let him out,” he said sadly. “All the same, I think, if I keep him for the winter, he will become sad and wither.” This bird is so special. Well, he released it. My fosterling came to the herd, swam with it for a day, and in the evening went home again. So he sailed for two days. Even though he’s a bird, it’s hard to part with his home. It was he who swam to say goodbye, master. The last time he sailed from the shore about twenty fathoms, he stopped and how, my brother, he screamed in his own way. Say: “Thank you for the bread, for the salt!” I was the only one who saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, we were both very sad. I’ll ask him: “So much, where is our Reception?” And Sobolko is now howling. So he regrets it. And now to the shore, and now to look for a dear friend. At night I kept dreaming that Priymysh was rinsing himself near the shore and flapping his wings. I go out - there is no one.

That's how it turned out, master.

The article describes an interesting and instructive story and provides a brief summary of it. "Adoptive" (Mamin-Sibiryak) teaches readers true love, when for the sake of your neighbor you sacrifice personal interests and desires.

What kind of story is this

So, let's begin our summary. "Adoptive" (Mamin-Sibiryak is its author) is a short story in three parts. The first part can be called “Acquaintance”, in which the main character meets a foster swan. In the second part, the owner of the hut, old Taras, lovingly tells his guest about his new pet. The third part is the final and saddest, in which the hero learns that the swan left his foster home and flew away with his relatives to warmer lands.

"Adoptive" (Mamin-Sibiryak) begins with a description of how a hunter walks through the forest in the warm summer rain and admires the surrounding nature. He approaches Lake Svetloye and heads to the old hut, which is almost completely hidden in the tall grass. The dog Sobolko runs out to meet him. At first he barks loudly, but then he recognizes the guest and happily greets him. The hunter enters the hut, lights the Russian stove and waits for the owner - old man Taras, who is already nearly ninety years old. The old man himself no longer remembers when he was born, he says that it was before the French invasion of Russia in 1812. Previously, grandfather Taras had a family, but his wife and children died, and he began to live in a hut in the forest, hunting and fishing.

And then the guest finally saw the old man: he was sailing in a boat, urging a beautiful white swan ahead of him. The hunter, of course, was surprised and began to ask the owner what kind of bird it was. Grandfather Taras said that “city gentlemen” came, shot “a swan with a swan,” and their chick hid in the reeds. The old man pulled him out and brought him home, put him in a barn and took care of him. The adopted swan got used to his grandfather and the dog and became a member of their little family. The guest noted to himself how lovingly and warmly the owner spoke about his adopted child.

After spending the night, the hunter left, promising the old man to return in the fall. He kept his word and returned to the hut at the beginning of winter. Old Taras was very sad and sadly told the guest that he had to let his adopted son go. The “King Bird” cannot survive in a barn; it needs will.

Readers' opinions

That's all the summary. "Adoptive" (Mamin-Sibiryak), readers' reviews of which are presented below, is a short but instructive story. Everyone who has read it notes that this work is poetic, at the same time touching and sad. Teaches the understanding of true love when you are ready to sacrifice your desires for the sake of another.

Dmitry Narkisovich Mamin-Sibiryak

(From the stories of an old hunter)

When I was almost approaching the hut, a motley little dog flew head over heels from the grass at me and burst into desperate barking.

- Sobol, stop... Didn’t recognize it?

The hut turned out to be empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some fishing equipment. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a faintly smoking fire, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the lake one could see Taras’s entire household: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging gear. The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers could fit in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Despite any weather, every day he heated the Russian stove hot and slept on the floors. This love of warmth was explained by Taras’s venerable age: he was about ninety years old. I say “about” because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.

Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to make a fire. He hovered around me a lot, sensing some kind of profit. The fire flared up cheerfully, sending up a blue stream of smoke. The rain has already stopped. Torn clouds rushed across the sky, dropping rare drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under whose rays the wet grass seemed to smoke. The water in the lake stood quietly, as it does only after rain. It smelled of fresh grass, sage, and the resinous aroma of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s as good as it can be in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloe Lake was blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged edge. Wonderful corner! And it’s not for nothing that old Taras lived here for forty years. Somewhere in the city he wouldn’t have lived even half of it, because in the city you couldn’t buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that covered here. It’s good on Saimaa!.. A bright light burns merrily; The hot sun begins to burn, it hurts your eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with the wonderful freedom of the forest. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.

-Where should he go? – I thought out loud. - The gear is inspected in the morning, and now it’s noon... Maybe I went to see if anyone was catching fish without asking... Sobolsk, where did your owner go?

When this “man’s best friend” squealed joyfully, I realized that he had spotted his owner. Indeed, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot in the channel, skirting the island. This was Taras... He swam, standing on his feet, and deftly worked with one oar - real fishermen all swim like this on their one-tree boats, called, not without reason, “gas chambers”. As he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.

- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging the beautifully swimming bird on. - Go, go... Here I will give you - to sail away to God knows where... Go home, reveler!

The swan swam beautifully to the salmon, went ashore, shook itself and, swaying heavily on its crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.

This story is an amazing story about how an old man tamed a swan. The bird became almost his own son.
From the mouth of the hunter, the reader learns the story of the adopted swan. Lonely old man Taras lives by the lake. Once while hunting, the townspeople, who, of course, do not understand nature, shot two swans - father and mother, and they were left with an orphan chick, which hid in the reeds. Grandfather Taras sympathized with the chick, began to feed it, but did not make friends with the proud bird. I had to take the chick to the barn to save it from the cold. Soon the swan got used to the assistant and began to show interest in his life.

My grandfather had another pet - a dog. So she and the swan stopped being afraid of each other, and even began to play. Surprisingly, they were already eating from the same bowl! The old man only admired their friendship. And they admired him himself when he walked on a boat, and a handsome swan swam ahead.

He treated the swan just like his own child, which is why he can be called an adopted child.

And yet the time has come when the swan has become fully grown. In addition, a flock of the same beautiful birds flew to the lake. Swan, although he was afraid, wanted to join them. At first Taras locked him in the house, wanting to save him. The man thought that his pet was not capable of flying away with the flock. After all, young birds are raised and trained there, but this one can hardly get food for himself. Where can we fly to warmer climes? But the swan cried so much like a bird that Taras let him go. According to him, the foster child rushed to his native birds, but stopped, as if saying goodbye to his foster father, and shouted in his own way, saying, thank you for the bread and salt. And he flew off on a long journey. The swan made his choice.

Without his swan, Taras grew old, worrying about the fate of the bird.

Still, the breed took its toll. I would like to believe that the bird, in a human way, felt a sense of gratitude to the old man Taras, who cared for her so tenderly.

Read Taras and a lot of my mother’s Siberian. Children's fairy tales online. Other tales of Mamin-Sibiryak

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