Who wrote the story musician. Bianchi V

Karelian folk tale for children in the retelling of E. Papernaya with drawings and illustrations by S. Rudakov. The story is about how cheerful and cunning Matti defeated the bear.

Bear musician

An old man lived with an old woman. They had two sons. The elder's name was Toivo-unsmiling. He was good, hard-working, but very gloomy. He never laughs, he never sings, he knows one thing - he smokes his pipe, puffs. He catches fish on the lake - he is silent, he cuts a pine tree in the forest - he is silent, he makes skis - he is silent.
That's what he was like, Toivo-unsmiling!

And the youngest was called Matti the merry fellow. He was a good guy - he sings songs, talks - laughs merrily.
He also knew how to play the guselka-kantele. As soon as the strings begin to pluck, as the dance begins to play - no one can stand still, the legs go dancing by themselves.
Here he was, Matti the merry fellow!

Once Toivo-unsmiling went to the forest for firewood. He took the sleigh aside, lit a pipe, chose a good pine tree and started chopping. There was a knock and a crack through the forest. And near that pine there was a bear's lair.
The owner-bear woke up:

Who is knocking, won't let me sleep?
He got out of the den, looking: the guy was working, chopping a pine tree, chips from under the ax were flying in all directions. Wow, angry bear!
- Why are you knocking in my forest, do not let me sleep? Ugh, ugh - you spoil the forest air with tobacco! Out!

Yes, how enough of a guy with a paw. He only had his jacket cracked. Toivo dropped his ax, rolled across the snow, rolled over and fell right into the sled. The horse was frightened, jerked, and the sleigh rushed along the sug-ro-bam, over the stumps, along the fields, and you-did Toi-vo from the forest. That's how it was!

Unsmiling Toivo came home - no firewood, no ax, his jacket was torn and he himself was barely alive. Well, what can you do! But firewood is needed, there is nothing to heat the stove with.

Here Matti the merry fellow went to the forest. I took an ax and a kantele. Rides - plays and sings a song. Matti arrives in the forest and sees: there is a pine tree, chopped from one side, and next to it lies an ax in the snow. Ege, yes, Toivo chopped here! He took the sleigh aside, raised the ax, was about to chop down a pine tree, but changed his mind.
- Let me play the kantele first - the work will go more fun!

Here he was, Matti the merry fellow! Sat on a stump and played. The sound went through the forest. The owner-bear woke up:
- Who is it ringing, tickling my ears?

He got out of the den, he sees: a guy is playing the kantele, a hat is on the back of his head, his cheeks are ruddy, his eyes are cheerful, and he sings a song. They asked the bear to dance. The bear danced, stomped, roared:
- Wow, wow, wow, wow!

Matti stopped playing the kantele. The bear took a breath and says:

Hey boy, teach me how to play the kantele. If only my cubs would dance!
- You can, - says Matti the merry fellow, - why not teach!

He put a kantele in the bear's paws. And the bear has thick paws, he beats the strings, oh, how badly he plays!
- No, - says Matti, - you play badly. You need to make your legs thinner.
He led the bear to a thick spruce, split it with an ax and inserted a wedge into the gap:
- Come on, master, stick your paws and hold on until I say. The bear put his paws into the gap, and Matti hit the wedge with an ax! A wedge flew out - the bear's paws were pinched. The bear roared, and Mat-ti laughs:
- Be patient, be patient until the paws become thinner. There is no science without pain!
- I do not want to play! - the bear roars. - Well, you with your kantele, let me go home!
- Are you going to scare people? Will you drive out of the forest?
- I won't, the bear roars, just let go!

Matti drove the wedge into the gap, pulled out the bear's paws and quickly climbed into his lair. And Matti the merry fellow loaded a sleigh full of pine wood, picked up a kantele and rode out of the forest. He goes and sings a song.
Here he is, Matti the merry fellow! Since then, people have been going to the forest for firewood without fear.

MUSICIAN

The old bugbear was sitting on a mound and chirping on a violin. He was very fond of music and tried to learn to play himself. He did not do well, but the old man was pleased that he had his own music. A familiar collective farmer passed by and said to the old man:

Drop your violin, grab your gun. You're better off with a gun. I just saw a bear in the forest.

The old man put down his violin and asked the collective farmer where he had seen the bear. He took a gun and went into the forest. In the forest, the old man searched for a bear for a long time, but did not even find a trace of him.

The old man was tired and sat down on a stump to rest.

It was quiet in the forest. Not a knot will crack anywhere, not a bird will give a voice. Suddenly the old man heard: “Zenn!..” Such a beautiful sound, like a string sang.

A little later again: “Zenn!..”

The old man was surprised: “Who is playing the string in the forest?”

And from the forest again: “Zenn! ..” - yes, so loudly, affectionately.

The old man got up from the stump and carefully walked towards where the sound was coming from. The sound was heard from the edge.

The old man crept up from behind the Christmas tree and sees: on the edge of a tree broken by a thunderstorm, long chips stick out of it. And a bear sits under a tree, grabbed one chip with its paw. The bear pulled the chip towards him and let it go. The sliver straightened, trembled, and in the air there was: “Zenn! ..” - like a string sang.

The bear bowed his head and listened.

The old man is also listening: the sliver sings well!

The sound stopped, - the bear again for his own: he pulled the chip and let it go.

In the evening, the familiar collective farmer once again passes by the hut of the bear-cub. The old man was again sitting on the mound with the violin. He pulled one string with his finger, and the string sang softly: “Dzinn!..”

The farmer asked the old man:

Well, did you kill the bear?

No, the old man replied.

What is it?

But how can you shoot him when he is a musician like me?

And the old man told how the bear played on a tree split by a thunderstorm.

THE BEST!

I really, really love birds. It seems to me that living on our green planet without birds would be oh so boring! How pleasing to the eye is the marvelous coloring of their plumage! How pleasing to the ear is their marvelous singing! And how the spirit raises their light, free flight! And their magical art of nest-building “without hands, without an ax”! And their testicles, blue, white, pink with multi-colored specks, through the thin shell of which a little tender life shines through!

It amazes me why people pay so little attention to birds? They deprive themselves of so many subtle pleasures, they lose so many beautiful joys! Especially the townspeople.

In the villages, people from time immemorial have been eyeing the birds. Often gives people bird nicknames. Surnames are given by birds. How many Orlovs, Sokolovs, Petukhovs, Kurochkins, Kulikovs, Lebedevs, Gusevs, Utochkins, Golubevs, Voronins, Sorokins, Galkins, Soykins, Grachevs, Zhuravlevs, Vorobyovs, Solovyovs, Kukushkins, Drozdovs - can you name them all!

Another bears a bird's surname, but all his life he himself will not even be curious about which bird his surname came from, how does this bird live, is it good, what does it feed on? It's embarrassing right!

There are many different birds. In our Union alone, there are almost a thousand species of them, and all over the world - ten thousand.

Somehow I began to figure out in my mind which are the most interesting of them: the largest and the smallest, the most beautiful and the most sweet-voiced, the fastest flying, the most skillful in nest-building, the most useful and the most harmful, the cutest, the funniest ...

The largest bird in the world was the mba: two human heights in height. Lived in Australia. People killed her. And now there is no bird larger than an African ostrich. And there are no smaller South American birds - hummingbirds. Among them there are pichuga from a bumblebee.

And we have the smallest birds in the Union - the kinglet and the wren. More, of course, hummingbirds, but also less dragonflies. The kinglet is greenish with an orange, like a flame, crest. The wren is brown, the tail is upright, and the voice is power! Here are two of them - the smallest birds we have.

And the biggest one? But how to count, how to measure! In height, perhaps, a lanky white Siberian Crane. By stoutness - a swan or a bustard. In the wingspan - vultures and eagles. All the birds are very large, you don’t know which one to put in the first place.

Began to think who we have the best flyer? Swift? Falcon? No words - fast! And the swallows? Why, they are so dexterous in the air that they catch midges invisible to our eyes and drink water on the fly, rushing over the river - and they won’t get their wings wet! And the eagles, and the vultures? They can circle in the air for hours, slightly shaking their wide wings! And the golden plover? Having been born with us somewhere on Novaya Zemlya, after some three months she sets off on an air journey through the entire Asian continent and makes a non-stop flight over the entire Great Ocean, striving for her winter quarters in America! Whom to give preference to, which of these birds to call the best flyer?

I began to think about the masters to build nests - and was completely confused. Remember the Oriole's nest - the height of art! hanging in air light a cradle of blades of grass, flexible stems, birch peel; in the fork of the branch is suspended high above the ground - just a feast for the eyes!

Seeing the swallow's nest is also a surprise: how cleverly it is molded from earth and clay somewhere on a rock above the abyss. And the songbird's nest! A deep bowl, inside of amazing cement: wood dust and your own saliva! And the remeza has titmouse! A real fabulous house: a mitten made of vegetable down is suspended from a reed!

Well, what about the cutest and funniest of our birds?

You look at a couple of the simplest jackdaws: how cute they are, how they look after each other. Or like a dove with a dove kiss, have mercy. Or a cute snowman, when she sits on a branch and, all puffed up, sings her melodic song under her breath. So a wave and fills the heart with warm tenderness for them.

“Horror, how funny! - laughed, I remember, the village girl, examining the snipe that had just jumped out of the egg. - Himself - a skein of thread, and the nose is like a knitting needle.

Indeed, in our opinion, some birds are very funny: in one, the nose looks at the sky, in the other - to the ground, in the third - to the side, in the fourth - up and down crossed, in the fifth - legs with stilts, in the sixth - tail with divorces . And isn't the famous " ugly duck- so awkward on earth - until he grew into a beautiful white swan? Choose who is the funniest?

And the most beautiful bird? They are all beautiful - from modestly dressed females to the most spectacularly decorated males. You will gasp at the sight of the seven-colored attire of a small kingfisher, or when you suddenly see a golden-breasted oriole with black wings in the fresh green of a birch. You can't stop admiring the lyre-tailed scarlet black grouse, the proud posture of the sickle-winged peregrine falcon. You can't take your eyes off the herring gulls over the blue sea, under the blue sky. And the multi-colored flame of our firebirds - pheasants flashing under the bright sun! What a beauty!

And the singers!

The whole world is famous for “the singer of love, the singer of his sorrow” - the nightingale. And who loves morning light-joyful songs, for those “the singer of the fields is a ringing lark”. By the way: even more than a field lark, I like the forest lark - yulka. In the spring, he sings not only in the morning, but all the white nights without a break, and his voice is a pure flute!

Even in the city, even with full snow, a tit bell will ring. And the forest will not have time to get married, to be covered with foliage, - the sunny song of the chaffinch will crumble in it like ringing pearls. And it will seem to you that you have been living all your life for the sake of such a clear spring morning, when suddenly “from a blissful, unfamiliar, distant country” you will hear the singing of a rooster - the simplest village songbird! And what a multitude of beautiful singers there are in the forest, in the meadows, in the bushes by the rivers - and how few of them we recognize, know how to name, even if we ourselves bear a surname in their honor!

And finally, which is the most useful and which is the most harmful of all our birds?

Thin-billed starlings, tits, flycatchers, warblers and many, many other songbirds wage a relentless war against hordes of insects, hook-nosed predators against mice, ground squirrels and other pests of the fields. Their benefits to us are immeasurable. If there were no birds in the world, rodents and insects would destroy all forests, all fields, all gardens. Starlings, rooks, seagulls collect their prey directly from the ground; tits, nuthatches, woodpeckers - on trees; flycatchers, swifts, swallows - in the air. Whom to give preference to?

What about bird damage? Well, it's really stupid to ask about it! Somewhere in millet fields or on hemp strips, a simple sparrow is an enemy to man, capable of destroying a good third of the crop in autumn. But how much good does he bring all summer, eating himself and dragging garden caterpillars to his chicks. And even the winged wolf himself - a great goshawk - a ferocious destroyer of game and hares - is at the same time our benefactor. Where it is destroyed, black grouse, partridges, hares fall ill and quickly degenerate. After all, first of all, all weak, lethargic, unviable birds and animals fall into his terrible claws. Eating the weak, the formidable predator contributes to the prosperity of the breed. Knowing this, who would seriously call him a pest?

I thought, thought - and realized that no most not among the birds. No, for the simple reason that every bird most most. Each of them is a small perfection of its kind on our green planet.

KRASNOGON

Last spring, - said the hunter Kasim Kasimovich, - I bought myself a puppy in the city from a well-known potter. Both his father and mother are famous redheads. Krasnogon is the name of the hound that drives foxes well, throws a hare trail if it runs into a fox. Named the puppy Catch.

Well, in the city where to keep him, living on the sixth floor? I took it to the village, gave it to an old man I knew. Feed, then look after: I will pay you for the maintenance. And in the fall I'll come myself - to beat the foxes.

However, it did not work out: in the fall I was sent on a business trip. Only in the middle of winter did he get out into the village. I look - Catch up with my whole wolf has grown!

We went with him to the forest. Ten minutes have not passed - flowed Catch up on the trail, gave a voice. I didn’t have time to really occupy the hole, - the hare rolls at me. Well, I poked it over my head. Catching up arrived, sniffed the hare; I cut him off the patty, gave it to him. These are the hare's hind legs. Hound reward for work. Catch up with them - and swing back to the forest.

I went up the hillock. I think to myself: “I can see the whole rut from here. Look big from the hill.”

I look - a fox! It swept out of the bushes and spreads through the snow - red, pure fire! For her

catch up. And immediately they both disappeared.

A minute has not passed - they appeared again, only ... I can’t believe my eyes straight: only now Catch up ahead, and the fox is catching up with him! She yelps thinly: she seems to be offended that she cannot catch up.

She ran to the stump - and sat down, threw out her tongue. Catch up gave a circle - and to her. “Well, - I think, - will give her a spanking now!”

And he steps in five from it - stop! He fell on his front paws and let's squeal. The fox jumped up

And on him. He is from her.

I stand - I can’t understand anything: either my Catch-up has gone mad, or some kind of bewitched fox. Krasnogon, the son of famous parents! What is the money paid for?

Finally he turned around. We got together. Both fell into the snow.

“Well, I think, it's over! Gnaw."

It wasn't there! They fiddled, fiddled in the snow - they got up, jumped, sat down opposite each other. Both tongues fell out - they breathe. Then back to each other. They have risen on their cradles and are trying to knock down one another, - they are fighting with their paws, - they are playing!

They're playing, shoot them in the eye! Really play! This is a hound with a fox! Krasnogon!

I howl:

What are you doing!

Fox bullet in the bushes. Chase after him.

I returned home darker than clouds. I didn’t want to say anything to the old man, but he forced me, - he told him about the dog. I look - smiles.

Divya! - He speaks. - What's so tricky when they are good comrades with this fox. From one bowl in childhood they ate, played, fiddled. Then the fox gnawed the rope and ran into the forest. I went with your Catch-up - I screwed up on hares. As soon as they meet at the edge of the forest, they forget about everything: they have hakhanki and tufts, they play choirs and catch up.

Here you are, - said the hunter Kasim Kasimovich, hiding a childish smile in his thick beard. - It turns out that they are kind animals in themselves. Even predatory ones. And they have bloodthirstiness from hunger.

And after thinking, he concluded:

Children and cubs - they are the same all over the world. When full, so not angry, games alone on the mind. It must be assumed that the same would happen with adults, as if everyone would keep a child in his soul until old age.

In the summer, as usual, I worked in geological expedition in the deaf Yakut taiga. From the base camp I was sent for two weeks to explore the headwaters of a small mountain stream twenty kilometers away.

Egor's assistant went with me, whose main duty was to dig pits. Egor was taken from local alcoholics, we hired them in the nearest town for the entire summer season. We had a “dry law”, and while working, they were undergoing, as it were, labor treatment. They worked well. In addition, they knew local customs, were well oriented in the forest, and were good hunters.

I examined rock outcrops near our river, found signs of copper. Yegor almost did not have to dig holes, he cooked food and gorged himself on berries. We lived in an old winter hut, cut down by hunters from thick larches a hundred years ago.

We also had neighbors - one or two families of bears. We saw them from afar, they did not let us close to them, they immediately left. But they left their traces everywhere in abundance: heavily rumpled grass and bushes, especially raspberries. The bears also broke snags, old stumps, decks and looked for something in the ground there. Berries bears sucked whole branches. In a word, the owners of the forest left behind a complete pogrom.

In the evenings, when the sun was setting and nature was still, I distinctly heard some strange sound: "Pbwa-a-a-m!" - and then fading rattling for 10-15 seconds. The sound arose every evening, and I asked Yegor:

What it is?
- Yes, it is clear that the bear is pampering.
- How does he pamper?
- Let's go and see.

We went to the taiga. About three hundred meters on a hillock, bad weather knocked down several larches. One of them broke, leaving long chips above the roots. Near them, on its hind legs, a one and a half year old bear stood with its back to us. He seemed to be completely absorbed in his work. It consisted in the fact that the bear with a clawed paw pulled one of the wood chips dried in the sun, because of which it made a characteristic sound, and the bear, bowing its head amusingly, listened. "Pbwa-a-a-m!" - carried in a quiet, evening taiga. The bear enjoyed his art.

I had a military-style rifled carbine (they don’t go in the taiga without a gun). But of course I didn't use it. It would be poaching, and it's a pity for the "musician". I shouted, the bear shuddered, sat down on its front paws and easily fled into the thicket. We did not see other bears nearby, which means that the music lover was alone. I remembered Shishkin's painting Morning in a Pine Forest. There, too, a splintered hundred-year-old pine was depicted. I constantly wonder if there was some kind of “bear love for forest music” plot here.

Several days passed, the forest music did not sound, apparently, we scared the bear. I felt kind of sane. But on the last evening before leaving for the base, we again heard: “Pbwa-a-a-m!” My heart became warm. So the bear returned to his "musical instrument" and continued to enjoy the sound. They also say that they are not musical. And they even came up with the expression: "The bear stepped on the ear."

Vsevolod Abramov

Hello young writer! It's good that you decided to read the fairy tale "Musician" by Vitaly Bianchi in it you will find folk wisdom, which is edified for generations. It is very useful when the plot is simple and, so to speak, vital, when similar situations develop in our everyday life, this contributes to better memorization. Of course, the idea of ​​the superiority of good over evil is not new, of course, many books have been written about it, but every time it is still pleasant to be convinced of this. It is amazing that with sympathy, compassion, strong friendship and unshakable will, the hero always manages to resolve all troubles and misfortunes. Inspiration of household items and nature, creates colorful and fascinating pictures of the world around, making them mysterious and mysterious. How charmingly and penetratingly the description of nature, mythical creatures and life of the people was transmitted from generation to generation. Dozens, hundreds of years separate us from the time of the creation of the work, but the problems and customs of people remain the same, practically unchanged. The tale "Musician" by Vitaly Bianchi to read for free online is certainly necessary not for children on their own, but in the presence or under the guidance of their parents.

From the old bear cub sat on the mound and chirped on the violin. He was very fond of music and tried to learn to play himself. He did not do well, but the old man was pleased that he had his own music. A familiar collective farmer passed by and said to the old man:

Drop your violin, grab your gun. You're better off with a gun. I just saw a bear in the forest.

The old man put down his violin and asked the collective farmer where he had seen the bear. He took a gun and went into the forest.

In the forest, the old man searched for a bear for a long time, but did not even find a trace of him.

The old man was tired and sat down on a stump to rest.

It was quiet in the forest. Not a knot will crack anywhere, not a bird will give a voice. Suddenly the old man heard: "Zenn! .." Such a beautiful sound, like a string sang.

A little later again: "Zenn! .."

The old man was surprised:

“Who is playing the string in the forest?”

And from the forest again: "Zenn! .." - yes, so loudly, affectionately.

The old man got up from the stump and cautiously walked towards where the sound was coming from. The sound was heard from the edge.

The old man crept up from behind the Christmas tree and sees: on the edge of a tree broken by a thunderstorm, long chips stick out of it. And a bear sits under a tree, grabbed one chip with its paw. The bear pulled the chip towards him and let it go. The sliver straightened up, trembled, and there was a sound in the air: “Zenn! ..” - like a string sang.

The bear bowed his head and listened.

The old man also listens: the sliver sings well.

The sound stopped, - the bear again for his own: he pulled the chip and let it go.

In the evening, the familiar collective farmer once again passed by the hut of the bear-cub. The old man was again sitting on the mound with the violin. He pulled one string with his finger, and the string sang softly: "Dzinn! .."

The farmer asked the old man:

Well, did you kill the bear?

No, the old man replied.

What is it?

But how can you shoot him when he is a musician like me?

And the old man told the collective farmer how the bear played on a tree split by a thunderstorm.

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