home Treatment and prevention A summer day by the river drags on for a long time. River, trees, grass

A summer day by the river drags on for a long time. River, trees, grass

The flood ended, and the river retreated, leaving large ice floes on the edge of the flood, which then melted for a long time and slowly, crumbled, fell apart in a heap of blue bugles and, finally, disappeared, leaving puddles.

The entire shore, dirty, disheveled after the flood, was covered with a thick layer of silt; tufts of old straw and all sorts of rubbish brought by the flood hung on the bare willow bushes.

The shore came to life. The bare twigs of the willow tree were covered with greenery. Near the water itself, goose grass was in a hurry to spread its red threads in all directions and quickly cover the sand with a carpet of cut-out leaves and yellow flowers.

Large old, hollow willows grew along the river. They bloomed, becoming covered with tiny yellow fluffy lambs. A sweet aroma then hung over the willows; bees buzzed on their branches all day long. These yellow lambs were the first delicacy that spring brought us: they tasted sweet and could be sucked on. Then the color fell off in the form of small brown worms, and the willows put on leaves. Some turned green, others - silver-gray.

There is nothing more beautiful than old willows. And now the eye rejoices and the heart trembles when somewhere by the river I see their majestic round clumps, but they all seem to be inferior to the splendor of the willows of my childhood.

The shore was lushly overgrown with a dense jungle of tall nameless grass with a fragile stem, cabbage-colored leaves and a sparse smell; lovely bushes of the “tree of God” with lacy, dill-like leaves and wormwood spirit; creeping bindweed with pale pink bells that smell of vanilla. The puddles by the river were inhabited by all kinds of living creatures: tadpoles, snails, water beetles.

The grandmother straightens the piece of paper on the table and throws the grain onto the “Circle of King Solomon” covered with numbers. She is illiterate; I find the answer for her from the table. The oracle’s answer is: “The woman is delusional, but no one believes, shut your mouth without any hassle, and don’t open your mouth to someone else’s loaf.” It’s not clear, but if you think about it and figure it out, it’s not good at all. The melancholy from this oracle is even greater.
In order to attach Uncle Vasya to some kind of business, his father decided to rent an orchard outside the city for the summer, about three miles from the house, and put Uncle in it as a guard.
– I’m giving it away for free, truly! - assured the tradesman in a hoodie, the owner of the garden. - Yes, Vasil Vasilich, you can justify this money with one hay! What about berries? What about apples? Go see what color this year is - power!

The whole family went to see the apple trees blooming. The garden was located along the mountainside: at the top behind the garden there was small forest, at the bottom there was a lake, to the right and left behind the hedges were the garden plots of other owners. In the middle of the garden there was a hut covered with reeds, and on the mountain there was a hut made of brushwood. On the lake, near the alder-covered shore, a canoe was tied. Wonderful garden! Magnificent garden!
“You can’t move fish in a lake!” - the owner praised. - Crucians, molts: if you want fish soup, if you want to fry them.
The garden bloomed well, no words. But now new concerns arose. What will the ovary be like? How will the morning frost last? Or will the worm attack? Do not count your chickens before they are hatched. It was decided that Uncle Vasya would move into the garden immediately. I wanted to live with him as soon as school ended.
And here we live in the garden, alone, in freedom. Only on Sundays does our whole family come to the garden to “be happy” for the whole day. Occasionally after work, my father comes running to catch fish with his uncle.
Uncle Vasya is bored in the garden: what a job, really, for a young fellow of groom’s age to sit as a watchman! This is an old man's business. He wanders around the garden, whistling, languishing, then sits over the lake, then, lo and behold, he sleeps under a bush, pulling a tattered cotton wool over his head. I’m not bored: I have my own thing to do - I binge-devour historical novels by Vsevolod Solovyov and Salias at Niva.
I go to the city to buy the Niva to the master Drozdov, who sits in a chair by the window and looks at Kalganovka Street from morning to evening. My visit is true entertainment for him: he has been yawning with boredom since the morning and eagerly begins to ask me about various things: how many apples have there been in the garden? Who are the neighbors, who is on the left, who is on the right, who is their watchman? What kind of fish is caught in the lake? Has Uncle Vasya taken up the position? (He knows his uncle’s troubles thoroughly.) Looking at the door, he lowers his voice and asks if the women come to Uncle Vasya’s hut. He cares about everything.
I answer somehow; I can't wait to get to the bookcase, crammed with bound volumes of old illustrated magazines. Finally, I escape from Drozdov with the coveted prey. Out of greed, I immediately take two annual volumes of “Niva” and, dripping with sweat, martyrically drag them through the sun three miles to the garden. But I have entertainment for the whole week. Uncle Vasya is not keen on reading, unless he looks at the pictures. He wanders around the garden, shooting at crows with a ramrod gun; When it’s time for lunch or dinner, he’ll light a fire and cook some gruel in a pot.
Sometimes a deaf old man - a watchman from a neighboring garden - will come to the fire after the smoke and always ask the same thing:
- What time is it, Vasil Mikhalych?
Uncle Vasya will first shout in his ear: “Pregnant” or “Quarter to five minutes,” then he will look at his silver pocket money and answer for real. The old man squints his toothless mouth - I understand, they say, a joke - he pauses, stomps around, and then adds hesitantly:
“Won’t I get some bread from you?” They were too late to bring me something last night.
They poured all the pieces of stale bread we had lying around into his hat and invited him to our pot.
... Warm nights came, we moved to sleep in a hut and woke up in the morning to the hubbub of birds. And in the garden and in the forest beyond the garden there was a quiet, solemn life going on.
Every day brought something new. The lilies of the valley and lilies of the valley have faded, and buttercups, crayfish, crayfish, and viburnum have bloomed in the meadow by the lake. Along the path, buds of yellow rosehip blossomed, golden flowers the size of a palm burned brightly on the dark greenery. Water lilies and water lilies bloomed on the lake. And when the sun rose high and the air began to flow from the heat, the garden froze in silence and numbness, only the bees hummed in the linden flowers.
One day in July we ran out of supplies, and Uncle Vasya sent me to the city to buy bread. It was a windy day and the sky was slate colored. The wind blew columns of dust through the streets. Our house struck me with something alarmingly unusual in appearance. Why are the windows closed on such a hot day? Why are the gate and door locked? Why is no one visible?
I knocked and my father opened the door. He looked at me scared, as if he didn’t recognize me.
- Where are you going? You can’t: the doctor didn’t order it! – he said for some reason in a whisper. - We have diphtheria in our house.
Two people fell ill at once - a sister and a little brother.
- Look at them through the window.
I climbed onto the rubble and leaned against the glass; Manya was lying in the bed, and a small one was lying on the chest. I knocked on the frame. The sister turned her head towards the knock, recognized me and smiled a pitiful, suffering smile. My father gave me money and told me to buy bread at the market.
- Don’t go to town in vain - there’s an infection in almost every house.
I returned to my uncle’s garden with an orphan feeling.
And a few days later, Aunt Polya came in the evening and, wiping away her tears, said that Manya had been buried, and that tomorrow they would bury Pasha, but she still couldn’t come home until they disinfected him. She unwrapped the white bundle and placed a plate of kutia, a sweet rice porridge with raisins, on the table. - Remember the repose of the babies Mary and Paul! - And we, having crossed ourselves, began to eat kutya with Uncle Vasya.
After the funeral, my mother stopped going to the garden altogether: she kept wanting to go to the cemetery, to the fresh graves. Father came occasionally, but was silent, absent-minded, and indifferent to all matters. And now the garden just needed the owner’s attention. The apples began to ripen and fall. In the mornings, watchmen from neighboring gardens would gather and tell stories of how they were “climbed” and they shot millet and salt at the thieves. Apples were lying in heaps everywhere, and there was nowhere to put them.
Uncle Vasya decided to show diligence, hired a cart, and one Sunday we went with him to the villages to sell apples. We left when it was already freezing. The day is hot, the sky is cloudless, the horse is barely dragging along. We are driving through a field, the winter crops are almost ripe, red falcons are fluttering over the yellow fields in the sultry sky. An embankment on the horizon railway- a lonely crossing without a single tree, telegraph poles stretch along the embankment. It's hot, I'm thirsty. But on the way there is a ravine overgrown with small forests, below there is coolness, a spring lined with a log house, a golbets with an icon. We're going down to get drunk.
The nearest village of Studenovka is twelve miles away, but we travel for three hours, no less. Either the horse will stand up, then Uncle Vasya will fiddle around, adjust the harness and, due to inexperience, does this for a long time.
The village of Studenovka is sleepy, as if extinct.
- Hey, apples, who wants apples! - Uncle Vasya starts up cheerfully.
Mugs from all over the village come running to bark at us. White-headed and bare-bellied children are approaching. Barter trade: a pound of apples for a chicken egg. We have plate scales. Baba asks:
– Do you take cats?
What a shame: we are mistaken for “Tarkhans” who collect rags, bones, and cat skins from the villages. Our trade is not going well. Until the Feast of Transfiguration - “ apple savior“- adults in villages do not eat apples: it is considered a sin. All our customers are stupid brats. Uncle Vasya is already pouring apples into his caps and skirts, but even with such trade, a good half of the cart remains unsold.
After Studenovka we didn’t want to go anywhere else, so we turned home.
“Don’t even think about telling anyone,” says my dear uncle, “that they took us for “Tarkhans” - it won’t be a shame!
Father was already burdened by the garden and did not know how to get rid of it. Because of an oversight, everything went from bad to worse. The hay, which had been piled up without drying, rotted in the stacks. The haystacks were scattered, and inside there were black, moldy scraps that made the cow turn up her face. Out of frustration, my father sold the entire apple harvest wholesale at half price, and my uncle and I returned to the city.
And in the fall, all the relatives accompanied Uncle Vasya to the station. He signed up with a fellow countryman who had left before, and was now going to Baku to seek his fortune. Grandmother, solemn and sad, in a festive dress and a black scarf with flowers, was sitting at the station, holding in her hands a bundle of crumpets for the journey. She was startled and frightened when the bell at the station rang. Everyone jumped up and began to fuss.
“Sit still,” said the station gendarme, “the train has just left, there are still thirty-three minutes of waiting.”
We sat down again and began to wait. The train arrived.
“The stop is eight minutes,” announced the chief conductor in a uniform with crimson piping, with a whistle on a colorful cord.
Passengers ran from the carriages: some to the buffet, others to get boiling water on the platform. Uncle Vasya and father went through the carriages to look for seats. Suddenly two bells rang. Everyone rushed to the carriages. One woman ran with an empty kettle: apparently she didn’t have time to pour boiling water. The chief conductor whistled, the locomotive whistled, and the train started moving. Uncle Vasya in open window waved his cap at us.

Now my grandmother lives in constant anxiety and keeps waiting for letters. Uncle Vasya rarely sends letters, he writes them sparingly, abruptly, mysteriously, and jokes sadly. “Alive, healthy, walking without boots, which is what I wish for you.” Or: “My affairs are neither shaky, nor sluggish, nor sideways.” Or again: “I live well, waiting for the best.”
Grandma will cry quietly and take out her “King Solomon’s Fortune-Telling Circle” from her chest. Throws a grain onto the circle:
- Stickleback, look what happened.
I am reading:
- “If you want to know about an important matter, then it’s better to tell your fortune.” next week».
Grandma throws the grain again, and I again look for the right number. Oh, it seems like some kind of nasty thing: “Don’t believe the deceptions, you are threatened with troubles, a snake is crawling between the flowers!”
I don’t have the courage to upset my grandmother with such an ominous prediction, and I read her another one, the line above:
- “You will receive great happiness and treasure chests, and gold will flow to you like a river.”

River, trees, grass

We lived not far from the river, and every spring the hollow water came right up to our house, and sometimes entered the yard. Ice drift could be seen right from the windows, but who sits at home when there is such a holiday on the river? The entire shore was black with people. With hissing and crackling, the ice rushed past in a solid dirty white stream, and if you look at it without looking away, it begins to seem that the bank has moved and, together with the people, is rapidly rushing past the stopped river.
The flood ended, and the river retreated, leaving large ice floes on the edge of the flood, which then melted for a long time and slowly, crumbled, fell apart in a heap of blue bugles and, finally, disappeared, leaving puddles.
The entire shore, dirty, disheveled after the flood, was covered with a thick layer of silt; tufts of old straw and all sorts of rubbish brought by the flood hung on the bare willow bushes.

The sun warmed up, and the shore began to change its skin: the silt became covered with cracks, burst into pieces, dried out, and pure white sand was revealed underneath. Young burdock leaves were emerging from the sand, green and shiny on top, and gray and papery from underneath. This is not the coltsfoot known in the Moscow region; I saw the burdocks of my childhood here only near Kashira, on the Oka sands, and with what spiritual trepidation I inhaled their bitter, unique smell in the world.
The shore came to life. The bare twigs of the willow tree were covered with greenery. Near the water itself, goose grass was in a hurry to spread its red threads in all directions and quickly cover the sand with a carpet of cut-out leaves and yellow flowers.
Large old, hollow willows grew along the river. They bloomed, becoming covered with tiny yellow fluffy lambs. A sweet aroma then hung over the willows; bees buzzed on their branches all day long. These yellow lambs were the first delicacy that spring brought us: they tasted sweet and could be sucked on. Then the color fell off in the form of small brown worms, and the willows put on leaves. Some turned green, others - silver-gray.
There is nothing more beautiful than old willows. And now the eye rejoices and the heart trembles when somewhere by the river I see their majestic round clumps, but they all seem to be inferior to the splendor of the willows of my childhood.
The shore was lushly overgrown with a dense jungle of tall nameless grass with a fragile stem, cabbage-colored leaves and a sparse smell; lovely bushes of the “tree of God” with lacy, dill-like leaves and wormwood spirit; creeping bindweed with pale pink bells that smell of vanilla. The puddles by the river were inhabited by all kinds of living creatures: tadpoles, snails, water beetles.

Along the garden hedges, on which red boogers with two black dots-eyes on their backs poured out in herds, grew juicy green mallow, dead nettles, henbane, which we were afraid to touch, a grass with an indecent name and sweet black berries, quinoa and burdock. On the street in front of the house, a thick carpet of grass grew - fortunately no one was driving past.
On the feast of midday, a prayer service was served on the river with the blessing of water, and the adult inhabitants of both banks, the “bourgeois” and the “arable”, began to swim.
But we boys didn’t wait until midday and swam according to our own calendar, as soon as the water became warm. We splashed on the river from morning to evening, lay on the sand, climbed into the water and again hot sand. The skin on the guys' noses was peeling off, and in the evening we came home with blue lips, trembling with chills - shopping!
Oh summer! O sun! O golden early evening hour after a hot day! Like solar dust, midges crowd into light spots in the shadow of willows. The sand, warmed up during the day, caresses your feet. We're tearing down large leaves burdock and make green caps out of them. Burdock cotton wool and the bitter smell of burdock juice remain on the fingers. The river under the declining sun sparkles and sparkles so much that it hurts the eyes. The opposite bank is in the cool shade of the willow bushes, the geniculate stems of water pepper with pink hanging catkins sway in the streams of the current, small places near the shore are covered with a green film of duckweed.

Growing up, every year we discovered new, previously unknown possessions on the river. Above the dam the river was very wide. Swimming across the river behind the mill was an achievement that marked an important milestone in childhood. By boat we climbed higher and higher on the river, further and further from the city. We were looking for remote places where we could feel like Robinsons. If you go to such a place early in the morning, you won’t see a single living person until nightfall.
The day by the river is long, magnificent, shining. Silence. Occasionally splashes in the pool big fish. Small fry fish walk in schools near the shore, water striders glide through the water like speed skaters, rockers fly over the water and, gracefully fluttering their wings, freeze on blades of grass.
A large, centuries-old forest descends to the cliff itself. When tall black-trunked linden trees bloom in it, the air is filled with a thick honey aroma and the buzz of bees.
And the knotty, hollow willows on the sandy slope under the sun are silver-blue. They are very old, and from a long life lived in the open air, each of them has its own noticeable, uniquely touching appearance.
Evening is coming. Swifts begin to fly through the pink air with a piercing metallic whistle. We get on the boat and slowly go home.
It’s magical at a late hour on the river on a moonlit night. The silence is such that if you drop the oars, you can hear the blood pounding in your ears. Sometimes dogs can be heard barking across the water from a distant village. Stripes of fog push the boundaries of the shores, everything seems unusual, fabulous. The fog under the moon is pink.

Springs

Our city is rich in something, let alone good spring water. Old-timers used to boast: our city, they say, avoided cholera. But in past years, this terrible guest often appeared in the Volga region. And why? All thanks to water! Our clear spring water flows straight from the springs through pine pumps, and on every street there is an indoor wooden pool with a tap. Cleanliness and tidiness!
And in the outskirts of the city, wherever you go, there are springs everywhere. Along the river from the steep bank they shoot straight in a row; If you walk by, you will certainly come and get a drink. They flow in a rusty-red bed; maybe some healing ones, we wondered, it happened.
Near a large “boiling” spring, orchards are planted along the hillocks, and water is supplied through gutters at the right time to water the apple trees - there is enough for everyone.
This bubbling spring flows on the mountainside in a grove called “Kopylovka”. The water in it is in constant agitation, like boiling water in a kettle. Breaking out of the ground, it stirs small pebbles and sand, washed to sugar whiteness, and with a strong crystal stream, twisted into a rope, it runs noisily down into the gardens.
It is pleasant on a hot summer day to press your lips to this living cool stream, and after drinking, sit in the chill under a walnut bush, listen to the sound of the stream and watch how it runs, now sparkling in the sun, now hiding in the dense green thickets of angelica, which has grown wildly along its course. .
As a child, I tried to draw a bubbling spring with a pencil. But how pitiful, how distressing the results were. Yes, even paints won’t help here - where can one convey this beauty, this shine and joy of running water!
Catch a sunbeam!
The bubbling spring remained in my memory one of the most precious childhood impressions, and how joyful it was for me to one day find the same spring miracle near Moscow.
We were looking for a dacha.
“Why don’t you see Dubechnya? – advised our fellow countrywoman Alina. “I lived there last year - it’s a bit far, but it’s such a blessing!”
So we went.
It was spring, the month of May, nightingale time, and the weather was wonderful - a long, windy day, fragrant, warm. And when we were already returning at dusk, the moon rose, along the highway, bird cherry trees blooming in bouquets were white in the moonlight, and the bird cherry spirit accompanied us all the way.
We arrived in Dubechnya at about five o'clock. It was not possible to get along the country road to the village itself, so we went on foot. We crossed the bridge over a small river and went up the mountain. The sound of the water amazed us. A strong, fast stream ran down the mountain, thundering and sparkling. There were three or four springs in total; they flowed, merging into one common channel. On the half-mountain, in the path of the stream, there was a mill with a large wooden grating wheel. “She’s already fallen apart...”
The village was located around the springs in a ring. There was something ancient, Slavic, pagan about it, like in Roerich’s paintings. And the most amazing thing: the incessant, violent, cheerful sound of water, similar to the sound of the sea surf. What a cheerful accompaniment for life all around - in the morning, and in the evening, and during the day, and at night, and in winter and summer!
We were told that under the mountain, along the banks of the river, thirteen springs gush out, and the river is called Smorodinka or Samorodinka, either from the currant bushes that grow along the banks, or because it “will be born itself” from these springs.

At the farmer's market

Our market day is Friday. On this day, the city streets are full of men in white felt boots and sheepskin sheepskin coats. They crowd around the breech, pour vodka straight from the bottle into their bearded mouths and, slurping, snack on the city kalach. Drunk, they begin to wander through the city streets and seek help from those they meet: “Do me a favor, little guy, tell me how to get to the market?” You answer with hasty readiness and therefore a little squeaky: “Go straight ahead, and after the girls’ school of St. Joseph, turn right towards the cathedral, and behind the cathedral there will be a market.” He will leave, and you will realize - well, he’s illiterate and won’t be able to read the sign of St. Joseph’s School. And you will run after him, and you will reach the market.
There is frost outside, frosty, low winter sun, pink smoke from the chimneys. In the market square there are sleighs with raised shafts standing in a row. Shaggy horses, whitened with frost, covered with sackcloth blankets, chew hay. It smells like wood chips, leather, roach, hot rolls, and frost. On the snow there are pots, pots, jugs, bowls, kneaders, tubs, troughs, shovels, brooms, axles, wheels, shafts. In his locker, the baker Andrei, famous throughout the county, does not have time to release the bundles of his famous bagels. On the butcher's counter there is a familiar, but every time shudder-inducing picture of hell: calf and lamb heads with bitten tongues and glassy eyes, and all sorts of other nasty things that make you sick to look at.
And here is a colorful stall with books and popular prints. Here I stick for a long time. I have a copper in my pocket, which I am free to spend on whatever I want. There is always a crowd of people at the art exhibition hanging on strings. Pictures for all tastes; here are the soul-saving ones: “Stages of human life”, “Image of the holy Mount Athos”; there are hunting plots: “Tiger Hunt”, “Bear Hunt”, “Boar Hunt”; there is something for the delicate girlish taste: the fashionable song “A Wonderful Moon Floats Over the River,” a beauty with a dove, elegant children on a donkey with rhymes:

Small children
Have you decided to go for a ride?
And the three of us decided
Climb a donkey.
Vanya sat and ruled
Petya played the horn.
The donkey delivered them
Soon to the meadow.

Arouses warm sympathy “A Boer father and his ten sons, armed to defend their homeland against the British.” The heroes are colorfully dressed in multi-colored jackets and trousers - red, blue, yellow; Each has a gun and a belt of cartridges over his shoulder. The President of the Transvaal Republic, Kruger, with a gray beard and collar, and General Cronje, “heroically defended himself for 11 days with 3,000 Boers against 40,000 British,” are also depicted.
But most of all, the painting “Wolves in Winter”, depicting an attack, shocks with its dramatism wolf pack on people passing by. The nameless poet describes the horrors of this event in verses of epic solemnity. He starts with a peaceful picture winter nature and ends with mournful stanzas, like a funeral service:

And if it happens to travelers
Find yourself among a hungry flock
On horseback or in a cart without protection,
Their traces will be hidden
Under a deep snow cover
And doomed to eternal rest.

Having re-read all the captions under the pictures, I turn to the consideration of the books: “The Life of Eustathius Placida”, “How a Soldier Saved the Life of Peter the Great”, “Two Sorcerers and a Witch Beyond the Dnieper”, “Razuvaevsky Men at the Moscow Godmother”, songs, dream books, fortune-telling sheets with circles of King Solomon. There are also some that I have already read: “Anecdotes about the jester Balakirev”, “Guac, or Invincible Loyalty”.
After much hesitation, I finally make a choice: I pay two kopecks and take with me “Trifon Korobeinikov’s Travels to Holy Places,” in which the tempting chapter titles - “About the navel of the earth”, “About the bird Strofokamil” - promise the reader blissful moments of outlandish revelations.

I started going to school, and they bought me rubber galoshes. Well, I suffered a lot with them! Galoshes were new to us then. Their style was not the current one, but high, above the ankle. But at school, the real kids wore boots, trousers tucked in, and didn’t wear galoshes - galoshes were a sign of lordship and effeminacy. Boys in galoshes were greeted with ridicule, whoops, and a song:

Hey, cabman, give me the horse!
Don’t you see: I’m wearing galoshes? -

They say that such a dandy should not walk on foot, but should ride in a cab.
To avoid shame, before reaching the school, I took off the damned galoshes and hid them in my bag, and in the hallway I secretly put them behind the chest.
After lessons, I had to wait out everyone and be the last to leave in order to take the galoshes out of their hiding place, put them in a bag, and just before the house put them on my feet and come home in the galoshes.
- Where did you ruin them from the inside like that? - the mother was surprised.
This went on all three years while I was in primary school. However, our winter is frosty; in winter everyone wears felt boots. At the “city” school, my galoshes came out of hiding and began to live a normal life. There were a majority of galosh wearers here. I remember how two students argued at the coat rack over galoshes: whose - whose? It ended in a fight. The inspector had to intervene in the dispute. I remember how one of the applicants stubbornly insisted: “You can’t leave your place, these are my galoshes!”
This strange “mine” remained in my memory. In our places they sometimes say “mine” instead of “mine”: “Mine is work, yours is money.”

Faith of the Fathers

One day my father received a letter with a foreign stamp from Turkey. The letter read:

God-loving benefactor
Vasily Vasilievich!
Peace to you and salvation from Our Lord Jesus Christ! We have the honor to congratulate Your Love for God on your soul-saving fast and on the upcoming great Feast of the Nativity of Christ and the New Year! May the Lord protect your precious life with peace and bless you with bodily health and an abundance of all earthly blessings, as well as with his other Heavenly gifts for spiritual salvation.

The letter was from Athos, from an Orthodox monastery, signed by the abbot himself, with a seal on which was depicted all-seeing eye. At the end of the letter the hope was expressed that “Your love for God will not leave our thinness and need without memories, for which the Merciful Lord will reward you with His mercy, who also gave you the cup cold water promised the giver a reward." Next, the address was provided and an explanation of how to send money and parcels (“for example: flour, cereals and other heavy boxes and bales”).
Just think about it! Somewhere across the sea, in distant Turkey, they found out about the God-loving tailor Vasily Vasilyevich, and so they took the trouble to write a letter and sent a picture with the image of the holy Mount Athos. This is what is sung about her:

Mount Athos, holy mountain,
I don't know your beauty
And your earthly paradise,
And under you there are noisy waters!

And where did they manage to find our address?
The father became emotional and sent the monks three rubles by letter. Athonite letters came more than once, but it turned out that many residents of the city received them. It turned out that these letters were received by the same ones who received the newspaper. It seems that the monks found out addresses through the newspaper and sent letters indiscriminately, not only to the most pious.
Father always got up before everyone else in the house. After washing, he stood in front of the icons, whispered prayers, and bowed. Then the mother and grandmother prayed at the icons. They made sure that the children did not forget to pray. If someone was in a hurry and dealt with religious duties too quickly, they would say to him: “What is this, one nodded, another blinked, and the third guessed it himself? Go and pray!”
Fasts in the family were strictly observed. “Farming”, that is, eating something meat or dairy on a fast day, was considered a great sin. In addition to permanent fast days- Wednesdays and Fridays, there were multi-day fasts before major holidays: before Christmas, Dormition, Peter's Day, and the longest, seven-week Lent- before Easter.
Days early spring, Lenten bells, the prayer of Ephraim the Syrian, translated into verse by Pushkin, the blossoming willow tree, standing with candles at the night service of the “twelve gospels”, streams in the streets and midnight matins on Easter...
A black, warm night, the roar of bells, the bell tower in multi-colored lanterns, inside the church thousands of lights in candlesticks and chandeliers, lit by the priest immediately with the help of a “powder thread”, cheerful dance tunes of Easter services - all this had its own poetry, the poetry of spring and gospel images , she touched the soul.
In the summer they brought it from the Nizhne-Lomovsky Monastery miraculous icon Kazan mother of god. We met her outside the city in a field. Hot day. Crowds of people move between the fields and meadows, banners sway in the air on high poles, the clergy in brocaded festive vestments, in the carriages are local authorities and ladies under lace umbrellas.
At the meeting - a prayer service with an akathist in the open air. The miraculous figure is in a rich gold frame, carried on white towels by eminent bearded men from the local merchants. Some lucky ones manage to dive under the icon while walking, bent over, and become worthy of grace.
“To the zealous intercessor, mother of the Lord on High... There are no other imams of help, no other imams of hope, unless you, mistress...” the choir sings. The crowd is on its knees, the women are crying: “Stand up for us, we rely on you and we boast in you...”
Then the monks walked around the city from house to house with the miraculous work for a whole month, served prayers, sprinkled the walls with holy water and collected tribute into the monastery mug.
I also remember: an all-night vigil in the summer - columns of incense smoke are illuminated by slanting rays of the sun, yellow, blue, green from the colored glass in the windows of the temple, the choir sings “Quiet Light”, all the doors are wide open, the jubilant squeal of killer whales bursts in from outside.

I sang treble in the church choir, and through this I memorized many prayers and psalms, and therefore now I understand the Church Slavonic press. From scripture The greatest impression was made by “The Revelation of John the Theologian” - it was terrible (more terrible than “Viy”!) to read these gloomy fantasies about the end of the world.
Then came the critical time of the first doubts about the existence of God, and then the collapse of the faith of our fathers and the atheism hidden from our relatives, which we, young atheists, carried within ourselves with pride, as a sign of initiation into the secret order of freethinkers.
But in the real school, even in the senior classes, we were still marched, lined up in pairs, to the church for mass, forced to fast, confess and receive communion under the supervision of the guards, and they also demanded that the priest present a certificate of confession and communion. This religion could no longer return us “to the bosom of the church” under the lash; rather, on the contrary, it embittered us and pushed us into protest.
We were in the last class of a real school when, during the Lenten fast, my friends Lenya N. and Vanya Sh. revealed to me that they had conspired to spit out the sacrament (“the body and blood of Christ”), and did so. I internally grew cold, imagining the danger of their action: for this they were threatened not only with expulsion from the school, but with a church trial and imprisonment in a monastery for blasphemy. At the same time, I envied them, their heroism: “Why didn’t you tell me before? And I could...” - “Well, you’re in the choir, in front of everyone, that would be difficult for you.”

CONTROL (FINAL) DICCTATION IN THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE

9TH GRADE

A control (final) dictation in the Russian language is one of the main forms of monitoring students’ knowledge when studying the subject “Russian Language” in a secondary school. The text of the control dictation must contain the required number of elements covering all the main topics covered during the year. The distribution of these elements across topics should be as even as possible.

Control (final) dictation in the Russian language is carried out at the end of the annual training period and allows the teacher to determine the degree to which students have mastered the course studied in this period / 9th grade /.

On a beautiful summer day when Sun rays Having long since absorbed the freshness of the night, my father and I drove up to the so-called “Hidden Peg,” consisting mostly of young and already quite thick, straight linden trees, like a pine tree, a peg that had long been reserved and preserved with particular rigor. As soon as we climbed up to the forest from the ravine, a dull, unusual noise began to reach my ears: now some kind of abrupt and measured rustling, now some kind of ringing metallic shuffling. Nothing was visible behind the young and dense aspen tree, but when we went around it, a wonderful sight struck my eyes. About forty peasants were mowing down, lining up in one line, as if by a thread; Shining brightly in the sun, the scythes flew up, and the thick cut grass lay in orderly rows. Having passed a long row, the mowers suddenly stopped and began to sharpen their braids with something, cheerfully exchanging playful speeches among themselves, as one might guess from the loud laughter, although it was impossible to hear the words. When we drove up close, a loud “thank you, Father Alexey Stepanovich!” echoed in the clearing, was echoed in the ravine, and again the peasants continued to swing their scythes widely, deftly, easily and freely. What a light air, what a wonderful smell wafted from the nearby forest and the grass that was mown early in the morning, replete with many fragrant flowers, which from the hot sun had already begun to wither and emit a particularly pleasant aromatic smell!

(According to S. Aksakov)

Assignments to the text:

Indicate a complex sentence with a subordinate clause.

Write out the gerunds from the text.

Russian language / 9th grade / Control dictations

To the teacher : The control dictation conducted with 9th grade students secondary school. The purpose of this dictation is to monitor students’ mastery of the Russian language course for the 9th grade.

Expanded selection of dictations in the Russian language:

Summer foggy days are good. You can't shoot on days like this. The bird, flying out from under your feet, immediately disappears into the whitish darkness of the motionless fog. It's incredibly quiet all around. Everything has woken up and, despite this, everything is silent. The tree doesn't move. Through the thin steam diffused in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. The forest gradually turns into a high pile of wormwood. There is fog everywhere. There was silence for some time. But then the wind moves slightly, and a patch of pale blue sky appears vaguely through the thinning steam. A golden-yellow ray will suddenly burst in, stream out in a long stream, and again everything will become clouded. This struggle continues for a long time, but how magnificent and clear the day later becomes when the light triumphs. The last waves of warmed fog spread out like tablecloths, twist and disappear into the blue shining heights.

(According to I. Turgenev(132 words)

Exercise

Parse the second sentence.
Underline the derived prepositions.