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   ,       (18291907)     .

 . .            XIX .

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  , 2026

  , , 2026



ISBN 978-5-0069-5554-7

     Ridero













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Kitty


Do you know how the little hare hops through the snowdrifts in winter?

The winter breeze is so vicious. Itll cut right through you, sting your nose, ears, and cheeks, itll make you want to cry. The wind blows, sweeps, and piles up such snowdrifts everywhere that you cant even walk or drive. After performing miracles, it calms down, calms down, happy and content, and lies asleep. And the sun will sparkle like diamonds on the snow.

And then, in this quiet, sunny moment, the little hare will jump up and start jumping and running  overjoyed by the sun and the calm weather. Hell jump into a snowdrift and sink into it, then jump back out, rub his face, ears, and paws, twitch his whiskers, and then start singing again: hell run head over heels, like a wheel.

Jump, jump! Jump, hop! What a joy!

Suddenly  whoosh!  From behind the shaggy fir tree.

Bunny stopped, pricked up his ears, listening: whos whistling?

 Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

 Ah, what a thrill!!!

And the bunny rushed headlong, ears pressed back, his heart in his mouth, rolling, flying like a ball, and suddenly  stop! He stopped.

 What a fool am I?  he thought.  Lets see whos whistling.

He pricked up his ears, rose up on his hind legs, stretched out, and peered in.

 Ah! Its Kitty!

Kitty is a little village boy. Bunny has known him for a long time. Last summer he used to treat him to carrots and turnips. Slowly, quietly, stealthily, sideways and sideways, he approached him with his scythe. He crouched down in front of him, twitching his ears, and pondered: should he, the hare, run away or not?

 What now, coward? What are you afraid of? I wont eat you,  said Kitty.

The hare jumped back and crouched down again.

I know you wont eat me, but its still somehow scary!

 Youre a coward, a coward! Why are you afraid? You need to be brave, not be afraid of anyone or anything.

 Youd better talk to the doctor,  said the hare.  Youre on two legs, and Im on four.

 Well, so what?

 Your ears are barely visible, but mine are so big! Look at them!  And the hare shook his long ears.

 Well, so what?

 So theyll grab you and eat you.

 Oh, you fool, you fool! Who would eat a gray hare?

 Who? First of all, the dogs.

 And who would be next to eat?

 The next would be the wolves.

 And then who?

 Then it would be Lisa Patrikeevna (1).

 And then?

 And then  a shaggy lynx, a white-skinned marten, and perhaps even a ferret and an ermine wouldnt mind feasting on our flesh Many fierce enemies live in this remote forest kingdom. Oh! So many!

 Oh, what cowards! Well, listen, cross-eyed,  says Kitty,  first of all, you need to learn to be brave. Do you want me to teach you? I wont take anything for teaching you!

Perhaps,  thinks the hare,  teach me or not, it wont do any good.

 Well, come closer to me.

The bunny hopped once, twice, and then fell into thought.

Yes, perhaps,  he thought,  if I come to you, youll just get me.



(1)  Lisa means fox in Russian.




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Crossbill (excerpt from a fairy tale)


You know that all trees are terrible sleepwalkers.

As soon as the sun warms them on a calm, clear day, they immediately collapse and fall asleep. Not to mention nights! During them they sleep like logs.

And how could they not sleep?! After all, every tree is firmly anchored to the ground by its roots and would never fall.

Only the wind can awaken the trees. As soon as it blows upon them, they all wake up, and all their leaves begin to whisper, as if they had never slept at all.

Such a wind would wake even a shaggy spruce, and everyone knows that there is no sleepier tree than a disheveled, shaggy and shabby spruce. As soon as a breeze begins to wave its branches, it will inevitably wake up, and with it, everything that lives on it.

Youve probably heard that crossbills live in such spruce trees  and I want to tell you about one such crossbill now.

He had a large head and a huge hooked nose. When he was still very small, this nose, too, was small, a pretty little hook.

The crossbill ate everything its parents brought it, everything from the tiniest wormie to a sturdy spruce cone, from which it picked out nuts and cracked them better than any merchants wife or daughter.

All around him was an old, beautiful spruce forest, a wilderness, and him was in this wilderness that he grew up in.

The sun was his best nurse. When it tenderly warmed the grass, bushes, and trees, it also warmed him, the little crossbill with the big head, along the way. Moreover, it warmed him with such tenderness and love that tears would probably have come to his eyes.

But you, of course, know that crossbills and all birds cannot cry, simply because they have no handkerchiefs to wipe away their tears. They even wipe their noses simply on the ground or on the grass.

And our crossbill loved this young, green, juicy, velvety grass very much; but, of course, he loved to tug at it when he was still very small, and then, when his nose began to grow and became a strong hook, he used it to peck at trees, break twigs, bend branches  in a word, he performed many different gymnastic tricks with the goal of strengthening his beak.

He loved quiet summer evenings, when the sun goes to bed, blushing like a red maiden, his blush spreading shyly across the sky. He loved listening to the lazy chirps of birds as they peacefully dozed off in the branches; he loved the fragrant, resinous, free air of the forests.

But most of all, he loved green spruce cones. Cracking open a firm, fragrant cone, reaching for its juicy, sweet, resinous flesh and delicious nuts  for him, it was a true delight.

He was born in the north, in the forested taiga, where a fierce, wicked frost reigns and crackles in winter.

And because of this frost, all the crossbills migrate to warmer places for the winter. The crossbill flew away with the others.

And in the spring, all the birds returned to the old, native forest, to the place where the crossbill had spent his childhood. Everything there was familiar to him  the old, shaggy spruce trees, and the young green fir trees.

Everyone bowed to him affably, as if he were an old friend, and he bowed to them all, and whistled, and shouted, and chirped with all the strength of his little lungs.

The sun shone so joyfully and merrily; it warmed the earth, and the grass, and the bushes, and the trees, so that they began to grow, bloom, and turn green in a race. And how many flowers were colorful on the green lawns!

First the snowdrops peeked out, followed by the modest violets, quietly blossoming. But in the north they have no scent  out of modesty.

They think that it is indecent to smell for the whole world to smell, whoever wants to and whoever doesnt.

Then all sorts of spring flowers bloomed; of course, they all bloomed in order of seniority.

After all, flowers strictly observe that no one of lower rank can bloom before another, who is older.

And then, when everything was in bloom and green, when the sun simply leaped with joy across all the meadows, flowers, and trees, when all the birds, great and small, sang and whistled in every key, then our little crossbills heart nearly leaped out of his chest.

He, like a firebird, sparkled and shone in the sun. He felt that all this was good, very good, yet something was still missing. He was waiting for something, but he didnt know what exactly: some kind of celebration, some kind of joy that made his heart flutter and skip a beat in advance.

And then, suddenly, in the shade of a large, spreading spruce, through its branches, a small gray bird flashed before him in the sun.

 Its her!  he thought joyfully.

 Its her!  his heart told him.

This was his joy, his life. This was what he had been missing and what made life itself so precious to him.

He wanted to whistle softly, plaintively, but his throat tightened, as did his little heart. He flew up to the bird; it had the same hooked nose as his, and it wore the same gray-green dress he had worn as a little boy.

There was something yet familiar, sweet, and he whispered as quiet as a mouse in a trembling voice:

 My dear, my darling!

The bird chirped so meekly, tenderly, heartily that the crossbills heart turned over with joy. He lowered his head and sang a tender, plaintive note, and then he began to sing.

Yes! He began to sing the old song that all those crossbills sing in spring, with their young hearts alive with youth. He sang that spring song that will forever remain young because it cannot grow old.

And all the birds listened to him; they all wanted to sing, to rejoice, and to love everything and everyone.

In response to this song, the gray bird chirped again, tenderly and sadly, and perched on a branch near the crossbill.

He perked up. He didnt know, didnt feel where he was sitting; he saw only her  her, the small, dear, gray-green bird  and again he said softly and tenderly:

 My dear, my darling!

And they kissed.

It seemed to him that all the flowers and leaves were kissing, that all the birds were looking at them, that the sun was kissing the earth, and it became warm and joyful under his kisses.

And so, not two or three days had passed, before they knew it, they were marriedmarried, of course, in their own way.

All the crossbills, young and old, had flocked to our couples wedding; they were all squealing, whistling, judging, and arguing throughout the forest.

 A fine couple!  said the gray crossbills.

 A fine couple!  mused the old crossbills.

And they all eagerly pecked at the spruce cones. And the young man himself was simply in seventh heaven, if there is such a thing as seventh heaven.

He sang and beamed with delight.




 


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