Grass outside our house

I had two idols. One of them, a shoemaker, Uncle Kolya, lived in our house. Uncle Kolya had a huge barn, a huge gate into which a truck could freely enter, a huge birdhouse - a whole flock of Arthur, huge as a bear, could fit in it. Behind the shed began a huge garden enclosed by multi-colored slats, like giant colored pencils. Uncle Kolya made a pool in the garden - he dug a large hole, cemented it and let water into it. Uncle Kolya allowed everyone to swim in the pool, and when he climbed into it, the water overflowed the edges and flooded half the garden.

In the summer, it grew near our house high grass, elastic, bright. Uncle Kolya always slept on this grass right in the open air. Spread the mattress on fragrant greenery, cover with a light blanket and sleep. And Arthur snoring next to him. Several times Uncle Kolya and I spent the night with Vovka. I remember that I was all afraid that a beetle would crawl into my ear or that it would rain, and Uncle Kolya just laughed.

The most happy people in the summer they sleep on fresh air- he said. “On the grass, in the attics, in the hayloft ... I would generally agree to live in nature, somewhere in the forest,” Uncle Kolya added and sighed. - Have a house of branches and grass and a roof of pine needles ... I would fish in the river, raise bees ...

We lay on mattresses among the grass and looked at the starry sky. Then a lot of stars fell and Vovka and I made wishes, and I could not understand in any way who prevented Uncle Kolya from making a wish too and, when it came true, to move to the forest forever.

The most wonderful thing in these overnight stays was the morning when we woke up under swirling clouds, when the sun was shining in our faces and grasshoppers chirped in the grass, dragonflies chirped and bumblebees hummed incessantly. And we always woke up together with Vovka - neither Uncle Kolya nor Arthur was there. Uncle Kolya left early for work, and Arthur always accompanied him. Several times Vovka and I woke up very late, when the sun was already starting to get very hot and getting hot, or when Arthur came back and pulled off the blankets from us, while he was biting our feet and barking in our very ears. Towards autumn, quietly from Uncle Kolya, we climbed into his garden - shaking apple trees and picking pears. And every time after these raids, Uncle Kolya told us about some boys who ruined trees in his garden, and explained in detail to us how you can pick fruits without breaking branches.

The workshop in which Uncle Kolya worked was located two lanes from our house. In the summer, Uncle Kolya worked at open window and took shoes straight from the street. Many times Vovka and I stood by Uncle Kolya and watched him repair various shoes. We were most amazed at how Uncle Kolya guessed the owner by his shoes. Some grandmother will give him a knocked down shoe, Uncle Kolya will look at him and say:

The owner is a footballer, for sure!

And the grandmother immediately nods and mumbles:

There is no life from him. The father only works for shoes. He knocked down the second ones in a month ... and a fine for broken windows paid ...

Or some girl will give Uncle Kolya her sandals, Uncle Kolya will look at the worn toes of the sandals, smile and ask:

You probably want to become a ballerina?

And the girl will nod, lower her eyes and blush.

Uncle Kolya could determine who walks with a limp, with a stick, who dances a lot, who walks quickly and who walks slowly, who is beautiful and who is ugly. Usually, when we watched Uncle Kolya's work, he always told us something, but once I stood beside him for an hour, and he was silent all the time. “What happened,” I think, and I was just about to ask Uncle Kolya when he suddenly said:

Let's take off your shoes.

It is necessary to knock out. Just look your fingers will come out.

I have no money, - I muttered.

Take it off, I say!

Uncle Kolya frowned and nudged me lightly with his elbow. I bent down and began to untie my shoelaces.

Uncle Kolya repaired my boots, missed them with paint. The boots have become as good as new. I put them on, and Uncle Kolya sighed and said:

I had a little son like you ... but he died ... of pneumonia. We all dreamed of living in nature, building a house of branches and grass ... And a roof of pine needles ... we would fish in the river ... we would breed bees ...

The second person who excited my mind was a trumpet musician. The first time I saw him was in the park on an open stage. I walked through the park with Galya, a blonde-haired, green-eyed girl from a nearby street. We often went to the park with her. And always in the same places. First, in the hut-reading room, to look at the magazines, then to the fountain, where a long stream of water burst out of the dolphin's mouth, then they rode on a small free carousel, then they approached the pond and looked at the floating swans, then they ran along the lawn where the same grass grew, like our house. On that day, near the lawn, we heard an orchestra playing on an open stage. We ran across the alley and saw a whole crowd of listeners and further rows of benches packed to capacity with the audience, and even further - a stage on which a brass band was playing.

We made our way to the stage itself. Of the seven musicians, five blew into copper pipes... The one who played the most big pipe... It wrapped around his neck and crawled out from behind his back in a huge sparkling hoop. The pipe looked like the shell of a giant snail. To squeeze sounds out of her, the musician strained with all his might. His cheeks puffed out, and his whole face was red with the strain. The drummer also beat the drum furiously. He seemed to want to make as much noise as possible at all costs. The drummer continually rolled his eyes, gritted his teeth and struck one blow after another. All six musicians played as if they were doing hard work, and only the seventh - a trumpet player - played unusually lightly. He was a young fat guy with a mischievous, childish look and disheveled hair that fell over his forehead all the time, and so the guy shook his head every now and then. He stood in front of everyone, held the pipe high and effortlessly, playfully and even slightly carelessly fingered the valves with his fingers. At the same time, the corners of his lips twitched with a smile, his eyes sparkled.

The sound of his trumpet was almost drowned in the general rumbling of the orchestra. Only sometimes, in pauses, when the orchestra members fell silent for a second (as it seemed to us, in order to catch their breath, and then deafen everyone even more), only then were the gentle sounds of the trumpet heard. They shimmered high above the platform, then dropped to the level of the stage and, as it were, enveloped the audience, entangled them with an openwork thread.

Having finished the solo, the trumpeter smiled and bowed low and, straightening his hair, retreated to the back of the stage.

We liked him immediately. From the first minute, as soon as we saw him. And he noticed us too. Having played the last thing, he even winked at us, and going down the steps from the stage, he whispered:

Come tomorrow at the same time ... I'll play just for you.

The next day, Galya and I again came to the stage, but there was no orchestra or listeners there. We were about to turn back when we suddenly saw that in the back of the stage, in front of the music stand, our familiar trumpet player was sitting quietly rehearsing a piece.

Noticing us, he smiled, walked to the edge of the stage, squatted down, shook hands with us and asked our name. Then he said:

Listen to this piece.

And he began to play. And again around us we began to feel some invisible sounding lace, some figure skating sounds in the air. After this play, the trumpet player played a sad melody, and then immediately a cheerful one, then a merry-sad, and then a very merry one. He played one melody after another. And most importantly, it is so easy and simple that from the outside it seemed, blow - and you will succeed in the same way. He stood straight, held the trumpet high and beat the toe of his boot to the beat of the melody. When he finished playing, the trumpeter smiled, brushed beads of sweat from his forehead, and pondered.

You're not tired? - Galya asked quietly.

A real musician never gets tired! .. - The trumpeter winked at us and raised the trumpet to his mouth again.

From that day on we saw each other every day, and he always played for us. Sometimes Galya and I asked him to play some familiar melody. And he never refused and played whatever we asked for. I once asked:

Why are you playing here and not at home?

Do you know what one great singer said? All the failures in life I meet only with a song. And the more failures, the louder my song!

After this conversation, the trumpet player did not appear in the park. “Probably entered a large orchestra,” Galya and I decided. But one autumn, running on the withered grass of the lawn, Galya and I suddenly heard familiar sounds, ran to the stage and saw him. He stood on the stage in a long gray coat tied at the collar with a scarf and played. There were deserted rows in front of him, but he played so seriously and with concentration, as if he were performing at the most important concert. He noticed us and waved his hand, and when we approached, he hastily said:

Where have you disappeared to? The second day I come, but you are not there and you are not.

We thought, - began Galya, - you play in a large orchestra.

Well no. I'm not playing yet. But it is not important. The main thing is that my music is always with me.

He went over the valves of the pipes and, smiling, said:

Better listen to what piece I have composed. Especially for you. But I haven’t come up with a name yet ...

He raised the trumpet high and began to play, as before, quietly, easily and beautifully.

The three of us walked to the exit from the park. We walked past the dead grass of the lawn, past a pond in which swans no longer swam, past a roundabout tied with a chain, past a silenced fountain covered with leaves, past a boarded-up reading room. We walked through a deserted park, and Galya and I were extremely happy that this wonderful person was next to us.

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Slide captions:

Grass near our house Completed by: primary school teacher MBOU secondary school № 63, Novosibirsk Lykhina E.V.

The purpose of the lesson: to acquaint with the most common herbaceous plants Lesson type: Discovery of new knowledge Expected results: subject: recognize herbs

Bitter wormwood A perennial herb of silvery color, with a strong aromatic odor and the famous wormwood bitterness.

In medicine in many countries of the world, the plant is used as a means of improving digestion and stimulating appetite.

Bird buckwheat

The grass is low. The leaves and flowers are small. It grows densely, forming soft green carpets. Its fruits - small brown nuts - are fond of pecking by birds, and the green grass itself is eagerly nibbled.

Plantain Plantain is a valuable medicinal plant. Plantains have a hemostatic, anti-inflammatory and wound healing effect.

Tiny psyllium seeds become sticky from rain or dew. Lots of seeds stick to the shoe. A person walks, and the seeds gradually fall off their feet. And where the seed falls, over time, a young plantain will appear.

You touch the Green Beauty, it burns.

well-known wild perennial herb up to 170 cm high with a creeping branchy rhizome. The upper part of the leaves is dark green, covered with stinging hairs. There is a caustic liquid inside the hairs. It also causes a burning sensation on the skin. Nettle -

Tansy Horse sorrel

Burdock (burdock) Shepherd's bag

On the subject: methodological developments, presentations and notes

Appointment of medicinal plants. Medicinal plants can bring not only benefits, but also harm ...

What is our planet like? The earth is our home.

Open lesson in the 1st grade on the topic "What is our planet like? The Earth is our home." was interesting and instructive. The guys actively answered questions, riddles, read poems about our family ...

The topic "The grass near our house" is studied in the 2nd grade primary school under the program Perspective and School of Russia, textbooks the world Pleshakov. There are many plants around, but even an adult will not be able to name all of them right away. This motherwort, and bluegrass, and bird buckwheat, they grow in almost every yard. Some of them are even useful and have long been used in medicine. Let's read more about these plants? And if the teacher has given a report or presentation, and we will tell him about what we have learned on this page.

Motherwort presentation

This herb is called motherwort because vacant lots are its favorite habitat. Motherwort forms dense, tall thickets of green stems with leaves and pink flowers.

And bees hover and buzz around. After all, motherwort is a real storehouse of wonderful nectar. Its flowers are small, but there are a lot of them.

Honey from motherwort nectar turns out to be light golden, with a special, very good taste, with a pleasant aroma.

Motherwort flowers have several sharp denticles. When fruits are formed in place of flowers, the teeth become hard, prickly. This is why a plant that looks harmless can be prickly pricked. And these cloves help the fruits to settle - they cling like a burdock to human clothes and animal hair.

The motherwort is popularly called the heart herb. People have known about its ability to calm the "heartbeat" for several centuries. Motherwort is mentioned in ancient books - herbalists.

It is also used in modern medicine.

Questions about the presentation:

1. Why was this plant called motherwort?
2. What honey is obtained from motherwort?
3. How does motherwort spread its seeds?
4. What is the name of motherwort among the people and why?