Paustovsky K.G. “We lived for several days at the cordon, fished on Shuya...”

For several days the cold rain poured incessantly. A wet wind rustled in the garden. At four o'clock in the afternoon we were already lighting the kerosene lamps, and it involuntarily seemed that summer was over forever and the earth was moving further and further into the dull fogs, into the uncomfortable darkness and cold.

It was the end of November - the saddest time in the village. The cat slept all day, curled up on an old chair, and shuddered in his sleep when dark water lashed at the windows.

The roads were washed away. The river carried yellowish foam, similar to a shot down squirrel. The last birds hid under the eaves, and for more than a week now no one has visited us: neither grandfather Mitri, nor Vanya Malyavin, nor the forester.

It was best in the evenings. We lit the stoves. The fire was noisy, crimson reflections trembled on the log walls and on the old engraving - a portrait of the artist Bryullov. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at us and, it seemed, just like us, having put aside the open book, he was thinking about what he had read and listening to the hum of the rain on the plank roof.

The lamps burned brightly, and the disabled copper samovar sang and sang his simple song. As soon as he was brought into the room, it immediately became cozy - perhaps because the glass fogged up and the lonely birch branch that knocked on the window day and night was not visible.

After tea we sat by the stove and read. On such evenings, the most pleasant thing was to read the very long and touching novels of Charles Dickens or leaf through the heavy volumes of the magazines “Niva” and “Picturesque Review” from the old years.

One night I woke up from strange feeling. It seemed to me that I had gone deaf in my sleep. I was lying with eyes closed, I listened for a long time and finally realized that I was not deaf, but there was simply an extraordinary silence outside the walls of the house. This kind of silence is called “dead”. The rain died, the wind died, the noisy, restless garden died. You could only hear the cat snoring in its sleep.

When did the first snow fall? I approached the walkers. It was so light that the arrows showed clearly. They showed two o'clock.

I fell asleep at midnight. This means that in two hours the earth changed so unusually, in two short hours the fields, forests and gardens were bewitched by the cold.

Through the window I saw a large gray bird land on a maple branch in the garden. The branch swayed and snow fell from it. The bird slowly rose and flew away, and the snow kept falling like glass rain falling from a Christmas tree. Then everything became quiet again.

Reuben woke up. He looked outside the window for a long time, sighed and said:

– The first snow suits the earth very well.

The earth was elegant, looking like a shy bride.

And in the morning everything crunched around: frozen roads, leaves on the porch, black nettle stems sticking out from under the snow.

Grandfather Mitriy came to visit for tea and congratulated him on his first trip.

“So the earth was washed,” he said, “with snow water from a silver trough.”

– Where did you get this, Mitri, such words? – Reuben asked.

It was difficult to stay at home on the first winter day. We went to the forest lakes. Grandfather walked us to the edge of the forest. He also wanted to visit the lakes, but “the ache in his bones did not let him go.”

It was solemn, light and quiet in the forests.

The day seemed to be dozing. From cloudy high sky Lonely snowflakes fell occasionally. We breathed carefully on them, and they turned into clean drops water, then became cloudy, froze and rolled to the ground like beads.

We wandered through the forests until dusk, going around familiar places. Flocks of bullfinches sat, ruffled, on rowan trees covered with snow.

We picked several bunches of red rowan, caught by the frost - this was the last memory of summer, of autumn.

A glass strip of ice has grown along the coast. The ice was so transparent that even close up it was difficult to notice. I saw a flock of rafts in the water near the shore and threw a small stone at them. The stone fell on the ice, rang, the rafts, flashing with scales, darted into the depths, and a white grainy trace of the impact remained on the ice. That’s the only reason we guessed that a layer of ice had already formed near the shore. We broke off individual pieces of ice with our hands. They crunched and left a mixed smell of snow and lingonberries on your fingers.

The forests became increasingly gloomy, quieter, and finally thick snow began to fall. It melted in the black water of the lake, tickled my face, and powdered the forest with gray smoke.

Winter began to dominate the earth, but we knew that under the loose snow, if you rake it with your hands, you could still find fresh forest flowers, we knew that the fire would always crackle in the stoves, that tits remained with us to winter, and winter seemed the same to us beautiful as summer.

We lived for several days at the cordon, fished on Shuya, hunted on Lake Orsa, where there were only a few centimeters clean water, and underneath it lay bottomless viscous silt. Killed ducks, if they fell into the water, could not be retrieved in any way. You had to walk along the banks of the Ors on wide forestry skis to avoid falling into the swamps.

Composition

We so often admire beautiful, often mesmerizing landscapes from the windows of our houses and through car windows. But how often do we think about how we are connected to the world around us? How does nature influence humans? K.G. invites us to reflect on this question. Paustovsky.

The narrative that the author introduces us to is filled with an enthusiastic description of the nature of the Meshchera forests. The writer immediately draws our attention to the “virginity” and “mystery” of the Pra River, to the dryness of the pine forests and the bizarre bends of the river. In each line, the narrator argues for his enthusiastic stupor by describing the prowess of stubborn ides and the onslaught of vegetation, in which he and his fellow traveler “stopped and breathed the astringent air of a hundred-year-old pine until their lungs hurt.” With this, the lyrical hero leads the reader to the idea that the air in these forests was so pure and fresh that it completely changed a person’s perception and gave extraordinary strength - and therefore it was impossible to breathe in it.

K.G. Paustovsky calls this endless delight in nature, this whole storm of emotions, “a feeling of admiration for the charm of our native land that defies any description.” He believes that nature directly influences the human condition, transforming even the course of his thoughts, creating inside him a new bouquet of feelings and sensations - from this magic itself was formed human language.

I agree with the writer’s opinion that nature the best way affects the human condition. I also believe that, inspired by nature, experiencing delight in beautiful views Having inhaled the smell of pine needles, a person is able not only to feel and think differently - this is how art is born in all its manifestations and a person finds harmony with himself.

In the novel by M.Yu. Lermontov's “Hero of Our Time”, the landscape is closely connected with the emotions of the heroes, it expresses their feelings and moods. With the help of nature, the image of Pechorin is revealed: his diary very often featured a description of landscapes, which directly depended on emotional state Pechorina. And, most importantly, nature helped the main character maintain his state of mind in an emotional difficult situations what was, for example, a date with Vera. After him, the lyrical hero writes that “I greedily swallowed the noble air,” and it was the air and the surrounding nature, the sky showered with stars, that inspired the hero’s philosophical discussions about the meaning of life in the chapter “Fatalist.”

Epic novel by L.N. Tolstoy's "War and Peace" is a work in which nature is a separate character, capable of sympathizing and empathizing with other heroes of the work, as well as influencing the state of their thoughts and feelings. So, for example, during Battle of Austerlitz, Prince Andrei, burning with unfounded faith in own strength, driven by the desire to be known as a hero, in an instant falls to the ground from a wound and notices the spreading, unusually distant sky. On it, unlike the usual bustle of earth, everything was calm and harmonious, there was no noise and explosions, battles and murders, honors and heroism - there were only solemnly creeping clouds. It was they who helped Andrei understand that all his previous desires were a deception, seductive, but without any meaning. Having seen the sky of Austerlitz, the hero begins to gradually change, his worldview and life goals take on a completely different color, new priorities begin to appear, and the hero’s gaze is no longer turned towards heroic glory.

With the help of nature, new thoughts and feelings are born, art is created, people change. Man and nature are two inseparable, interconnected phenomena, and therefore people who imagine themselves to be the “masters” of this planet are very stupid.

That feeling when on the Unified State Exam in Russian you come across a text from which you cannot determine the problem:

Well, not completely you can’t, but almost. When your text is based on Paustovsky, about native nature and native language.

We lived for several days at the cordon, fished on Shuya, hunted on Lake Orsa, where there was only a few centimeters of clean water, and underneath it lay bottomless viscous silt. Killed ducks, if they fell into the water, could not be retrieved in any way. You had to walk along the banks of the Ors on wide forestry skis to avoid falling into the swamps.

But we spent most of our time on Pre. I have seen many picturesque and remote places in Russia, but it is unlikely that I will ever see a river more virgin and mysterious than Pra.

Dry pine forests on its banks mixed with centuries-old oak groves, with thickets of willow, alder and aspen. The ship's pines, blown down by the wind, lay like cast copper bridges over its brown, but completely transparent water. From these pines we fished for stubborn ides.

Washed river water and the wind-blown sand spits were overgrown with coltsfoot and flowers. During all this time we did not see a single human trace on these white sands - only the traces of wolves, moose and birds.

Thickets of heather and lingonberries approached the water itself, intertwined with thickets of pondweed, pink chastukha and telores.

The river went in strange bends. Its remote backwaters were lost in the darkness of the warmed forests. Over the running water, sparkling rollers and dragonflies continuously flew from shore to shore, and huge hawks soared above.

Everything was blooming around. Millions of leaves, stems, branches and corollas blocked the road at every step, and we were lost before this onslaught of vegetation, stopped and breathed until our lungs hurt in the astringent air of a hundred-year-old pine. Under the trees lay layers of dry pine cones. My foot sank in them up to the bone.

Sometimes the wind ran along the river from the lower reaches, from the wooded spaces, from where the calm and still hot sun burned in the autumn sky. My heart sank at the thought that where this river flows, for almost two hundred kilometers there is only forest, forest and no housing. Only here and there on the banks there are huts of tar smokers and a sweetish smoke of smoldering tar drifts through the forest.
But the most amazing thing about these places was the air. There was complete and utter purity about him. This purity gave a special sharpness, even shine, to everything that was surrounded by this air. Each dry pine branch was visible among the dark needles very far away. It was as if forged from rusty iron. Every thread of the web was visible far away, green cone high up, a stalk of grass.

The clarity of the air gave some extraordinary strength and pristineness to the surroundings, especially in the mornings, when everything was wet with dew and only a blue fog still lay in the lowlands.

And in the middle of the day, both the river and the forests played with many sun spots - gold, blue, green and rainbow. Streams of light dimmed, then flared up and turned the thickets into a living, moving world of foliage. The eye rested from contemplating the powerful and varied green color.

The flight of birds cut through this sparkling air: it rang from the flapping of bird wings.

Forest smells came in waves. Sometimes it was difficult to identify these smells. Everything was mixed in them: the breath of juniper, heather, water, lingonberries, rotten stumps, mushrooms, water lilies, and perhaps the sky itself... It was so deep and pure that one could not help but believe that these oceans of air also brought their own smell - ozone and the wind that came here from the shores of the warm seas.

It is sometimes very difficult to convey your feelings. But, perhaps, the most accurate way to describe the state that we all experienced was a feeling of admiration for the charm of our native land that defies any description.

Turgenev spoke about the magical Russian language. But he did not say that the magic of language was born from this magical nature And amazing properties person.

And the man was amazing in both small and large ways: simple, clear and benevolent. He is simple in his work, clear in his thoughts, and friendly in his attitude towards people. Yes, not only to people, but also to every good animal, to every tree.

It was the end of November - the saddest time in the village. The cat slept all day, curled up on an old chair, and shuddered in his sleep when dark water rushed through the windows.

One night I woke up with a strange sensation. It seemed to me that I had gone deaf in my sleep. I lay with my eyes closed, listened for a long time, and finally realized that I was not deaf, but that there was simply an extraordinary silence outside the walls of the house. This kind of silence is called “dead”. The rain died, the wind died, the noisy, restless garden died. You could only hear the cat snoring in its sleep.

When did the first snow fall? I approached the walkers. It was so light that the arrows showed clearly. They showed two o'clock.

I fell asleep at midnight. This means that in two hours the earth changed so unusually, in two short hours the fields, forests and gardens were bewitched by the cold.

Reuben woke up. He looked outside the window for a long time, sighed and said:

– The first snow suits the earth very well.

The earth was elegant, looking like a shy bride.

And in the morning everything crunched around: frozen roads, leaves on the porch, black nettle stems sticking out from under the snow.

Grandfather Mitriy came to visit for tea and congratulated him on his first trip.

“So the earth was washed,” he said, “with snow water from a silver trough.”

– Where did you get this, Mitri, such words? – Reuben asked.

It was solemn, light and quiet in the forests.

We wandered through the forests until dusk, going around familiar places. Flocks of bullfinches sat, ruffled, on rowan trees covered with snow.

We picked several bunches of red rowan, caught by the frost - this was the last memory of summer, of autumn.

The forests became increasingly gloomy, quieter, and finally thick snow began to fall. It melted in the black water of the lake, tickled my face, and powdered the forest with gray smoke.

K. PAUSTOVSKY - FAREWELL TO SUMMER

It was the end of November - the saddest time in the village. The cat slept all day, curled up on an old chair, and shuddered in his sleep when dark water rushed through the windows.
The roads were washed away. The river carried yellowish foam, similar to a shot down squirrel. The last birds hid under the eaves, and for more than a week now no one has visited us: neither grandfather Mitri, nor Vanya Malyavin, nor the forester.

It was best in the evenings. We lit the stoves. The fire was noisy, crimson reflections trembled on the log walls and on the old engraving - a portrait of the artist Bryullov. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at us and, it seemed, just like us, having put aside the open book, he was thinking about what he had read and listening to the hum of the rain on the plank roof.

The lamps burned brightly, and the disabled copper samovar sang and sang its simple song. As soon as he was brought into the room, it immediately became cozy - perhaps because the glass fogged up and the lonely birch branch that knocked on the window day and night was not visible.

After tea we sat by the stove and read. On such evenings, the most pleasant thing was to read the very long and touching novels of Charles Dickens or leaf through the heavy volumes of the magazines “Niva” and “Picturesque Review” from the old years.

At night, Funtik, a small red dachshund, often cried in his sleep. I had to get up and wrap him in a warm woolen rag. Funtik thanked him in his sleep, carefully licked his hand and, sighing, fell asleep. The darkness rustled behind the walls with the splash of rain and blows of the wind, and it was scary to think about those who might have been overtaken by this stormy night in the impenetrable forests.

One night I woke up with a strange feeling. It seemed to me that I had gone deaf in my sleep. I lay with my eyes closed, listened for a long time, and finally realized that I was not deaf, but that there was simply an extraordinary silence outside the walls of the house. This kind of silence is called “dead”. The rain died, the wind died, the noisy, restless garden died. You could only hear the cat snoring in its sleep.

I opened my eyes. White and even light filled the room. I got up and went to the window - behind the Glass everything was snowy and silent. A lonely moon stood at a dizzying height in the foggy sky, and a yellowish circle shimmered around it.

When did the first snow fall? I approached the walkers. It was so light that the arrows showed clearly. They showed two o'clock.

I fell asleep at midnight. This means that in two hours the earth changed so unusually, in two short hours the fields, forests and gardens were bewitched by the cold.

Reuben woke up. He looked outside the window for a long time, sighed and said:

– The first snow suits the earth very well.

The earth was elegant, looking like a shy bride.

And in the morning everything crunched around: frozen roads, leaves on the porch, black nettle stems sticking out from under the snow.

Grandfather Mitriy came to visit for tea and congratulated him on his first trip.

“So the earth was washed,” he said, “with snow water from a silver trough.”

– Where did you get this, Mitri, such words? – Reuben asked.

- Is there anything wrong? – the grandfather grinned. “My mother, the deceased, told me that in ancient times, beauties washed themselves with the first snow from a silver jug and therefore their beauty never faded. This was before Tsar Peter, my dear, when robbers ruined merchants in the local forests.

It was difficult to stay at home on the first winter day. We went to the forest lakes. Grandfather walked us to the edge of the forest. He also wanted to visit the lakes, but “the ache in his bones did not let him go.”

It was solemn, light and quiet in the forests.

The day seemed to be dozing. Lonely snowflakes occasionally fell from the cloudy high sky. We carefully breathed on them, and they turned into pure drops of water, then became cloudy, froze and rolled to the ground like beads.

We wandered through the forests until dusk, going around familiar places. Flocks of bullfinches sat, ruffled, on rowan trees covered with snow.

We picked several bunches of red rowan, caught by the frost - this was the last memory of summer, of autumn.

On the small lake - it was called Larin's Pond - there was always a lot of duckweed floating around. Now the water in the lake was very black and transparent - all the duckweed had sank to the bottom by winter.

A glass strip of ice has grown along the coast. The ice was so transparent that even close up it was difficult to notice. I saw a flock of rafts in the water near the shore and threw a small stone at them. The stone fell on the ice, rang, the rafts, flashing with scales, darted into the depths, and a white grainy trace of the impact remained on the ice. That’s the only reason we guessed that a layer of ice had already formed near the shore. We broke off individual pieces of ice with our hands. They crunched and left a mixed smell of snow and lingonberries on your fingers.

Here and there in the clearings birds flew and squeaked pitifully. The sky overhead was very light, white, and towards the horizon it thickened, and its color resembled lead. From there they are slow snow clouds.

The forests became increasingly gloomy, quieter, and finally thick snow began to fall. It melted in the black water of the lake, tickled my face, and powdered the forest with gray smoke.