Option No. 56
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In what va-ri-an-te from-ve-ta co-lives in-for-ma-tion, not-about-ho-di-may for os-but-va-niya from-ve- she answered the question: “Why didn’t Tolya want his mother to wait for him before school?”
1) It was autumn rain outside, and Tolya was afraid that his mother was cold and sick.
2) Tolya really liked to run to school in the rain, and his mother forbade him from doing this.
3) Tolya didn’t want his mother to find out that he was sitting at the same desk with the girl.
4) Tolya didn’t want his mother to take care of him like a lazy little girl.
Where are you running, dear path,
Where do you call, where do you lead...
Whom I was waiting for, who I loved,
You can't turn it back, you can't return it...
(According to Yu.T. Gribov) *
*
Answer:
Indicate in what meaning the word “deduce” is used in the text (sentence 6).
(According to Yu. Sergeev) *
*
(6) Closing his eyes, throwing his simple-haired white head back a little, he could sing all day long, helping the song with smooth waves of his hand.
In which answer option is personification used as a means of expressive speech?
1) Tolya didn’t like autumn. (2) He didn’t like him because the leaves were falling and “the sun shone less often,” and most of all because it often rained in the fall and his mother wouldn’t let him go outside.
2) And she, noticing that Tolya turned around, hid around the corner of an old two-story house.
3) But then a morning came when all the windows were in winding water paths, and the rain was hammering and hammering something into the roof...
4) She stood holding a folded umbrella in her hands, not paying attention to the rain that was dripping from her raincoat, and slowly ran her eyes along the school windows: mom probably wanted to guess in which class her Tolya was sitting.
(1) It was October, a herd was walking in the meadows, and smoke was wafting from the potato fields. (2) I walked slowly, looking at the copses, at the village behind the ravine, and suddenly I clearly imagined the living Nekrasov. (3) After all, he hunted in these places, wandered around with a gun. (4) Maybe he stopped by these old hollow birch trees, resting on a hillock, talking with the village children, thinking, composing lines of his poems. (5) Maybe it’s because Nekrasov is still alive and seen on these roads, because while he was here, he created many poetic works and sang the beauty of the Upper Volga nature.
(6) Nature itself is eternal and almost unchangeable. (7) A hundred years will pass, people will invent new machines, visit Mars, and the forests will be the same, and the wind will scatter golden birch leaves in handfuls. (8) And just as now, nature will awaken impulses of creativity in man. (9) And man will suffer, hate and love in the same way...
(10) We once sailed down the Vetluga on an old wooden barge. (11) The timber industry workers, about ten of them, were playing cards, talking lazily and smoking. (12) And two cooks and a woman from the region were sitting at the stern and eating apples. (13) At first the river was narrow, the banks were dull, with willow and alder, with snags on the white sand. (14) But then the barge rounded the sandbank and came out into a wide open space. (15) The deep and quiet water shone lacqueredly, as if oil had been poured into the river, and in this black mirror looked from the cliff thoughtful spruce trees, thin birch trees, touched with yellowness. (16) The workers put down their cards, and the women stopped eating. (17) There was silence for several minutes. (18) Only the boat fired its muffler and foam boiled behind the stern.
(19) Soon we reached the very middle of the river, and when a farm with a road running into a field appeared around the bend, the woman bowed her head to the side and sang quietly:
Where are you running, dear path,
Where do you call, where do you lead...
(20) The cooks also began to look at the road and, while the woman paused, as if forgetting something, they repeated the first words of the song, and then they all finished well and in agreement:
Whom I was waiting for, who I loved,
You can't turn it back, you can't return it...
(21) They were silent for some time, without taking their serious faces off the shore, and, sighing, straightening their handkerchiefs, they continued to sing, looking at each other and as if feeling a kinship of souls.
(22) And the men, knitting their eyebrows and pursing their lips, also stared at the farm, and some of them involuntarily pulled up, not knowing the words or embarrassed to sing out loud. (23) And for a whole hour they all sang this song together, repeating the same lines several times, and the barge rolled down the Vetluga, along the wild forest river. (24) I looked at them, inspired, and thought that they were all different, and now suddenly they seemed to become the same, something made them get closer, forget, feel eternal beauty. (25) I also thought that beauty, apparently, lives in the heart of every person and it is very important to be able to awaken it, not to let it die without waking up.
(According to Yu.T. Gribov) *
* Gribov Yuri Tarasovich is a modern writer, member of the editorial board of the “Living Memory” book series, author of the books “Fortieth Forest”, “ Rye bread", "Turn of Summer" and others.
Answer:
Indicate the erroneous judgment.
(1) The smell of coffee was not just a smell for Andrey. (2) He was an unforgettable memory, a memory of the past, of childhood,
about happiness, about that real happiness that can only be experienced when you are very young. (3) The smell of ground coffee always brings back these memories...
(4) To be honest, they didn’t have coffee at home. (5) As far as Andrei remembered, neither his mother nor his father drank. (6) Didn’t you love? (7) Or did they simply refuse for reasons of economy, thinking it was expensive? (8) Now I can’t even wrap my head around how they lived then, but they lived somehow... (9) And you probably can’t explain to today’s children that in his childhood, not only was there no cocoa- cola or forfeits - they didn’t know such words. (10) They bought lemonade and juice for little Andryushka only occasionally, and at home they drank mostly tea.
(11) But grandmother, mother’s mother, she could not live without coffee, and grandmother’s sacred coffee ritual When the spirit of coffee entered her apartment, Andryusha was fascinated.
(12) Granny’s neighbor Nina, a saleswoman in the vegetable department at the grocery store on the corner, provided the scarce product. (13) She brought her grandmother thick brown paper bags with coffee beans.
(14) Neither grandmother nor Nina have been in the world for a long time, but the memories remain, and how vivid and almost tangible! (15) About how grandma, so at home and cozy, in a green checkered apron sewn with her own hands, opens a crispy bag in the kitchen and pours hard beans into a manual coffee grinder. (16) Little Andrey is right there. (17) He also wants to twist the tight plastic handle, which is very thin and therefore uncomfortable. (18) But I wish even more that my grandmother would allow me to take one grain. (19) Andrei always really liked the taste of chewed coffee beans: it resembled chocolate and at the same time seemed somehow different, even better than chocolate.
(20) And of course – the smell! (21) Most often, little Andrei, when he stayed with his grandmother, woke up from him, and he still remembers that joyful feeling on the border between sleep and reality, when it is so difficult to open your eyes and you still don’t understand why it feels so good soul... (22) And only then, having finally opened your eyelids, you realize that it is grandma in the kitchen preparing coffee, and there is a whole long, serene day ahead, happy and carefree...
(23) I wonder why these simple, but so dear to the heart pictures still remain so firmly in his memory? (24) Maybe because he really had a good time with his grandmother? (25) The home was associated in the child’s mind with gray everyday life, with the hated early getting up first for kindergarten, then for school, with tedious daily duties and eternal homework, with constant parental quarrels, with mother’s screams and tears. (26) At his grandmother’s, where he was often taken for weekends, everything was not like that. (27) It was quiet and calm here, no one scolded Andryushka or shouted at him. (28) Grandma fed him what he liked, slipped him the best pieces, allowed him to walk until late in the evening, and when she put him to bed, she always told him something. (29) And he loved listening to her stories.
(According to O. Yu. Roy) *
* Roy Oleg Yurievich (born in 1965) is a modern Russian writer.
Identify a word with an alternating vowel in the root.
(According to V. Pikul) *
* Pikul Valentin Savvich (1928–1990) - Soviet writer, author of numerous works of fiction.
From sentences 18-22, write down a word in which the spelling of the prefix is determined by its meaning - “incompleteness of action.”
- (2) Get up quickly! (3) You’ll sleep through all the beauty, sleepyhead. (4) We’ll be late for the grouse current!
(5) I woke up from my slumber with difficulty, quickly washed my face, drank a mug of milk, and when I was ready, we set off.
(6) They walked on the loose snow at random, every now and then falling into potholes. (7) There was no direct path, we had to make a detour - to go around the lowland. (8) And then I remembered that we forgot the gun...
“(9) It’s not a problem,” my father reassured me. - That’s not what we’re going for...
(10) I lowered my head: what to do in the forest without a gun?! (11) We passed the railway track and hurried across a field along a narrow path to a still sleepy forest, blue in the distance.
(12) The April air smelled alarmingly and freshly of thawed earth. (13) Willows froze in silver fluff by the road. (14) Suddenly the father stopped, held his breath... (15) In the distance, in a birch forest, someone timidly and uncertainly muttered.
- (16) Did someone wake up? - I asked.
“(17) Black grouse,” answered the father.
(18) I looked closely for a long time and noticed large black birds on the trees. (19) We went down into the ravine and came closer to them.
(20) The black grouse slowly pecked at the buds on the birch trees and walked importantly along the branches. (21) And one bird sat on the top of a birch tree, puffed up its neck, threw up its red-browed head, spread its tail like a fan and muttered louder and louder: “Chuff-fuh-h, boo-boo-boo.” (22) Other birds echoed her in turn, in spacing.
“(23) you know,” said the father, “this is the best song.” (24) Listen to her, and the whole month will be a holiday in your soul!
- (25) Which one?
- (26) Spring... (27) The end of the winter kingdom...
(28) Father inhaled full breasts air, took off his hat.
- (29) Soon the scythes will be dancing and playing in the swamps. (ZO) Music - forest drops. (31) And what words!
(32)Here he put his hands on his hips, groaned... and sang in a low voice:
- (ZZ) I’ll buy a robe, sell a fur coat...
(34) More than thirty years have passed since then, but to this day I remember a cold April night, a long path to the forest, a silver birch forest, dark silhouettes of birds and a song...
(According to A. Barkov) *
* Barkov Alexander Sergeevich (1873-1953) - famous physical geographer, Doctor of Geographical Sciences. He is the creator of textbooks and manuals for teaching geography at school.
(1) On Sunday, my father woke me up when it was still completely dark.
Answer:
In which word is the spelling of the suffix an exception to the rule?
1) priceless
2) focused
4) wooden
(According to B. Vasiliev) *
*
Answer:
Replacing the one-time word “tip-ly” from sentence 21 with a neutral si-no-ni-m . Na-pi-shi-te this si-no-nim.
- (6) Why does she howl?
- (29) On business? (30) I’m listening.
(33) The man became sad.
- (46) Hold it.
(According to V. Zheleznikov) *
*
(2) Because of this collection, Valerka Snegirev went to visit his classmate.
Answer:
Replacing the word “Gle-bov’s power” (pre-lo-zhe-nie 11), built on the basis co-gla-so-va-niya, si-no-mic-word-in-with-what-ta-ni-em with connection management. Let's write a word.
Answer:
Write down the grammatical basis of sentence 14.
(1) Yura Khlopotov had the largest and most interesting collection of stamps in the class. (2) Because of this collection, Valerka Snegirev went to visit his classmate.
(3) When Yura began to pull out huge and for some reason dusty albums from the massive desk, a drawn-out and plaintive howl was heard right above the boys’ heads...
– (4) Don’t pay attention! - Yurka waved his hand, moving his albums with concentration. - (5) The neighbor has a dog!
- (6) Why does she howl?
– (7) How do I know. (8) She howls every day. (9) Up to five hours. (10) It stops at five. (11) My dad says: if you don’t know how to look after, don’t get dogs...
(12) Looking at his watch and waving his hand to Yura, Valerka hastily wrapped his scarf in the hallway and put on his coat. (13) Running out into the street, I took a breath and found windows on the façade of Yurka’s house. (14) Three windows on the ninth floor above the Khlopotovs’ apartment were uncomfortably dark.
(15) Valerka, leaning his shoulder against the cold concrete of the lamppost, decided to wait as long as necessary. (16) And then the outermost window lit up dimly: they turned on the light, apparently in the hallway...
(17) The door opened immediately, but Valerka didn’t even have time to see who was standing on the threshold, because a small brown ball suddenly jumped out from somewhere and, squealing joyfully, threw itself at Valerka’s feet.
(18) Valerka felt the wet touch of a warm dog’s tongue on his face: a very tiny dog, but he jumped so high! (19) He stretched out his arms, picked up the dog, and she buried herself in his neck, breathing frequently and devotedly.
- (20) Miracles! - a thick voice rang out, immediately filling the entire space of the staircase. (21) The voice belonged to a frail, short man.
- (22) Are you coming to me? (23) It’s a strange thing, you know... (24) Yanka is not particularly kind to strangers. (25) And how about you! (26) Come in.
- (27) Just a minute, on business.
(28) The man immediately became serious.
- (29) On business? (30) I’m listening.
– (31) Your dog... Yana... (32) Howls all day long.
(33) The man became sad.
– (34) So... (35) It’s interfering, that is. (36) Did your parents send you?
- (37) I just wanted to know why she howls. (38) She feels bad, right?
- (39) You're right, she feels bad. (40) Yanka is used to walking during the day, and I’m at work. (41) My wife will come, and everything will be all right. (42) But you can’t explain it to a dog!
- (43) I come from school at two o’clock... (44) I could walk with her after school!
(45) The owner of the apartment looked strangely at the uninvited guest, then suddenly went up to the dusty shelf, extended his hand and took out the key.
- (46) Hold it.
(47) The time has come to be surprised by Valerka.
- (48) Do you trust any stranger with the key to your apartment?
“(49) Oh, excuse me, please,” the man extended his hand. - (50) Let's get acquainted! (51) Molchanov Valery Alekseevich, engineer.
“(52) Snegirev Valery, student of the 6th “B,” the boy answered with dignity.
– (53) Very nice! (54) Is everything all right now?
(55) The dog Yana did not want to go down to the floor, and then she ran after Valerka all the way to the door.
- (56) Dogs don’t make mistakes, they don’t make mistakes... - engineer Molchanov muttered under his breath.
(According to V. Zheleznikov) *
* Zheleznikov Vladimir Karpovich (born in 1925) is a modern children's writer and film playwright. His works, dedicated to the problems of growing up, have become classics of Russian children's literature and have been translated into many languages of the world.
Answer:
Among offers 33-37, find an offer with a separate application. Write the number of this offer.
Answer:
In the sentences below from the text read, all commas are numbered. Write down the numbers indicating commas in the introductory word.
But this loud voice also flew, (1) apparently, (2) past the consciousness of Anna Fedotovna. She waited for the creaking of the drawer being closed, (3) she was all focused on this creaking and, (4) when it finally came, (5) she breathed a sigh of relief:
Go, (6) children. I'm very tired.
“(1) Grandma, this is for you,” Tanya said, entering the apartment, accompanied by two girls and one serious boy. (2) Blind Anna Fedotovna stood on the threshold of the kitchen, not seeing, but knowing for sure that the children were shyly huddling at the threshold.
“(3) Go into the room and tell us what business you came for,” she said.
- (4) Your granddaughter Tanya said that the Nazis killed your son and that he wrote letters to you. (5) And we took the initiative: “There are no unknown heroes.” (6) And she also said that you were blinded by grief.
(7) The boy blurted out everything in one breath and fell silent.
(8) Anna Fedotovna clarified:
- (9) The son managed to write only one letter. (10) And the second was written after his death by his comrade.
(11) She extended her hand, took the folder from its usual place and opened it. (12) The children joked for a while, and the big girl said with undisguised disbelief:
- (13) This is all unreal!
“(14) That’s right, these are copies, because I value real letters very much,” Anna Fedotovna explained, although she didn’t really like the tone. - (15)Open the top drawer of the chest of drawers. (16) Take out the wooden box and give it to me.
(17) When they placed the box in her arms, she opened it and carefully took out the priceless leaves. (18) The children looked at the documents for a long time, whispered, and then the boy hesitantly said:
- (19) You must give these documents to us. (20) Please.
- (21) These letters concern my son, why should I give them to you? - she was almost cheerfully surprised.
- (22) Because at our school they are creating a museum for the day of the great Victory.
- (23) I will be happy to give copies of these letters to your museum.
- (24) Why do we need your copies? - the older girl suddenly inserted herself into the conversation with defiant aggression, and Anna Fedotovna marveled at how officially inhuman a child’s voice could become. - (25) The museum will not take copies.
- (26) He won’t take it, and you don’t take it. - (27) Anna Fedotovna really didn’t like this tone, defiant, full of claims that were incomprehensible to her. - (28) And please return all the documents to me.
(29) They silently gave her the letters and funeral. (30) Anna Fedotovna felt each piece of paper, made sure that they were genuine, carefully put them in a box and said:
- (31) Boy, put the box in its place. (32) And close the drawer tightly so that I can hear.
(33) But she heard poorly now, because the previous conversation greatly disturbed her, surprised and offended her.
“(34) You’re an unfortunate coward,” the big girl suddenly said clearly, with incredible contempt. - (35) Just make a noise with us.
“(36) It’s still impossible,” the boy whispered hotly and incomprehensibly.
- (37) Better shut up! - the girl interrupted him. - (38) Otherwise we’ll arrange something for you that will make you cry.
(39) But even this loud voice apparently flew past Anna Fedotovna’s consciousness. (40) She was waiting for the creaking of the drawer being closed, she was all focused on this creaking, and when it finally came, she breathed a sigh of relief:
- (41) Go, children. (42) I'm very tired.
(43) The delegation silently left.
(44) Bitterness and not very clear resentment soon left Anna Fedotovna...
(45) In the evening, the granddaughter, as usual, read her son’s letter to her, but Anna Fedotovna suddenly said:
- (46) He didn’t want something, but they threatened and frightened him. (47) Tanya! (48) Look in the box!
“(49) No,” Tanya said quietly. - (50) The funeral is in place, photographs, but no letters.
(51) Anna Fedotovna closed her blind eyes and listened intently, but her soul was silent, and her son’s voice no longer sounded in her. (52) He faded away, died, died a second time, and now he is lost forever. (53) Taking advantage of her blindness, the letters were not taken out of the box - they were taken out of her soul, and now not only she, but also her soul has become blind and deaf...
(According to B. Vasiliev) *
* Vasiliev Boris Lvovich (1924) - Russian writer. The theme of war and the fate of the generation for which war became the main event in life became central to his work and was reflected in many works, such as “And the dawns here are quiet...”, “Not on the lists,” “Tomorrow there was war " and etc.
Answer:
Indicate the number of grammatical bases in sentence 29. Write the answer in numbers.
(1) A model of an atom with a silvery nucleus and electrons fixed in wire orbits stood on a rickety shelf, supported by Zinochka Kryuchkova, a very small and very proud girl with a sharp face. (2) Around him, against the background of glass cabinets, diagrams and tables of the physics room, a stormy life was in full swing.
- (3) Well, no one will help you hammer in a nail? - Galya Vishnyakova, the most beautiful girl schools. (4) She and Zinochka could not cope with the shelf. - (5) Boys, I’ve already broken off all my fingers.
(6) Lyosha would hammer this nail very cleverly. (7) Not a great feat, but still it would have been somehow easier: universal recognition could have saved him from the bitter feeling of loneliness. (8) But as soon as he approached the girls, Gali again developed a desire for independence. (9) She was clearly expecting something different. (10) And she waited. (11) The hammer was intercepted by a slender giant in training pants - Vakhtang.
(12) Zinochka felt sorry for Lyosha.
- (13) Let this guy kill him, - to console Lyosha, Zinochka nodded dismissively at Vakhtang, - he is taller.
(14) Lyosha sadly watched as Vakhtang, having made several “warm-up” movements, hit the nail with a hammer and jumped, blowing on his bruised fingers. (15) Forgetting about Lyosha, the girls laughed benevolently: Vakhtang was forgiven everything.
(16) Lyosha walked away from them with a contemptuous gesture: “This shelf of yours is up to my waist.” (17) But the gesture did not help: the bitter feeling did not go away.
(18) And suddenly, in a ray of light falling from the window, Lyosha saw a new girl. (19) From an inconspicuous girl, she has now turned into the most noticeable. (20) Wearing glasses, chocolate brown from a southern tan, the girl smiled at him so much that he even looked around.
(21) But no one else for whom this smile could have been intended was nearby.
- (22) Is your name Lesha? – the girl asked, and Lyosha realized that she had been watching him for a long time.
(23) Lyosha did not answer right away, because in such cases, as is known, the invisible conductor gives a sign to the invisible violins, and it is not easy for an unfamiliar person to join the sounding orchestra.
“(24) I remember,” Lyosha said carefully and, it seems, did not spoil anything.
- (25) Because I’m just reading about Clero, and his name was Alexis.
“(26) And you are Zhenya Karetnikova, from Krasnodar,” answered Lyosha, fearing that the conversation might get stuck on the unknown Alexis.
“(27) I remember,” said Zhenya.
(28) Gradually, Lyosha realized that the orchestra was not playing such a difficult melody, that some liberties were possible in it, and that he, Lyosha, was also quite on the level.
- (29) Why do you always look out the window during lessons? – Zhenya asked and went up to Lesha’s window. - (30) What did you see there?
(31) Lyosha stood next to Zhenya.
(32) From the window they could see the large open pavilion “Fruits and Vegetables”, located on the other side of the street. (33) Nearby a glass telephone booth reflected the dazzling blue of the autumn sky.
– (34) Do you have to listen to what the teachers say in class? – Lyosha asked with irony, which he had never been able to demonstrate in front of any girl.
- (35) If you haven’t come up with something new instead of: “I taught it, but I forgot.”
(36) Lyosha laughed.
“(37) These words must be carved in marble,” he said.
“(38) You can... at my table... (39) I’m also sitting alone,” Zhenya suggested.
(According to M. Lvovsky) *
*Mikhail Grigorievich Lvovsky (1919–1994) - Russian Soviet songwriter, playwright, screenwriter.
Answer:
In the sentences below from the text read, all commas are numbered. Write down the number(s) indicating the comma(s) between parts of a complex sentence connected by a coordinating connection.
Grandfather knew many stories and fairy tales, (1) but all the tales began and ended with a daring or sad song. It seemed that (2) with his eyes closed, (3) he imagined himself young, (4) decorously sitting at the table of a crowded Cossack wedding, (5) or he was flying on a horse to attack. Then he jumped up and showed (6) how the Austrians were chopped down.
Checkers out! - the old man commanded, (7) he shook his oak crutch with his knobby, earthy fingers and in one fell swoop cut off the panicles of the fatty quinoa.
(1) An old, old grandfather lived in the village. (2) Everyone has long forgotten his last name and first name, they just called him Grinichka...
(3) Grinichka’s grandfather loved to sing songs. (4) He used to sit on a pile, clutch his polished crutch with his hands, and begin to sing. (5) He sang well, in a young voice, not at all creaky, like his fellow villagers, and sang old Cossack songs. (6) Closing his eyes, throwing his simple-haired white head back a little, he could sing all day long, helping the song with smooth waves of his hand.
(7) The kids always gathered around him, lay down on the grass, propped up their unlucky heads with their fists and, with their mouths open, listened to him like a fairy tale. (8) Songs flowed about the daring Cossacks, about the damned enemies, about the Don Father. (9) Grinichka knew a lot of songs and rarely repeated the same ones. (10) They say that my grandfather was a dashing Cossack grunt in his youth, was awarded “George” for his daring, and was the lead singer in a Cossack hundred from the village.
(11) He sang drawn out, with anguish and some kind of inhuman sadness. (12) Adults often came to listen to him: they would sit around his grandfather, and Grinichka, not noticing anyone, as if talking to himself, sang and sang...
(13) Almost all of his fellow soldiers died, those who remained groaned and were sick, and he, to the surprise of everyone, got along with his old age. (14) Many believed that it was songs that kept the spirit cheerful, the thin body straight, and the eyes sharp and young.
(15) Grinichka lived alone in a dilapidated, thatched hut. (16) He received a pension for his sons killed in the war, and occasionally his daughter, who lived on the other side of the village, came to clean up and do laundry. (17) She, they say, took the old man to live with her several times, but time passed, and he again returned to his heap.
(18) Grandfather knew many stories and fairy tales, but he began and ended all tales with a daring or sad song. (19) It seemed that, closing his eyes, he imagined himself young, decorously sitting at the table of a wild Cossack wedding, or he was flying on horseback to attack. (20) Then he jumped up and showed how the Austrians were cut down.
- (21) Checkers out! - the old man commanded, shaking his oak crutch with his knobby, earthy fingers and cutting off the panicles of the fatty quinoa in one fell swoop. (22) Then he sat down, sat silently for a long time, fingering something with his blue lips, looking for the right pebble, as if on a rosary, and as if by itself, at first quietly, then more and more powerfully and distinctly, slowly and spaciously, like the steppe itself, from his lips a song flowed from him, sad, bitter, like wormwood, about a Cossack woman who did not see her husband back from the war, and her orphan children, a turtle dove that was killed in vain, about a dying coachman and his order, or something else that made his heart wracked with sadness, a hot feeling welled up a tear. (23) The kids sniffle and wipe their big, still stupid little eyes with their grimy palms...
(27) A burning and piercing look from under gray and shaggy eyebrows! (28) And God forbid if he was looking for a hidden wormhole in someone! (29) They went to him as if to confession, they went for unspoken advice: how to live? (30) What are you worth? (31) What can you leave behind?
(32) When Grinichka sang, the soul warmed, and the dope of a hectic day went away, and everyone became kinder and purer.
(According to Yu. Sergeev) *
* Sergeev Yuri Vasilievich (born in 1948) is a modern Russian writer. The main theme of creativity is the theme of the Motherland.
Answer:
Among sentences 1-7, find complex sentences with a non-union connection between parts. Write the numbers of these sentences.
(1) The sun's rays, easily piercing the white curtains, fan out across the room.
(2) What does this long-awaited Sunday day promise me? (3) Maybe I’ll help my mother get ready for the dacha. (4) At the dacha, two steps from the glassed-in veranda, there is a comfortable, deep hammock, which I so want to climb into as quickly as possible, that I dream about it at night - in the form of a fairy-tale boat floating over a pine forest. (5) And at the dacha there is an angry copper samovar. (6) He feeds on cones and is very unhappy when there are few of them.
(7) Or maybe today we’ll go for a walk across the Tuchkov Bridge, to the Petrogradskaya side. (8) Let's wander into the Zoo. (9) This will be great! (10) Neighbor Irochka told me that recently they have been riding not only ponies, but also camels.
(11) Or maybe we’ll go to a big park on the islands. (12) In the park, dad takes a boat and lets me row a little. (13) But these are dreams. (14) In the meantime, I’m still lying in my bed.
(15) The door creaked. (16) I dive headlong under the blanket. (17) Let dad think that I’ve disappeared somewhere. (18) I often hide from him like this, but he gets very scared and in a dramatic voice calls out to a non-existent audience:
- (19) A child is missing! (20) What a misfortune! (21) Where did he go with me? (22) We urgently need to call the police! (23) Have you by any chance seen, dear citizens, a nasty girl here who always disappears? (24) Lenka, Lenka, where are you?
(25) Then I jump out and yell:
- (26) No need for the police! (27) I was found!
- (28) Oh, you were found, - says dad, - here I am now!
(29) And we begin a merry fuss, running around the room and throwing pillows until mother decisively stops this noise, which may disturb the neighbors.
(30) I lie hidden and giggle under the blanket, but no one is looking for me. (31) I make a small crack and look around the room with one eye. (32) What's the matter? (33) Mom is standing next to the stool with my things. (34) She bends down, takes the dress, fingers it with her hands, and she looks somewhere to the side, at one point, and her face is tense and so sad that I feel uneasy.
(35) I free myself from under the blanket - my mother doesn’t seem to see me.
- (36) Mommy, you see, I’m already up...
- (37) Yes, yes...
(38) Mom is still missing, she is not with me.
(39) I quietly touch my mother’s hand, and suddenly she, usually so restrained, tightly, so tightly, it hurts, hugs me, presses me to her, as if she is afraid that I might be taken away from her, taken away, taken away.
(40) Dad comes. (41) He is also somewhat unusual, sad.
“(42) Lena,” he says slowly, “the war began today.” (43) Stay home alone. (44) Mom and I need to leave.
Among offers 12-16 find complex sentence with sequential subordination of subordinate clauses. Write the number of this offer.
(1) Stalingrad was mercilessly bombed day and night.
(2) One day Voronin called Chuyanov.
- (3) Trouble! - he said. – (4) In the morning one bastard turned out of the clouds
and dumped a half-ton land mine right... right at the plant, where, you know, how many people had gathered.
(5) The dead were buried, the wounded were taken to hospitals, but a girl remained in the dead plant building - Nina Petrunina. (6) Alive! (7) But there is no strength to pull her out. (8) Her legs were crushed by the wall, and the wall was barely holding on. (9) It seems that if you breathe a little on it, it will collapse at once. (10) Seventeen years. (11) I want to live. (12) Beautiful... the girl is too beautiful!
- (13) We need to save! - Chuyanov shouted. – (14) By all means. (15) I'll come myself. (16) Now.
(17) People were already accustomed to death then, and it would seem that they would have another one? (18) But the city erupted, Nina’s name became known to everyone, and there were no indifferent people. (19) Everywhere you went you heard:
- (20) How is our Nina? (21) Will they save me... woe!
(22) Doesn’t it happen that the fate of one person, hitherto unknown to anyone, suddenly becomes the focus of universal compassion, and many people anxiously follow the fate of others, which worries them and in which the fate of many is sometimes expressed.
(23) Chuyanov has arrived. (24) Voronin shouted to him from afar:
– (25) Don’t come close! (26) The wall is about to collapse...
(27) Nina Petrunina lay calmly, and until the end of his life Chuyanov did not forget her beautiful face, the fan of her golden hair, and the girl’s legs, already crushed, rested under the huge and multi-ton mass of the dilapidated factory wall, which was barely holding on. (28) Nina’s mother was also sitting here.
(29) Chuyanov only touched her shoulder with his fingers and said:
- (30) They’ll come now... they’ll give me an injection so that I don’t suffer.
(31) They fed Nina, gave her painkilling injections all the time, and from time to time she asked:
- (32) When, well, when will you save me?..
(33) Volunteers appeared - soldiers from the garrison.
“(34) Guys,” Chuyanov told them, “whatever you want, but we need to get the girl out.” (35) I won’t promise you any orders, but you will have lunch in the regional committee canteen... (36) Help me out!
(37) It would be better for me not to say what the eyewitnesses said: “The deadly work continued for six days. (38) The fighters carefully knocked brick by brick out of the wall and immediately put supports in place of each knocked brick.” (39) Brick by brick - injection by injection. (40) Finally, Nina was pulled out from under the destroyed wall.
(41) Probably, the long-standing and natural property Russian people - to empathize and sympathize with the grief of others; This is a wonderful quality of the Russian people, now almost lost and squandered in their mass egoism. (42) Then this quality was still alive, and it warmed people’s souls more than once... (43) Think: after all, these volunteer soldiers from the Stalingrad garrison understood that, saving Nina, every second they could be buried with her under a landslide walls!
The essay must be at least 70 words.
Work written without reference to the text read (not based on this text) is not graded. If the essay is a retelling or completely rewritten of the original text without any comments, then such work is scored zero points.
Write an essay carefully, legible handwriting.
“(1) Grandma, this is for you,” Tanya said, entering the apartment, accompanied by two girls and one serious boy. (2) Blind Anna Fedotovna stood on the threshold of the kitchen, not seeing, but knowing for sure that the children were shyly huddling at the threshold.
“(3) Go into the room and tell us what business you came for,” she said.
- (4) Your granddaughter Tanya said that the Nazis killed your son and that he wrote letters to you. (5) And we took the initiative: “There are no unknown heroes.” (6) And she also said that you were blinded by grief.
(7) The boy blurted out everything in one breath and fell silent.
(8) Anna Fedotovna clarified:
- (9) The son managed to write only one letter. (10) And the second was written after his death by his comrade.
(11) She extended her hand, took the folder from its usual place and opened it. (12) The children joked for a while, and the big girl said with undisguised disbelief:
- (13) This is all unreal!
“(14) That’s right, these are copies, because I value real letters very much,” Anna Fedotovna explained, although she didn’t really like the tone. - (15)Open the top drawer of the chest of drawers. (16) Take out the wooden box and give it to me.
(17) When they placed the box in her arms, she opened it and carefully took out the priceless leaves. (18) The children looked at the documents for a long time, whispered, and then the boy hesitantly said:
- (19) You must give these documents to us. (20) Please.
- (21) These letters concern my son, why should I give them to you? - she was almost cheerfully surprised.
- (22) Because at our school they are creating a museum for the day of the great Victory.
- (23) I will be happy to give copies of these letters to your museum.
- (24) Why do we need your copies? - the older girl suddenly inserted herself into the conversation with defiant aggression, and Anna Fedotovna marveled at how officially inhuman a child’s voice could become. - (25) The museum will not take copies.
- (26) He won’t take it, and you don’t take it. - (27) Anna Fedotovna really didn’t like this tone, defiant, full of claims that were incomprehensible to her. - (28) And please return all the documents to me.
(29) They silently gave her the letters and funeral. (30) Anna Fedotovna felt each piece of paper, made sure that they were genuine, carefully put them in a box and said:
- (31) Boy, put the box in its place. (32) And close the drawer tightly so that I can hear.
(33) But she heard poorly now, because the previous conversation greatly disturbed her, surprised and offended her.
“(34) You’re an unfortunate coward,” the big girl suddenly said clearly, with incredible contempt. - (35) Just make a noise with us.
“(36) It’s still impossible,” the boy whispered hotly and incomprehensibly.
- (37) Better shut up! - the girl interrupted him. - (38) Otherwise we’ll arrange something for you that will make you cry.
(39) But even this loud voice apparently flew past Anna Fedotovna’s consciousness. (40) She was waiting for the creaking of the drawer being closed, she was all focused on this creaking, and when it finally came, she breathed a sigh of relief:
- (41) Go, children. (42) I'm very tired.
(43) The delegation silently left.
(44) Bitterness and not very clear resentment soon left Anna Fedotovna...
(45) In the evening, the granddaughter, as usual, read her son’s letter to her, but Anna Fedotovna suddenly said:
- (46) He didn’t want something, but they threatened and frightened him. (47) Tanya! (48) Look in the box!
“(49) No,” Tanya said quietly. - (50) The funeral is in place, photographs, but no letters.
(51) Anna Fedotovna closed her blind eyes and listened intently, but her soul was silent, and her son’s voice no longer sounded in her. (52) He faded away, died, died a second time, and now he is lost forever. (53) Taking advantage of her blindness, the letters were not taken out of the box - they were taken out of her soul, and now not only she, but also her soul has become blind and deaf...
(According to B. Vasiliev) *
* Vasiliev Boris Lvovich (1924) - Russian writer. The theme of war and the fate of the generation for which war became the main event in life became central to his work and was reflected in many works, such as “And the dawns here are quiet...”, “Not on the lists,” “Tomorrow there was war " and etc.
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Almost in the very center of the polar country lies the huge Taimyr Lake. It stretches from west to east in a long shining stripe. In the north, rocky blocks rise, with black ridges looming behind them.
Until recently, people had not looked here at all. Only along the rivers can traces of human presence be found. Spring waters sometimes bring torn nets, floats, broken oars and other simple fishing equipment from the upper reaches.
Along the swampy shores of the lake, the tundra is bare, only here and there patches of snow turn white and glisten in the sun. Driven by the force of inertia, a huge ice field presses against the shores. The permafrost, bound by an icy shell, still holds your feet tightly. The ice at the mouth of the rivers and the small river will remain for a long time, and the lake will clear in about ten days. And then the sandy shore, flooded with light, will turn into the mysterious glow of sleepy water, and then into the solemn silhouettes, the vague outlines of the opposite shore.
On a clear, windy day, inhaling the smells of the awakened earth, we wander through the thawed patches of the tundra and observe a lot of curious phenomena. An unusual combination of high sky and cold wind. Every now and then a partridge runs out from under our feet, crouching to the ground; will fall off and immediately, as if shot, a tiny little Easter cake will fall to the ground. Trying to lead the uninvited visitor away from its nest, the little sandpiper begins to somersault at its very feet. A voracious arctic fox, covered with shreds of faded fur, makes its way at the base of a stone placer. Having caught up with the fragments of stones, the arctic fox makes a well-calculated jump and crushes the mouse that has jumped out with its paws. And even further away, an ermine, holding a silver fish in its teeth, gallops towards the piled up boulders.
Plants near the slowly melting glaciers will soon begin to come to life and bloom. The first to bloom is the rose, which develops and fights for life under the transparent cover of ice. In August, the first mushrooms will appear among the polar birch trees creeping on the hills.
The tundra overgrown with miserable vegetation has its own wonderful aromas. Summer will come, and the wind will sway the corollas of the flowers, and a bumblebee will fly buzzing and land on the flower.
The sky frowns again, the wind begins to whistle furiously. It's time to return to the plank house of the polar station, where there is a delicious smell of baked bread and the comfort of human habitation. And tomorrow we will begin reconnaissance work. (According to I. Sokolov-Mikitov.) * -
It was getting fresh and it was time for me to hit the road. Having passed through dense reed thickets, making my way through a thicket of willow trees, I came to the shore of a river that was well known to me and quickly found my flat-bottomed boat, which my friends jokingly nicknamed the Chinese junk. Before leaving, I checked the contents of my canvas travel bag. Everything was in place: a can of pork stew, smoked and dried fish, a loaf of black bread, condensed milk, a skein of strong twine and many other things needed on the road. I haven’t forgotten my old ramrod gun either.
Having pulled away from the shore, I lowered the oars, and the boat quietly drifted downstream. “Sail, my boat, according to the will of the waves,” I remembered. Three hours later, around the bend of the river, the gilded domes of the church appeared clearly visible against the background of lead clouds on the horizon, but, according to my calculations, it was still quite far from the city. But here are the first houses of the city outskirts.
Having tied the boat to a tree limb, I head towards the city.
After walking a few steps along the cobblestone street, I asked how to get to the hairdresser. But before going to the barber, I decided to repair my long-wet boots, or boots, as my friend would say. It turned out that in the workshop it was possible not only to repair shoes, but also to iron my very worn comb jacket. The shoemaker, who bore the name Kotsyubinsky, was a dashing man of gypsy appearance. He was dressed in a new red shirt with cheap mother-of-pearl buttons. There was something unusually attractive in the clear movements of his muscular arms and in the fact that he called everything by affectionate names: boot, heel, brush.
The tailor delayed me a little longer. Handsome and dapper, he apparently was primarily interested in his appearance, and then in his work. After examining every seam of the jacket and making sure that the buttons were intact, he began ironing.
Having satisfied my hunger in the nearest cafe, where I found beetroot borscht, liver with stewed potatoes and Borzhom, I went to wander around the city. The plank stage in the market square caught my attention. The juggler's performance was coming to an end. He was replaced by a dancer, a thin woman with reddish bangs hanging down over her forehead and holding a yellow silk fan in her hands. After dancing some kind of dance that resembled tap dancing, she gave way to the clown. But the poor fellow was devoid of talent, and probably did not understand that he was not at all funny with his antics and jumps.
To the right of the stage there were trading shops where you could buy a bar of chocolate, fried chicken, mushrooms right out of the bag, and gooseberries for a penny.
Having walked around almost the entire town in half an hour, I settled down for the night on the river bank, spreading more hay and covering myself with an old cloak.
Meanwhile, the shore became increasingly crowded. One after another, alone, and in twos and threes, preceded by the rustling of branches, hunters in rubber boots, thick padded jackets, fur hats and military caps with torn off visors came out of the forest onto the swampy shore, so as not to interfere with shooting; Each of them has a backpack with stuffed animals on their back, and on their side is a whip with a decoy; some carried guns over their shoulders, others on their chests, like machine guns. The multi-family Petrak came in a torn, torn padded jacket, looking like a huge disheveled bird, and his brother-in-law Ivan, dark-skinned, with a black gypsy eyebrow, in a brand new padded jacket and leather pants; small, nimble Kostenka appeared, laughing as usual about something and already having an argument with someone. A huge, overweight, silent Zhamov, wearing two raincoats, came from the regional center, an old-timer from Meshchera; two young hunters came: the collective farm accountant Kolechka and Valka Kosoy, expelled from school “due to hunting.” Together with the tall, skinny, sad Bakun, respected for his rare luck and the amazing fortitude with which he endured the troubles that befell him, came Anatoly Ivanovich’s handsome brother, Vasily. Even from a distance, he could be heard asking Bakun about his latest feat: on a rainy day, Bakun decided to relocate a swarm, and angry bees in bad weather bit Bakun himself, his mother-in-law, and “healed” a rooster and two chickens to death.
The hunters threw off their bags, purses and guns and sat down on the tight sedge grass. They lit cigarettes and struck up conversations. The light breeze, the harbinger of the evening dawn, fell silent. Between a thin bluish stripe lying on the horizon and a heavy layered blue-chalky cloud, a blood-red jagged flame appeared. Then something shifted in the moisture-saturated air, and the teeth merged together, forming a semicircle of a huge setting sun, cut flat on top by a cloud. As if set on fire, a haystack flared up brightly, crimson with green and blue veins. The night passed neither quickly nor slowly. Something gurgled and splashed in the water, then suddenly it began to drip, then the wind rose and swept aside the rain that had not cleared. “Rise, brothers!” Dedok shouted in a weak voice. No matter how quiet his trembling voice was, he scared away the light sleep of the hunters, (According to Yu. Nagibin.)
I was left with an ambivalent feeling after Bunin’s visit. On the one hand, it was flattering, on the other, somehow incomprehensibly bitter: I suddenly, as if through Bunin’s eyes, from the outside, saw my aged, lonely, slightly degenerate father with gray, long-uncut seminary hair and black unironed trousers, our a four-room apartment, which always seemed nice to me, even richly furnished, but in fact was half empty, with black furniture- market counterfeit of an expensive one, “black de-
roar", which was ordinary cheap pine, as evidenced by abrasions and broken trinkets - black on top and white on the inside.
Kerosene hanging lamp with bronze ball filled with shot, converted to electric. Two so-called “paintings” - bourgeois paper oleographs “oiled” in humiliatingly thin gilded baguettes, which were hung on the wall, since they were received “for free”, as supplements to the “Niva”, which made them akin to all Russian writers - classics, also free supplements to Niva, including now Bunin. What was once a pretty good office sofa, has been reupholstered many times and is now upholstered in already cracked, holey oilcloth. Finally, the most expensive - even precious - thing: my mother's dowry - a piano, a shabby instrument with rickety metal pedals, on which my father sometimes, diligently and myopically looking into the yellowed notes and dropping his pince-nez, unsteadily, but with enormous feeling, played "The Seasons" Tchaikovsky, especially often repeating “May,” which filled my soul with an inexpressibly painful melancholy.
We were not poor, much less beggars, but there was something arousing sympathy, pity in our disorder, in the absence of a woman in the house - a mother and a housewife - comfort, curtains on the windows, drapes on the doors. Everything was naked, naked... This, of course, could not hide from Bunin’s eyes. He noticed everything... and a pan with cold kulesh on the windowsill... (According to V. Kataev.)
In mid-July, when summer was already turning a corner, and the heat was just really setting in and every meadow, even if it was the size of a cap, smelled sweetly and achingly of hay, I found myself in the village of Zavilikhin. It stands in the “outback”, about twenty kilometers from a busy highway, among hilly fields and copses - an average village, with a bizarre variety of roofs: some, made of slate, glow, pleasing the eye; others, made of shingles, installed a long time ago, are already dark and wrinkled, and the sun does not cheer them up or invigorate them.
Life in Zavilikhin is quiet, unencumbered by news. After city life, I also liked the sleepy look of the streets, and especially the quiet evenings with the ever-increasing coolness, when the dew begins to fall and the flickering sky is not so much overhead, but as if hugging you from all sides, and you walk among the stars, dipping your shoes in dew. But my work quickly ended, and it was time to leave.
But there was nothing to go on. I went to the foreman for advice. The foreman, a man about fifty years old, worn out by the hassle of the harvesting campaign, said: “So we have one driver here, sometimes he drops by to see his mother - get some lard, change his underwear...”
The driver's house was small. In the senets there was a smell of dampness and birch leaves—about two dozen freshly broken brooms were drying up under the roof—and in the residential part, in the red shroud, instead of a shrine, some photographs were hung. Everything around was tidy, clean
But, behind the half-open chintz canopy, the iron bed glittered with nickel-plated balls. The hostess, a lean woman of about forty-five, with an unhealthy, yellowish face, answered reluctantly. The conversation didn’t go well, didn’t go well, and I, as they say, took my leave, asking my son to take me if he came.
And sure enough, he showed up around one o'clock. And here we are, shaking along a country road in a hot cabin with a cut leatherette seat. Sometimes we will be covered in the spotted shadow of forests, but most of the time the road goes through fields and meadows, sometimes along crushed sand that squeals under the tires, sometimes along deep ruts with petrified edges. I glance sideways at the driver. His forelock is thin, his eyes are piercing blue, his face is long and freckled. The cap is like a pancake, with a short visor turned to the back of the head, through the unbuttoned collar of a checkered shirt, a beet-red triangle of baked chest. Hands sliding along the steering wheel are shiny with unwashed oil. And all the time he talks and talks. He would probably do the same thing completely alone - there are people who seem to think in their own words, immediately pouring out everything that comes to mind. (According to N. Gribachev.)
Wherever you are on Mangyshlak, you constantly feel the breath of the steppe. But it is different even at one time of the year. At the end of winter, the steppe turns dark gray where camel thorn, woody wormwood and dry stems of creeping grass remain. Where nothing has survived, where it is bare, the steppe is dark yellow. And these colors remain unchanged for tens and hundreds of kilometers.
In Southern Mangyshlak, elevations are rare; everything in the relief is smooth, vague, and uncertain. But a very special place is Karagiyo. You plunge into it, like into a cauldron, you fall, as if on the threshold of a gloomy hell: suddenly, from an absolutely flat lowland, the road begins to run lower and lower, as if flowing along wide ledges, and stuffs your ears, as happens on an airplane about to land. Finally - lo and behold! - white reinforced concrete bridge over the stream. You should not run to the water for drink and coolness: the gently sloping banks, inviting with their gentle yellowness, are a quagmire, and the moisture in the stream is bitterly salty, from wells. The stream runs away to the southern part of Karatiye to disappear without a trace. There is a never-drying salty swamp, a lifeless hollow. There, in an invisible distance from here, the lowest land on our planet is located - one hundred and thirty-two meters below sea level. There is rubbish, that is, a drain of water. The sand becomes saturated with moisture, it evaporates in the sun, but the salt remains. The result is sand soaked in a supersaturated saline solution. This is another look of the Mangyshlak steppe.
On the highway you somehow especially feel the new rhythm of Mangyshlak. In general, an asphalt highway is a qualitatively new, very significant event in the steppe. But it is enough to turn to the side, past the first ridge, and the kingdom of silence begins.
You can drive for hours without seeing a single living creature. And suddenly - a lonely Kazakh grave. The tombstone is made of evenly hewn and skillfully fitted shell rock blocks. On one of the walls is a quotation from the Koran, written in Persian.
I went down into the hollow and noticed young growth on the slope. The grass rose very thin, light green, tender - tender to the touch. And at the same time, it was a truly steppe child with such strong roots that a very small bush, which you couldn’t properly grasp even with your fingers, was difficult to pull out. This grass reminds of another aspect of the steppe - spring. In April - May, magic happens: the steppe becomes almost completely green and extremely bright. Until recently, the earth lay white and white. But as soon as the wind dried the steppe, it turned green and bloomed. The tulips were full of colors, all kinds of other vegetation hastily reached up, even mushrooms - champignons - appeared. And the air was filled with some delicate aroma. Not thick, not intoxicating - barely perceptible. Only in the spring do you realize that this harsh land can also be girlishly tender and welcoming. (According to L. Yudasin.)
There were only a few hours left, preparations for the offensive were coming to an end. On February 10th, the brigade began its combat mission - at dawn to go to the eastern bank of the Beaver River, cover itself from the west with this river, and with the main forces advance in the direction of the city of Bunzlau and capture it.
Having completed an almost forty-kilometer march, we reached the river and launched an attack on the city. But near the city itself, the Germans met us with heavy fire from anti-aircraft artillery and tanks. It was clear that we couldn’t take Bunzlau right away. In addition, the artillery regiment assigned to us fell behind. A lot of time passed before the artillerymen arrived. It was already past noon, and it was necessary to hurry in order to prevent grueling night street battles.
In the afternoon we intensified our attacks. All our artillery and guards mortars - Katyushas - came to the aid of the tanks. Our infantry entered the battle. By evening, the enemy's resistance was broken. Abandoning tanks, artillery, wounded, warehouses, ammunition, the enemy fled in the direction of Lauban, hoping to escape from our crushing blows across the Neisse River.
The snowfall, which began during the day, intensified with unprecedented force. Huge snow flakes covered car windows, clogged inspection slots in tanks, and penetrated through the smallest opening. I had to move literally blindly. Tanks and artillery slowly crawled through the streets of burning Bunzlau. The tankers opened all the hatches, the drivers opened the car doors and leaned out halfway in order to at least get a glimpse of what was happening one or two meters away. Thickly falling large flakes of snow, permeated with the crimson glow of fires, the bright light of electric lights that were not turned off for some reason, surrounded by a red-green halo, similar to a rainbow, gave the defeated city a fantastic look.
There were fewer fires in the very center of the city. The commandant of the headquarters found a quiet street untouched by the war. Here, in one of the small houses, the headquarters was located. Reports, reports, requests flew in. A radiogram was received from the corps commander: “No move until morning! Organize defense in the western part of the city along the banks of the Beaver River. Keep the personnel in readiness - tomorrow, the eleventh of February, to attack Lauban." (According to D. Dragunsky.)
In the remote taiga interfluve, the camp of Vasily Mironov’s reconnaissance drilling team is located. Several tents on a freshly uprooted and leveled area, a long, freshly planed table between them, a smoked aluminum bucket over the fire. And next to it there was a tower and a wooden office house, where they installed a walkie-talkie, and used an iron barrel from fuel burned along the way for heating.
The place chosen for the camp was no different from dozens of similar sites in the same wild, untrodden places. On one side there is a river overgrown with reeds and reeds, on the other there is a bog swamp that glistens oilily in the sun. And from all sides at once - countless hordes of mosquitoes and corrosive northern midges.
The Mironovites sailed here on a self-propelled flat-bottomed barge. We sailed for six days, overcoming countless shallows, getting stuck on sandy rifts. They landed on the shore to lighten the punt, and, exhausted, fell into the moss breathing with the centuries-old cold. If we straightened out all the intricate loops of the river, it would be about a hundred and fifty kilometers to the scouts’ village. Families remained there, there in the early morning hour the doors of the dining room hospitably open, there helicopters constantly chirp, aiming at the compacted area in front of the food warehouse... A handful of people, cut off from all this, had the feeling that they had long parted with home and unknown when they will again see the chopped-up houses that have not been painted for a long time, neatly placed on both sides of the wide street. And four years later, the first tankers loaded with oil went down the Ob. (According to I. Semenov.)
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Under the light blow of the sultry wind, the sea shuddered and, covered with small ripples that brilliantly reflected the sun, smiled at the blue sky with thousands of silver smiles. In the space between the sea and the sky there was a cheerful splash of waves running up onto the gentle shore of the sand spit. Everything was full of living joy: the sound and shine of the sun, the wind and the salty aroma of water, the hot air and yellow sand. A narrow long spit, piercing a sharp spire into the boundless desert of water sparkling with the sun, was lost somewhere in the distance, where a sultry haze hid the earth. Hooks, oars, baskets and barrels were scattered randomly on the spit. On this day, even the seagulls are exhausted by the heat. They sit in rows on the sand, with their beaks open and their wings down, or they swing lazily on the waves.
When the sun began to descend into the sea, the restless waves either played cheerfully and noisily, or dreamily and affectionately splashed against the shore. Through their noise, either sighs or quiet, tenderly calling cries reached the shore. The sun was setting, and the pinkish reflection of its rays lay on the hot yellow sand. And the pitiful willow bushes, and the mother-of-pearl clouds, and the waves running up the shore - everything was preparing for the night's peace. Lonely, as if lost in the dark depths of the sea, the fire of the fire flared brightly, then died out, as if exhausted. Night shadows fell not only on the sea, but also on the shore. All around was only the immense, solemn sea, silvered by the moon, and the blue sky, strewn with stars.
(According to M. Gorky)
52
Ordinary land
In the Meshchersky region there are no special beauties and riches, except for forests, meadows and clear air. And yet, this land of untrodden paths and unafraid animals and birds has great attractive power. It is as modest as Levitan’s paintings, but in it, as in these paintings, lies all the charm and all the diversity of Russian nature, imperceptible at first glance. What can you see in the Meshchersky region? Blooming, never-mown meadows, creeping fogs, pine forests, forest lakes, tall haystacks smelling of dry and warm hay. Hay in stacks remains warm throughout the winter. I have had to sleep in haystacks in October, when frost covers the grass at dawn, and I have dug a deep hole in the hay. When you climb into it, you immediately warm up and sleep throughout the night, as if in a heated room. And over the meadows the wind drives lead clouds. In the Meshchersky region you can see, or rather, hear such solemn silence that the bell of a lost cow can be heard from afar, almost kilometers away, unless, of course, it is a windless day. In summer, on windy days, the forests rustle with a great ocean roar and the tops of giant pine trees bend after the passing clouds.
Suddenly, not far away, lightning flashed. It's time to look for shelter to escape the unexpected rain. I hope I can hide in time under that oak tree over there. Under this natural tent, created by the generous nature, you will never get wet. But then the lightning flashed, and hordes of clouds flew off into the distance. Having made our way through wet ferns and some creeping vegetation, we emerge onto a barely noticeable path. How beautiful Meshchera is when you get used to it! Everything becomes familiar: the cries of quails, the fussy knock of woodpeckers, and the rustle of rain in the red needles, and the cry of a willow over a sleeping river.
(According to K. Paustovsky)
53
Nowadays they no longer carry bears around the villages. Yes, and the gypsies began to rarely wander, for the most part they live in the places where they are assigned, and only sometimes, paying tribute to their age-old habit, they go out somewhere to the pasture, stretch out the smoky linen and live with whole families, shoeing horses, farriery and bartering . I even happened to see that tents gave way to a quick fix cobbled-together plank booths. It was in a provincial town: not far from the hospital and the market square, on a piece of undeveloped land, next to the post road.
The clanging of iron was heard from the booths; I looked into one of them: some old man was forging horseshoes. I looked at his work and saw that he was no longer the former gypsy blacksmith, but a simple artisan; Walking quite late in the evening, I approached the booth and saw an old man doing the same thing. It was strange to see a gypsy camp almost inside the city: plank booths, fires with cast-iron pots, in which gypsy women wrapped in colorful scarves were cooking some kind of food.
The gypsies walked through the villages, giving their performances for the last time. For the last time, the bears showed their art: they danced, fought, and showed how the boys stole peas. For the last time, old men and women came to receive treatment with a reliable, proven remedy: to lie on the ground under the bear, which lay on its belly on the patient, spreading its four paws widely in all directions on the ground. The last time they were led into the huts, and if the bear voluntarily agreed to enter, he was taken to the front corner and sat there, and his consent was rejoiced as a good sign.
(According to V. Garshin)
54
Over the past summer, I had to live in an old estate near Moscow, where several small dachas were built and rented out. I never expected this: a dacha near Moscow; I had never lived as a summer resident without some kind of business on an estate so different from our steppe estates, and in such a climate.
In the park of the estate, the trees were so large that the dachas built in some places in it seemed small underneath, having the appearance of native dwellings under the trees in tropical countries. The pond in the park, half covered with green duckweed, stood like a huge black mirror.
I lived on the outskirts of a park adjacent to a sparse mixed forest; My plank dacha was unfinished, the walls were not caulked, the floors were not planed, there was almost no furniture. Due to the dampness, which apparently never disappeared, my boots, lying under the bed, were overgrown with the velvet of mold.
It rained almost constantly all summer. It happened that every now and then white clouds would accumulate in the bright blue and thunder would roll in the distance, then brilliant rain would begin to fall through the sun, quickly turning from the heat into fragrant pine steam. Somehow, unexpectedly, the rain stopped, and from the park, from the forest, from the neighboring pastures - the joyful discord of birds was again heard from everywhere.
Before sunset it was still clear, and on my plank walls the crystal-golden net of the low sun trembled, falling into the windows through the foliage.
It got dark in the evenings only at midnight: the half-light of the west stands and stands through completely motionless, silent forests. On moonlit nights, this half-light somehow strangely mixed with the moonlight, also motionless and enchanted. And from the calm that reigned everywhere, from the purity of the sky and air, it seemed that there would be no more rain. But as I was falling asleep, I suddenly heard: a downpour with thunderclaps was falling on the roof again, there was boundless darkness all around and lightning was falling vertically.
In the morning, in the damp alleys, on the lilac ground, motley shadows and dazzling spots of the sun were spread, birds called flycatchers were clattering, and thrushes were croaking hoarsely. And by noon it was floating again, clouds appeared and rain began to fall.
(According to I. Bunin)
55
He angrily threw the cigarette butt that had hissed in the puddle, thrust his hands into the pockets of his unbuttoned, wind-blown coat and, bowing his head, which had not yet cleared up from his pre-lunch lessons and feeling the weight of a bad lunch in his stomach, began to walk with concentration and energy. But no matter how he walked, everything that was around him went with him: the slanting rain that wet his face, and the threadbare student uniform, and the huge houses, alien and silently crowded on both sides of the narrow street, and passers-by, wet, gloomy, who seemed all as one in the rain. All this familiarity, repeated day after day, went annoyingly along with him, not lagging behind for a minute or an instant.
And the whole atmosphere of his present life, all the same, repeated day after day, seemed to go along with him: in the morning a few sips of hot tea, then endless running around in classes.
And all the houses of his clients were in the same style, and life in them was the same, and the attitude towards him and his towards them were the same. It seemed that he only changed streets during the day, but he entered the same people, the same family, despite the difference in physiognomies, ages and social status.
He called. They didn't open it for a long time. Zagrivov stood frowning. The rain still flickered slantingly, the cleanly washed sidewalks glistened damply. The cab drivers, ruffled, pulled the reins in the same way as always. This humility felt its own special life, inaccessible to others.
In an empty, bare room, without even a stove, there were three chairs. On the table lay two unfolded notebooks with pencils placed on them. Usually, when Zagrivov entered, he was met at the table, looking from under his brows, by two broad-shouldered, gloomy realists.
The eldest, the spitting image of his father, was in the fifth grade. Looking at that low forehead overgrown with coarse hair, at that heavy, irregular head cut back, it seemed that there was very little room left in the thick skull for the brain.
Zagrivov never talked about anything extraneous with his students. There was always a wall of alienation between him and his students. A strict, stern silence reigned in the house, as if no one was walking, talking, or laughing.
(According to A. Serafimovich)
56
Blizzard
We drove for a long time, but the snowstorm did not weaken, but, on the contrary, seemed to intensify. It was a windy day, and even on the leeward side one could feel the incessant buzzing of some well below. My feet began to freeze, and I tried in vain to throw something on top of them. The coachman kept turning his weather-beaten face to me with reddened eyes and faded eyelashes and shouted something, but I couldn’t make out anything. He probably tried to cheer me up, since he was counting on the end of the journey soon, but his calculations did not come true, and we were lost in the darkness for a long time. Even at the station, he assured me that one can always get used to the winds, but I, a southerner and a homebody, endured these inconveniences of my journey, frankly speaking, with difficulty. I could not shake the feeling that the trip I had undertaken was not at all safe.
The coachman had not sung his artless song for a long time; there was complete silence in the field, white, frozen; not a pillar, not a haystack, not a windmill - nothing is visible. By evening the snowstorm had subsided, but the impenetrable darkness in the field was also a gloomy picture. The horses seemed to be in a hurry, and the silver bells rang on the arc.
It was impossible to get out of the sleigh: half an arshin of snow had piled up, and the sleigh was constantly driving into a snowdrift. I could hardly wait until we finally arrived at the inn.
The hospitable hosts looked after us for a long time: they scrubbed us, warmed us up, treated us to tea, which, by the way, they drink here so hot that I burned my tongue, however, this did not in the least prevent us from talking in a friendly way, as if we had known each other for centuries. An irresistible drowsiness, inspired by warmth and satiety, naturally made us sleepy, and I, putting my felted boots on the heated stove, lay down and heard nothing: neither the bickering of the coachmen, nor the whispering of the owners - I fell asleep like the dead. The next morning, the owners fed the uninvited guests dried venison, shot hares, potatoes baked in ash, and gave them warm milk to drink.
(According to I. Golub, V. Shein)
57
Night in Balaclava
At the end of October, when the days are still tender in autumn, Balaclava begins to live a unique life. The last holidaymakers, who spent the long local summer enjoying the sun and sea, leave, burdened with suitcases and trunks, and it immediately becomes spacious, fresh and homely, businesslike, as if after the departure of sensational uninvited guests.
Fishing nets are spread across the embankment, and on the polished cobblestones they appear delicate and thin, like a spider's web. The fishermen, these workers of the sea, as they are called, crawl along the spread nets, like gray-black spiders mending a torn, airy veil. The captains of the fishing boats sharpen worn-out beluga hooks, and at the stone wells, where the water babbles in a continuous silver stream, dark-faced women - local residents - chatter, gathering here in their free moments.
Descending over the sea, the sun sets, and soon the starry night, replacing the short evening dawn, envelops the earth. The whole city falls into a deep sleep, and the hour comes when not a sound comes from anywhere. Only occasionally does the water squelch against the coastal stone, and this lonely sound further emphasizes the undisturbed silence. You feel how night and silence merged in one black embrace.
Nowhere, in my opinion, will you hear such perfect, such ideal silence as in the night Balaclava.
(According to A. Kuprin)
58
In the hayfield
The grass in the unmown meadow, short but thick, turned out to be not softer, but even tougher, but I did not give up and, trying to mow as best as possible, kept up.
Vladimir, the son of a former serf, was constantly swinging his scythe, cutting the grass in vain, without showing the slightest effort. Despite extreme fatigue, I did not dare ask Vladimir to stop, but I felt that I could not stand it: I was so tired.
At this time, Vladimir himself stopped and, bending down, took the herbs, slowly wiped his scythe and began to silently sharpen. I slowly lowered my scythe and sighed with relief, looking around.
A nondescript little man, walking with a limp behind and, apparently, also tired, immediately, before reaching me, stopped and began to sharpen, crossing himself.
Having sharpened his scythe, Vladimir did the same with my scythe, and we moved on without hesitation. Vladimir walked step by step, without stopping, and did not seem to feel any fatigue. I mowed with all my might, trying to keep up, and became increasingly weaker. Swinging my scythe with feigned indifference, I became more and more convinced that I did not have enough strength even for the few swings of the scythe needed to complete the row.
Finally, the row was completed, and, throwing his scythe over his shoulder, Vladimir walked along the already well-trodden mowing, walking in the tracks left by his heels. The sweat rolled off my face without letting up, and my whole shirt was wet, as if it had been soaked in water, but I felt good: I survived.
59
Twilight may have been the reason why the procurator's appearance changed dramatically. He seemed to have aged before our eyes, hunched over and, moreover, became anxious. Once he looked around and for some reason shuddered, glancing at the empty chair, on the back of which lay a cloak. A clear night was approaching, the evening shadows were playing their game, and, probably, the tired procurator imagined that someone was sitting in an empty chair. Having admitted cowardice, moving the abandoned cloak, the procurator, leaving him, ran along the balcony, now running up to the table and grabbing the bowl, now stopping and starting to look senselessly at the mosaic of the floor.
This is the second time today that sadness has fallen upon him. Rubbing his temple, in which only a nagging memory remained from the morning pain, the procurator kept trying to understand the reason for his mental torment, and, realizing this, he tried to deceive himself. It was clear to him that, having irretrievably missed something this morning, he now wants to correct what he missed with some small and insignificant, and most importantly, belated actions. But the procurator did this very poorly. At one of the turns, stopping abruptly, the procurator whistled, and a giant pointy-eared dog in a collar with gilded plaques jumped out of the garden onto the balcony.
The procurator sat down in a chair; Bunga, sticking out his tongue and breathing rapidly, sat down at the feet of his owner, and the joy in the dog’s eyes meant that the storm was over and that he was here again, next to the man he loved, considered the most powerful in the world, the ruler of all people, thanks to whom he himself The dog considered himself a privileged being, superior and special. But, lying down at the owner’s feet and not even squealing on him, the dog immediately realized that trouble had befallen his owner, and so Banga, getting up and walking to the side, put his paws and head on the procurator’s knees, which was supposed to mean: he consoles his owner and ready to face misfortune with him. He tried to express this both in his eyes, squinting towards the owner, and in his alert, pricked ears. So both of them, the dog and the man, loving each other, celebrated the festive night.
(According to M. Bulgakov)
60
I woke up early in the morning. The room was filled with an even yellow light, as if from a kerosene lamp. The light came from below, from the window, and illuminated most brightly log ceiling. The strange light - dim and motionless - was not at all like the sun. It was the autumn leaves shining.
During the windy and long night the garden shed its dry leaves. It lay in multi-colored piles on the ground and spread a dim glow, and from this radiance people’s faces seemed tanned. Autumn mixed all the pure colors that exist in the world and applied them, as if on a canvas, to the distant spaces of earth and sky.
I saw dry leaves, not only gold and purple, but also violet, and gray, and almost silver. The colors seemed to have softened due to the autumn haze and hung motionless in the air. And when the rains fell incessantly, the softness of the colors gave way to brilliance: the sky, covered with clouds, still gave enough light so that the wet forests could light up in the distance like majestic crimson and gold fires. Now it’s the end of September, and in the sky there is some strange combination of naive blue and dark terry clouds. From time to time the clear sun peeks through, and then the clouds become even blacker, the clear parts of the sky are even bluer, the narrow road is even blacker, and the ancient bell tower peeks out even whiter through the half-fallen linden trees.
If from this bell tower, climbing up the rickety wooden stairs, you look to the north-west, your horizons will immediately expand. From here you can especially clearly see the small river that winds around the foot of the hill on which the village is located. And in the distance you can see a forest that covers the entire horizon like a horseshoe.
It began to get dark, either low clouds or the smoke of a giant fire were blowing in from the east, and I returned home. Already late in the evening I went out into the garden, to the well. Having placed a thick lantern on the frame, he took out water. Yellow leaves were floating in the bucket. There was nowhere to hide from them - they were everywhere. It became difficult to walk along the paths of the garden: I had to walk on the leaves, as if on a real carpet. We found them in the house: on the floor, on the made bed, on the stove - everywhere. They were thoroughly saturated with their wine aroma.
61
In the afternoon it became so hot that passengers moved to the upper deck. Despite the calm, the entire surface of the river was seething with a trembling swell, in which the sun's rays were crushed unbearably brightly, giving the impression of a countless number of silver balls. Only in the shallows, where the shore crashed into the river with a long cape, did the water bend around it like a motionless ribbon, calmly blue among these brilliant ripples.
There was not a cloud in the sky, but here and there on the horizon there were thin white clouds, shimmering at the edges like strokes of molten metal. Black smoke, without rising above the chimney, trailed behind the steamer like a long, dirty tail.
From below, from the engine room, came a continuous hissing and some deep, regular sighs, in time with which the wooden deck of the Hawk trembled. Behind the stern, catching up with her, ran rows of long, wide waves; white curly waves suddenly boiled furiously at their dull green top and, smoothly falling down, suddenly melted, as if hiding under water. The waves tirelessly ran onto the shore and, crashing with noise on the slope, ran back, exposing the sandbank, all eaten away by the surf.
This monotony did not bore Vera Lvovna and did not tire her: she looked at the whole of God’s world through an iridescent veil of quiet charm. Everything seemed sweet and dear to her: the steamer, unusually white and clean, and the captain, a huge fat man in a pair of canvas, with a purple face and an animal voice, hoarse from the weather, and the pilot, a handsome black-bearded man who was turning the wheel of the helm in his glass booth. , while his sharp, narrowed eyes motionlessly looked into the distance.
In the distance a pier appeared - a small red plank house built on a barge. The captain, putting his mouth to the horn carried into the engine room, shouted command words, and his voice seemed to come out of a deep barrel: “The smallest! Reverse!"
Women and girls crowded around the station; they offered passengers dried raspberries, bottles of boiled milk, salted fish, boiled and baked lamb.
The heat gradually subsided. Passengers noticed the sun setting in a conflagration of blood-purple flames and melted gold. When bright colors subsided, the entire horizon was illuminated with an even dusty pink glow. Finally, this radiance faded, and only not high above the ground, in the place where the sun had set, there remained an unclear long pink stripe, imperceptibly turning at the top of the sky into the soft bluish tint of the evening sky.
(According to A. Kuprin)
Dictation
Increased difficulty level
Lake Taimyr stretches from west to east as a long shining strip. In the north, rock blocks rise, and behind them black ridges loom. Spring waters bring traces of human presence from the upper reaches: torn nets, floats, broken oars and other simple fishing accessories.
Along the swampy shores, the tundra is bare, only here and there specks of snow turn white and glisten in the sun. The ice-bound permafrost still holds your feet tightly, and the ice at the mouths of rivers and small rivers will remain for a long time, and the lake will clear in ten days. And then the sandy shore, flooded with light, will turn into the mysterious glow of sleepy water, and then into the solemn silhouettes and bizarre outlines of the opposite shore.
On a clear, windy day, inhaling the smells of the awakened earth, we wander through the thawed patches of the tundra. Every now and then a partridge runs out from under our feet, crouching to the ground. It will break loose and immediately, as if shot, a tiny little sandpiper will fall to the ground, which, trying to lead the uninvited visitor away from the nest, also begins to tumble at its very feet. And even further, near the water, an ermine, holding a silver fish in its teeth, gallops towards the piled up boulders.
Along the slowly melting glaciers, plants will soon begin to come to life and bloom, and in August, among the polar birch trees creeping on the hills, the first mushrooms, berries will appear - in a word, all the gifts of the short northern summer.
Dictation
Medium difficulty level
In the Meshchersky region there are no special beauties and riches, except for forests, meadows and clear air. And yet, this land of untrodden paths and unafraid animals and birds has great attractive power. It is as modest as Levitan’s paintings, but in it, as in these paintings, lies all the charm and all the diversity of Russian nature, imperceptible at first. What can you see in the Meshchersky region? Blooming, never-mown meadows, creeping fogs, pine forests, forest lakes, tall haystacks smelling of dry and warm hay. The hay in them remains warm throughout the winter. I had to spend the night in haystacks in October, digging a deep hole in the hay. When you climb into it, you immediately warm up and sleep all night, as if in a heated room. And over the meadows the wind drives lead clouds, and frost already covers the grass at dawn.
In the Meshchersky region you can see, or rather, hear such solemn silence that the bell of a lost cow can be heard from afar, resounding almost kilometers away on windless days. On windy days you can hear the forests rustling with the ocean roar. The tops of giant pines bend after the passing clouds, the wind sways the thick ferns in waves.
When you get used to Meshchera, everything in it becomes familiar: the cries of quails, the knocking of woodpeckers, and the rustle of rain in the red needles, and the cry of a willow over a sleeping river.
Dictation
First difficulty level
I woke up early in the morning. The room was filled with an even yellow light, as if from a kerosene lamp. The light came from the window and illuminated the log ceiling brightly. The strange light - dim and motionless - was not at all like the sun. It was the autumn leaves shining.
During the windy night, the garden shed its dry leaves. It lay in multi-colored piles on the ground and spread a dim glow. Autumn mixed all the pure colors and applied them, as if on a canvas, to the distant spaces of earth and sky.
I saw dry leaves, gold and purple, bluish and gray, almost silver. The colors seemed to soften due to the autumn haze that hung motionless in the air. And when it rained continuously, the softness of the colors gave way to brilliance. The sky, completely covered with clouds, still gave enough light that the wet forests, lighting up in the distance, looked like majestic fires.
It began to get dark, either low clouds or the smoke of a giant fire were blowing in from the east, and I returned home. In the garden you had to walk on the leaves, like on a real carpet. I found them in the house: on the floor, on the made bed, on the stove - everywhere. They were thoroughly saturated with their spicy aroma.
