January is a month of big silent snows. They always arrive suddenly. Suddenly at night the trees begin to whisper, something is going on in the forest. Read...

The birds and animals have suffered through a hard winter. Every day there is a snowstorm, every night there is frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in his den. He probably forgot that it was time for him to turn over to the other side. Read...

Only the well-fed do not fly to the garbage heap in winter. But there are few well-fed people in winter. Hungry bird eyes see everything. Sensitive ears hear everything. Read...

All birds are good, but starlings have a special twist; Each of them is unique, one is not like the other. Read...

Our loud-voiced and white-cheeked tit is called the great or common tit. That it is big, I agree with this: it is larger than other plum tits, tits, and blue tits. But I cannot agree with that that she is ordinary! Read...

- Why, Zainka, do you have such long ears? Why, little gray one, do you have such fast legs? Read...

A slanting snowstorm whistles - a white broom sweeps the roads. The snowdrifts and roofs are smoking. White waterfalls are falling from the pines. A furious drifting snow glides over the sastrugi. February is flying in full sail! Read...

Cold February arrived in the forest. He made snowdrifts on the bushes and covered the trees with frost. And although the sun is shining, it is not warming. Read...

It happened in winter: my skis started singing! I was skiing across the lake, and the skis were singing. They sang well, like birds. Read...

I bought the siskin for a ruble. The seller put it in a paper bag and handed it to me. Read...

Everyone's birthday is a joy. And the ticks are in trouble. What a joy it is to hatch in winter? It's frosty, and you're naked. One back of the head is covered with down. Read...

- Why are they, fools, afraid of me? - asked Lucy. Read...

At night, the box suddenly rustled. And something mustachioed and furry crawled out of the box. And on the back there is a folded fan of yellow paper. Read...

Blue month March. Blue sky, blue snow. Shadows on the snow are like blue lightning. Blue distance, blue ice. Read...

The Sparrow chirped on the dung heap and just jumped up and down! And the Crow Hag croaks in her nasty voice...

Nikolai Sladkov was born on January 5, 1920 in Moscow. During the war, he volunteered to go to the front and became a military topographer. IN Peaceful time retained the same specialty.

In his youth he was fond of hunting, but later abandoned this activity, considering sport hunting to be barbaric. Instead, he began to engage in photo hunting and put forward the call “Don’t take a gun into the forest, take a photo gun into the forest.”
He wrote his first book, “Silver Tail,” in 1953. In total, he wrote more than 60 books. Together with Vitaly Bianchi he produced the radio program “News from the Forest”. He traveled a lot, usually alone, these travels are reflected in books.

In total, during his adventure-filled life, Nikolai Ivanovich wrote more than 60 books. Among the most famous are such publications as “The Corner of the Eye”, “Behind the Feather of a Bluebird”, “The Invisible Aspen”, “Underwater Newspaper”, “The Land Above the Clouds”, “The Whistle of Wild Wings” and many other wonderful books... For The book "Underwater Newspaper" Nikolai Ivanovich was awarded the State Prize named after N.K. Krupskaya.

Such a gift is to talk about forest dwellers with sincere love and a warm smile, as well as the meticulousness of a professional zoologist - is given to very few. And very few of them can become real writers - such as Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov, who unusually organically combined in his work the talent of an excellent storyteller and the truly boundless erudition of a scientist, managing to discover something of his own in nature, unknown to others, and tell his grateful people about it readers...

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Yesterday's snow

Who needs yesterday's snow? Yes, to those who need yesterday: only yesterday’s snow can go back to the past. And how to live it again. I did just that, following the old trail of the lynx on its yesterday.
...Before dawn, the lynx emerged from the gloomy spruce forest into the moonlit moss swamp. She floated like a gray cloud between the gnarled pines, silently stepping with her wide paws. Ears with tassels are tense, curved mustaches puff up at the lips, and the moon zigzags in the black eyes.
A hare rolled diagonally, rustling the snow. The lynx rushed after him with greedy, swift leaps, but was too late. After hesitating, the gray cloud smoothly floated on, leaving behind a dot of round traces.
In the clearing, the lynx turned towards the holes of the black grouse, but the holes were cold, like the day before yesterday. She smelled hazel grouse sleeping under the snow by the stream, but the hazel grouse, even in their sleep, heard her quiet creeping steps on the roof of their snowy bedroom and fluttered out into the gap, as if through an attic window.
Only in the blind predawn light did the lynx manage to grab a squirrel, which for some reason had descended onto the snow. It was trampled and twisted here - snow pounding. She ate the whole squirrel, leaving a fluffy tail.
Then she went on, followed the hare's tracks, and rolled around in the snow. She walked further and dug a hole near the pine tree with her paw - snow walls in the grooves of her claws. But she didn’t like something here, she abandoned the hole, jumped onto a snow mound, turned around, trampled and lay down. And she dozed like a lazy cat on a warm bed all last day.
And now I’m sitting on her mound, listening to the forest. The wind rolls over the pines, and the tops are dusted with snow. In the depths of the forest, a woodpecker secretly taps. The powder rustles with pine scales like a mouse with a piece of paper.
The lynx heard all this yesterday. Yesterday's snow told everything.

Dried stones

A bear came out into the clearing. There are gray stones in the clearing. Maybe they've been lying there for a thousand years. But then the bear came and started to take them on. I tampered with the paws and turned them over - the stone immediately became two-colored. There was only one dry top visible, and now there is a damp dark bottom. The bear sniffed the two-colored stone and continued. The second stone was turned upside down with its wet bottom. Then the third. Fourth.
He walked around the entire clearing, turning over all the stones. All the stones have their wet bottoms facing the sun.
And the sun is burning. The wet stones began to smoke and steam came from them. Drying.
I look at the bear and don’t understand anything. Why does he dry the stones like mushrooms in the sun? Why does he need dry stones?
I'd be afraid to ask. Bears are weak-sighted. He still can’t see who’s asking. It will crush you blindly.
I look silent. And I see: the bear approached the last, largest stone. He grabbed it, leaned on it and turned it over too. And quickly head into the hole.
Well, there’s no need to ask. And so everything is clear. Not the stones beast
drying, and looking for a place to live under the stones! Bugs, slugs, mice. The stones are smoking. The bear is chomping.
His life is not easy! How many stones did you turn over? You got one mouse. How long does it take to turn over to fill your belly? No, not a single stone in the forest can lie for a thousand years without moving.
The bear chomps and paws right at me. Maybe I seemed like a stone to him too? Well, wait, now I’ll talk to you in my own way! I sneezed, coughed, whistled, and knocked my butt on the wood.
The bear groaned and went to break the bushes.
I and the dried stones were left in the clearing.

Three eggs lay in the seagull's nest: two were motionless, and the third was moving. The third one was impatient, it even whistled! If it had been his will, it would have jumped out of the nest and, like a bun, would have rolled along the bank!
The testicle fiddled and fidgeted and began to crunch softly. A hole crumbled at the blunt end. And through the hole, like in a window, a bird’s nose stuck out.

A bird's nose is also a mouth. The mouth opened in surprise. Of course: the egg suddenly became light and fresh. Hitherto muffled sounds began to sound powerful and loud. An unfamiliar world burst into the cozy and hidden home of the chick. And the little seagull became shy for a moment: maybe it’s not worth poking your nose into this unknown world?

But the sun warmed gently, my eyes got used to the bright light. Green blades of grass swayed and lazy waves splashed.

The little seagull rested its paws on the floor and its head on the ceiling, pressed, and the shell shattered. The little gull was so frightened that he shouted loudly at the top of his lungs: “Mom!”

So in our world there is one more seagull. In the chorus of voices, voices and little voices, a new voice began to sound. He was timid and quiet, like the squeak of a mosquito. But it sounded and everyone heard it.
The little seagull stood on trembling legs, fidgeted with the hairs of its wings and boldly stepped forward: water is water!

Will he avoid the menacing pikes and otters? Or will his path end at the fangs of the first sly fox?
The wings of his mother, a seagull, spread out over him, like hands ready to protect him from adversity.
The fluffy bun rolled into life.

Serious bird

There is a colony of herons in the forest near the swamp. There are so many herons! Large and small: white, gray, red. Both daytime and nighttime.

Herons vary in height and color, but all are very important and serious. And the heron-heron is most important and serious.

The heron is nocturnal. During the day she rests on the nest, and at night she catches frogs and fish fry in the swamp.

At night in the swamp she feels good - it's cool. But during the day there is trouble on the nest.

The forest is stuffy, the sun is hot. The night heron sits on the edge of the nest, in the very heat. It opened its beak from the heat, hung its wide wings - completely softened. And he breathes heavily, with wheezing.

I was amazed: a serious-looking bird, but so stupid! To hide in the shadows is not enough for that. And she built the nest somehow - the chicks’ legs fall through the cracks.

Heat. A night heron wheezes in the heat, with its beak agape. The sun moves slowly across the sky. A night heron slowly moves along the edge of the nest...

And suddenly the blood hit my face - I felt so ashamed. After all, the night heron shielded its chicks from the burning sun with its body!

The chicks are neither cold nor hot: there is shade above, and the breeze blows from below in the crack of the nest. They put their long noses on top of each other, their legs dangled in the crack and they slept. And when they wake up and ask for food, the night heron will fly to the swamp to catch frogs and fry. He will feed the chicks and sit on the nest again. He moves his nose around - he is on guard.

Serious bird!

Great titmouse

Our loud-voiced and white-cheeked tit is called the great or common tit. That it is big, I agree with this: it is larger than other tits - plumes, tits, blue tits. But I cannot agree with that that she is ordinary!

She amazed me from the very first meeting. And that was a long time ago. She fell into my trap. I took her in my hand, and she... died! Just now she was alive and playful, pinching her fingers with twists and turns - and then she died. I unclenched my hand in confusion. The titmouse lay motionless on the open palm with its paws up, and its eyes were filled with white. I held it, held it, and put it on a tree stump. And as soon as he pulled his hand away, the titmouse screamed and flew away!
How ordinary she is if she is such an extraordinary deceiver! If he wants, he will die, if he wants, he will be resurrected.
Then I learned that many birds fall into some kind of strange stupor if they are placed with their backs down. But the titmouse does it better than anyone and often saves it from captivity.

Whistlers.

How much can you whistle? I came to the swamp in the dark, at one thirty at night. On the side of the road, two cranes were already whistling - who would win? They whispered like whips: “Here! Whoa!” Exactly like that - once a second. When I count to five, I hear five “twots,” and when I count to ten, I hear ten. At least check your stopwatch!
But it’s only customary to say that it goes in one ear and comes out the other. Where is it - it gets stuck!
Before dawn, these little craps were whistling all over my ears. Although they fell silent early: at three thirty minutes.
Now let's count.
The cranes whistled for exactly two hours, that’s 120 minutes, or 7200 seconds. That is 14,400 seconds for two, 14,400 whistles! Without ceasing. And they were whistling even before I arrived, maybe for more than an hour!
And they didn’t become hoarse, didn’t grow hoarse, and didn’t lose their voices. That's how much you can whistle if it's spring...

How the bear was turned over

The birds and animals have suffered through a hard winter. Every day there is a snowstorm, every night there is frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in his den. He probably forgot that it was time for him to turn over to the other side.

There is a forest sign: as the Bear turns over on its other side, the sun will turn towards summer.

The birds and animals have run out of patience. Let's go wake up the Bear:

- Hey, Bear, it's time! Everyone is tired of winter! We miss the sun. Roll over, roll over, maybe you'll get bed sores?

The bear didn’t answer at all: he didn’t move, he didn’t move. Know he's snoring.

- Eh, I should hit him in the back of the head! - exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I suppose he would move right away!

“No,” mumbled Elk, “you have to be respectful and respectful with him.” Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and beg you: turn over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not sweet. We, elk, are standing in the aspen forest, like cows in a stall: we cannot take a step to the side. There's a lot of snow in the forest! It will be a disaster if the wolves get wind of us.

The bear moved his ear and grumbled through his teeth:

- What do I care about you moose! Deep snow is good for me: it’s warm and I sleep peacefully.

Here the White Partridge began to lament:

- Aren’t you ashamed, Bear? All the berries, all the bushes with buds were covered with snow - what do you want us to peck? Well, why should you turn over on the other side and hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!

And the Bear has his:

- It’s even funny! You're tired of winter, but I'm turning over from side to side! Well, what do I care about buds and berries? I have a reserve of lard under my skin.

The squirrel endured and endured, but could not bear it:

- Oh, you shaggy mattress, he’s too lazy to turn over, you see! But you would jump on the branches with ice cream, you would skin your paws until they bleed, like me!.. Turn over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!

- Four five six! - the Bear taunts. - I scared you! Well - shoot off! You're preventing me from sleeping.

The animals tucked their tails, the birds hung their noses, and began to disperse. And then the Mouse suddenly stuck out of the snow and squeaked:

– They’re so big, but you’re scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, the bobtail, like that? He doesn’t understand either for good or for bad. You have to deal with him like us, like a mouse. You ask me - I’ll turn it over in an instant!

– Are you a Bear?! - the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! - the Mouse boasts.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear.

Runs all over it, scratches it with its claws, bites it with its teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a pig, and kicked his legs.

- Oh, I can’t! - howls. - Oh, I’ll roll over, just don’t tickle me! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!

And the steam from the den is like smoke from a chimney.

The mouse stuck out and squeaked:

– He turned over like a little darling! They would have told me a long time ago.

Well, as soon as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to summer. Every day the sun is higher, every day spring is closer. Every day is brighter and more fun in the forest!

Forest rustles

Perch and Burbot

Where's the place under the ice? All the fish are sleepy - you are the only one, Burbot, cheerful and playful. What's the matter with you, huh?

- And the fact that for all fish in winter it’s winter, but for me, Burbot, in winter it’s summer! You perches are dozing, and we burbots are playing weddings, swording caviar, rejoicing and having fun!

- Let's go, brother perches, to Burbot's wedding! Let’s wake up our sleep, have some fun, snack on burbot caviar...

Otter and Raven

- Tell me, Raven, wise bird, why do people burn a fire in the forest?

“I didn’t expect such a question from you, Otter.” We got wet in the stream and froze, so we lit a fire. They warm themselves by the fire.

- Strange... But in winter I always warm myself in water. There is never frost in the water!

Hare and Vole

– Frost and blizzard, snow and cold. If you want to smell the green grass, nibble on the juicy leaves, wait until spring. Where else is that spring - beyond the mountains and beyond the seas...

- Not beyond the seas, Hare, spring is just around the corner, but under your feet! Dig the snow down to the ground - there are green lingonberries, mantleberries, strawberries, and dandelions. And you smell it, and you get full.

Badger and Bear

- What, Bear, are you still sleeping?

- I'm sleeping, Badger, I'm sleeping. So, brother, I got up to speed - it’s been five months without waking up. All sides have rested!

- Or maybe, Bear, it’s time for us to get up?

- It's not time. Sleep some more.

- Won’t you and I sleep through the spring from the start?

- Don't be afraid! She, brother, will wake you up.

“Will she knock on our door, sing a song, or maybe tickle our heels?” I, Misha, fear is so hard to rise!

- Wow! You'll probably jump up! She, Borya, will give you a bucket of water under your sides - I bet you won’t stay too long! Sleep while you're dry.

Magpie and Dipper

- Oooh, Olyapka, you don’t even think about swimming in the ice hole?!

- And swim and dive!

-Are you going to freeze?

- My pen is warm!

- Will you get wet?

– My pen is water-repellent!

-Will you drown?

- I can swim!

- A … A … Do you get hungry after swimming?

“That’s why I dive, to eat a water bug!”

Winter debts

The Sparrow was chirping on the dung heap - and he was jumping up and down! And the Crow croaks in his nasty voice:

- Why, Sparrow, were you happy, why were you chirping?

“The wings itch, Crow, the nose itches,” Sparrow answers. - The passion to fight is the hunt! Don’t croak here, don’t spoil my spring mood!

- But I’ll ruin it! - Crow is not far behind. - How can I ask a question?

- I scared you!

- And I’ll scare you. Did you peck crumbs in the trash bin in winter?

- Pecked.

– Did you pick up grains from the barnyard?

- I picked it up.

-Did you have lunch in the bird cafeteria near the school?

- Thanks to the guys, they fed me.

- That's it! - Crow bursts into tears. – How do you think you will pay for all this? With your chirping?

- Am I the only one who used it? - Sparrow was confused. - And the Tit was there, and the Woodpecker, and the Magpie, and the Jackdaw. And you, Vorona, were...

– Don’t confuse others! - Crow wheezes. - You answer for yourself. If you borrowed money, pay it back! As all decent birds do.

“The decent ones, maybe they do,” Sparrow got angry. - But are you doing this, Vorona?

- I’ll cry before anyone else! Do you hear a tractor plowing in the field? And behind him, I pick out all sorts of root beetles and root rodents from the furrow. And Magpie and Galka help me. And looking at us, other birds are also trying.

– Don’t vouch for others either! - Sparrow insists. – Others may have forgotten to think.

But Crow doesn’t let up:

- Fly over and check it out!

Sparrow flew to check. He flew into the garden - the Tit lives there in a new nest.

– Congratulations on your housewarming! - Sparrow says. – In my joy, I suppose I forgot about my debts!

- I haven’t forgotten, Sparrow, that you are! - Titmouse answers. “The guys treated me to delicious salsa in the winter, and in the fall I’ll treat them to sweet apples.” I protect the garden from codling moths and leaf-eaters.

- For what need, Sparrow, did he fly to my forest?

“Yes, they demand payment from me,” Sparrow tweets. - And you, Woodpecker, how do you pay? A?

“That’s how I try,” answers the Woodpecker. – I protect the forest from wood borers and bark beetles. I fight them tooth and nail! I even got fat...

“Look,” Sparrow thought. - I thought...

Sparrow returned to the dung heap and said to Crow:

- Yours, hag, the truth! Everyone is paying off winter debts. Am I worse than others? How can I start feeding my chicks mosquitoes, horseflies and flies! So that the bloodsuckers don't bite these guys! I'll pay back my debts in no time!

He said so and let’s jump up and chirp on the dung heap again. Bye free time There is. Until the sparrows in the nest hatched.

Polite jackdaw

I have a lot among wild birds acquaintances I know only one sparrow. He is all white - an albino. You can immediately tell him apart in a flock of sparrows: everyone is gray, but he is white.

I know Soroka. I distinguish this one by its impudence. In winter, it used to be that people would hang food outside the window, and she would immediately fly in and ruin everything.

But I noticed one jackdaw for her politeness.

There was a snowstorm.

In early spring there are special snowstorms - sunny ones. Snow whirlwinds swirl in the air, everything sparkles and rushes! Stone houses look like rocks. There is a storm at the top, snowy waterfalls flow from the roofs as if from mountains. Icicles from the wind grow in different sides like the shaggy beard of Santa Claus.

And above the cornice, under the roof, there is a secluded place. There, two bricks fell out of the wall. My jackdaw settled in this recess. All black, only a gray collar on the neck. The jackdaw was basking in the sun and also pecking at some tasty morsel. Cubby!

If this jackdaw were me, I would not give up such a place to anyone!

And suddenly I see: another one, smaller and duller in color, flies up to my big jackdaw. Jump and jump along the ledge. Twist your tail! She sat down opposite my jackdaw and looked. The wind flutters it - it breaks its feathers, and whips it into white grain!

My jackdaw grabbed a piece of it in his beak - and walked out of the recess onto the cornice! She gave up the warm place to a stranger!

And someone else's jackdaw grabs a piece from my beak - and goes to her warm place. She pressed someone else's piece with her paw and it pecked. What a shameless one!

My jackdaw is on the ledge - under the snow, in the wind, without food. The snow whips her, the wind breaks her feathers. And she, the fool, endures it! Doesn't kick out the little one.

“Probably,” I think, “the alien jackdaw is very old, so they give way to it. Or maybe this is a well-known and respected jackdaw? Or maybe she’s small and remote – a fighter.” I didn’t understand anything then...

And recently I saw: both jackdaws - mine and someone else's - sitting side by side on an old chimney and both had twigs in their beaks.

Hey, they're building a nest together! Everyone will understand this.

And the little jackdaw is not at all old and not a fighter. And she’s no stranger now.

And my friend the big jackdaw is not a jackdaw at all, but a gal!

But still, my gal friend is very polite. This is the first time I've seen this.

Grouse notes

The black grouse are not singing in the forests yet. They're just writing notes. This is how they write notes. One flies from a birch tree into a white clearing, puffs up its neck like a rooster. And his feet mince in the snow, mince. It drags its half-bent wings, furrows the snow with its wings - it draws lines of music.

The second black grouse will fly off and follow the first one through the snow! So he will place dots with his feet on the musical lines: “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si!”

The first one goes straight into the fray: don’t interfere with my writing! He snorts at the second one and follows his lines: “Si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do!”

He'll chase you away, raise his head up, and think. He mutters, mumbles, turns back and forth and writes down his muttering with his paws on his lines. For memory.

Fun! They walk, run, and trace the snow with their wings onto musical lines. They mutter, mutter, and compose. They compose their spring songs and write them down in the snow with their legs and wings.

But soon the black grouse will stop composing songs and start learning them. Then they will fly up into the tall birch trees - you can clearly see the notes from above! - and start singing. Everyone will sing the same way, everyone has the same notes: grooves and crosses, crosses and grooves.

They learn and unlearn everything until the snow melts. And it will do, no problem: they sing from memory. They sing during the day, they sing in the evening, but especially in the morning.

They sing great, right on cue!

Whose thawed patch?

She saw the Forty-first thawed patch - a dark speck on the white snow.

- My! - she shouted. - My thawed patch, since I saw it first!

There are seeds in the thawed area, spider bugs are swarming, the lemongrass butterfly is lying on its side, warming up. Magpie's eyes widened, her beak opened, and out of nowhere - Rook.

- Hello, grow up, she’s already arrived! In the winter I wandered around the crow dumps, and now to my thawed patch! Ugly!

- Why is she yours? - Magpie chirped. - I saw it first!

“You saw it,” Rook barked, “and I’ve been dreaming about it all winter.” He was in a hurry to get to her a thousand miles away! For her sake warm countries left. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Where there are thawed patches, there we are, rooks. My thawed patch!

– Why is he croaking here! - Magpie rumbled. - All winter in the south he warmed himself and basked, ate and drank whatever he wanted, and when he returned, give him the thawed patch without a queue! And I was freezing all winter, rushing from the trash heap to the landfill, swallowing snow instead of water, and now, barely alive, weak, I finally spotted a thawed patch, and they took it away. You, Rook, are only dark in appearance, but you are on your own mind. Shoo from the thawed patch before it pecks at the top of the head!

The Lark flew in to hear the noise, looked around, listened and chirped:

- Spring, sun, clear sky, and you are quarreling. And where - on my thawed patch! Do not darken my joy of meeting her. I'm hungry for songs!

Magpie and Rook just flapped their wings.

- Why is she yours? This is our thawed patch, we found it. The magpie had been waiting for her all winter, overlooking all eyes.

And maybe I was in such a hurry from the south to get to her that I almost dislocated my wings along the way.

- And I was born on it! - Lark squeaked. – If you look, you can also find the shells from the egg from which I hatched! I remember how it used to be that in winter, in a foreign land, there was a native nest - and I was reluctant to sing. And now the song is bursting from the beak - even the tongue is trembling.

The Lark jumped onto a hummock, closed his eyes, his throat trembled - and the song flowed like a spring stream: it rang, gurgled, gurgled. Magpie and Rook opened their beaks and listened. They will never sing like that, they don’t have the same throat, all they can do is chirp and croak.

They probably listened for a long time, warming up in the spring sun, but suddenly the earth trembled under their feet, swelled into a tubercle and crumbled.

And the Mole looked out and sniffled.

- Did you fall right into a thawed patch? That’s right: the ground is soft, warm, there is no snow. And it smells... Ugh! Does it smell like spring? Is it spring up there?

- Spring, spring, digger! – Magpie shouted grumpily.

– Knew where to please! – Rook muttered suspiciously. - Even though he’s blind...

- Why do you need our thawed patch? - Lark creaked.

The Mole sniffed at the Rook, at the Magpie, at the Lark - he couldn’t see with his eyes! - he sneezed and said:

- I don’t need anything from you. And I don’t need your thawed patch. I’ll push the earth out of the hole and back. Because I feel: it’s bad for you. You quarrel and almost fight. And it’s also light, dry, and the air is fresh. Not like my dungeon: dark, damp, musty. Grace! It’s also like spring here...

- How can you say that? - Lark was horrified. - Do you know, digger, what spring is!

- I don’t know and I don’t want to know! – the Mole snorted. – I don’t need any spring, it’s underground all year round the same.

“Thawed patches appear in spring,” said Magpie, Lark and Rook dreamily.

“And scandals begin in thawed areas,” the Mole snorted again. - And for what? A thawed patch is like a thawed patch.

- Don't tell me! – Soroka jumped up. - And the seeds? And the beetles? Are the sprouts green? All winter without vitamins.

- Sit, walk around, stretch! - Rook barked. - Nose in warm earth rummage!

- And it’s good to sing over thawed patches! - the Lark soared. – There are as many thawed patches in the field as there are larks. And everyone sings! There is nothing better than thawed patches in spring.

- Why are you arguing then? – Mole didn’t understand. - The lark wants to sing - let him sing. Rook wants to march - let him march.

- Right! - said Magpie. - In the meantime, I’ll take care of the seeds and beetles...

Then the shouting and squabbling began again.

And while they were shouting and quarreling, new thawed patches appeared in the field. Birds scattered across them to greet spring. Sing songs, rummage in the warm earth, kill a worm.

- It's time for me too! - The mole said. And he fell into a place where there was no spring, no thawed patches, no sun and no moon, no wind and no rain. And where there is no one to even argue with. Where it is always dark and quiet.

Before you plunge into the fascinating world of forest nature, we will tell you about the author of these works.

Biography of Nikolai Sladkov

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov was born in 1920 in Moscow, but his whole life was spent in Leningrad and Tsarskoe Selo, famous for its magnificent parks. Here Nikolai discovered the beautiful and unique life of nature, which became the main theme of his work.

While still a schoolboy, he began to keep a diary, where he wrote down his impressions and observations. In addition, he began studying in the youth group at the Leningrad Zoological Institute. Here he met the famous naturalist writer Vitaly Bianchi, who called this circle the “Columbus Club.” In the summer, the children came to Bianki in the Novgorod region to study the secrets of the forest and comprehend nature. Bianchi's books had a great influence on Nikolai, correspondence began between them, and it was Sladkov who considered him his teacher. Subsequently, Bianchi became a true friend of Sladkov.

When did the Great Patriotic War, Nikolai volunteered to go to the front and became a military topographer. He worked in the same specialty in peacetime.

Sladkov wrote his first book, “Silver Tail,” in 1953 (and there are more than 60 of them in total). Together with Vitaly Bianchi, he prepared the radio program “News from the Forest” and answered numerous letters from listeners. Traveled a lot, visited India and Africa. As in childhood, he recorded his impressions in notebooks, which later became the source of the plots of his books.

In 2010, Sladkov would have turned 90 years old.

Nikolai Sladkov. How crossbills made squirrels jump in the snow

Squirrels don't really like to jump on the ground. If you leave a trace, the hunter and his dog will find you! It's much safer in the trees. From a trunk to a twig, from a twig to a branch. From birch to pine, from pine to Christmas tree.

They'll gnaw buds there, cones there. That's how they live.

A hunter walks with a dog through the forest, looking at his feet. There are no squirrel tracks in the snow! But you won’t see any traces on spruce paws! There are only cones and crossbills on the spruce paws.

These crossbills are beautiful! Males are purple, females are yellow-green. And great masters peel the cones! The crossbill will tear off a cone with its beak, press it with its paw, and use its crooked nose to bend back the scales and remove the seeds. He will bend back the scale, bend the second one and throw the cone. There are a lot of cones, why feel sorry for them! The crossbills fly away - a whole pile of cones remains under the tree. Hunters call such cones crossbill carrion.

Time passes. Crossbills tear everything down and rip cones off the trees. There are very few cones on the fir trees in the forest. The squirrels are hungry. Whether you like it or not, you have to go down to the ground and walk downstairs, digging out crossbill carrion from under the snow.

A squirrel walks below and leaves a trail. There's a dog on the trail. The hunter is after the dog.

“Thanks to the crossbills,” says the hunter, “they let the squirrel down!”

By spring, the last seeds will spill out of all the cones on the spruce trees. Squirrels now have only one salvation - carrion. All seeds in the carrion are intact. Throughout the hungry spring, squirrels pick up and peel crossbill carrion. Now I would like to say thank you to the crossbills, but the squirrels don’t say anything. They cannot forget how the crossbills made them jump in the snow in winter!

Nikolai Sladkov. How the bear was turned over

The birds and animals have suffered through a hard winter. Every day there is a snowstorm, every night there is frost. Winter has no end in sight. The Bear fell asleep in his den. He probably forgot that it was time for him to turn over to the other side.

There is a forest sign: when the Bear turns over on its other side, the sun will turn towards summer.

The birds and animals have run out of patience.

Let's go wake up the Bear:

- Hey, Bear, it's time! Everyone is tired of winter!

We miss the sun. Roll over, roll over, maybe you'll get bed sores?

The bear didn’t answer at all: he didn’t move, he didn’t move. Know he's snoring.

- Eh, I should hit him in the back of the head! - exclaimed the Woodpecker. - I suppose he would move right away!

“No,” Moose mumbled, “you have to be respectful and respectful with him.” Hey, Mikhailo Potapych! Hear us, we tearfully ask and beg you - turn over, at least slowly, on the other side! Life is not sweet. We, elk, are standing in the aspen forest, like cows in a stall - we cannot take a step to the side. There's a lot of snow in the forest! It's a disaster if the wolves sniff us out.

The bear moved his ear and grumbled through his teeth:

- What do I care about you moose! Deep snow is only good for me: it’s warm and I can sleep peacefully.

Here the White Partridge began to lament:

- Aren’t you ashamed, Bear? The snow covered all the berries, all the bushes with buds - what do you want us to peck? Well, why should you turn over on the other side and hurry up the winter? Hop - and you're done!

And the Bear has his:

- It’s even funny! You're tired of winter, but I'm turning over from side to side! Well, what do I care about buds and berries? I have a reserve of lard under my skin.

The squirrel endured and endured, but could not bear it:

- Oh, you shaggy mattress, he’s too lazy to turn over, you see! But you would jump on the branches with ice cream, you would skin your paws until they bleed, like me!.. Turn over, couch potato, I count to three: one, two, three!

- Four five six! - the Bear taunts. - I scared you! Well, shoot off! You're preventing me from sleeping.

The animals tucked their tails, the birds hung their noses, and began to disperse. And then the Mouse suddenly stuck out of the snow and squeaked:

- They’re so big, but you’re scared? Is it really necessary to talk to him, the bobtail, like that? He doesn’t understand either for good or for bad. You have to deal with him like us, like a mouse. If you ask me, I’ll turn it over in an instant!

- Are you a Bear?! - the animals gasped.

- With one left paw! - the Mouse boasts.

The Mouse darted into the den - let's tickle the Bear. Runs all over it, scratches it with its claws, bites it with its teeth. The Bear twitched, squealed like a pig, and kicked his legs.

- Oh, I can’t! - howls. - Oh, I’ll roll over, just don’t tickle me! Oh-ho-ho-ho! A-ha-ha-ha!

And the steam from the den is like smoke from a chimney.

The mouse stuck out and squeaked:

— He turned over like a little darling! They would have told me a long time ago.

Well, as soon as the Bear turned over on the other side, the sun immediately turned to summer.

Every day the sun is higher, every day spring is closer. Every day is brighter and more fun in the forest!

Nikolai Sladkov. How long is the hare

How long is the hare? Well, this is for whom? The beast is small for a human - about the size of a birch log. But for a fox, a hare is two kilometers long? Because for the fox, the hare begins not when she grabs him, but when she smells the scent. A short trail - two or three jumps - and the hare is small.

And if the hare managed to follow and loop, then it becomes longer than the longest animal on earth. It’s not easy for such a big guy to hide in the forest.

This makes the hare very sad: live in eternal fear, don’t gain extra fat.

And so the hare tries with all his might to become shorter. It drowns its footprint in the swamp, tears its footprint in two - it keeps shortening itself. All he can think about is how to run away from his trail, hide, how to break it, shorten it or drown it.

The hare's dream is to finally become himself, the size of a birch log.

The life of a hare is special. Rain and snowstorms bring little joy to everyone, but they are good for the hare: they wash away and cover the trail. And it’s worse when the weather is calm and warm: the trail is hot, the smell lasts a long time. No matter what thicket you get into, there is no peace: maybe the fox is two kilometers behind - now it’s already holding you by the tail!

So it’s hard to say how long the hare is. Which is more cunning - shorter, stupid - longer. In calm weather, the smart one stretches out, in a snowstorm and downpour, the stupid one shortens.

Every day, the length of the hare is different.

And very rarely, when he is really lucky, there is a hare of the same length - as long as a birch log - as a person knows him.

Everyone with a nose knows about this better eyes works. The wolves know. Foxes know. You should know too.

Nikolai Sladkov. Bureau of Forest Services

Cold February arrived in the forest. He made snowdrifts on the bushes and covered the trees with frost. And although the sun is shining, it is not warming.

Ferret says:

- Save yourself as best you can!

And Magpie chirps:

-Everyone for himself again? Alone again? No, so that we can work together against a common misfortune! And that’s what everyone says about us, that we only peck and squabble in the forest. It's even a shame...

Here the Hare got involved:

- That's right, the Magpie is chirping. There is safety in numbers. I propose to create a Bureau of Forest Services. For example, I can help partridges. Every day I tear the snow on the winter fields to the ground, let them peck the seeds and greens there after me - I don’t mind. Write me, Soroka, to the Bureau as number one!

- There is still a smart head in our forest! - Soroka was happy. - Who is next?

- We're next! - the crossbills shouted. “We peel the cones on the trees and drop half of the cones whole.” Use it, voles and mice, don’t mind!

“The hare is a digger, crossbills are throwers,” wrote Magpie.

- Who is next?

“Sign us up,” the beavers grumbled from their hut. “We piled so many aspen trees in the fall—there’s enough for everyone.” Come to us, moose, roe deer, hares, gnaw on the juicy aspen bark and branches!

And it went, and it went!

Woodpeckers offer their hollows for the night, crows invite them to carrion, crows promise to show them their dumps. Soroka barely has time to write down.

The Wolf also trotted out at the noise. He straightened his ears, looked up with his eyes and said:

- Sign me up for the Bureau too!

The magpie almost fell from the tree:

- Are you, Volka, at the Service Bureau? What do you want to do in it?

“I will serve as a watchman,” answers the Wolf.

-Who can you guard?

- I can guard everyone! Hares, moose and roe deer near the aspen trees, partridges in the greens, beavers in the huts. I'm an experienced watchman. He guarded the sheep in the sheepfold, the chickens in the chicken coop...

- You are a robber from a forest road, not a watchman! - Magpie shouted. - Move on, you rascal! We know you. It’s me, Soroka, who will guard everyone in the forest from you: when I see you, I’ll raise a cry! I will write down not you, but myself as a watchman in the Bureau: “Magpie is a watchman.” Am I worse than others, or what?

This is how bird-animals live in the forest. It happens, of course, that they live in such a way that only fluff and feathers fly. But it happens, and they help each other out. Anything can happen in the forest.

Nikolai Sladkov. Resort "Icicle"

Magpie sat on a snow-covered tree and cried:

- All migratory birds They flew away for the winter, I’m alone, sedentary, enduring frosts and blizzards. Neither eat well, nor drink deliciously, nor sleep sweetly. And in the winter, they say, it’s a resort... Palm trees, bananas, hot!

- It depends on what wintering place you are in, Soroka!

- Which one, which one - the ordinary one!

- There are no ordinary winterings, Soroka. There are hot winterings - in India, in Africa, in South America, and there are cold ones - like in yours middle lane. For example, we came to you from the North for a winter holiday. I am the White Owl, they are the Waxwing and the Bullfinch, the Bunting and the White Partridge.

- Why did you have to fly from winter to winter? - Soroka is surprised. - You have snow in the tundra - and we have snow, you have frost - and we have frost. What kind of resort is this?

But Waxwing does not agree:

“You have less snow, milder frosts, and milder blizzards.” But the main thing is the rowan! Rowan is more valuable to us than any palm tree or banana.

And the white partridge does not agree:

“I’ll eat some delicious willow buds and bury my head in the snow.” Nourishing, soft, not windy - why not a resort?

And the white Owl does not agree:

“Everything is hidden in the tundra now, and you have both mice and hares.” Happy life!

And all the other winterers nod their heads and agree.

- It turns out that I shouldn’t cry, but have fun! “It turns out I’ve been living at a resort all winter, but I don’t even know it,” Soroka is surprised. - Well, miracles!

- That's right, Soroka! - everyone shouts. “Don’t regret the hot winters; you won’t be able to fly that far on your scanty wings anyway.” Live better with us!

It's quiet in the forest again. The magpie calmed down.

The arriving winter resort residents started eating. Well, as for those in hot winter quarters, I haven’t heard from them yet. Until spring.

Nikolai Sladkov. Forest werewolves

Miraculous things happen in the forest unnoticed, without prying eyes.

Today: I was waiting for a woodcock at dawn. Dawn was cold, quiet, clean. Tall spruce trees rose at the edge of the forest, like black fortress towers. And in the lowlands, over the streams and river, fog hung. The willows sank into it like dark underwater stones.

I watched the drowned willows for a long time.

It all seemed like something was bound to happen there!

But nothing happened; The fog from the streams slowly flowed down to the river.

“It’s strange,” I thought, “the fog doesn’t rise, as always, but flows down...”

But then a woodcock was heard. Black bird flapping its wings like bat, stretched across the green sky. I threw up my photo gun and forgot about the fog.

And when I came to my senses, the fog had already turned into frost! Covered the clearing with white. I didn't notice how it happened. Woodcock averted his eyes!

The woodcocks have finished pulling. The sun appeared. And all the forest inhabitants were so happy about him, as if they had not seen him for a long time. And I stared at the sun: it’s interesting to watch how a new day is born.

But then I remembered about the frost; lo and behold, he’s no longer in the clearing! White frost turned into a blue haze; it trembles and flows over the fluffy golden willows. I missed it again!

And he overlooked how day appeared in the forest.

It’s always like this in the forest: something will take your eyes off! And the most wonderful and amazing things will happen unnoticed, without prying eyes.

Sladkov's stories about forest life. Stories about nature for junior schoolchildren. Stories for students primary classes. extracurricular reading in grades 1-4. Educational stories about the natural world for schoolchildren.

Nikolai Sladkov. Sly dandelion

They say there is nothing more cunning than the fox and the beast. There may not be an animal, but a dandelion is more cunning than a fox! Looks like a simpleton. But in reality it’s on your own mind. Passion is cunning!

It's cold in the spring, hungry. All the flowers sit in the ground, waiting for their warm hour. And the dandelion has already bloomed! It shines like a clear sun. Since autumn he has stored food in the roots; outdid everyone. Insects rush to his flowers. That’s fine with him: let them pollinate.

The seeds will set, the dandelion will close the bud and, like a cradle with twins, quietly lower the bud down. After all, babies need peace and warmth: let them gain strength by lying quietly on the ground in a warm cradle.

And when the kids grow up, their flying wings grow - it’s time to hit the road, to new lands, to green distances. Now they need height, they need space and wind. And the dandelion again raises its stem, straightens it like an arrow, higher than any anemones, cat paws, woodlice and weeds. Scatter and sprout!

What about a fox: she has four legs, sharp teeth. And the foxes are only five heels old. She would try to raise a hundred children, when instead of legs there is only a root, and instead of teeth there is a stem and a leaf. Neither run away, nor hide, nor dodge. The bug is threatening too. So the dandelion is cunning, without leaving its place. And nothing - it flourishes.

Nikolai Sladkov. Forest hiding places

The forest is thick, green and full of rustles, squeaks, and songs.

But then the hunter entered it - and instantly everything hid and became wary. Like a wave from a stone thrown into the water, anxiety rolled from tree to tree. All for a bush, for a twig - and silence.

Now if you want to see, become invisible yourself; if you want to hear, become inaudible; If you want to understand, freeze.

I know it. I know that from all the forest hiding places quick eyes are watching me, wet noses are catching the streams of wind running from me. There are many animals and birds around. Try to find it!

I came here to see the Scops Owl - a tiny owl, similar to a starling.

All night long she, as if wound up, shouts her: “I’m sleeping! I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping! - as if a forest clock is ticking: “Tick! Teak! Teak! Teak!.."

By dawn the forest clock will begin: the Scops Owl will fall silent and hide. Yes, she hides so cleverly, as if she had never been in the forest.

Who hasn't heard the voice of the Scops Owl - the night hours - but what does it look like? I only knew her from the picture. And I wanted to see her alive so much that I wandered through the forest all day, examining every tree, every branch, looking into every bush. Tired. I'm hungry. But I never found her.

He sat down on an old stump. I'm silent, I'm sitting.

And lo and behold, out of nowhere - a snake! Gray. A flat head on a thin neck, like a bud on a stalk. She crawled out from somewhere and looked into my eyes, as if she was expecting something from me.

The snake is a creeper, it must know everything.

I tell her, like in a fairy tale:

- Snake, snake, tell me where the scops owl hid - the forest clock?

The snake teased me with its tongue and dashed into the grass!

And suddenly, as in a fairy tale, forest hiding places opened up before me.

The snake rustled for a long time in the grass, appeared again at another stump - and wiggled under its mossy roots. She dove, and a large green lizard with a blue head turned out from under them. It was as if someone had pushed her out of there. She rustled on a dry leaf and snuck into someone’s hole.

There is another hiding place in the hole. The owner there is a stupid-faced mouse-vole.

She was frightened by the blue-headed lizard, jumped out of the hole - from the darkness into the light - she rushed and rushed about - and walked under a lying log!

Another squeak and fuss rose under the deck. There was also a hiding place there. And all day long two animals slept in it - dormouse. Two animals that look like squirrels.

Dormouses jumped out from under the log and were stunned with fear. Ruffed tails. They climbed up the trunk. They clicked, but suddenly they became scared again, and they rushed even higher up the trunk with a screw.

And higher up in the trunk there is a hollow.

The little sleepyheads wanted to enter it - and bumped heads at the entrance. They squeaked in pain, both rushed again at once - and then they fell into the hollow together.

And from there - poof! - little hollow devil! The ears on the top of the head are like horns. The eyes are round and yellow. He sat down on a branch, with his back to me, and turned his head so that he was looking straight at me.

Of course, this is not a devil, but a Scops Owl - night hours!

I didn’t have time to blink, she - one! - willow foliage. And there was a fuss and a squeaking sound: someone was also hiding.

So from hollow to hollow, from hole to hole, from log to log, from bush to bush, from crevice to crevice, the small fry of the forest shy away in fear, revealing to me their hidden secrets. From tree to tree, from bush to bush, like a wave from a stone, anxiety rolls through the forest. And everyone hides: hop-hop behind a bush, behind a twig - and silence.

If you want to see, become invisible. If you want to hear, become inaudible. If you want to find out, hide.

Nikolai Sladkov. Mysterious beast

A cat catches mice, a seagull eats fish, a flycatcher eats flies. Tell me what you eat and I will tell you who you are.

- Guess who am I? I eat bugs and ants!

I thought and said firmly:

- I didn’t guess! I also eat wasps and bumblebees!

- Yeah! You're a buzzard!

- Don't be a buzzard! I also eat caterpillars and larvae.

— Blackbirds love caterpillars and larvae.

- And I’m not a blackbird! I also gnaw on the antlers shed by moose.

“Then you must be a wood mouse.”

- And not a mouse at all. Sometimes I even eat mice myself!

- Mice? Then, of course, you are a cat.

- Either a mouse or a cat! And you didn't guess right at all.

- Show yourself! - I shouted. And he began to peer into the dark spruce, where the voice was heard.

- I’ll show myself. Just admit yourself defeated.

- It's early! - I answered.

— Sometimes I eat lizards. And occasionally fish.

- Maybe you are a heron?

- Not a heron. I catch chicks and steal eggs from bird nests.

- It looks like you are a marten.

- Don't tell me about the marten. The marten is my old enemy. And I also eat kidneys, nuts, seeds of fir trees and pine trees, berries and mushrooms.

I got angry and shouted:

- Most likely, you are a pig! You eat everything. You are a feral pig who stupidly climbed onto the tree!

The branches swayed, parted, and I saw... a squirrel!

- Remember! - she said. — Cats eat not only mice, seagulls catch not only fish, flycatchers swallow not only flies. And squirrels gnaw not only nuts.

Nikolai Sladkov. Forest time

Forest time is not rushed...

Blue rays broke through the cracks of the green ceiling. They create purple halos on the dark ground. These are sunbeams.

One bunny lies next to me, he slightly moves his ears. There is a quiet matte glow above him. There is darkness all around, and where the bunny is, every spruce needle on the ground is visible, every vein on a fallen leaf. Under the bunny is a gray log with black cracks. And on the log there is a snake. It was as if someone had squeezed thick brown paint out of a thick tube without sparing it; the paint lay down in tight curls and froze. On top is a tiny head with clenched lips and two prickly sparkles - eyes.

Everything here below is motionless and quiet. It seems that time has stopped.

And above, above the green forest ceiling, blue waves of wind roll; there is the sky, clouds, sun. The sun slowly floats to the west, and the sunbeam creeps across the earth to the east. I see this by how the leaves and specks that look closer sink into the shadows and how new blades of grass and sticks protrude from the other side of the shadow.

The ray of the sun is like the hand of a forest clock, and the earth with sticks and specks is the forest dial.

But why doesn’t the snake sink into the shadows, how is it that it is always in the center of the shining oval?

Forest time trembled and stopped. I intensely peer into the twists of the elastic snake’s body: they are moving! They move slightly noticeably, towards each other; I notice this by the jagged stripe on the snake's back. The snake’s body pulsates slightly: it expands and then collapses. The snake moves invisibly exactly as much as the sunspot moves, and therefore is constantly in its center. Her body is like living mercury.

The sun is moving in the sky, tiny spots of the sun are moving throughout the vast forest land. And along with them sleepy snakes move in all the forests. They move slowly, imperceptibly, just as lazy forest time moves slowly and imperceptibly. They move as if in a dream...

Nikolai Sladkov. On an unknown path

I had to walk on different paths: bear, boar, wolf. I walked along rabbit paths and even bird paths. But this was the first time I had walked such a path. This path was cleared and trampled by ants.

On animal trails I unraveled animal secrets. Will I see anything on this trail?

I did not walk along the path itself, but nearby. The path is too narrow - like a ribbon. But for the ants it was, of course, not a ribbon, but a wide highway. And many, many Muravyov ran along the highway. They dragged flies, mosquitoes, horseflies. The transparent wings of the insects glittered. It seemed as if a trickle of water was pouring between the blades of grass along the slope.

I walk along the ant trail and count my steps: sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five steps... Wow! These are my big ones, but how many ants are there?! Only at the seventieth step did the trickle disappear under the stone. Serious trail.

I sat down on a stone to rest. I sit and watch the living vein beat under my feet. The wind blows - ripples along a living stream. The sun will shine and the stream will sparkle.

Suddenly, it was as if a wave rushed along the ant road. The snake swerved along it and - dive! - under the stone on which I was sitting. I even pulled my leg back - it was probably a harmful viper. Well, rightly so - now the ants will neutralize it.

I knew that ants boldly attack snakes. They will stick around the snake and all that will remain is scales and bones. I even decided to take the skeleton of this snake and show it to the guys.

I'm sitting, waiting. A living stream beats and beats underfoot. Well, now it's time! I carefully lift the stone so as not to damage the snake skeleton. There is a snake under the stone. But not dead, but alive and not at all like a skeleton! On the contrary, she became even thicker! The snake, which was supposed to be eaten by the ants, calmly and slowly ate the Ants itself. She pressed them with her muzzle and pulled them into her mouth with her tongue. This snake was not a viper. I have never seen such snakes before. The scales are like sandpaper, fine, the top and bottom are the same. Looks more like a worm than a snake.

An amazing snake: it raised its blunt tail up, moved it from side to side, like its head, and suddenly crawled forward with its tail! But the eyes are not visible. Either a snake with two heads, or without a head at all! And it eats something - ants!

The skeleton didn't come out, so I took the snake. At home I looked at it in detail and determined the name. I found her eyes: small, about the size of a pinhead, under the scales. That’s why they call it the blind snake. She lives in burrows underground. She doesn't need eyes there. But crawling either with your head or your tail forward is convenient. And she can dig the ground.

This is the unprecedented beast that the unknown path led me to.

What can I say! Every path leads somewhere. Just don’t be lazy to go.