Help me find an argument for essay 15.3 on the topic “Devotion”.

We were approaching the alpine Ural meadows, where the collective farm cattle were driving summer grazing.
Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled.
A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and us too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.
In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.
The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.
There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.
I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings.
- Nest! Nest! - the guys shouted. I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.
- Yes, here you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.
I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.
- Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.
- For what?
- Yes, yes!
- What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her! Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was out of fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.
“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly in order to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who approached.
- It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. Everything, everything, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and must have been embarrassed by these tender words uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: “Come on, let’s go catch up with the herd!”
And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.
Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.
And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

We were approaching the alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were being driven for summer grazing.

Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled.

A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and us too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.

In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.

I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings.

Nest! Nest! - the guys shouted.

I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

Yes, there you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.

What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her!

Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was out of fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.

“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly, so as to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who came up.

It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. That’s it, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words spoken for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let’s go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

Explanation.

1) Synonyms are words that are close in meaning. From how rich our lexicon how often we are ready to name the same objects, signs, actions in different words, the attractiveness of our speech depends. This is exactly what L.A. Vvedenskaya spoke about: “Synonyms make speech more colorful, more varied, help avoid repetition of the same words, and allow you to express thoughts figuratively.”

Let us confirm this with examples from the text of V.P. Astafiev.

In sentences numbered 14 and 15, contextual synonyms: nest - hut - are used to connect sentences and help avoid unnecessary repetition, which means they make our speech more varied and literate.

Throughout the text, the wolverine's offspring are called by different words: future children, emerging birds, capercaillies - these are all synonymous words. They serve different purposes in different utterance situations. For example, when the author calls the kapalukha eggs nascent birds (sentence 32), he wants to show that he treats these eggs as already living beings who have the right to live.

Thus, using examples from V. Astafiev’s text, we were able to confirm that synonyms make our speech brighter and more expressive.

2) The text by V.P. Astafiev tells about the selfless act of a capalukha mother who, sacrificing herself, rushes to save her future cubs. A mother's love does not require anything in return, but children should be grateful. This is what the final lines of the text say: “And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, maybe in this song there will be words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even your life.”

Maternal feelings know no boundaries. It's amazing that an animal is capable of such manifestations of love. Kapalukha is a caring mother. Even her wings were “numb from immobility” because she did not leave the nest so that her children would be protected. “But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly, so that she can give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds...”

The mother kapalukha is ready to enter into an unequal battle with people, sacrificing herself, but at the same time saving her future babies. Even sitting in a tree, being safe herself, her eyes are drawn to the nest, because she is thinking about her chicks.

It often happens that we cannot assess in time how much the closest and dearest person to us - our mother - loves us. This is not always an indicator of our callousness, indifference, no. Sometimes we get so used to the fact that our mother is there that it seems to us that she will always be there, which means we still have time to say kind words to her and show her our love. It’s good if you manage to give her at least a piece of the warmth that you received from your mother throughout your life.

3) It often happens that we cannot assess in time how much the closest and dearest person to us - our mother - loves us. This is not always an indicator of our callousness, indifference, no. Sometimes we get so used to the fact that our mother is there that it seems to us that she will always be there, which means we still have time to say kind words to her and show her our love. everything for children, sometimes even their lives.”

Maternal feelings know no boundaries. Amazing story told by V.P. Astafiev about an animal capable of such manifestations of love. Kapalukha is a caring mother. Even her wings were “numb from immobility” because she did not leave the nest so that her children would be protected. “But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly in order to give every drop of her warmth to the emerging birds...” The mother kapalukha is ready to enter into an unequal battle with people, sacrificing herself, but at the same time saving her future babies.

In Dmitry Kedrin’s poem “A Mother’s Heart,” we read about how a son, to please his beloved, gave her his mother’s heart. At the same time, the mother’s heart continued to love her child. The poem has a deep meaning: the call sounds: “People, think about it! You can't treat your mom like that! Don’t destroy your connection with yourself by breaking the connection with your mother!”

For a child, a mother is his connection with childhood, the most carefree and pure time of life. As long as the mother is alive, the person feels protected. We need to love our mothers and give them more warmth and affection, then perhaps we can feel their care longer.

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We were approaching the alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were being driven for summer grazing.

Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled.

A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and us too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.

In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.

I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings.

Nest! Nest! - the guys shouted.

I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

Yes, there you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.

What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her!

Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was out of fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.

“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly, so as to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who came up.

It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. That’s it, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words spoken for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let’s go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.