(Fairy tale)

In one village, near the Bludov swamp, near the city of Pereslavl-Zalessky, two children were orphaned. Their mother died of illness, their father died in the Patriotic War.

We lived in this village just one house away from the children. And of course, we, along with other neighbors, tried to help them as best we could. They were very nice.

Nastya was like the Golden Hen on high legs. Her hair, neither dark nor light, shimmered with gold, the freckles all over her face were large, like gold coins, and frequent, and they were cramped, and they climbed in all directions. Only one nose was clean and looked up like a parrot.

Mitrasha was two years younger than his sister. He was only about ten years old. He was short, but very dense, with a broad forehead and a wide nape. He was a stubborn and strong boy.

“Little man in a bag,” the teachers at school called him smiling among themselves.

The little man in the bag, like Nastya, was covered in golden freckles, and his nose, clean, like his sister’s, looked up like a parrot.

After the parents all of them peasant farm The children got: a five-walled hut, the cow Zorka, the heifer Daughter, the goat Dereza, nameless sheep, chickens, the golden rooster Petya and the piglet Horseradish.

Along with this wealth, however, the poor children also received great care for all living beings. But did our children cope with such a misfortune during the difficult years of the Patriotic War! At first, as we have already said, people came to the children to help them distant relatives and all of us neighbors. But very soon the smart and friendly guys learned everything themselves and began to live well.

And what smart kids they were! If possible, they joined social work. Their noses could be seen on collective farm fields, meadows, barnyards, at meetings, in anti-tank ditches: their noses were so perky.

In this village, although we were newcomers, we knew well the life of every house. And now we can say: there was not a single house where they lived and worked as friendly as our favorites lived.

Just like her late mother, Nastya got up far before the sun, in the predawn hour, along the shepherd's chimney. With a twig in her hand, she drove out her beloved herd and rolled back to the hut. Without going to bed again, she lit the stove, peeled potatoes, made dinner, and so busied herself with the housework until nightfall.

Mitrasha learned from his father how to make wooden utensils: barrels, gangs, tubs. He has a ladilo - a jointer more than twice his height. And with this ladle he adjusts the planks one to another, folds them and supports them with iron or wooden hoops.

With a cow, there was no such need for two children to sell wooden utensils at the market, but kind people ask: someone needs a gang for the washbasin, someone needs a barrel for dripping, someone needs a tub to pickle cucumbers or mushrooms, or even a simple vessel with teeth for a home flower plant

He will do it, and then he will also be repaid with kindness. But, besides cooperage, he is responsible for all the men's farming and social affairs. He attends all meetings, tries to understand public concerns and, probably, realizes something.

It is very good that Nastya is two years older than her brother, otherwise he would certainly become arrogant and in their friendship they would not have the wonderful equality they have now. It happens that now Mitrasha will remember how his father taught his mother, and, imitating his father, will also decide to teach his sister Nastya. But the sister doesn’t listen much, she stands and smiles... Then the Little Man in the Bag begins to get angry and swagger and always says with his nose in the air:

- Here's another!

- Why are you showing off? - my sister objects.

- Here's another! - brother gets angry. - You, Nastya, swagger yourself.

- No, it's you!

- Here's another!

So, having tormented her obstinate brother, Nastya strokes him on the back of his head. And as soon as the sister’s little hand touches the wide back of his brother’s head, his father’s enthusiasm leaves the owner.

- Let's weed together! - the sister will say.

And the brother also begins to weed cucumbers, or hoe beets, or plant potatoes.

Yes, it was very, very difficult for everyone during the Patriotic War, so difficult that, probably, it has never happened in the whole world. So the children had to endure a lot of all sorts of worries, failures, and disappointments.

But their friendship overcame everything, they lived well. And again we can firmly say: in the entire village no one had such friendship as Mitrash and Nastya Veselkin lived with each other. And we think, perhaps, it was this grief for their parents that united the orphans so closely.

The sour and very healthy cranberry berry grows in swamps in the summer and is harvested in late autumn. But not everyone knows that the most

A good cranberry is sweet - as we say, it happens when it has spent the winter under the snow.

These spring dark red cranberries float in our pots along with beets and drink tea with them as with sugar. Those who don’t have sugar beets drink tea with only cranberries. We tried it ourselves - and it’s okay, you can drink it: sour replaces sweet and is very good on hot days.

And what a wonderful jelly made from sweet cranberries, what a fruit drink! And among our people, this cranberry is considered a healing medicine for all diseases.

This spring, there was still snow in the dense spruce forests at the end of April, but in the swamps it is always much warmer: there was no snow there at that time at all.

Having learned about this from people, Mitrasha and Nastya began to gather for cranberries. Even before daylight, Nastya gave food to all her animals. Mitrash took his father’s double-barreled Tulku shotgun, decoys for hazel grouse, and did not forget the compass. It used to be that his father, going into the forest, would never forget this compass. More than once Mitrash asked his father:

“You’ve been walking through the forest all your life, and you know the whole forest like the palm of your hand.” Why else do you need this arrow?

“You see, Dmitry Pavlovich,” answered the father, “in the forest this arrow is kinder to you than your mother: sometimes the sky will be covered with clouds and you cannot decide by the sun in the forest, if you go at random, you will make a mistake, get lost, go hungry.” Then just look at the arrow - and it will show you where your home is. You go straight home along the arrow, and they will feed you there. This arrow is more faithful to you than a friend: sometimes your friend will cheat on you, but the arrow invariably always, no matter how you turn it, always looks north.

Having examined the wonderful thing, Mitrash locked the compass so that the needle would not tremble in vain along the way. He carefully, like a father, wrapped footcloths around his feet, tucked them into his boots, and put on a cap - so old that its visor was split in two: the upper leather crust rode up above the sun, and the lower one went down almost to the very nose.

Mitrash dressed in his father’s old jacket, or rather, in a collar connecting strips of once good homespun fabric.

The boy tied these stripes on his tummy with a sash, and his father's jacket sat on him like a coat, right down to the ground. The hunter’s son also tucked an ax into his belt, hung a bag with a compass on his right shoulder, and a double-barreled gun on his left - and thus became terribly scary for all birds and animals.

Nastya, starting to get ready, hung a large basket over her shoulder on a towel.

- Why do you need a towel? - asked Mitrasha.

- What about it? - Nastya answered. - Don’t you remember how mom went mushroom picking?

- For mushrooms! You understand a lot: there are a lot of mushrooms, so it hurts your shoulder.

“And maybe we’ll have even more cranberries.”

And just when Mitrash wanted to say his “here’s another”, he remembered what his father had said about cranberries, back when they were preparing him for war.

“You remember this,” Mitrasha said to his sister, “how father told us about cranberries, that there is a Palestinian * in the forest.”

“I remember,” Nastya answered, “he said about cranberries that he knew a place and the cranberries there were crumbling, but I don’t know what he said about some Palestinian woman.” I also remember talking about scary place Blind Elan.

“There, near Yelani, there is a Palestinian,” said Mitrasha. “Father said: go to the High Mane and after that keep to the north, and when you cross the Zvonkaya Borina, keep everything straight to the north and you will see - there a Palestinian woman will come to you, all red as blood, from just cranberries. No one has ever been to this Palestinian land!

Mitrasha said this already at the door.

During the story, Nastya remembered: she had a whole, untouched pot of boiled potatoes left from yesterday.

Forgetting about the Palestinian woman, she quietly darted to the rack and tipped the entire cast iron into the basket.

“Maybe we’ll get lost,” she thought. “We have enough bread, we have a bottle of milk, and maybe some potatoes will come in handy too.”

And at that time the brother, thinking that his sister was still standing behind him, told her about the wonderful Palestinian woman and that, indeed, on the way to her was the Blind Elan, where many people, cows, and horses died.

- Well, what kind of Palestinian is this? - Nastya asked.

- So you didn’t hear anything?! - he grabbed.

And he patiently repeated to her as he walked everything that

I heard from my father about an unknown Palestinian land where sweet cranberries grow.

The Bludovo swamp, where we ourselves wandered more than once, began, as a large swamp almost always begins, with an impenetrable thicket of willow, alder and other shrubs. The first man walked through this swamp with an ax in his hand and cut a passage for other people. The hummocks settled under human feet, and the path became a groove along which water flowed. The children crossed this marshy area in the pre-dawn darkness without much difficulty. And when the bushes stopped obscuring the view ahead, at the first morning light the swamp opened up to them, like the sea. And yet, that’s what it was, this Bludovo swamp, bottom ancient sea. And just as there, in the real sea, there are islands, just as there are oases in deserts, so there are hills in swamps. In the Bludov swamp, these sandy hills, covered with high forest, are called borins. After walking a little through the swamp, the children climbed the first hill, known as the High Mane. From here, from a high bald patch, Borina Zvonkaya could be barely visible in the gray haze of the first dawn.

Even before reaching Zvonkaya Borina, almost right next to the path, individual blood-red berries began to appear. Cranberry hunters initially put these berries in their mouths. Anyone who has never tasted autumn cranberries in their life and would have immediately had enough of spring ones would have taken their breath away from the acid. But the village orphans knew well what autumn cranberries were, and that’s why when they ate spring cranberries now, they repeated:

- So sweet!

Borina Zvonkaya willingly opened up her wide clearing to the children, which even now, in April, was covered with dark green lingonberry grass. Among this greenery of last year, here and there new flowers of white snowdrop and purple small and fragrant flowers of wolf's bast could be seen.

“They smell good, try it, pick a flower of wolf bast,” said Mitrasha.

Nastya tried to break the twig of the stem and could not do it.

- Why is this bast called a wolf’s? she asked.

“Father said,” the brother answered, “the wolves weave baskets out of it.”

And he laughed.

“Are there still wolves here?”

- But of course! Father said there is a terrible wolf here, Gray Landowner.

- I remember. The same one who slaughtered our herd before the war.

“Father said he now lives on the Sukhaya River, in the rubble.”

- He won’t touch you and me?

- Let him try! - answered the hunter with a double visor.

While the children were talking like this and the morning was moving closer and closer to dawn, Borina Zvonkaya was filled with bird songs, howls, moans and cries of animals. Not all of them were here, on Borina, but from the swamp, damp, deaf, all the sounds gathered here. Borina with the forest, pine and sonorous on dry land, responded to everything.

But the poor birds and little animals, how they suffered, trying to pronounce some common beautiful word! And even children, as simple as Nastya and Mitrasha, understood their effort. They all wanted to say just one beautiful word.

You can see how the bird sings on a twig and every feather trembles with effort. But still, they cannot say words like we do, and they have to sing, shout, and tap.

- Tek-tek! - a huge bird, the capercaillie, taps barely audibly dark forest.

- Shvark-shwark! — a wild drake flew in the air over the river.

- Quack-quack! — wild mallard duck on the lake.

- Gu-gu-gu... - a beautiful bullfinch bird on a birch tree.

The snipe, a small gray bird with a long nose like a flattened hairpin, rolls through the air like a wild lamb. It seems like “alive, alive!” cries the curlew sandpiper. A black grouse is somewhere muttering and snorting, a white partridge is laughing like a witch.

We, hunters, have been hearing these sounds for a long time, since childhood, and we know and distinguish them. We rejoice and understand well what word they are all working on and cannot say.

That is why, when we come to the forest at dawn and hear it, we will tell them, as people, this word:

- Hello!

And as if then they, too, would be delighted, as if then they, too, would all pick up the wonderful word that had flown from the human tongue. And they quack in response, and snort, and squawk, and squawk, and croak, trying in all these voices to answer us:

- Hello, hello, hello!

But among all these sounds, one burst out, unlike anything else.

- Do you hear? - asked Mitrasha.

- How can you not hear! - Nastya answered. “I’ve been hearing it for a long time, and it’s somehow scary.”

- There's nothing wrong! My father told me and showed me: this is how a hare screams in the spring.

- Why is that so?

- Father said, he shouts: “Hello, bunny!”

- What is that noise?

“Father said: it’s a bittern, a water bull, whooping.”

- Why is he hooting?

“My father said that he also has his own girlfriend, and in his own way he also says to her, like everyone else: “Hello, drunk.”

And suddenly it became fresh and cheerful, as if the whole earth had washed at once, and the sky lit up, and all the trees smelled of their bark and buds.

Then, as if above all the sounds, a special triumphant cry broke out, flew out and covered everything, similar, as if all people joyfully, in harmonious agreement could shout:

- Victory, victory!

- What is this? - asked the delighted Nastya.

“Father said this is how cranes greet the sun.” This means that the sun will rise soon.

But the sun had not yet risen when the hunters for sweet cranberries descended into a large swamp. The celebration of meeting the sun had not yet begun here. A night blanket hung over the small gnarled fir-trees and birches like a gray haze and muffled all the wonderful sounds of the Belling Borina. Only a painful, painful and joyless howl was heard here.

Nastenka shrank all over from the cold, and in the dampness of the swamp the sharp, stupefying smell of wild rosemary reached her. The Golden Hen on her high legs felt small and weak in front of this inevitable force of death.

“What is it, Mitrasha,” she asked, shuddering, “howling so terribly in the distance?”

“Father said,” answered Mitrasha, “it’s the wolves howling on the Sukhaya River, and probably now it’s the Gray Landowner wolf howling.” Father said that all the wolves on the Sukhaya River were killed, but it was impossible to kill Gray.

- So why is he howling so terribly now?

“Father said that wolves howl in the spring because they now have nothing to eat.” And Gray is still left alone, so he howls.

The marsh dampness seemed to penetrate through the body to the bones and chill them. And I really didn’t want to go even lower into the damp, muddy swamp!

-Where are we going to go? - Nastya asked.

Mitrasha took out a compass, set the north and, pointing to a weaker path going north, said:

- We will go north along this path.

“No,” Nastya answered, “we will go along this big path where all the people go.” Father told us - remember? - what a terrible place this is - Blind Elan, how many people and livestock died in it. No, Mitrashenka, we won’t go there. Everyone goes in this direction, which means cranberries grow there.

- You understand a lot! - the hunter interrupted her. “We will go north, as my father said: there is a Palestinian place where no one has been before.”

- Here's another! - exclaimed the smart Golden Hen. “Our father loved to tell fairy tales, but maybe there is no Palestinian at all.”

- You understand! — the stubborn Little Man in a Bag became angry.

Nastya, noticing that her brother was starting to get angry, suddenly smiled and stroked him on the back of his head. Mitrasha immediately calmed down, and the friends walked along the path indicated by the arrow, now no longer side by side, as before, but one after another, in single file.

About two hundred years ago, the sowing wind brought two seeds to the Bludovo swamp: a pine seed and a spruce seed. Both seeds fell into one hole near a large flat stone... Since then, perhaps two hundred years ago, these spruce and pine trees have been growing together. Their roots were intertwined from childhood, their trunks stretched upward, side by side towards the light, trying to overtake each other. Trees of different species fought terribly among themselves with their roots for food, and with their branches for air and light. Rising higher and higher, thickening their trunks, they dug dry branches into living trunks and in some places pierced each other through and through. The evil wind, having given the trees such a miserable life, sometimes flew here to shake them. And then the trees moaned and howled throughout the Bludovo swamp, like living beings. It was so similar to the moaning and howling of living creatures that the fox, curled up into a ball on a moss hummock, raised its sharp muzzle upward. This groan and howl of pine and spruce was so close to living beings that the wild dog in the Bludov swamp, hearing it, howled with longing for the man, and the wolf howled with inescapable anger towards him.

The children came here, to the Lying Stone, at the very time when the first rays of the sun, flying over the low, gnarled swamp fir trees and birches, illuminated the sonorous forest and the mighty trunks. pine forest became like the lit candles of the great temple of nature. From there, here, to this flat stone, where the children sat down to rest, the singing of birds, dedicated to the rising of the great sun, faintly floated across.

And the light rays flying over the children’s heads were not yet warming. The swampy ground was all chilled, small puddles were covered with white ice.

It was completely quiet in nature, and the children, frozen, were so quiet that the black grouse did not pay any attention to them. He sat down at the very top, where pine and spruce branches formed like a bridge between two trees. Having settled down on this bridge, which was quite wide for him, closer to the spruce, the braid seemed to begin to bloom in the rays of the rising sun. The comb on his head lit up with a fiery flower. Blue in the depths of black, his chest began to shimmer from blue to green. And his iridescent, lyre-spread tail became especially beautiful. Seeing the sun above the miserable swamp fir trees, he suddenly jumped up on his high bridge, showed his cleanest white linen of undertail and underwings and shouted:

- Chuf! Shi!

In grouse, “chuf” most likely meant “sun,” and “shi” probably was their “hello.”

In response to this first chuffing of the orca whale, the same chuffing with the flapping of wings was heard far throughout the swamp, and soon dozens of large birds, like two peas in a pod, began to fly here from all sides and land near the Lying Stone.

With bated breath, the children sat on a cold stone, waiting for the rays of the sun to come to them and warm them up at least a little. And then the first ray, gliding over the tops of the nearest, very small fir trees, finally began to play on the children’s cheeks. Then the top braid, greeting the sun, stopped jumping and chuffing. He sat down low on the bridge at the top of the tree, stretched his long neck along the branch and began a long song, similar to the babbling of a brook. In response to him, here, somewhere nearby, dozens of the same birds, each also a rooster, sitting on the ground, stretched out their necks and began to sing the same song. And then, as if a rather large stream was already muttering, it ran over the invisible pebbles.

How many times have we, hunters, waited until the dark morning and at the chilly dawn listened with trepidation to this singing, trying in our own way to understand what the roosters were crowing about. And when we repeated their mutterings in our own way, what came out was:

Cool feathers

Ur-gur-gu.

Cool feathers

I'll cut it off.

So the black grouse muttered in unison, intending to fight at the same time. And while they were muttering like that, a small event happened in the depths of the dense spruce crown. There a crow was sitting on a nest and was hiding there all the time from the koscha, which was migrating almost right next to the nest. The crow would very much like to drive away the scythe, but she was afraid to leave the nest and let her eggs cool in the morning frost. The male raven guarding the nest was making its flight at that time and, probably having encountered something suspicious, paused. The crow lay down in the nest, waiting for the male, and was quieter than water below the grass. And suddenly, seeing the male flying back, she shouted:

This meant to her:

- Help me out!

- Kra! - the male answered in the direction of the current, in the sense that it is still unknown who will tear off whose cool feathers.

The male, immediately understanding what was going on, went down and sat down on the same bridge near the tree, right next to the nest where the killer whale was mating, only closer to the pine tree, and began to wait.

At this time, Kosach, not paying any attention to the male crow, called out his words, known to all hunters:

- Car-ker-cupcake!

And this was the signal for a general fight of all the displaying roosters. Well, cool feathers flew in all directions! And then, as if on the same signal, the male crow, with small steps along the bridge, imperceptibly began to approach the killer whale.

The hunters for sweet cranberries sat motionless, like statues, on a stone. The sun, so hot and clear, came out against them over the swamp fir trees. But at that time one cloud happened in the sky. It appeared like a cold blue arrow and crossed itself in half rising Sun. At the same time, the wind suddenly blew, the tree pressed against the pine tree, and the pine tree groaned. The wind blew again, and then the pine tree pressed, and the spruce growled.

At this time, having rested on a stone and warmed up in the rays of the sun, Nastya and Mitrasha stood up to continue their journey. But right at the stone, a rather wide swamp path diverged like a fork: one, good, dense path went to the right, the other, weak, went straight.

Having checked the direction of the trails with a compass, Mitrasha, pointing out a weak trail, said:

- We need to take this one to the north.

- This is not a path! - Nastya answered.

- Here's another! - Mitrasha got angry. “People were walking, so there was a path.” We need to go north. Let's go and don't talk anymore.

Nastya was offended to obey the younger Mitrasha.

- Kra! - shouted the crow in the nest at that time.

And her male ran in small steps closer to the killer whale, halfway across the bridge.

The second steep blue arrow crossed the sun, and began to approach from above gray gloom.

The Golden Hen gathered her strength and tried to persuade her friend.

“Look,” she said, “how dense my path is, all the people are walking here.” Are we really smarter than everyone else?

“Let all people walk,” the stubborn Little Man in a Bag decisively answered. “We must follow the arrow, as our father taught us, north, towards Palestine.”

“Father told us fairy tales, he joked with us,” said Nastya. “And there are probably no Palestinians in the north at all.” It would be very stupid for us to follow the arrow: we will end up not in Palestine, but in the very Blind Elan.

“Okay,” Mitrash turned sharply. “I won’t argue with you anymore: you go along your path, where all the women go to buy cranberries, but I’ll go on my own, along my path, to the north.”

And in fact he went there without thinking about the cranberry basket or the food.

Nastya should have reminded him of this, but she was so angry that, all red as red, she turned away and went to pick up the cranberries along the common path.

- Kra! - the crow screamed.

And the male, quickly running across the bridge the rest of the way to the scythe, hit him with all his might. As if scalded, the moose rushed towards the flying black grouse, but the angry male caught up with him, pulled him out, threw a bunch of white and rainbow feathers through the air and chased him far away.

Then the gray darkness moved in tightly and blocked the entire sun from us with all its life-giving rays.

The evil wind blew very sharply. The trees intertwined with roots, piercing each other with branches, growled, howled, and groaned throughout the Bludovo swamp.

The trees moaned so pitifully that his hound dog, Grass, crawled out of a half-collapsed potato pit near Antipych’s lodge and howled pitifully in the same way, in tune with the trees.

Why did the dog have to crawl out of the warm, comfortable basement so early and howl pitifully in response to the trees? Among the sounds of moaning, growling, grumbling, and howling that morning from the trees, it sometimes sounded as if somewhere in the forest a lost or abandoned child was crying bitterly.

It was this crying that Grass could not bear and, hearing it, crawled out of the hole at night and at midnight. The dog could not bear this cry of trees intertwined forever: the trees reminded the animal of his own grief. Two whole years have passed since a terrible misfortune happened in Travka’s life: the forester she adored, the old hunter Antipych, died.

For a long time we went hunting with this Antipych, and the old man, I think, forgot how old he was. He lived and lived in his forest lodge, and it seemed that he would never die.

- How old are you, Antipych? - we asked. - Eighty?

“Not enough,” he answered.

Thinking that he was joking with us, but he knew it well, we asked:

- Antipych, stop your jokes, tell us the truth, how old are you?

“In truth,” answered the old man, “I will tell you if you tell me in advance what the truth is, what it is, where it lives and how to find it.”

It was difficult to answer us.

“You, Antipych, are older than us,” we said, “and you probably know better than us what the truth is.”

“I know,” Antipych grinned.

- So, say.

- No, while I’m alive, I can’t say, you look for it yourself. Well, when I’m about to die, come: then I’ll whisper the whole truth in your ear. Come!

- Okay, we'll come. What if we don’t guess when it’s necessary, and you die without us?

Grandfather squinted in his own way, the way he always squinted when he wanted to laugh and joke.

“You kids,” he said, “are not little, it’s time to know for yourself, but you keep asking.” Well, okay, when I’m ready to die and you’re not here, I’ll whisper to my Grass. Grass! - he called.

A large red dog with a black strap across its back entered the hut. Under her eyes there were black stripes with a curve like glasses. And this made her eyes seem very large, and with them she asked: “Why did you call me, master?”

Antipych looked at her in a special way, and the dog immediately understood the man: he called her out of friendship, out of friendship, for nothing, but just to joke, to play. The grass waved its tail, began to descend on its legs, lower and lower, and when it crawled up to the old man’s knees, it lay on its back and turned up its light belly with six pairs of black nipples. Antipych just extended his hand to stroke her, when she suddenly jumped up and put her paws on his shoulders - and kissed him, and kissed him: on the nose, and on the cheeks, and on the very lips.

“Well, it will be, it will be,” he said, calming the dog and wiping his face with his sleeve.

He stroked her on the head and said:

- Well, it will be, now go to your place.

The grass turned and went out into the yard.

“That’s it, guys,” said Antipych. “Here’s Travka, a hound dog, who understands everything from one word, and you stupid ones ask where the truth lives.” Okay, come. But let me go, I’ll whisper everything to Travka.

And then Antipych died. Soon the Great Patriotic War began. No other watchman was appointed to replace Antipych and his guardhouse was abandoned. The house was very dilapidated, much older than Antipych himself, and was already supported by supports. One day, without an owner, the wind played with the house, and it immediately fell apart, like a house of cards falling apart from one breath of a baby. One year, tall fireweed grass sprouted through the logs, and all that was left of the hut in the forest clearing was a mound covered with red flowers. And Grass moved into the potato pit and began to live in the forest, like any other animal.

But it was very difficult for Grass to get used to wild life. She drove animals for Antipych, her great and merciful master, but not for herself. Many times she happened to catch a hare during the rut. Having crushed him under her, she lay down and waited for Antipych to come, and, often completely hungry, did not allow herself to eat the hare. Even if Antipych for some reason did not come, she took the hare in her teeth, lifted her head high so that it would not dangle, and dragged it home. So she worked for Antipych, but not for herself. The owner loved her, fed her and protected her from wolves. And now, when Antipych died, she needed, like any wild animal, to live for herself. It happened that more than once during the hot season she forgot that she was chasing a hare only in order to catch him and eat him. Grass forgot herself so much on the hunt that, having caught a hare, she dragged him to Antipych, and then sometimes, hearing the moaning of the trees, she climbed up the hill, which was once a hut, and howled and howled...

The Gray Landowner wolf had been listening to this howl for a long time...

Antipych's lodge was not far from the Sukhaya River, where several years ago, at the request of local peasants, our “wolf team” came. Local hunters discovered that a large brood of wolves lived somewhere on the Sukhaya River. We came to help the peasants and got down to business according to all the rules of fighting a predatory animal.

At night, having climbed into the Bludovo swamp, we howled like a wolf and thus caused a response howl from all the wolves on the Sukhaya River. And so we found out exactly where they live and how many there are.

They lived in the most impassable rubble of the Sukhaya River. Here, a long time ago, the water fought with the trees for its freedom, and the trees had to secure the banks. The water won, the trees fell, and after that the water itself fled into the swamp. Trees and rot were piled up in many tiers. Grass made its way through the trees, ivy vines twined with frequent young aspen trees. And so a “strong place” was created, in our opinion, a hunting place, or even, one might say, a wolf fortress.

Having identified the place where the wolves lived, we walked around it on skis and along the ski track, in a circle of three kilometers, hung flags, red and fragrant, from the bushes on a string. The red color scares the wolves, and the smell of calico frightens them, and they are especially afraid if a breeze, running through the forest, moves these flags here and there.

As many shooters as we had, we made as many gates in a continuous circle of these flags. Opposite each gate a shooter stood somewhere behind a thick fir tree.

By carefully shouting and tapping their sticks, the beaters aroused the wolves, and at first they quietly walked in their direction. In front walked the she-wolf herself, behind her were the young Pereyarkas, and behind her, to the side, separately and independently, was a huge, big-faced, seasoned wolf, a villain known to the peasants, nicknamed the Gray Landowner.

The wolves walked very carefully. The beaters pressed. The she-wolf began to trot. And suddenly...

Stop! Flags!

She turned the other way and there too:

Stop! Flags!

The beaters pressed closer and closer. The old she-wolf lost her wolf sense and, poking here and there as she had to, found a way out and was met at the very gate with a shot in the head just ten steps from the hunter.

So all the wolves died, but Gray had been in such troubles more than once and, hearing the first shots, waved through the flags. As he jumped, two charges were fired at him: one tore off his left ear, the other, half of his tail.

The wolves died, but in one summer Gray slaughtered no less cows and sheep than a whole flock had slaughtered them before. From behind a juniper bush, he waited for the shepherds to leave or fall asleep. And, having determined the right moment, he burst into the herd and slaughtered sheep and spoiled cows in a row. After that, he grabbed one sheep on his back and rushed it, jumping with the sheep over the fences, to his inaccessible lair on the Sukhaya River. In winter, when the herds did not go out into the fields, he very rarely had to break into any barnyard. In winter he caught more dogs in the villages and ate almost exclusively dogs. And he became so insolent that one day, while chasing a dog running after the owner’s sleigh, he drove it into the sleigh and tore it right out of the owner’s hands.

The Gray Landowner became a thunderstorm in the region, and again the peasants came for our “wolf team.”

Five times we tried to flag him, and all five times he waved through our flags. And now, in early spring, having survived a harsh winter in terrible cold and hunger, Gray in his lair waited impatiently for the real spring to finally come and the village shepherd to blow his trumpet.

That morning, when the children quarreled among themselves and went along different paths, Gray lay hungry and angry. When the wind clouded the morning and the trees near the Lying Stone howled, he could not stand it and crawled out of his lair. He stood over the rubble, raised his head, tucked up his already skinny belly, put his only ear to the wind, straightened half of his tail and howled.

What a pitiful howl! But you, a passerby, if you hear and a reciprocal feeling arises in you, do not believe in pity: it is not a dog howling, man’s truest friend, it is a wolf, his worst enemy, doomed to death by his very malice. You, passer-by, save your pity not for the one who howls about himself like a wolf, but for the one who, like a dog that has lost its owner, howls, not knowing who now, after him, to serve.

The dry river goes around the Bludovo swamp in a large semicircle. On one side of the semicircle a dog howls, on the other a wolf howls. And the wind presses on the trees and carries their howls and groans, not knowing at all who it serves. He doesn’t care who howls: a tree, a dog - man’s friend or a wolf - worst enemy him - just to howl. The wind treacherously brings to the wolf the plaintive howl of a dog abandoned by man. And Gray, having heard the living groan of the dog from the groaning of the trees, quietly got out of the rubble and, with his only ear alert and a straight half of his tail, rose to the top. Here, having determined the place of the howl near Antipych’s guardhouse, he set off from the hill straight in wide strides in that direction.

Fortunately for Grass, severe hunger forced her to stop her sad crying or, perhaps, calling for a new person. Maybe for her, in her dog’s understanding, Antipych didn’t even die at all, but only turned his face away from her. Maybe she even understood that “the whole person” is one Antipych with many faces. And if one of his faces turned away, then, perhaps, soon the same Antipych will call her to him again, only with a different face, and she will serve this face as faithfully as the other...

This is most likely what happened: The grass with its howl called Antipych to itself.

And the wolf, having heard this dog’s “prayer” for man, which he hated, went there at full swing. She would have held out for about five more minutes, and Gray would have grabbed her. But, having “prayed” to Antipych, she felt very hungry, stopped calling Antipych and went to look for the hare’s trail for herself.

It was at that time of year when the nocturnal animal, the hare, does not lie down at the first onset of morning, only to lie open-eyed in fear all day. In spring, the hare wanders openly and boldly through the fields and roads for a long time and in the white light. And so one old hare, after a quarrel between the children, came to where they had separated, and, like them, sat down to rest and listen on the Lying Stone. A sudden gust of wind with the howling of the trees frightened him, and he, jumping from the Lying Stone, ran with his hare leaps, throwing his hind legs forward, straight to the place of the Blind Elani, terrible for a person. He had not yet shed thoroughly and left marks not only on the ground, but also hung his winter fur on the bushes and on last year’s old tall grass.

Quite some time had passed since the hare sat on the stone, but Grass immediately picked up the scent of the hare. She was prevented from chasing him by the tracks on

stone of two little people and their basket, which smelled of bread and boiled potatoes.

So Travka faced a difficult task - to decide whether to follow the hare's trail to the Blind Elan, where the trail of one of the little people also went, or to follow the human trail going to the right, bypassing the Blind Elan.

The difficult question would be resolved very simply if it were possible to understand which of the two men carried the bread with him. I wish I could eat a little of this bread and start the race not for myself and bring the hare to the one who gives the bread.

Where to go, in which direction?..

In such cases, people think, but about a hound dog, hunters say: the dog is chipped.

So the Grass split off. And, like any hound in such a case, she began to make circles with her head high, with her senses directed up, down, and to the sides, and with an inquisitive strain of her eyes.

Suddenly, a gust of wind from the direction Nastya went instantly stopped the dog’s rapid movement in a circle. The grass, after standing for a while, even rose up on its hind legs, like a hare...

It happened to her once during Antipych’s lifetime. The forester had a difficult job in the forest, distributing firewood. Antipych, so that Pravka would not disturb him, tied her near the house. Early in the morning, at dawn, the forester left. But only by lunchtime did Grass realize that the chain at the other end was tied to an iron hook on a thick rope. Realizing this, she stood on the rubble, stood up on her hind legs, pulled up the rope with her front legs, and by evening crushed it. Now after that, with a chain around her neck, she set off in search of Antipych. More than half a day had passed since Antipych passed; his trace disappeared and was then washed away by a fine drizzling rain, similar to dew. But the silence in the forest all day was such that during the day not a single stream of air moved and the finest odorous particles of tobacco smoke from Antipych’s pipe hung in the still air from morning to evening. Realizing immediately that it was impossible to find Antipych by following the tracks, having made a circle with his head held high, the Grass suddenly fell on the tobacco stream of air and little by little, through the tobacco, now losing the air trail, now meeting him again, it finally reached its owner.

There was such a case. Now, when the wind, with a strong and sharp gust, brought a suspicious smell to her senses, she petrified and waited. And when the wind blew again, she stood, as then, on her hind legs like a hare and was sure that the bread or potatoes were in the direction from which the wind was flying and where one of the little men had gone.

The grass returned to the Lying Stone, compared the smell of the basket on the stone with what the wind had brought. Then she checked the trace of the other little man and also a hare trail. You can guess what she thought:

“The brown hare followed directly to his daytime bed, he was somewhere right there, not far, near the Blind Elani, and lay down for the whole day and will not go anywhere. And that little man with the bread and potatoes can leave. And what kind of comparison can there be: to work, to strain, chasing a hare for yourself in order to tear it apart yourself, or to receive a piece of bread and affection from the hand of a person and, perhaps, even find Antipych in him.”

Looking again carefully in the direction of the direct trail, at the Blind Elan, Grass finally turned towards the path that goes around the Elan with right side, once again rose to her hind legs, was confident, wagged her tail and trotted there.

The blind elan, where the compass needle led Mitrash, was a disastrous place, and here, over the centuries, many people and even more livestock were drawn into the swamp. And, of course, everyone who goes to the Bludovo swamp should know well what it is - the Blind Elan.

This is how we understand it, that the entire Bludovo swamp, with all its huge reserves of fuel and peat, is a storehouse of the sun. Yes, that’s exactly what it is, that the hot sun was the mother of every blade of grass, every flower, every marsh bush and berry. The sun gave its warmth to all of them, and they, dying, decomposing, passed it on as an inheritance to other plants, bushes, berries, flowers and blades of grass. But in swamps, water does not allow plant parents to transfer all their goodness to their children. For thousands of years this goodness is preserved under water, the swamp becomes a storehouse of the sun, and then this entire storehouse of the sun, like peat, is inherited by man from the sun.

The Bludovo swamp contains huge reserves of fuel, but the peat layer is not the same thickness everywhere.

Where the children sat at the Lying Stone, plants lay layer upon layer on top of each other for thousands of years. Here was the oldest layer of peat, but further, the closer to Blind Elani, the layer became younger and thinner.

Little by little, as Mitrash moved forward according to the direction of the arrow, the paths and bumps under his feet became not just soft, as before, but semi-liquid. It’s as if he steps on something solid, but his foot goes away, and it becomes scary: is his foot really going into the abyss? You come across some fidgety bumps, and you have to choose a place to put your foot. And then it just happened that when you step, your foot suddenly starts to growl, like your stomach, and runs somewhere under the swamp.

The ground underfoot became like a hammock suspended over a shadowy abyss. On this moving earth, on a thin layer of plants intertwined with roots and stems, there are rare small, gnarled and moldy fir trees, the acidic swamp soil does not allow them to grow, and they, so small, are already a hundred years old, or even more...

Old Christmas trees are not like trees in a forest, they are all the same: tall, slender, tree to tree, column to column, candle to candle. The older the old woman in the swamp, the stranger she seems. Then one naked branch raised it like a hand to hug you as you walked, and the other had a stick in her hand, and she was waiting for you to slap you; the third sat down for some reason; the fourth is standing and knitting a stocking.

And so everything: no matter what the Christmas tree is, it certainly looks like something.

The layer under Mitrasha’s feet became thinner and thinner, but the plants were probably intertwined very tightly and held the man well, and, swaying and swaying all around, he walked and walked forward. Mitrash could only believe the man who walked ahead of him and even left the path behind him.

The old women of the tree were very worried, letting a boy with a long gun, wearing a cap with two visors pass between them. It happens that one suddenly rises up, as if she wants to hit the daredevil on the head with a stick, and closes in front of all the other old women. And then he lowers himself, and the other one reaches out to the path with a bony hand. Now there is a continuous rumbling and grumbling rising underground from every step.

Suddenly a head with a tuft appears very close overhead, and a lapwing alarmed on the nest with round black wings and white underwings shouts sharply:

- Whose are you, whose are you?

- Alive, alive! - as if answering the lapwing, the large curlew, a gray bird with a large crooked beak, shouts.

And a black raven, guarding its nest in the forest, flying around the swamp in a guard circle, noticed a small hunter with a double visor. In the spring, the raven also has a special cry, similar to how a person shouts in his throat and nose: “Dron-tone!”

There are incomprehensible and elusive shades in the basic sound that our ears cannot understand, and that is why we cannot understand the conversation of ravens, but only guess, like deaf-mutes.

- Drone-tone! - the guard raven shouted in the sense that some small man with a double visor and a gun was approaching Blind Elani and that, perhaps, there would soon be some profit.

- Drone-tone! - answered the female crow from a distance on the nest.

And this meant to her:

- I hear and wait!

Magpies, who are closely related to ravens, noticed the roll call of ravens and began to chirp. And even the fox, after an unsuccessful hunt for mice, pricked up its ears to the cry of the raven.

Mitrash heard all this, but was not at all afraid: why should he be afraid if there was a human path under his feet! A person like him was walking, which means that he himself, Mitrasha, could safely walk along it. And, hearing the raven, he even sang:

Don't hang yourself, black raven,

Over my head!

The singing encouraged him even more, and he even figured out how to shorten the difficult path along the path. Looking at his feet, he noticed that his foot, sinking into the mud, was immediately collecting water there, in the hole. So each person, walking along the path, drained water from the moss lower down, and therefore, on the drained edge, next to the stream of the path, tall sweet white grass grew in an alley on both sides. According to this - no yellow color, as it was everywhere now, in early spring, but rather the color was white - the grass could understand far ahead of itself where the human path passed.

So I saw Mitrash: his path turns sharply to the left and goes far there, and there it completely disappears. He checked the compass: the arrow pointed north, the path went west.

- Whose are you? - the lapwing shouted at this time.

- Alive, alive! - answered the sandpiper.

- Drone-tone! - the raven shouted even more confidently.

And magpies began to chatter in the Christmas trees all around.

Having looked around the area, Mitrasha saw right in front of him a clean, good clearing, where the hummocks, gradually decreasing, turned into a completely flat place. But the most important thing that he saw was that very close on the other side of the clearing, tall white grass was snaking - an invariable companion of the human path. Recognizing from the direction of the white bear a path going directly to the north, Mitrasha thought: “Why would I turn left, onto the hummocks, if the path is just a stone’s throw away, visible there, behind the clearing!”

And he boldly walked forward, crossing the clear clearing.

………………………………………………………………….

- Oh, you! - Antipych used to tell us, when we fall into a swamp, we’ll come home dirty and wet. - You guys walk around, dressed and wearing shoes.

- How then? - we asked.

“We could walk around,” he answered, “naked and barefoot.”

- Why naked and barefoot?

And he was rolling over us.

So we didn’t understand anything why the old man was laughing.

Now, only after many years, Antipych’s words come to mind, and everything becomes clear: Antipych addressed these words to us when we children, whistling fervently and confidently, talked about something that we had not yet experienced at all.

Antipych, offering us to walk naked and barefoot, just didn’t finish the sentence: “If you don’t know the ford, don’t go into the water.”

So here is Mitrasha.

And prudent Nastya warned him.

And the white grass showed the direction of going around the elani.

No! Not knowing the ford, he left the beaten human path and climbed straight into the Blind Elan. Meanwhile, right here, in this clearing, the interweaving of plants stopped altogether, there was an elan, the same as an ice hole in a pond in winter. In an ordinary elan, at least a little bit of water is always visible, covered with beautiful white groves and water lilies. This is why this elan was called Blind, because it was unrecognizable by its appearance.

At first Mitrash walked along the Elani better than even before through the swamp. Gradually, however, his feet began to sink deeper and deeper, and it became more and more difficult to pull them back out. The elk feels good here, he has terrible strength in his long legs, and, most importantly, he doesn’t think and rushes the same way both in the forest and in the swamp. But Mitrash, sensing danger, stopped and thought about his situation. At one moment he stopped, he sank up to his knees, at another moment he sank above his knees. He could still, with an effort, break out of the elani back. And he decided to turn around, put the gun on the swamp and, leaning on it, jump out. But then, very close to me, ahead, I saw tall white grass on the human trail.

- I’ll jump over! - he said.

And he rushed.

But it was already too late. In the heat of the moment, like a wounded man, to disappear, to disappear! - at random, he rushed again, and again, and again. And he felt himself tightly grabbed from all sides up to his chest. Now he couldn’t even breathe much: at the slightest movement he was pulled down. He could do only one thing: lay the gun flat on the swamp and, leaning on it with both hands, do not move and quickly calm his breathing. So he did: he took off his gun, put it in front of him, and leaned on it with both hands.

A sudden gust of wind brought him Nastya’s piercing cry:

- Mitrasha!

He answered her.

But the wind was from the side where Nastya was, and carried his cry to the other side of the Bludov swamp, to the west, where there were only fir trees endlessly. Some magpies responded to him and, flying from tree to tree with their usual anxious chirping, little by little surrounded the entire Blind Elan and, sitting on the upper fingers of the trees, thin, nosed, long-tailed, began to chatter, some like: “Dri-ti-ti !”, others: “Dra-ta-ta!”

- Drone-tone! - the raven shouted from above.

And, instantly stopping the noisy flapping of his wings, he sharply threw himself down and again opened his wings almost above the man’s head. The little man did not even dare to show the gun to the black messenger of his death.

And the magpies, who are very smart for any nasty business, realized the complete powerlessness of those immersed in the swamp little man. They jumped from the top fingers of the fir trees to the ground and from different sides began their magpie advance with leaps and bounds.

The little man with the double visor stopped screaming. Tears flowed down his tanned face and down his cheeks in shiny rivulets.

Anyone who has never seen how a cranberry grows can walk through a swamp for a very long time and not notice that he is walking through a cranberry. Here, take a blueberry - it grows, and you see it: a thin stalk stretches up, along the stem, like wings, small green leaves in different directions, and blueberries, black berries with blue fluff, sit on the leaves in small peas. Also lingonberries: a blood-red berry, the leaves are dark green, dense, do not turn yellow even under the snow, and there are so many berries that the place seems to be watered with blood. Blueberries are also growing in the swamp as bushes - the berries are blue, larger, you can’t pass by without noticing. In remote places where the huge capercaillie bird lives, there is a stone fruit - a red-ruby berry with a tassel, and each ruby ​​in a green frame. Only here we have one single cranberry, especially in early spring, hiding in a swamp hummock and almost invisible from above. Only when a lot of it has gathered in one place, you notice it from above and think: “Someone scattered the cranberries.” You bend down to take one, try it, and together with one berry you pull a green thread with many cranberries. If you want, you can pull out a whole necklace of large, blood-red berries from the hummock.

Either that cranberries are an expensive berry in the spring, or that they are healthy and healing and that it is good to drink tea with them, only women develop terrible greed when collecting them.

One old woman once filled our basket so big that she couldn’t even lift it. And I didn’t dare to pour out the berries or even abandon the basket. Yes, I almost died near the full basket.

Otherwise, it happens that one woman attacks a berry and, looking around, doesn’t anyone see? - she lies down on the ground in a wet swamp and crawls, and no longer sees that another one is crawling towards her, not even resembling a person at all. So they will meet each other - and well, fight!

At first, Nastya picked each berry from the vine separately, and for each red one she bent down to the ground. But soon she stopped bending over for one berry; she wanted more.

She began to guess now where she could get not just one or two berries, but a whole handful, and began to bend down only for a handful. So she pours out handful after handful, more and more often, but she wants more and more.

It used to be that Nastenka wouldn’t work at home for an hour before, so that he wouldn’t remember his brother, so that he wouldn’t want to echo him.

But now he’s gone alone, no one knows where, she doesn’t even remember that she has the bread, that her beloved brother is out there somewhere, in a dark swamp, walking hungry. Yes, she has forgotten about herself and only remembers cranberries, and she wants more and more.

That’s what caused all the fuss to flare up during her argument with Mitrasha: namely, that she wanted to follow the well-trodden path. And now, following the cranberries by touch - where the cranberries lead, there she, Nastya, imperceptibly left the well-worn path.

There was only one time, like an awakening from greed: she suddenly realized that she had gone off the path somewhere. I turned to where it seemed like there was a path, but there was no path there.

She rushed in the other direction, where two dry trees with bare branches loomed - there was no path there either. Then, by chance, she should remember about the compass, as Mitrash spoke about it, and her brother, her beloved, remember that he is going hungry, and, remembering, call out to him...

And just to remember how suddenly Nastenka saw something that not every cranberry grower gets to see at least once in their life...

In their dispute about which path to take, the children did not know that the big path and the small one, going around the Blind Elan, both converged on the Sukhaya River and there, beyond the Sukhaya River, no longer diverging, they eventually led to the big Pereslavl road. In a large semicircle, Nastya’s path went around the dry land of the Blind Elan. Mitrash's path went straight near the very edge of the Yelan. If he hadn’t been so careful, if he hadn’t lost sight of the white grass on the human path, he would have long ago been in the place where Nastya came only now. And this place, hidden between the juniper bushes, was exactly the same Palestinian place that Mitrasha was aiming for on the compass. If Mitrash had come here hungry and without a basket, what would he have done here, on this blood-red Palestine?! Nastya came to Palestine with big basket, with a large supply of food, forgotten and covered with sour berries.

And again, the girl, who looks like the Golden Hen on high legs, should think about her brother during a joyful meeting with a Palestinian and shout to him:

- Dear friend, we have arrived! Ah, raven, raven, prophetic bird! You yourself may have lived for three hundred years, and whoever gave birth to you has retold in his testicle everything that he also learned during his three hundred years of life. And so the memory of everything that happened in this swamp for a thousand years passed from raven to raven. How much have you, crow, seen and known, and why don’t you at least once leave your circle of crows and carry to your sister on your mighty wings the news about your brother dying in the swamp from his desperate and senseless courage! You should have told them, raven...

- Drone-tone! - shouted the raven, flying over the very head of the dying man.

- I hear! - also in the same “drone tone” the crow answered him on the nest. “Just make sure to grab something before he gets completely sucked into the swamp.”

- Drone-tone! - the male raven shouted for the second time, flying over the girl crawling almost next to her dying brother in the wet swamp. And this “drone tone” from the raven meant that the raven family might get even more from this crawling girl.

There were no cranberries in the very middle of Palestine. Here a dense aspen forest stood out as a hilly curtain, and in it stood a horned giant elk. To look at him from one side - it will seem like he looks like a bull, to look at him from the other - a horse and a horse: a slender body, and slender, dry legs, and a mug with thin nostrils. But how arched this mug is, what eyes and what horns! You look and think: maybe there is nothing - no bull, no horse, and so, something big, gray takes shape in the dense gray aspen forest. But how does an aspen tree form, if you can clearly see how the monster’s thick lips plopped onto the tree and a narrow white stripe remains on the tender aspen tree: this is how this monster feeds. Yes, almost all aspen trees show such bites. No, this huge thing is not a vision in the swamp. But how can one understand that such a large body can grow on aspen bark and marsh shamrock petals?

Where does a person, given his power, get greed even for the very sour berry cranberry? The elk, gleaning an aspen tree, calmly looks from its height at the crawling girl, as at any crawling creature. Seeing nothing but her cranberry, she crawls and crawls towards a large black stump. She barely moves a large basket behind her, all wet and dirty - the old Golden Hen on high legs.

The moose doesn’t even consider her to be a person: he looks indifferently, like we do at soulless stones.

A large black stump collects the rays of the sun and becomes very hot. It’s already starting to get dark, and the air and everything around is cooling.

But the stump, black and large, still retains heat. Six small lizards crawled out of the swamp and clung to the warmth; four lemon butterflies, folding their wings, fell with their antennae; big black flies came to spend the night. A long cranberry lash, clinging to the stems of grass and irregularities, entwined a black warm stump and, having made several turns at the very top, descended on the other side. Poisonous snakes - vipers - guard the warmth at this time of year, and one, huge, half a meter long, crawled onto a stump and curled up in a ring on a cranberry.

And the girl also crawled through the swamp, without raising her head high. And so she crawled to the burnt stump and pulled the very whip where the snake lay. The reptile raised its head and hissed.

It was then that Nastya finally woke up, jumped up, and the elk, recognizing her as a person, jumped out of the aspen tree and, throwing forward his strong long stilt legs, rushed easily through the viscous swamp, like a brown hare rushing along a dry path.

Frightened by the elk, Nastenka looked at the snake in amazement: the viper was still lying, curled up in a ring, in the warm ray of the sun. Nastya imagined that she herself had remained there, on the stump, and now she had come out of the snake’s skin and was standing, not understanding where she was.

A large red dog with a black strap on its back stood not far away and looked at her.

This dog was Travka, and Nastya even remembered her: Antipych came to the village with her more than once. But she couldn’t remember the dog’s name correctly and shouted to it:

- Ant, Ant, I’ll give you some bread!

And she reached into the basket for bread. The basket was filled to the top with cranberries, and under the cranberries there was bread.

How much time has passed, how many strawberries have been laid down from morning to evening, until the huge basket is filled?! Where was her brother during this time, hungry, and how did she forget about him, how did she forget about herself and everything around her?!

She again looked at the stump where the snake lay, and suddenly screamed shrilly:

- Brother, Mitrasha!

And, sobbing, she fell down next to a basket filled with cranberries.

It was this piercing scream that reached Yelani. And Mitrash heard this and answered, but a gust of wind then carried his cry to the other side, where only magpies lived.

That strong gust of wind when poor Nastya screamed was not the last before the silence of the evening dawn. The sun at that time passed down through a thick cloud and threw out the golden legs of its throne to the ground.

And that impulse was not the last, when in response to Nastya’s cry Mitrash shouted.

The last impulse was when the sun seemed to plunge the golden legs of its throne into the ground and, large, clean, red, touched the ground with its lower edge.

Then, on the dry land, the little white-browed song thrush sang its sweet song. Hesitantly near the Lying Stone on the calm trees

the current streamer slasher sank. And the cranes shouted three times, not like in the morning: “Victory!” - but it looks like: “Sleep, but remember: we will soon wake you all up, wake you up, wake you up!”

The day ended not with a gust of wind, but with the last light breath.

Then there was complete silence, and everything became audible everywhere, even the whistling of hazel grouse in the thickets of the Sukhaya River.

At this time, sensing human misfortune, Grass approached the sobbing Nastya and licked her cheek, salty from tears. Nastya raised her head, looked at the dog and, without saying anything to her, lowered her head back and laid it right on the berry.

Through the cranberries, Grass clearly smelled bread, and she was terribly hungry, but she could not afford to dig her paws into the cranberries. Instead, sensing human misfortune, she raised her head and howled.

Once, I remember, a long time ago, we were also driving in the evening, as in the old days, along a forest road in a troika with a bell. And suddenly the coachman besieged the troika; the bell fell silent; listening, the coachman told us:

We heard something ourselves.

- What is this?

— Some kind of trouble: a dog is howling in the forest.

We never found out what the trouble was there then.

Perhaps, somewhere in the swamp, a man was also drowning, and, seeing him off, a dog, man’s faithful friend, howled.

In complete silence, when Grass howled, Gray immediately realized that it was in Palestine, and quickly, quickly waved straight there.

Only very soon Grass stopped howling, and Gray stopped to wait until the howl started again.

And at that time Grass herself heard a familiar thin and rare voice in the direction of the Lying Stone:

- Yip! Yip!

And I immediately realized, of course, that it was a fox yapping at a hare. And then, of course, she understood: the fox had found the trail of the same brown hare that she had sniffed there, on the Lying Stone. And then she realized that a fox without cunning would never catch up with a hare and she only barked so that he would run and get tired, and when he got tired and lay down, then she would grab him while lying down. This happened to Travka after Antipych more than once when getting a hare for food. Hearing such a fox, Grass hunted in the wolf's way: just as a wolf during the rut silently stands in a circle and, waiting for the dog howling at the hare, catches it, so she, hiding, caught the hare from under the fox's rut.

Having listened to the fox's rut, Grass, just like us hunters, understood the hare's run circle: from the Lying Stone the hare ran to the Blind Elan and from there to the Sukhaya River, from there for a long semicircle to the Palestine and again certainly to the Lying Stone. Realizing this, she ran to the Lying Stone and hid here in a dense juniper bush.

Travka didn’t have to wait long. With her fine hearing she heard a chomping sound inaccessible to human hearing. hare's foot through the puddles on the swamp path. These puddles appeared on Nastya’s morning tracks. The Rusak would certainly now appear at the Lying Stone itself.

The grass behind the juniper bush crouched down and strained its hind legs for a mighty throw, and when it saw the ears, it rushed.

Just at this time, the hare, a big, old, seasoned hare, hobbling barely, decided to suddenly stop and, even standing up on his hind legs, to listen to how far away the fox was barking.

So they came together at the same time: The grass rushed, and the hare stopped.

And the Grass was carried through the hare.

While the dog was righting itself, the hare was already flying in huge leaps along the Mitrashina path straight to the Blind Elan.

Then the wolf's method of hunting was unsuccessful: it was impossible to wait until dark for the hare to return. And Grass, in her canine way, rushed after the hare and, squealing loudly, with a measured, even dog bark, filled the entire evening silence. Hearing the dog, the fox, of course, immediately gave up hunting for the hare and began her daily hunt for mice...

And Gray, having finally heard the long-awaited barking of the dog, rushed in the direction of Blind Elani.

The magpies on the Blind Elani, hearing the approach of the hare, divided into two parties: some remained with the little man and shouted:

- Dri-ti-ti!

Others shouted for the hare:

- Dra-ta-ta!

It is difficult to understand and guess in this magpie alarm. To say that they are calling for help - what help is that! If a person or a dog comes to the magpie’s cry, the magpies will not get anything. To say that with their cry they call the entire magpie tribe to a bloody feast? Is that so...

- Dri-ti-ti! - the magpies shouted, jumping closer and closer to the little man.

But they couldn’t jump very close: the little man’s hands were free. And suddenly the magpies mixed up: the same magpie would either squawk at “i” or squawk at “a”.

This meant that the hare was approaching the Blind Elan. This hare had dodged Travka more than once and knew well that the hound was catching up with the hare, and that, therefore, it was necessary to act with cunning. That is why, just before the tree, before reaching the little man, he stopped and excited all forty.

They all sat on the top fingers of the fir trees and all shouted for the hare:

- Dri-ta-ta!

But for some reason the hares do not attach any importance to this cry and make their discounts, not paying any attention to the forty.

That’s why sometimes you think that this magpie chattering is useless, and that they, like people, sometimes just spend time chatting out of boredom.

The hare, after standing for a little while, made his first huge jump, or, as the hunters say, his jump - in one direction, after standing there, he jumped to the other and after a dozen small jumps - to the third and there he lay down with his eyes on his trail on that chance that if Travka understands the discounts, he will come to a third discount, so that you can see it in advance.

Yes, of course, the hare is smart, smart, but still these discounts are a dangerous business: a smart hound also understands that the hare is always looking at its own trail, and so manages to take the direction of discounts, not by its tracks, but directly through the air, from above instinct.

And how, then, does the little bunny’s heart beat when he hears that the dog’s barking has stopped, the dog has chipped and silently began to make its terrible circle at the spot of the chip...

The hare was lucky this time. He understood: the dog, having begun to make its circle around the tree, met with something there, and suddenly a man’s voice was clearly heard there and a terrible noise arose...

You can guess: the hare, hearing an incomprehensible noise, said to himself something like our “away from sin” and - feather grass! - quietly went back to the trail, to the Lying Stone.

And the Grass, having scattered across the hare, suddenly ten steps away from itself saw a little man eye to eye and, forgetting about the hare, stopped dead in its tracks.

What Travka was thinking, looking at the little man in the elan, can be easily guessed. After all, for us, we are all different.

For Travka, all people were like two people: one was Antipych with different faces and the other person was Antipych’s enemy. And this is why a good, smart dog does not immediately approach a person, but stops and finds out whether it is his owner or his enemy.

So Grass stood and looked into the face of the little man, illuminated by the last ray of the setting sun.

The little man’s eyes were dull and dead at first, but suddenly a light lit up in them, and Grass noticed this.

“Most likely, this is Antipych,” thought Grass.

And she slightly, barely noticeably wagged her tail.

We, of course, cannot know how Travka thought when recognizing her Antipych, but, of course, we can guess.

Do you remember if this happened to you? It happens that you lean in the forest towards a quiet creek and there, as in a mirror, you see: the whole man, big, beautiful, like Antipych for Grass, leaned over from behind your back and also looks into the creek, like in a mirror. And so he is beautiful there, in the mirror, with all nature, with clouds, forests, and the sun also sets down there, and the new moon appears, and frequent stars.

So, for sure, Travka probably saw the whole person Antipych in each person’s face, as in a mirror, and she tried to throw herself on everyone’s neck, but from her experience she knew: there was an enemy of Antipych with exactly the same face.

And she waited.

Meanwhile, her paws were also gradually being sucked in. If you continue to stand like this, then the dog’s paws will be so sucked in that you won’t be able to get it out. We can't wait any longer.

And suddenly...

Neither thunder, nor lightning, nor the sunrise with all the victorious sounds, nor the sunset with the crane's promise of a new beautiful day - nothing, no miracle of nature could be greater than what happened now for Grass in the swamp: she heard a human word, and what a word !

Antipych, like a big, real hunter, named his dog at first, of course, hunting - from the word “poison”, and at first our Grass was called Zatravka; but after the hunting nickname, the name fell on the tongue, and the beautiful name Travka came out. IN last time When Antipych came to us, his dog was also called Zatravka. And when the light came on in the little man’s eyes, it meant that Mitrash remembered the name of the dog. Then the dead, blue lips of the little man began to become bloodshot, turn red, and begin to move. Grass noticed this movement of her lips and slightly wagged her tail a second time. And then a real miracle happened in understanding Grass. Just like old Antipych in the old days, the new, young and little Antipych said:

- Seed!

Recognizing Antipych, Grass instantly lay down.

- Well! Well! - said Antipych. - Come to me, smart girl!

And the Grass, in response to the man’s words, quietly crawled.

But the little man was calling her and beckoning her now, not quite straight from the bottom of his heart, as Travka herself probably thought. The little man’s words not only contained friendship and joy, as Travka thought, but also concealed a cunning plan for his salvation. If he could tell her his plan clearly, with what joy she would rush to save him! But he could not make himself understandable to her and had to deceive her with kind words. He even needed her to be afraid of him, otherwise if she weren’t afraid, didn’t feel a good fear of the power of the great Antipych and would throw herself on his neck like a dog with all her might, then the swamp would inevitably drag a man into its bowels and his friend - a dog. The little man simply could not now be the great man that Travka imagined. The little man was forced to be cunning.

- Zatravushka, dear Zatravushka! - he caressed her in a sweet voice.

And I thought: “Well, crawl, just crawl!”

And the dog, with its pure soul suspecting something not entirely pure in Antipych’s clear words, crawled with stops.

- Well, my dear, more, more!

And I thought: “Just crawl, crawl!”

And little by little she crawled up. Even now, he could, leaning on the gun spread out in the swamp, lean forward a little, extend his hand, stroke his head. But the little cunning man knew that from his slightest touch the dog would rush at him with a squeal of joy and drown him.

And the little man stopped his big heart. He froze in precise calculation of movement, like a fighter in the blow that determines the outcome of the fight: whether he should live or die.

If only there was a small crawl on the ground, and the Grass would have thrown itself on the man’s neck, but the little man was not mistaken in his calculations: he instantly threw away his right hand forward and grabbed the big, strong dog by the left hind leg.

So could the enemy of man deceive him like that?

The grass jerked with insane force, and it would have escaped from the little man’s hand if he, already quite dragged out, had not grabbed it with his other hand by the other leg.

Immediately after that, he lay down with his stomach on the gun, released the dog and, on all fours, like a dog, moving the support-gun forward and forward, he crawled to the path where the man constantly walked and where tall white grass grew from his feet along the edges. Here, on the path, he stood up, here he wiped the last tears from his face, shook off the dirt from his rags and, like a real big man, authoritatively ordered:

- Come to me now, my Seed!

Hearing such a voice, such words, Grass gave up all her hesitation: the former beautiful Antipych stood before her. With a squeal of joy, recognizing her owner, she threw herself on his neck, and the big man kissed his friend on the nose, eyes, and ears.

Isn't it time to say now how we ourselves think about mysterious words our old forester Antipych, when he promised to whisper to us

our truth to the dog, if we ourselves do not find him alive? We think Antipych didn’t say this entirely in jest. It may very well be that Antipych, as Travka understands him, or, in our opinion, the whole man in his ancient past, whispered to his friend - the dog - some of his great human truths, and we think this truth is the truth of the eternal harsh struggle people for love.

Now it remains for us to tell a little about all the events of this big day in the Bludov swamp. The day, no matter how long it was, was not quite over when Mitrash got out of the elani with the help of Travka. After the intense joy of meeting Antipych, the businesslike Travka immediately remembered her interrupted hare race. And it’s clear: Grass is a hound dog, and its job is to chase and even sometimes catch up with a hare for its owner. It was very difficult for her to chase for herself, but for the owner Antipych, catching a hare is all her happiness. Having now recognized Mitrash as Antipych, she continued her interrupted circle and soon found herself on the hare’s exit trail and immediately followed this fresh trail with her voice.

Hungry Mitrash, barely alive, immediately realized that all his salvation would be in this hare, that if he killed the hare, he would start the fire with a shot and, as had happened more than once with his father, he would bake the hare in hot ashes. After examining the gun and changing the wet cartridges, he went out into the circle and hid in a juniper bush.

You could still clearly see the front sight on the gun when Grass turned the hare from the Lying Stone onto Nastya’s big path, drove him out onto the Palestinian road, and directed him from here to the juniper bush where the hunter was standing. But then it happened that Gray, having heard the renewed rutting of the dog, chose for himself exactly the same juniper bush where the hunter stood, and two hunters, a man and his worst enemy, met... Seeing a gray muzzle some five steps away from him , Mitrash forgot about the hare and shot almost point-blank.

The Gray Landowner ended his life without any suffering.

Gon was, of course, knocked down by this shot, but Travka continued her work. The most important thing, the happiest thing was not the hare, not the wolf, but that Nastya, hearing a close shot, screamed. Mitrasha recognized her voice, answered, and she instantly ran to him. After that, soon Travka brought the hare to her new, young Antipych, and the friends began to warm themselves by the fire, prepare their own food and lodging for the night.

Nastya and Mitrasha lived across the house from us, and when in the morning a hungry cattle roared in their yard, we were the first to come to see if any trouble had happened to the children. We immediately realized that the children had not spent the night at home and, most likely, got lost in the swamp. Little by little, other neighbors gathered and began to think about how we could help the children, if only they were still alive. And just as they were about to scatter across the swamp in all directions, we looked, and the hunters for sweet cranberries were coming out of the forest in single file, and on their shoulders they had a pole with a heavy basket, and next to them was Grass, Antipych’s dog.

They told us in every detail about everything that happened to them in the Bludov swamp.

And we believed everything: an unprecedented harvest of cranberries was evident. But not everyone could believe that a boy in his eleventh year could kill an old cunning wolf. However, several of those who believed, with a rope and a large sled, went to the indicated place and soon brought the dead Gray Landowner. Then everyone in the village stopped what they were doing for a while and gathered, and not only from their own village, but also from neighboring villages. How much talk there was! And it’s hard to say who they looked at more: the wolf or the hunter in a cap with a double visor. When they took their eyes off the wolf, they said:

- But they laughed and teased: Little man in a bag!

“There was a peasant,” others answered, “but he swam away.” He who dared ate two: not a peasant, but a hero.

And then, unnoticed by everyone, the old Little Man in a Bag really began to change and over the next two years of the war he stretched out, and which one

The guy came out - tall, slender! And he would certainly become a hero of the Patriotic War, but only the war was over.

And the Golden Hen also surprised everyone in the village. No one reproached her for greed like we did; on the contrary, everyone approved that she wisely called her brother on the beaten path, and that she picked so many cranberries.

But when evacuated Leningrad children from the orphanage turned to the village for all possible help for sick children, Nastya gave them all her healing berries. It was then that we, having gained confidence in the girl, learned from her how she suffered privately for her greed.

Now all we have to do is say a few more words about ourselves: who we are and why we ended up in the Bludovo Swamp. We are scouts for swamp riches. Since the first days of World War II, they have been working on preparing the swamp for extracting fuel and peat from it. And we found out that there is enough peat in this swamp to operate a large factory for a hundred years. These are the riches hidden in our swamps, and many people still only know about these storehouses of the sun that it is as if devils live in them. All this is nonsense, and there are no devils in the swamp.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin

Pantry of the sun. Fairy tale and stories

© Krugleevsky V. N., Ryazanova L. A., 1928–1950

© Krugleevsky V.N., Ryazanova L.A., preface, 1963

© Rachev I. E., Racheva L. I., drawings, 1948–1960

© Compilation and design of the series. Publishing house "Children's Literature", 2001

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

© The electronic version of the book was prepared by liters company (www.litres.ru)

About Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin

Along the streets of Moscow, still wet and shiny from watering, having had a good rest during the night from cars and pedestrians, a small blue Moskvich slowly drives at a very early hour. Behind the wheel sits an old chauffeur with glasses, his hat pushed back on his head, revealing a high forehead and steep curls of gray hair.

The eyes look both cheerfully and concentratedly, and somehow in a double way: both at you, a passer-by, dear, still unfamiliar comrade and friend, and inside themselves, at what is occupying the writer’s attention.

Nearby, to the right of the driver, sits a young, but also gray-haired hunting dog - a gray long-haired setter Zhalka and, imitating the owner, carefully looks ahead at the windshield.

The writer Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was the oldest driver in Moscow. Until he was over eighty years old, he drove the car himself, inspected and washed it himself, and asked for help in this matter only in extreme cases. Mikhail Mikhailovich treated his car almost like a living creature and called it affectionately: “Masha.”

He needed the car solely for his writing work. After all, with the growth of cities, untouched nature became increasingly distant, and he, an old hunter and walker, was no longer able to walk for many kilometers to meet with it, as in his youth. That’s why Mikhail Mikhailovich called his car key “the key of happiness and freedom.” He always carried it in his pocket on a metal chain, took it out, jingled it and told us:

- What a great happiness it is to be able to feel the key in your pocket at any hour, go up to the garage, get behind the wheel yourself and drive off somewhere into the forest and there, with a pencil in a book, mark the course of your thoughts.

In the summer the car was parked at the dacha, in the village of Dunino near Moscow. Mikhail Mikhailovich got up very early, often at sunrise, and immediately sat down with fresh energy to work. When life began in the house, he, in his words, having already “signed off”, went out into the garden, started his Moskvich there, Zhalka sat next to him, and a large basket for mushrooms was placed. Three conventional beeps: “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!” - and the car rolls into the forests, many kilometers away from our Dunin in the direction opposite to Moscow. She'll be back by lunchtime.

However, it also happened that hours passed after hours, and still there was no Moskvich. Neighbors and friends converge at our gate, alarming assumptions begin, and now a whole team is about to go in search and rescue... But then a familiar short beep is heard: “Hello!” And the car rolls up.

Mikhail Mikhailovich comes out tired, there are traces of earth on him, apparently he had to lie somewhere on the road. The face is sweaty and dusty. Mikhail Mikhailovich carries a basket of mushrooms on a strap over his shoulder, pretending that it is very difficult for him - it is so full. His invariably serious greenish-gray eyes gleam slyly from under his glasses. On top, covering everything, lies a huge boletus in a basket. We gasp: “White!” We are now ready to rejoice at everything from the bottom of our hearts, reassured by the fact that Mikhail Mikhailovich has returned and everything ended well.

Mikhail Mikhailovich sits down with us on the bench, takes off his hat, wipes his forehead and generously admits that there is only one porcini mushroom, and under it there are all sorts of insignificant little things like russula - and it’s not worth looking at, but look what kind of mushroom he was lucky enough to meet! But without a white one, at least one, could he return? In addition, it turns out that the car sat on a stump on a sticky forest road, and I had to lie down and saw out this stump under the bottom of the car, but this is not quick and not easy. And not just sawing and sawing - in between he sat on tree stumps and wrote down thoughts that came to him in a book.

Pity, apparently, shared all the experiences of her owner; she looked satisfied, but still tired and somehow rumpled. She herself cannot tell anything, but Mikhail Mikhailovich tells us for her:

“I locked the car and left only the window for Zhalka.” I wanted her to rest. But as soon as I was out of sight, Zhalka began to howl and suffer terribly. What to do? While I was thinking what to do, Zhalka came up with something of her own. And suddenly he appears with an apology, revealing his white teeth with a smile. With her whole wrinkled appearance and especially this smile - her whole nose is on the side and all her lips are rags, and her teeth are in sight - she seemed to be saying: “It was hard!” - "And what?" – I asked. Again she has all her rags on one side and her teeth in plain sight. I understood: she climbed out the window.

This is how we lived in the summer. And in winter the car was parked in a cold Moscow garage. Mikhail Mikhailovich did not use it, preferring ordinary city transport. She, along with her owner, patiently waited through the winter in order to return to the forests and fields as early as possible in the spring.

Our greatest joy was to go somewhere far away with Mikhail Mikhailovich, but always together. The third would be a hindrance, because we had an agreement: to remain silent along the way and only occasionally exchange a word.

Mikhail Mikhailovich constantly looks around, thinks about something, sits down from time to time, and quickly writes in a pocket book with a pencil. Then he gets up, flashes his cheerful and attentive eye - and again we walk side by side along the road.

When at home he reads to you what he has written down, you are amazed: you yourself walked past all this and seeing - did not see and hearing - did not hear! It turned out as if Mikhail Mikhailovich was following you, collecting what was lost due to your inattention, and now bringing it to you as a gift.

We always returned from our walks loaded with such gifts.

I’ll tell you about one trip, and we had a lot of them in our life with Mikhail Mikhailovich.

The Great Patriotic War was going on. It was a difficult time. We left Moscow for remote places Yaroslavl region, where Mikhail Mikhailovich often hunted in previous years and where we had many friends.

Nastya and her brother Mitrasha remain orphans after the death of their parents. The guys live alone in their house in the village. At first, their fellow villagers help them, but later the brother and sister learn to manage the household independently.

The girl and boy are hardworking and work a lot. So, one day they gather for cranberries in the Bludovo swamp. Mitrasha takes a gun and a compass with her, and Nastya takes a basket and food to snack on during the hike. From the story of the late father, the brother and sister learned that it was in that place that berries grew abundantly. While the guys are walking through the forest, a wolf howl is heard from afar, but the brother and sister fearlessly continue on their way. Approaching a fork in the road, they cannot come to one decision on which path to take next, they quarrel and split up: Mitrasha chooses one path, Nastya chooses another.

After the guys quarrel, the author switches to a description of the lonely life of the dog Travka in the forest thicket, whose owner has died. After this, the reader learns that a pack of wolves used to live here, but the hunters caught them all, with the exception of one named Gray Landowner, who still lives here.

The bread lying in Nastya’s basket attracts the attention of Grass, who follows her.

At this time, Mitrasha, who chose a different route, decides to take an unbeaten path to get there faster, and ends up in a swamp, which sucks him in. Mitrasha calls his sister for help, but she does not hear him. She comes across a “Palestine”, where cranberries grow in abundance, which the brother and sister went to get. Nastya begins to pick berries, a dog that comes closer distracts her from this activity, and Nastya remembers her brother. She calls to him, but he doesn’t hear her. The girl is crying. Because of this, Grass begins to howl, the wolf responds to the sound and runs after her, while Grass follows the hare, who runs to the bog. Running up to the swamp, the dog notices the drowning Mitrash, and when the boy calls, he carefully moves towards him. Mitrash clings to the dog’s paws, which helps him get out.

By this time, a wolf appears near the swamp, chasing Grass. Mitrash reacts quickly and, firing a gun, kills the beast. Nastya comes running at the sound of the shot. After spending the night near the swamp, the surviving brother and sister and the dog returned home. Having learned that Mitrash shot the wolf, his fellow villagers accepted him as a hero. Sister Nastya felt remorse for forgetting about her brother when she was picking cranberries, so she gave all the collected berries to the children evacuated from Leningrad.

You can use this text for reader's diary

Prishvin. All works

• birch bark tube
• Pantry of the sun
• Ducklings and guys

Pantry of the sun. Picture for the story

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Page 1 of 3

I

In one village, near the Bludov swamp, near the city of Pereslavl-Zalessky, two children were orphaned. Their mother died of illness, their father died in the Patriotic War.

We lived in this village just one house away from the children. And, of course, we, along with other neighbors, tried to help them as best we could. They were very nice. Nastya was like a golden hen on high legs. Her hair, neither dark nor light, shimmered with gold, the freckles all over her face were large, like gold coins, and frequent, and they were cramped, and they climbed in all directions. Only one nose was clean and looked up like a parrot.

Mitrasha was two years younger than his sister. He was only about ten years old. He was short, but very dense, with a broad forehead and a wide nape. He was a stubborn and strong boy.

“The little man in the bag,” the teachers at school called him smiling among themselves.

The little man in the bag, like Nastya, was covered in golden freckles, and his clean nose, like his sister’s, looked up like a parrot.

After their parents, their entire peasant farm went to their children: a five-walled hut, a cow Zorka, a heifer Dochka, a goat Dereza, nameless sheep, chickens, a golden rooster Petya and a piglet Horseradish.

Along with this wealth, however, the poor children also received great care for all these living beings. But did our children cope with such a misfortune during the difficult years of the Patriotic War! At first, as we have already said, their distant relatives and all of us neighbors came to help the children. But very soon the smart and friendly guys learned everything themselves and began to live well.

And what smart kids they were! Whenever possible, they joined in social work. Their noses could be seen on collective farm fields, in meadows, in barnyards, at meetings, in anti-tank ditches: their noses were so perky.

In this village, although we were newcomers, we knew well the life of every house. And now we can say: there was not a single house where they lived and worked as friendly as our favorites lived.

Just like her late mother, Nastya got up far before the sun, in the predawn hour, along the shepherd's chimney. With a twig in her hand, she drove out her beloved herd and rolled back to the hut. Without going to bed again, she lit the stove, peeled potatoes, made dinner, and so busied herself with the housework until nightfall.

Mitrasha learned from his father how to make wooden utensils: barrels, gangs, tubs. He has a jointer that is more than twice his height. And with this ladle he adjusts the planks one to another, folds them and supports them with iron or wooden hoops.

With a cow, there was no such need for two children to sell wooden utensils at the market, but good people ask for someone who needs a bowl for the washbasin, someone who needs a barrel for dripping, someone who needs a tub of pickles for cucumbers or mushrooms, or even a simple vessel with scallops - homemade plant a flower.

He will do it, and then he will also be repaid with kindness. But, in addition to cooperage, he is responsible for the entire male household and public affairs. He attends all meetings, tries to understand public concerns and, probably, realizes something.

It’s very good that Nastya is two years older than her brother, otherwise he would certainly become arrogant, and in their friendship they would not have the wonderful equality they have now. It happens that now Mitrasha will remember how his father taught his mother, and, imitating his father, will also decide to teach his sister Nastya. But my sister doesn’t listen much, she stands and smiles... Then the Little Man in the Bag begins to get angry and swagger and always says with his nose in the air:

- Here's another!

- Why are you showing off? - my sister objects.

- Here's another! - the brother is angry. – You, Nastya, swagger yourself.

- No, it's you!

- Here's another!

So, having tormented her obstinate brother, Nastya strokes him on the back of his head, and as soon as her sister’s small hand touches her brother’s wide back of his head, her father’s enthusiasm leaves the owner.

“Let’s weed together,” the sister will say.

And the brother also begins to weed cucumbers, or hoe beets, or plant potatoes.

Yes, it was very, very difficult for everyone during the Patriotic War, so difficult that, probably, it has never happened in the whole world. So the children had to endure a lot of all sorts of worries, failures, and disappointments. But their friendship overcame everything, they lived well. And again we can firmly say: in the entire village no one had such friendship as Mitrash and Nastya Veselkin lived with each other. And we think, perhaps, it was this grief for their parents that united the orphans so closely.

II

The sour and very healthy cranberry berry grows in swamps in the summer and is harvested in late autumn. But not everyone knows that the best cranberries, the sweetest ones, as we say, happen when they have spent the winter under the snow.

These spring dark red cranberries float in our pots along with beets and drink tea with them as with sugar. Those who don’t have sugar beets drink tea with only cranberries. We tried it ourselves - and it’s okay, you can drink it: sour replaces sweet and is very good on hot days. And what a wonderful jelly made from sweet cranberries, what a fruit drink! And among our people, this cranberry is considered a healing medicine for all diseases.

This spring, there was still snow in the dense spruce forests at the end of April, but in the swamps it is always much warmer: there was no snow there at that time at all. Having learned about this from people, Mitrasha and Nastya began to gather for cranberries. Even before daylight, Nastya gave food to all her animals. Mitrash took his father’s double-barreled Tulka shotgun, decoys for hazel grouse, and did not forget the compass. It used to be that his father, going into the forest, would never forget this compass. More than once Mitrash asked his father:

“You’ve been walking through the forest all your life, and you know the whole forest like the palm of your hand.” Why else do you need this arrow?

“You see, Dmitry Pavlovich,” answered the father, “in the forest this arrow is kinder to you than your mother: sometimes the sky will be covered with clouds, and you cannot decide by the sun in the forest; if you go at random, you will make a mistake, you will get lost, you will go hungry.” Then just look at the arrow - and it will show you where your home is. You go straight home along the arrow, and they will feed you there. This arrow is more faithful to you than a friend: sometimes your friend will cheat on you, but the arrow invariably always, no matter how you turn it, always looks north.

Having examined the wonderful thing, Mitrash locked the compass so that the needle would not tremble in vain along the way. He carefully, like a father, wrapped footcloths around his feet, tucked them into his boots, and put on a cap so old that its visor split in two: the upper leather crust rode up above the sun, and the lower one went down almost to the very nose. Mitrash dressed in his father’s old jacket, or rather in a collar connecting stripes of once good homespun fabric. The boy tied these stripes on his tummy with a sash, and his father's jacket sat on him like a coat, right down to the ground. The hunter’s son also tucked an ax into his belt, hung a bag with a compass on his right shoulder, a double-barreled Tulka on his left, and thus became terribly scary for all birds and animals.

Nastya, starting to get ready, hung a large basket over her shoulder on a towel.

- Why do you need a towel? – asked Mitrasha.

“But of course,” Nastya answered. – Don’t you remember how mom went to pick mushrooms?

- For mushrooms! You understand a lot: there are a lot of mushrooms, so it hurts your shoulder.

“And maybe we’ll have even more cranberries.”

And just when Mitrash wanted to say “here’s another!”, he remembered what his father had said about cranberries when they were preparing him for war.

“You remember this,” Mitrasha said to his sister, “how father told us about cranberries, that there is a Palestinian in the forest...

“I remember,” Nastya answered, “he said about cranberries that he knew a place and the cranberries there were crumbling, but I don’t know what he said about some Palestinian woman.” I also remember talking about the terrible place Blind Elan.

“There, near Yelani, there is a Palestinian,” said Mitrasha. “Father said: go to the High Mane and after that keep to the north, and when you cross the Zvonkaya Borina, keep everything straight to the north and you will see - there a Palestinian woman will come to you, all red as blood, from just cranberries. No one has ever been to this Palestinian land!

Mitrasha said this already at the door. During the story, Nastya remembered: she had a whole, untouched pot of boiled potatoes left from yesterday. Forgetting about the Palestinian woman, she quietly snuck over to the rack and dumped the entire cast iron into the basket.

“Maybe we’ll get lost,” she thought. “We’ve got enough bread, a bottle of milk, and potatoes might also come in handy.”

And at this time the brother, thinking that his sister was still standing behind him, told her about the wonderful Palestinian woman and that, however, on the way to her there was a Blind Elan, where many people, cows, and horses died.

- Well, what kind of Palestinian is this? – Nastya asked.

- So you didn’t hear anything?! - he grabbed. And he patiently repeated to her, as he walked, everything that he had heard from his father about a Palestinian land unknown to anyone, where sweet cranberries grow.

III

The Bludovo swamp, where we ourselves wandered more than once, began, as a large swamp almost always begins, with an impenetrable thicket of willow, alder and other shrubs. The first person passed this pribolotitsa with an ax in his hand and cut down a passage for other people. The hummocks settled under human feet, and the path became a groove along which water flowed. The children crossed this marshy area in the pre-dawn darkness without much difficulty. And when the bushes stopped obscuring the view ahead, at the first morning light the swamp opened up to them, like the sea. And yet, it was the same, this Bludovo swamp, the bottom of the ancient sea. And just as there, in the real sea, there are islands, just as there are oases in deserts, so there are hills in swamps. In the Bludov swamp, these sandy hills covered with high forest are called Borins. After walking a little through the swamp, the children climbed the first hill, known as the High Mane. From here, from a high bald patch, Borina Zvonkaya could be barely visible in the gray haze of the first dawn.

Even before reaching Zvonkaya Borina, almost right next to the path, individual blood-red berries began to appear. Cranberry hunters initially put these berries in their mouths. Anyone who has never tasted autumn cranberries in their life and would have immediately had enough of spring ones would have taken their breath away from the acid. But the village orphans knew well what autumn cranberries were, and therefore, when they now ate spring ones, they repeated:

- So sweet!

Borina Zvonkaya willingly opened up her wide clearing to the children, which even now, in April, was covered with dark green lingonberry grass. Among this greenery of last year, here and there new flowers of white snowdrop and purple, small, frequent, and fragrant flowers of wolf's bast could be seen.

“They smell good, try it, pick a flower of wolf bast,” said Mitrasha.

Nastya tried to break the twig of the stem and could not do it.

- Why is this bast called a wolf’s? – she asked.

“Father said,” the brother answered, “the wolves weave baskets out of it.”

And he laughed.

-Are there still wolves here?

- Well, of course! Father said there is a terrible wolf here, the Gray Landowner.

- I remember. The same one who slaughtered our herd before the war.

– Father said: he now lives on the Sukhaya River in the rubble.

– He won’t touch you and me?

“Let him try,” answered the hunter with a double visor.

While the children were talking like this and the morning was moving closer and closer to dawn, Borina Zvonkaya was filled with bird songs, howls, moans and cries of animals. Not all of them were here, on Borina, but from the swamp, damp, deaf, all the sounds gathered here. Borina with the forest, pine and sonorous on dry land, responded to everything.

But the poor birds and little animals, how they all suffered, trying to pronounce some common, one beautiful word! And even children, as simple as Nastya and Mitrasha, understood their effort. They all wanted to say just one beautiful word.

You can see how the bird sings on the branch, and every feather trembles with effort. But still, they cannot say words like we do, and they have to sing, shout, and tap.

“Tek-tek,” a huge bird, the Capercaillie, taps barely audibly in the dark forest.

- Shvark-shwark! – The Wild Drake flew in the air over the river.

- Quack-quack! - wild duck Mallard on the lake.

- Gu-gu-gu, - a red bird, the Bullfinch, on a birch tree.

The snipe, a small gray bird with a long nose like a flattened hairpin, rolls through the air like a wild lamb. It seems like “alive, alive!” cries the curlew sandpiper. A black grouse is muttering and chuffing somewhere. White Partridge laughs like a witch.

We, hunters, have been hearing these sounds for a long time, since our childhood, and we know them, and we distinguish them, and we rejoice, and we understand well what word they are all working on and cannot say. That is why, when we come to the forest at dawn and hear it, we will tell them, as people, this word:

- Hello!

And as if then they, too, would be delighted, as if then they, too, would all pick up the wonderful word that had flown from the human tongue.

And they quack in response, and squawk, and squabble, and squabble, trying to answer us with all these voices:

- Hello, hello, hello!

But among all these sounds, one burst out, unlike anything else.

– Do you hear? – asked Mitrasha.

- How can you not hear! – Nastya answered. “I’ve been hearing it for a long time, and it’s somehow scary.”

- There's nothing wrong. My father told me and showed me: this is how a hare screams in the spring.

- Why is that so?

– Father said: he shouts: “Hello, little hare!”

- What is that noise?

“Father said: it’s the Bittern, the water bull, who is hooting.”

- Why is he hooting?

– My father said: he also has his own girlfriend, and in his own way he also says to her, like everyone else: “Hello, Vypikha.”

And suddenly it became fresh and cheerful, as if the whole earth had washed at once, and the sky lit up, and all the trees smelled of their bark and buds. Then, as if above all the sounds, a triumphant cry burst out, flew out and covered everything, similar, as if all people joyfully in harmonious agreement could shout:

- Victory, victory!

- What is this? – asked the delighted Nastya.

“Father said: this is how cranes greet the sun.” This means that the sun will rise soon.

But the sun had not yet risen when the hunters for sweet cranberries descended into a large swamp. The celebration of meeting the sun had not yet begun here. A night blanket hung over the small gnarled fir-trees and birches like a gray haze and muffled all the wonderful sounds of the Belling Borina. Only a painful, painful and joyless howl was heard here.

Nastenka shrank all over from the cold, and in the dampness of the swamp the sharp, stupefying smell of wild rosemary reached her. The Golden Hen on her high legs felt small and weak in front of this inevitable force of death.

“What is this, Mitrasha,” Nastenka asked, shuddering, “howling so terribly in the distance?”

“Father said,” answered Mitrasha, “it’s the wolves howling on the Sukhaya River, and probably now it’s the Gray Landowner wolf howling.” Father said that all the wolves on the Sukhaya River were killed, but it was impossible to kill Gray.

- So why is he howling so terribly now?

“Father said: wolves howl in the spring because they now have nothing to eat.” And Gray is still left alone, so he howls.

The marsh dampness seemed to penetrate through the body to the bones and chill them. And I really didn’t want to go even lower into the damp, muddy swamp.

-Where are we going to go? – Nastya asked. Mitrasha took out a compass, set the north and, pointing to a weaker path going north, said:

– We will go north along this path.

“No,” Nastya answered, “we will go along this big path where all the people go.” Father told us, do you remember what a terrible place this is - Blind Elan, how many people and livestock died in it. No, no, Mitrashenka, we won’t go there. Everyone goes in this direction, which means cranberries grow there.

– You understand a lot! – the hunter interrupted her. “We will go to the north, as my father said, there is a Palestinian place where no one has been before.”

Nastya, noticing that her brother was starting to get angry, suddenly smiled and stroked him on the back of his head. Mitrasha immediately calmed down, and the friends walked along the path indicated by the arrow, now no longer side by side, as before, but one after another, in single file.

IV

About two hundred years ago, the sowing wind brought two seeds to the Bludovo swamp: a pine seed and a spruce seed. Both seeds fell into one hole near a large flat stone... Since then, perhaps two hundred years ago, these spruce and pine trees have been growing together. Their roots were intertwined from an early age, their trunks stretched upward side by side towards the light, trying to overtake each other. Trees of different species fought terribly among themselves with their roots for food, and with their branches for air and light. Rising higher and higher, thickening their trunks, they dug dry branches into living trunks and in some places pierced each other through and through. The evil wind, having given the trees such a miserable life, sometimes flew here to shake them. And then the trees moaned and howled throughout the Bludovo swamp, like living beings. It was so similar to the moaning and howling of living creatures that the fox, curled up into a ball on a moss hummock, raised its sharp muzzle upward. This groan and howl of pine and spruce was so close to living beings that the wild dog in the Bludov swamp, hearing it, howled with longing for the man, and the wolf howled with inescapable anger towards him.

The children came here, to the Lying Stone, at the very time when the first rays of the sun, flying over the low, gnarled swamp fir trees and birches, illuminated the Sounding Borina, and the mighty trunks of the pine forest became like the lit candles of a great temple of nature. From there, here, to this flat stone, where the children sat down to rest, the singing of birds, dedicated to the rising of the great sun, could faintly reach.

And the light rays flying over the children’s heads were not yet warming. The swampy ground was all chilled, small puddles were covered with white ice.

It was completely quiet in nature, and the children, frozen, were so quiet that the black grouse Kosach did not pay any attention to them. He sat down at the very top, where pine and spruce branches formed like a bridge between two trees. Having settled down on this bridge, quite wide for him, closer to the spruce, Kosach seemed to begin to bloom in the rays of the rising sun. The comb on his head lit up with a fiery flower. His chest, blue in the depths of black, began to shimmer from blue to green. And his iridescent, lyre-spread tail became especially beautiful.

Seeing the sun over the miserable swamp fir trees, he suddenly jumped up on his high bridge, showed his white, clean linen of undertail and underwings and shouted:

- Chuf, shi!

In grouse, “chuf” most likely meant the sun, and “shi” probably was their “hello.”

In response to this first snort of the Current Kosach, the same snort with the flapping of wings was heard far throughout the swamp, and soon dozens of large birds, like two peas in a pod similar to Kosach, began to fly here from all sides and land near the Lying Stone.

With bated breath, the children sat on a cold stone, waiting for the rays of the sun to come to them and warm them up at least a little. And then the first ray, gliding over the tops of the nearest, very small Christmas trees, finally began to play on the children’s cheeks. Then the upper Kosach, greeting the sun, stopped jumping and chuffing. He sat down low on the bridge at the top of the tree, stretched his long neck along the branch and began a long song, similar to the babbling of a brook. In response to him, somewhere nearby, dozens of the same birds sitting on the ground, each also a rooster, stretched out their necks and began to sing the same song. And then, as if a rather large stream was already muttering, it ran over the invisible pebbles.

How many times have we, hunters, waited until the dark morning, listened in awe to this singing at the chilly dawn, trying in our own way to understand what the roosters were crowing about. And when we repeated their mutterings in our own way, what came out was:

Cool feathers

Ur-gur-gu,

Cool feathers

I'll cut it off.

So the black grouse muttered in unison, intending to fight at the same time. And while they were muttering like that, a small event happened in the depths of the dense spruce crown. There a crow was sitting on a nest and was hiding there all the time from Kosach, who was mating almost right next to the nest. The crow would very much like to drive Kosach away, but she was afraid to leave the nest and let her eggs cool in the morning frost. The male raven guarding the nest was making its flight at that time and, probably having encountered something suspicious, paused. The crow, waiting for the male, lay down in the nest, was quieter than water, lower than the grass. And suddenly, seeing the male flying back, she shouted:

This meant to her:

- Help me out!

- Kra! - the male answered in the direction of the current in the sense that it is still unknown who will tear off whose cool feathers.

The male, immediately understanding what was going on, went down and sat down on the same bridge, near the Christmas tree, right next to the nest where Kosach was mating, only closer to the pine tree, and began to wait.

At this time, Kosach, not paying any attention to the male crow, called out his words, known to all hunters:

- Car-cor-cupcake!

And this was the signal for a general fight of all the displaying roosters. Well, cool feathers flew in all directions! And then, as if on the same signal, the male crow, with small steps along the bridge, imperceptibly began to approach Kosach.

The hunters for sweet cranberries sat motionless, like statues, on a stone. The sun, so hot and clear, came out against them over the swamp fir trees. But at that time one cloud happened in the sky. It appeared like a cold blue arrow and crossed the rising sun in half. At the same time, the wind suddenly blew, the tree pressed against the pine tree, and the pine tree groaned. The wind blew again, and then the pine tree pressed, and the spruce growled.

At this time, having rested on a stone and warmed up in the rays of the sun, Nastya and Mitrasha stood up to continue their journey. But right at the stone, a rather wide swamp path diverged like a fork: one, good, dense path went to the right, the other, weak, went straight.

Having checked the direction of the trails with a compass, Mitrasha, pointing out a weak trail, said:

- We need to take this one to the north.

- This is not a path! – Nastya answered.

- Here's another! – Mitrasha got angry. “People were walking, so there was a path.” We need to go north. Let's go and don't talk anymore.

Nastya was offended to obey the younger Mitrasha.

- Kra! - shouted the crow in the nest at this time.

And her male ran in small steps closer to Kosach, halfway across the bridge.

The second steep blue arrow crossed the sun, and a gray gloom began to approach from above.

The Golden Hen gathered her strength and tried to persuade her friend.

“Look,” she said, “how dense my path is, all the people are walking here.” Are we really smarter than everyone else?

“Let all people walk,” the stubborn Little Man in the Bag decisively answered. “We must follow the arrow, as our father taught us, north, towards Palestine.”

“Father told us fairy tales, he joked with us,” said Nastya. “And, probably, there are no Palestinians at all in the north.” It would be very stupid for us to follow the arrow: we will end up not in Palestine, but in the very Blind Elan.

“Okay,” Mitrash turned sharply. “I won’t argue with you anymore: you go along your path, where all the women go to buy cranberries, but I’ll go on my own, along my path, to the north.”

And in fact he went there without thinking about the cranberry basket or the food.

Nastya should have reminded him of this, but she was so angry that, all red as red, she spat after him and followed the cranberries along the common path.

- Kra! - the crow screamed.

And the male quickly ran across the bridge the rest of the way to Kosach and fucked him with all his might. As if scalded, Kosach rushed towards the flying black grouse, but the angry male caught up with him, pulled him out, threw a bunch of white and rainbow feathers through the air and chased him far away.

Then the gray darkness moved in tightly and covered the entire sun with all its life-giving rays. The evil wind blew very sharply. The trees intertwined with roots, piercing each other with branches, growled, howled, and groaned throughout the Bludovo swamp.

"I"

In one village, near the Bludov swamp, near the city of Pereslavl-Zalessky, two children were orphaned. Their mother died of illness, their father died in the Patriotic War.
We lived in this village just one house away from the children. And, of course, we, along with other neighbors, tried to help them as best we could. They were very nice. Nastya was like a golden chicken on high legs. Her hair, neither dark nor light, shimmered with gold, the freckles all over her face were large, like gold coins, and frequent, and they were cramped, and they climbed in all directions. Only one nose was clean and looked up.
Mitrasha was two years younger than his sister. He was only about ten years old. He was short, but very dense, with a broad forehead and a wide nape. He was a stubborn and strong boy.
“The little man in the bag,” the teachers at school called him smiling among themselves.
“The little man in the bag,” like Nastya, was covered in golden freckles, and his nose, clean, like his sister’s, looked up.
After their parents, their entire peasant farm went to their children: the five-walled hut, the cow Zorka, the heifer Dochka, the goat Dereza. Nameless sheep, chickens, golden rooster Petya and piglet Horseradish.
Along with this wealth, however, the poor children also received great care for all living beings. But did our children cope with such a misfortune during the difficult years of the Patriotic War! At first, as we have already said, their distant relatives and all of us neighbors came to help the children. But very soon the smart and friendly guys learned everything themselves and began to live well.
And what smart kids they were! Whenever possible, they joined in social work. Their noses could be seen on collective farm fields, in meadows, in barnyards, at meetings, in anti-tank ditches: their noses were so perky.
In this village, although we were newcomers, we knew well the life of every house. And now we can say: there was not a single house where they lived and worked as friendly as our favorites lived.
Just like her late mother, Nastya got up far before the sun, in the predawn hour, along the shepherd's chimney. With a twig in her hand, she drove out her beloved herd and rolled back to the hut. Without going to bed again, she lit the stove, peeled potatoes, made dinner, and so busied herself with the housework until nightfall.
Mitrasha learned from his father how to make wooden utensils: barrels, gangs, tubs. He has a jointer that is more than twice his height. And with this ladle he adjusts the planks one to another, folds them and supports them with iron or wooden hoops.
With a cow, there was no such need for two children to sell wooden utensils at the market, but kind people ask, who needs a gang for the washbasin, who needs a barrel for dripping, who needs a tub to pickle cucumbers or mushrooms, or even a simple vessel with teeth - to plant a home flower .
He will do it, and then he will also be repaid with kindness. But, besides cooperage, he is responsible for all the men's farming and social affairs. He attends all meetings, tries to understand public concerns and, probably, realizes something.
It is very good that Nastya is two years older than her brother, otherwise he would certainly become arrogant and in their friendship they would not have the wonderful equality they have now. It happens that now Mitrasha will remember how his father taught his mother, and, imitating his father, will also decide to teach his sister Nastya. But my sister doesn’t listen much, she stands and smiles. Then the “little guy in the bag” begins to get angry and swagger and always says with his nose in the air:
- Here's another!
- Why are you showing off? - my sister objects.
- Here's another! - the brother is angry. – You, Nastya, swagger yourself.
- No, it's you!
- Here's another!
So, having tormented her obstinate brother, Nastya strokes him on the back of his head. And as soon as the sister’s little hand touches the wide back of his brother’s head, his father’s enthusiasm leaves the owner.
“Let’s weed together,” the sister will say.
And the brother also begins to weed the cucumbers, or hoe the beets, or hill up the potatoes.

"II"

The sour and very healthy cranberry berry grows in swamps in the summer and is harvested in late autumn. But not everyone knows that the best cranberries, the sweetest ones, as we say, happen when they have spent the winter under the snow.
This spring, there was still snow in the dense spruce forests at the end of April, but in the swamps it is always much warmer: there was no snow there at that time at all. Having learned about this from people, Mitrasha and Nastya began to gather for cranberries. Even before daylight, Nastya gave food to all her animals. Mitrash took his father’s double-barreled Tulka shotgun, decoys for hazel grouse, and did not forget the compass. It used to be that his father, heading into the forest, would never forget this compass. More than once Mitrash asked his father:
“You’ve been walking through the forest all your life, and you know the whole forest like the palm of your hand.” Why else do you need this arrow?
“You see, Dmitry Pavlovich,” answered the father, “in the forest this arrow is kinder to you than your mother: sometimes the sky will be covered with clouds, and you cannot decide by the sun in the forest, you will go at random, you will make a mistake, you will get lost, you will go hungry.” Then just look at the arrow - and it will show you where your home is. You go straight home along the arrow, and they will feed you there. This arrow is more faithful to you than a friend: sometimes your friend will cheat on you, but the arrow invariably always, no matter how you turn it, always looks north.
Having examined the wonderful thing, Mitrash locked the compass so that the needle would not tremble in vain along the way. He carefully, like a father, wrapped footcloths around his feet, tucked them into his boots, and put on a cap so old that its visor split in two: the upper crust rode up above the sun, and the lower one went down almost to the very nose. Mitrash dressed in his father’s old jacket, or rather in a collar connecting stripes of once good homespun fabric. The boy tied these stripes on his tummy with a sash, and his father's jacket sat on him like a coat, right down to the ground. The hunter’s son also tucked an ax into his belt, hung a bag with a compass on his right shoulder, and a double-barreled Tulka on his left, and thus became terribly scary for all birds and animals.
Nastya, starting to get ready, hung a large basket over her shoulder on a towel.
- Why do you need a towel? – asked Mitrasha.
- What about it? – Nastya answered. – Don’t you remember how mom went to pick mushrooms?
- For mushrooms! You understand a lot: there are a lot of mushrooms, so it hurts your shoulder.
“And maybe we’ll have even more cranberries.”
And just when Mitrash wanted to say “here’s another!”, he remembered what his father had said about cranberries when they were preparing him for war.
“You remember this,” Mitrasha said to his sister, “how father told us about cranberries, that there is a Palestinian in the forest.”
“I remember,” Nastya answered, “he said about cranberries that he knew a place and the cranberries there were crumbling, but I don’t know what he said about some Palestinian woman.” I also remember talking about the terrible place Blind Elan.
“There, near Yelani, there is a Palestinian,” said Mitrasha. “Father said: go to the High Mane and after that keep to the north, and when you cross the Zvonkaya Borina, keep everything straight to the north and you will see - there a Palestinian woman will come to you, all red as blood, from just cranberries. No one has ever been to this Palestine before.
Mitrasha said this already at the door. During the story, Nastya remembered: she had a whole, untouched pot of boiled potatoes left from yesterday. Forgetting about the Palestinian woman, she quietly snuck over to the rack and dumped the entire cast iron into the basket.
“Maybe we’ll get lost,” she thought. “We have enough bread, we have a bottle of milk, and maybe some potatoes will come in handy too.”
And at that time the brother, thinking that his sister was still standing behind him, told her about the wonderful Palestinian woman and that, indeed, on the way to her was the Blind Elan, where many people, cows, and horses died.
- Well, what kind of Palestinian is this? – Nastya asked.
- So you didn’t hear anything?! - he grabbed.
And he patiently repeated to her, as he walked, everything that he had heard from his father about a Palestinian land unknown to anyone, where sweet cranberries grow.

"III"

The Bludovo swamp, where we ourselves wandered more than once, began, as a large swamp almost always begins, with an impenetrable thicket of willow, alder and other shrubs. The first man walked through this swamp with an ax in his hand and cut a passage for other people. The hummocks settled under human feet, and the path became a groove along which water flowed. The children crossed this marshy area in the pre-dawn darkness without much difficulty. And when the bushes stopped obscuring the view ahead, at the first morning light the swamp opened up to them, like the sea. And yet, it was the same, this Bludovo swamp, the bottom of the ancient sea. And just as there, in the real sea, there are islands, just as there are oases in deserts, so there are hills in swamps. In the Bludov swamp, these sandy hills, covered with high forest, are called borins. After walking a little through the swamp, the children climbed the first hill, known as the High Mane. From here, from a high bald spot in the gray haze of the first dawn, Borina Zvonkaya could be barely visible.
Even before reaching Zvonkaya Borina, almost right next to the path, individual blood-red berries began to appear. Cranberry hunters initially put these berries in their mouths. Anyone who has never tasted autumn cranberries in their life and would have immediately had enough of spring ones would have taken their breath away from the acid. But the brother and sister knew well what autumn cranberries were, and therefore, when they now ate spring cranberries, they repeated:
- So sweet!
Borina Zvonkaya willingly opened up her wide clearing to the children, which even now, in April, was covered with dark green lingonberry grass. Among this greenery of last year, here and there new flowers of white snowdrop and purple, small and fragrant flowers of wolf's bast could be seen.
“They smell good, try picking a wolf bast flower,” said Mitrasha.
Nastya tried to break the twig of the stem and could not do it.
- Why is this bast called a wolf’s? – she asked.
“Father said,” the brother answered, “the wolves weave baskets out of it.”
And he laughed.
-Are there still wolves here?
- Well, of course! Father said there is a terrible wolf here, the Gray Landowner.
“I remember the same one who slaughtered our herd before the war.”
– My father said he lives on the Sukhaya River in the rubble.
– He won’t touch you and me?
“Let him try,” answered the hunter with a double visor.
While the children were talking like this and the morning was moving closer and closer to dawn, Borina Zvonkaya was filled with bird songs, the howls, moans and cries of animals. Not all of them were here, on Borina, but from the swamp, damp, deaf, all the sounds gathered here. Borina with the forest, pine and sonorous on dry land, responded to everything.
But the poor birds and little animals, how they all suffered, trying to pronounce some common, one beautiful word! And even children, as simple as Nastya and Mitrasha, understood their effort. They all wanted to say just one beautiful word.
You can see how the bird sings on the branch, and every feather trembles with effort. But still, they cannot say words like we do, and they have to sing, shout, and tap.
- Tek-tek! – the huge bird Capercaillie taps barely audibly in the dark forest.
- Shvark-shwark! – a wild Drake flew in the air over the river.
- Quack-quack! – wild duck Mallard on the lake.
- Gu-gu-gu! - a beautiful bird Bullfinch on a birch tree.
The snipe, a small gray bird with a nose as long as a flattened hairpin, rolls through the air like a wild lamb. It seems like “alive, alive!” cries the curlew sandpiper. The black grouse is somewhere muttering and chuffing. The white partridge, like a witch, is laughing.
We, hunters, have long, since our childhood, distinguished, and rejoiced, and understand well what word they are all working on and cannot say. That is why, when we come to the forest in early spring at dawn and hear it, we will tell them, as people, this word.
- Hello!
And it’s as if they will then also be delighted, as if they will then also pick up the wonderful word that has flown from the human tongue.
And they quack in response, and squawk, and squabble, and squabble, trying to answer us with all their voices:
- Hello, hello, hello!
But among all these sounds, one burst out - unlike anything else.
– Do you hear? – asked Mitrasha.
- How can you not hear! – Nastya answered. “I’ve been hearing it for a long time, and it’s somehow scary.”
- There's nothing wrong. My father told me and showed me: this is how a hare screams in the spring.
- What for?
– Father said: he shouts “Hello, little hare!”
- What is that noise?
- Father said it was a bittern, a water bull, whooping.
- Why is he hooting?
“My father said he also has his own girlfriend, and in his own way he says to her, just like everyone else: “Hello, drunk.”
And suddenly it became fresh and cheerful, as if the whole earth had washed at once, and the sky lit up, and all the trees smelled of their bark and buds. It was then that a special, triumphant cry seemed to burst out above all the sounds, fly out and cover everything, as if all the people could shout joyfully in harmonious agreement.
- Victory, victory!
- What is this? – asked the delighted Nastya.
“My father said this is how cranes greet the sun.” This means that the sun will rise soon.
But the sun had not yet risen when the hunters for sweet cranberries descended into a large swamp. The celebration of meeting the sun had not yet begun here. A night blanket hung over the small gnarled fir-trees and birches like a gray haze and muffled all the wonderful sounds of the Belling Borina. Only a painful, painful and joyless howl was heard here.
“What is this, Mitrasha,” Nastenka asked, shuddering, “howling so terribly in the distance?”
“Father said,” answered Mitrasha, “it’s the wolves howling on the Sukhaya River, and probably now it’s the Gray Landowner wolf howling.” Father said that all the wolves on the Sukhaya River were killed, but it was impossible to kill Gray.
- So why is he howling terribly now?
– Father said wolves howl in the spring because they now have nothing to eat. And Gray is still left alone, so he howls.
The marsh dampness seemed to penetrate through the body to the bones and chill them. And I really didn’t want to go even lower into the damp, muddy swamp.
-Where are we going to go? – Nastya asked.
Mitrasha took out a compass, set the north and, pointing to a weaker path going north, said:
– We will go north along this path.
“No,” Nastya answered, “we will go along this big path where all the people go.” Father told us, do you remember what a terrible place this is - Blind Elan, how many people and livestock died in it. No, no, Mitrashenka, we won’t go there. Everyone goes in this direction, which means cranberries grow there.
– You understand a lot! - the hunter interrupted her - We will go to the north, as my father said, there is a Palestinian place where no one has been before.
Nastya, noticing that her brother was starting to get angry, suddenly smiled and stroked him on the back of his head. Mitrasha immediately calmed down, and the friends walked along the path indicated by the arrow, now no longer side by side, as before, but one after another, in single file.

"IV"

About two hundred years ago, the sowing wind brought two seeds to the Bludovo swamp: a pine seed and a spruce seed. Both seeds fell into one hole near a large flat stone. Since then, perhaps two hundred years ago, these spruce and pine trees have been growing together. Their roots were intertwined from an early age, their trunks stretched upward side by side towards the light, trying to overtake each other. Trees of different species fought among themselves with their roots for food, and with their branches for air and light. Rising higher and higher, thickening their trunks, they dug dry branches into living trunks and in some places pierced each other through and through. The evil wind, having given the trees such a miserable life, sometimes flew here to shake them. And then the trees moaned and howled so loudly throughout the Bludovo swamp, like living beings, that the fox, curled up in a ball on a moss hummock, raised its sharp muzzle upward. This groan and howl of pine and spruce was so close to living beings that the wild dog in the Bludov swamp, hearing it, howled with longing for the man, and the wolf howled with inescapable anger towards him.
The children came here, to the Lying Stone, at the very time when the first rays of the sun, flying over the low, gnarled swamp fir trees and birches, illuminated the Sounding Borina and the mighty trunks of the pine forest became like the lit candles of a great temple of nature. From there, here, to this flat stone, where the children sat down to rest, the singing of birds, dedicated to the rising of the great sun, faintly floated across.
It was completely quiet in nature, and the children, frozen, were so quiet that the black grouse Kosach did not pay any attention to them. He sat down at the very top, where pine and spruce branches formed like a bridge between two trees. Having settled down on this bridge, quite wide for him, closer to the spruce, Kosach seemed to begin to bloom in the rays of the rising sun. The comb on his head lit up with a fiery flower. His chest, blue in the depths of black, began to shimmer from blue to green. And his iridescent, lyre-spread tail became especially beautiful.
Seeing the sun over the miserable swamp fir trees, he suddenly jumped up on his high bridge, showed his white, clean linen of undertail and underwings and shouted:
- Chuf, shi!
In grouse, “chuf” most likely meant the sun, and “shi” probably was their “hello.”
In response to this first snort of the Current Kosach, the same snort with the flapping of wings was heard far throughout the swamp, and soon dozens of large birds, like two peas in a pod similar to Kosach, began to fly here from all sides and land near the Lying Stone.
With bated breath, the children sat on a cold stone, waiting for the rays of the sun to come to them and warm them up at least a little. And then the first ray, gliding over the tops of the nearest, very small Christmas trees, finally began to play on the children’s cheeks. Then the upper Kosach, greeting the sun, stopped jumping and chuffing. He sat down low on the bridge at the top of the tree, stretched his long neck along the branch and began a long song, similar to the babbling of a brook. In response to him, somewhere nearby, dozens of the same birds sitting on the ground, each one a rooster, stretched out their necks and began to sing the same song. And then, as if a rather large stream was already muttering, it ran over the invisible pebbles.
How many times have we, hunters, waited until the dark morning, listened in awe to this singing at the chilly dawn, trying in our own way to understand what the roosters were crowing about. And when we repeated their muttering in our own way, what came out was:

Cool feathers
Ur-gur-gu,
Cool feathers
I'll cut it off.

So the black grouse muttered in unison, intending to fight at the same time. And while they were muttering like that, a small event happened in the depths of the dense spruce crown. There a crow was sitting on a nest and was hiding there all the time from Kosach, who was mating almost right next to the nest. The crow would very much like to drive Kosach away, but she was afraid to leave the nest and let her eggs cool in the morning frost. The male raven guarding the nest was making his flight at that time and, probably, having encountered something suspicious, he lingered. The crow, waiting for the male, lay down in the nest, was quieter than water, lower than the grass. And suddenly, seeing the male flying back, she shouted:
- Kra!
This meant to her:
- Help me out!
- Kra! - the male answered in the direction of the current in the sense that it is still unknown who will tear off whose cool feathers.
The male, immediately understanding what was going on, went down and sat down on the same bridge, near the Christmas tree, right next to the nest where Kosach was mating, only closer to the pine tree, and began to wait.
At this time, Kosach, not paying any attention to the male crow, called out his words, known to all hunters:
- Car-car-cupcake!
And this was the signal for a general fight of all the displaying roosters. Well, cool feathers flew in all directions! And then, as if on the same signal, the male crow, with small steps along the bridge, imperceptibly began to approach Kosach.
The hunters for sweet cranberries sat motionless, like statues, on a stone. The sun, so hot and clear, came out against them over the swamp fir trees. But at that time one cloud happened in the sky. It appeared like a cold blue arrow and crossed the rising sun in half. At the same time, the wind suddenly blew again, and then the pine tree pressed and the spruce growled.
At this time, having rested on a stone and warmed up in the rays of the sun, Nastya and Mitrasha stood up to continue their journey. But right at the stone, a rather wide swamp path diverged like a fork: one, good, dense path went to the right, the other, weak, went straight.
Having checked the direction of the trails with a compass, Mitrasha, pointing out a weak trail, said:
- We need to take this one to the north.
- This is not a path! – Nastya answered.
- Here's another! – Mitrasha got angry. – People were walking – that means there was a path. We need to go north. Let's go and don't talk anymore.
Nastya was offended to obey the younger Mitrasha.
- Kra! - shouted the crow in the nest at this time.
And her male ran in small steps closer to Kosach, halfway across the bridge.
The second cool blue arrow crossed the sun, and a gray gloom began to approach from above.
The “Golden Hen” gathered her strength and tried to persuade her friend.
“Look,” she said, “how dense my path is, all the people are walking here.” Are we really smarter than everyone else?
“Let all people walk,” the stubborn “Little Man in a Bag” answered decisively. “We must follow the arrow, as our father taught us, north, towards Palestine.”
“Father told us fairy tales, he joked with us,” said Nastya. “And, probably, there are no Palestinians at all in the north.” It would be very stupid for us to follow the arrow: we will end up not in Palestine, but in the very Blind Elan.
“Well, okay,” Mitrash turned sharply. “I won’t argue with you anymore: you go along your path, where all the women go to buy cranberries, but I’ll go on my own, along my path, to the north.”
And in fact he went there without thinking about the cranberry basket or the food.
Nastya should have reminded him of this, but she was so angry that, all red as red, she spat after him and followed the cranberries along the common path.
- Kra! - the crow screamed.
And the male quickly ran across the bridge the rest of the way to Kosach and hit him with all his might. As if scalded, Kosach rushed towards the flying black grouse, but the angry male caught up with him, pulled him out, threw a bunch of white and rainbow feathers through the air and chased him far away.
Then the gray darkness moved in tightly and covered the entire sun with its life-giving rays. An evil wind very sharply tore the trees intertwined with roots, piercing each other with branches, and the entire Bludovo swamp began to growl, howl, and groan.

"V"

The trees moaned so pitifully that his hound dog, Grass, crawled out of a half-collapsed potato pit near Antipych’s lodge and howled pitifully in the same way, in tune with the trees.
Why did the dog have to crawl out of the warm, comfortable basement so early and howl pitifully in response to the trees?
Among the sounds of moaning, growling, grumbling, and howling that morning in the trees, it sometimes sounded as if somewhere in the forest a lost or abandoned child was crying bitterly.
It was this crying that Grass could not bear and, hearing it, crawled out of the hole at night and at midnight. The dog could not bear this cry of trees intertwined forever: the trees reminded the animal of his own grief.
Two whole years have passed since a terrible misfortune happened in Travka’s life: the forester she adored, the old hunter Antipych, died.
For a long time we went hunting with this Antipych, and the old man, I think, forgot how old he was, he kept living, living in his forest lodge, and it seemed that he would never die.
- How old are you, Antipych? – we asked. - Eighty?
“Not enough,” he answered.
- One hundred?
- A lot of.
Thinking that he was joking with us, but he knew it well, we asked:
- Antipych, well, stop your jokes, tell us the truth, how old are you?
“In truth,” answered the old man, “I will tell you if you tell me in advance what the truth is, what it is, where it lives and how to find it.”
It was difficult to answer us.
“You, Antipych, are older than us,” we said, “and you probably know better than us what the truth is.”
“I know,” Antipych grinned.
- So, say.
- No, while I’m alive, I can’t say, you look for it yourself. Well, when I’m about to die, come: then I’ll whisper the whole truth in your ear. Come!
- Okay, we'll come. What if we don’t guess when it’s necessary, and you die without us?
Grandfather squinted in his own way, the way he always squinted when he wanted to laugh and joke.
“You kids,” he said, “are not little, it’s time to know for yourself, but you keep asking.” Well, okay, when I’m ready to die and you’re not here, I’ll whisper to my Grass. Grass! – he called.
A large red dog with a black strap across its back entered the hut. Under her eyes there were black stripes with a curve like glasses. And this made her eyes seem very large, and with them she asked: “Why did you call me, master?”
Antipych looked at her in a special way, and the dog immediately understood the man: he called her out of friendship, out of friendship, for nothing, but just to joke, to play. The grass waved its tail, began to sink lower and lower on its legs, and when it crawled up to the old man’s knees, it lay on its back and turned up its light belly with six pairs of black nipples. Antipych just extended his hand to stroke her, she suddenly jumped up and put her paws on his shoulders - and kissed him and kissed him: on the nose, and on the cheeks, and on the very lips.
“Well, it will be, it will be,” he said, calming the dog and wiping his face with his sleeve.