The old man was sobbing, shaking all over. "Vita" Center for Animal Rights Protection. Literary direction, genre

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He fell at the bear's feet. The beast growled quietly and pitifully. The old man was sobbing, shaking all over.

- Hit, father! - the son told him. - Don't tear our hearts out.

Ivan stood up. Tears no longer flowed from his eyes. He brushed away his gray mane that had fallen on him from his forehead and continued in a firm and ringing voice:

- And now I must kill you... They ordered me, old man, to shoot you with my own hand; You can’t live in the world anymore. What? May God in heaven judge between us and them.

He cocked the trigger and, with a still steady hand, took aim at the beast, at the chest, under the left paw. And the bear understood. A pitiful, desperate roar burst from his mouth; he stood on his hind legs, raising his front paws and as if covering his eyes with them so as not to see the terrible gun. A cry rang out among the gypsies: many in the crowd were crying; the old man, sobbing, threw the gun on the ground and fell helplessly on it. The son rushed to pick it up, and the grandson grabbed the gun.

And, running up to the beast, he put the muzzle point-blank to its ear and fired. The bear collapsed into a lifeless mass.

- Will! - he shouted in a wild, frantic voice, his eyes sparkling. - Enough. Strike, brothers, one end!

And, running up to the beast, he put the muzzle point-blank to its ear and fired. The bear collapsed into a lifeless mass; only his paws trembled convulsively, and his mouth opened, as if yawning. Shots crackled throughout the camp, drowned out by the desperate howls of women and children. A light wind carried the smoke to the river.

- Lost it! lost it! - was heard in the crowd.

Like a flock of frightened sheep, everyone scattered. The police officer, fat Foma Fomich, the boys, Leonid and Konstantin, the young ladies - everyone ran in panic, bumping into tents, carts, falling on each other and screaming. Olga Pavlovna almost fainted, but fear gave her strength, and she, lifting her dress, ran across the meadow, not thinking about the disorder in her costume caused by her hasty flight. The horses harnessed to the waiting carriages began to go wild and rushed in different directions. But the danger was not at all that great. The beast, mad with horror, not yet an old dark brown bear, with a broken chain around its neck, ran with amazing ease; everything parted before him, and he rushed like the wind straight towards the city. Several gypsies with guns ran after him. The few pedestrians who came across on the street pressed themselves against the walls if they did not have time to hide through the gates. The shutters were locked; all living things hid; even the dogs disappeared.

The bear rushed past the cathedral, along the main street, sometimes rushing to the side, as if looking for a place to hide, but everything was locked. He rushed past the shops, greeted by the frantic shout of the clerks who wanted to frighten him, flew past the bank, the gymnasium, the barracks of the district command, to the other end of the city, ran out onto the road to the river bank and stopped. The pursuers fell behind, but soon a crowd of more than just gypsies appeared from the street. The police officer and the colonel rode in a droshky, with guns in their hands;

the gypsies and a platoon of soldiers kept up with them at a run. Leonid and Konstantin were running right next to the droshky.

- Here he is, here he is! - the police officer shouted. - Fry him, roll him!

Shots rang out. One of the bullets hit the beast; in mortal fear he ran faster than before. A mile from the city, up the Rokhla, where he fled, there is a large water mill, surrounded on all sides by a small but dense forest; the beast was heading there. But, getting entangled in river branches and dams, he lost his way; a wide expanse of water separated him from a dense oak thicket, where he might perhaps have found, if not salvation, then respite. But he did not dare to swim. On this side there is a dense growth of a strange shrub that grows only in southern Russia, the so-called lucium. Its long, flexible, unbranched stems grow so densely that it is almost impossible for a person to pass through the thicket; but the roots have cracks and clearings into which dogs can crawl, and since they often go there to escape the heat and gradually widen the passage with their sides, over time a whole labyrinth of passages forms in the dense thicket. The bear rushed there. The Mukosei, looking at him from the top floor of the mill, saw this, and when the breathless and exhausted chase came running, the police officer ordered to cordon off the place where the beast had disappeared.

The unfortunate man hid in the very depths of the bushes; his wound from the bullet in his thigh was very painful; he curled up into a ball, burying his muzzle in his paws, and lay motionless, stunned, maddened by fear, depriving him of the opportunity to defend himself. The soldiers shot into the bushes, hoping to hit him and make him roar, but it was difficult to hit him at random.

He was killed late in the evening, driven out of the shelter by fire. Anyone who had a gun considered it his duty to put a bullet into the dying beast, and when the skin was removed, it was no good.

Recently I happened to visit Belsk. The city has hardly changed: only the bank burst and the pro-gymnasium turned into a gymnasium. The police officer was replaced, giving him the position of a private bailiff in the provincial town for his efficiency; the Izotov brothers still shout “granron” and “orebur” and run around the city telling stories about the latest news; The pharmacist Foma Fomich gained weight even more and, despite the fact that he made a profitable business by buying bear fat for fourteen kopecks, and selling it for eight hryvnia a pound, which gave a considerable sum in total, he still talks with great displeasure about beating bears.

“I told Olga Pavlovna then what kind of horse thief this Adonis would make... Well, so what?” Not a week has passed - he brought together my pair of gray ones, the bastard.

- Do you know that it’s him? – I asked.

- Why not him? After all, he was tried last year for horse theft and robbery. He went to hard labor.

- Oh, how I felt sorry for him! – Olga Pavlovna said sadly.

The poor lady has aged quite a bit over the years and, despite the fact that, according to Foma Fomich (who told me this in confidence), she smeared four pounds of bear lipstick on her head, her hair not only did not become thicker, but even thinned out. However, the hairpiece covers them so well that absolutely nothing is noticeable.

The Tale of the Toad and the Rose

Once upon a time there lived a rose and a toad.

A rosebush on which a rose bloomed grew in a small semicircular flower garden in front of village house. The flower garden was very neglected; weeds grew thickly over old flowerbeds that had grown into the ground and along paths that no one had cleaned or sprinkled with sand for a long time. Wooden grate with pegs trimmed in the form of tetrahedral peaks, once painted with green oil paint, now completely peeling off, cracked and fell apart; The pikes were taken away by the village boys to play soldiers and by the men who approached the house to fight off the angry watchdog with a company of other dogs.

And the flower garden became no worse from this destruction. The remains of the lattice were woven with hops, dodder with large white flowers, and mouse peas hanging in whole pale green heaps, with lavender tassels of flowers scattered here and there. Thorny thistles on the oily and wet soil of the flower garden (there was a large shady garden) reached such large sizes that they almost seemed like trees. The yellow mullein raised their flower-lined arrows even higher than them. Nettles occupied an entire corner of the flower garden; it, of course, burned, but one could admire its dark greenery from afar, especially when this greenery served as a background for a delicate and luxurious pale rose flower.

It blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the flying away morning dew left a few clean, transparent tears on them. Rose was definitely crying. But everything around her was so good, so clean and clear on this beautiful morning, when for the first time she saw the blue sky and felt the fresh morning breeze and the rays of the shining sun, penetrating her thin petals with pink light; it was so peaceful and calm in the flower garden that if she could really cry, it would be not from grief, but from the happiness of living. She couldn't speak; she could only bow her head and spread a subtle and fresh smell around her, and this smell was her words, tears and prayer.

And below, between the roots of the bush, on the damp ground, as if stuck to it with its flat belly, sat a rather fat old toad, which had spent the whole night hunting for worms and midges and in the morning sat down to rest from its labors, choosing a shadier and damper place. She sat with her toad eyes covered with membranes and breathed barely noticeably, swelling her dirty gray warty and sticky sides and putting one ugly paw to the side: she was too lazy to move it to her belly. She did not rejoice in the morning, or the sun, or good weather; She had already eaten and was getting ready to rest.

But when the breeze died down for a minute and the scent of the rose did not drift away, the toad felt it, and it caused her vague uneasiness; however, for a long time she was too lazy to look where this smell was coming from.

No one had gone to the flower garden where the rose grew and where the toad sat for a long time. Last year in the fall, on the very day when the toad, having found a good crack under one of the foundation stones of the house, was about to climb into it. hibernation, a little boy entered the flower garden for the last time, who spent the whole summer sitting in it every clear day under the window of the house. An adult girl, his sister, was sitting by the window; she was reading a book or sewing something and occasionally glanced at her brother. He was a small boy of about seven, with big eyes and a large head on a thin body. He loved his flower garden very much (it was his flower garden, because besides him, almost no one went to this abandoned place) and, having arrived there, he sat in the sun, on the old wooden bench, standing on a dry sandy path that remained intact near the house itself, because people walked along it to close the shutters, and began to read the book he had brought with him.

- Vasya, do you want me to throw you a ball? - my sister asks from the window. - Maybe you can run with him?

- No, Masha, I’d rather do it this way, with a book.

And he sat for a long time and read. And when he got tired of reading about Robinsons, and wild countries, and sea robbers, he left the open book and climbed into the thicket of the flower garden. Here he knew every bush and almost every stem. He squatted down in front of a thick stem of mullein, surrounded by shaggy whitish leaves, which was three times taller than him, and for a long time watched how the ant people ran up to their cows - grass aphids, how an ant delicately touched the thin tubes sticking out of the aphids on the back, and picks up clear droplets of sweet liquid that appear at the tips of the tubes. He watched as a dung beetle busily and diligently drags its ball somewhere, like a spider, spreading a cunning rainbow network, guards the flies, like a lizard, with its blunt muzzle open, sits in the sun, the green scutes of its back shining; and one time, in the evening, he saw a living hedgehog! Here he, too, could not restrain himself from joy and almost screamed and clapped his hands, but, fearing to frighten off the prickly animal, he held his breath and, with his happy eyes wide open, watched in delight as he, snorting, sniffed the roots of a rose bush with his pig snout , looking for worms between them, and comically fingered his plump paws, similar to those of a bear.

“Vasya, dear, go home, it’s getting damp,” my sister said loudly.

And the hedgehog, frightened by the human voice, quickly pulled its prickly fur coat over its forehead and hind legs and turned into a ball. The boy quietly touched its thorns; the animal shrank even more and began to puff dully and hastily, like a small steam engine.

Then he got to know this hedgehog a little. He was such a weak, quiet and meek boy that even small animals seemed to understand this and soon got used to him. What a joy it was when the hedgehog tasted milk from a saucer brought by the owner of the flower garden!

This spring the boy could not go to his favorite corner. His sister was still sitting next to him, but no longer at the window, but at his bedside; she read the book, but not for herself, but out loud to him, because it was difficult for him to lift his emaciated head from the white pillows and difficult to hold even the smallest volume in his skinny hands, and his eyes soon got tired of reading. He will probably never go out to his favorite corner again.

- Masha! - he suddenly whispers to his sister.

- What, honey?

- So, is kindergarten good now? Have the roses bloomed?

The sister leans over, kisses his pale cheek and at the same time quietly wipes away a tear.

- Okay, darling, very good. And the roses bloomed. We'll go there together on Monday. The doctor will let you out.

The boy does not answer and takes a deep breath. My sister starts reading again.

- It will already be. I'm tired. I'd rather sleep.

The sister adjusted his pillows and white blanket; He turned to the wall with difficulty and fell silent. The sun shone through the window overlooking the flower garden and cast bright rays onto the bed and the small body lying on it, illuminating the pillows and blanket and gilding the child’s short-cropped hair and thin neck.

Rose knew none of this; she grew and showed off; the next day it was supposed to bloom in full bloom, and on the third it should begin to wither and crumble. That's all pink life! But even in this short life she experienced a lot of fear and grief.

A toad noticed her.

When she saw the flower for the first time with her evil and ugly eyes, something strange stirred in the toad’s heart. She could not tear herself away from the delicate pink petals and kept looking and looking. She really liked the rose, she felt a desire to be closer to such a fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express her tender feelings, she couldn’t come up with anything better than these words:

“Wait,” she croaked, “I’ll eat you up!”

Rose shuddered. Why was it attached to its stem? Free birds, chirping around her, jumped and flew from branch to branch; sometimes they were carried away somewhere far away, where the rose did not know. The butterflies were also free. How she envied them! If she had been like them, she would have fluttered up and flown away from the evil eyes that were pursuing her with their gaze. Rose did not know that toads sometimes lie in wait for butterflies.

- I'll eat you up! - the toad repeated, trying to speak as gently as possible, which turned out even more terrible, and crawled closer to the rose.

- I'll eat you up! - she repeated, still looking at the flower.

And the poor creature saw with horror how nasty sticky paws cling to the branches of the bush on which she grew. However, it was difficult for the toad to climb: its flat body could crawl and jump freely only on level ground. After each effort, she looked up, where the flower swayed, and the rose froze.

- God! - she prayed. - If only I could die a different death!

And the toad kept climbing higher. But where the old trunks ended and the young branches began, she had to suffer a little. The dark green, smooth bark of the rose bush was covered with sharp and strong thorns. The toad broke its paws and belly on them and, bleeding, fell to the ground. She looked at the flower with hatred...

“I said I’ll eat you up!” – she repeated.

Evening came; it was necessary to think about dinner, and the wounded toad trudged off to lie in wait for unwary insects. Anger didn't stop her from filling her belly, as always; her scratches were not very dangerous, and she decided, after resting, to again get to the flower that attracted her and hated her.

She rested for quite a long time. Morning came, midday passed, and the rose almost forgot about her enemy. She had already completely blossomed and was the most beautiful creature in the flower garden. There was no one to come to admire her: the little master lay motionless on his bed, the sister did not leave him and did not appear at the window. Only birds and butterflies scurried around the rose and bees, buzzing, sometimes sat in its open corolla and flew out from there, completely shaggy from the yellow flower dust. A nightingale flew in, climbed into a rose bush and sang its song. How different it was from the wheezing of a toad! Rose listened to this song and was happy: it seemed to her that the nightingale was singing for her, and maybe it was true. She did not see how her enemy quietly climbed onto the branches. This time the toad no longer spared either its paws or its belly: blood covered it, but it bravely climbed upward - and suddenly, amid the ringing and gentle rumble of the nightingale, the rose heard a familiar wheezing:

- I said I would eat it, and I will eat it!

The toad's eyes gazed at her from a nearby branch. The evil animal had only one movement left to grab the flower. Rose realized that she was dying...

The little master had been lying motionless on the bed for a long time. The sister, sitting at the head of the chair, thought that he was sleeping. She had an open book on her lap, but she wasn't reading it. Little by little her tired head bowed: the poor girl had not slept for several nights, never leaving her sick brother, and now dozed off slightly.

“Masha,” he suddenly whispered.

The sister perked up. She dreamed that she was sitting by the window, that her little brother was playing, like last year, in the flower garden and calling her. Opening her eyes and seeing him in bed, thin and weak, she sighed heavily.

- What, honey?

– Masha, you told me that the roses have bloomed! Can I... have one?

- You can, my dear, you can! “She went to the window and looked at the bush. There was one, but very lush rose growing there.

“A rose has blossomed just for you, and what a lovely one!” Should I put it here on the table in a glass? Yes?

- Yes, on the table. I would like to.

The girl took the scissors and went out into the garden. She had not left the room for a long time; the sun blinded her, and fresh air she felt slightly dizzy. She approached the bush at the very moment when the toad wanted to grab the flower.

- Oh, what disgusting! – she screamed. And, grabbing a branch, she shook it violently: the toad fell to the ground and flopped on its belly. In a rage, she was about to jump at the girl, but could not jump higher than the hem of the dress and immediately flew far away, thrown back by the toe of her shoe. She did not dare try again and only from a distance saw the girl carefully cut the flower and carry it into the room.

When the boy saw his sister with a flower in her hand, for the first time after a long time he smiled faintly and with difficulty made a movement with his thin hand.

“Give it to me,” he whispered. - I'll smell it.

The sister put the stem in his hand and helped him move it towards his face. He inhaled the delicate scent and, smiling happily, whispered:

- Oh, how good...

Then his face became serious and motionless, and he fell silent... forever.

The rose, although it was cut before it began to crumble, felt that it had not been cut for nothing. It was placed in a separate glass next to the small coffin. There were whole bouquets of other flowers, but, to tell the truth, no one paid attention to them, and when the young girl put the rose on the table, she brought it to her lips and kissed it. A small tear fell from her cheek onto the flower, and this was the best incident in the rose’s life. When she began to wither, she was put in a thick old book and dried it, and then, many years later, gave it to me. That's why I know this whole story.

Signal

Semyon Ivanov served as a watchman on the railway. From his booth it was twelve miles to one station, ten miles to another. A large spinning mill was opened about four versts away last year; Because of the forest, its tall chimney turned black, and closer, except for the neighboring booths, there was no housing.

Semyon Ivanov was a sick and broken man. Nine years ago he went to war: he served as an orderly for an officer and did a whole campaign with him. He was hungry, and cold, and roasted in the sun, and made marches of forty and fifty miles in the heat and in the cold; It happened that I was under bullets, but, thank God, none of them hit me. Once the regiment stood in the first line; For a whole week there was a shootout with the Turks: our chain lay, and across the hollow was the Turkish one, and they were shooting from morning to evening. Semyonov’s officer was also in chains; Every day three times Semyon brought him from the regimental kitchens, from the ravine, a hot samovar and lunch. Comes with a samovar open place, bullets whistle, click into stones; Semyon is scared, he cries, but he walks away. The gentlemen officers were very pleased with him: they always had hot tea. He returned from the hike intact, only his arms and legs began to ache. Since then he has had to experience a lot of grief. He came home - his old father died; my little son was four years old and also died and had a sore throat; Semyon and his wife remained as friends. They were not successful in farming either, and it was difficult to plow the land with chubby arms and legs. They had a hard time in their village; Let's go to new places to look for happiness. Semyon and his wife visited the Line, and in Kherson, and in the Donshchina; I couldn’t find happiness anywhere. His wife became a servant, but Semyon still wanders around. He had to drive around in the car once; at one station he sees that the boss seems to know him. Semyon looks at him, and the boss also peers into Semyon’s face. They recognized each other: he was an officer of his regiment.

-Are you Ivanov? - speaks.

“That’s right, your honor, that’s exactly what I am.”

- How did you get here?

Semyon told him: so, so, so.

-Where are you going now?

- I can’t know, your honor.

- How come, you fool, you can’t know?

- That’s right, your honor, because there’s nowhere to go. What kind of work, your honor, should you look for?

The station chief looked at him, thought and said:

- That's it, brother, stay at the station for now. You seem to be married? Where is your wife?

– That’s right, your honor, married; his wife is in the city of Kursk, in the service of a merchant.

- Well, then write to your wife to go. I'll get a free ticket. Here our traffic booth will be cleared; I’ll ask the head of the course for you.

“Thank you a lot, your honor,” answered Semyon.

He remained at the station. I helped the boss in the kitchen, chopped wood, chalked the yard, chalked the platform. Two weeks later his wife arrived, and Semyon went to hand trolley to your booth. The booth is new, warm, as much wood as you want; a small vegetable garden remained from the previous caretakers, and there was about half a tenth of arable land on the sides of the canvas. Semyon was delighted; I began to think about how he would start his own farm, buy a cow, a horse.

They gave him all the necessary supplies: a green flag, a red flag, lanterns, a horn, a hammer, a key to tighten the nuts, a crowbar, a shovel, brooms, bolts, crutches; They gave us two books with rules and a train schedule. At first, Semyon did not sleep at night, repeating the entire schedule; the train will leave in another two hours, and he will go around his section, sit on a bench at the booth and keep looking and listening to see if the rails are shaking, if the train is making noise. He memorized the rules; Even though I didn’t read it well, it was wordy, but I still got it right.

It was summer; The work is not hard, there is no need to shovel snow, and there are rarely trains on that road. Semyon will walk around his mile twice a day, try to tighten some nuts here and there, straighten the gravel, look at the water pipes, and go home to set up his household. In the household, he was the only one who had a problem: whatever he decided to do, ask the road foreman about everything, and he would report to the head of the distance; By the time the request returns, time has passed. Semyon and his wife even began to feel bored.

About two months passed; Semyon began to get acquainted with the neighboring watchmen. One was an ancient old man; Everyone was going to replace him: he could barely get out of the booth. His wife did his rounds for him. The other guard, who was closer to the station, was a young man, thin and wiry. They met Semyon for the first time on the canvas, in the middle between the booths, on the round; Semyon took off his hat and bowed.

“Good,” he says, “health, neighbor.”

The neighbor looked at him from the side.

“Hello,” he says.

He turned and walked away. The women met each other afterwards. Arina Semenova greeted her neighbor; She also didn’t talk much and left. Semyon saw her once.

“What is it,” he says, “you, young lady, have a taciturn husband?”

The woman was silent for a while, then said:

- What should he talk to you about? Everyone has their own... Go with God.

However, about a month passed before we met. Semyon and Vasily will meet on the canvas, sit on the edge, smoke pipes and talk about their lives. Vasily kept silent more and more, but Semyon talked about his village and the campaign.

“I have suffered a lot,” he says, “of grief in my lifetime, but God knows how many in my lifetime.” God did not give happiness. The Lord will give what kind of talent-destiny to whomever, that’s how it is. That's it, brother, Vasily Stepanych.

And Vasily Stepanych knocked his pipe out on the rail, stood up and said:

“It’s not the talent-fate that’s bothering you and me forever, but the people.” There is no beast in the world more predatory and meaner than a man. A wolf does not eat a wolf, but a man eats a man alive.

- Well, brother, the wolf eats the wolf, don’t say that.

- By the way, I had to, and I said it. Still, there is no creature more cruel. If it weren’t for human anger and greed, it would be possible to live. Everyone tries to grab you alive, bite you off, and devour you.

Semyon thought.

“I don’t know,” he says, “brother.” Maybe it is so, and if so, then there is a provision from God for that.

“If that’s the case,” says Vasily, “there’s no point in talking to you.” If you blame every bad thing on God, but sit and endure it yourself, then, brother, that is not to be a man, but to be a beast. Here's my story for you.

He turned and walked away without saying goodbye. Semyon also stood up.

“Neighbor,” he shouts, “why are you fighting?”

The neighbor didn’t turn around and walked away. Semyon looked at him for a long time, until at the notch at the turn Vasily was no longer visible. He returned home and said to his wife:

- Well, Arina, our neighbor is a potion, not a person.

However, they did not quarrel; We met again and started talking as before, and all about the same things.

“Eh, brother, if it weren’t for people... you and I wouldn’t be sitting in these booths,” says Vasily.

- Well, in the booth... it’s okay, you can live.

- You can live, you can live... Oh, you! He lived a lot, made a little money, looked a lot, saw a little. For a poor person, in a booth there or wherever, what a life! These flayers are eating you. They squeeze out all the juice, and when you get old, they throw it away like some kind of cake to feed the pigs. How much salary do you receive?

- Yes, not enough, Vasily Stepanovich. Twelve rubles.

- And I’m thirteen and a half. Let me ask you why? According to the rule, everyone is entitled to one thing from the board: fifteen rubles a month, heating, lighting. Who decided that you and I are twelve or thirteen and a half? Whose belly is for the lard, in whose pocket are the remaining three rubles or one and a half going? Let me ask you?... And you say, you can live! You understand, we are not talking about one and a half or three rubles. If only all fifteen paid. I was at the station last month; the director was passing by, so I saw him. I had such an honor. He travels in a separate carriage; He walked out onto the platform, stood there, with a golden chain loosened over his stomach, his cheeks red, as if they were full... He drank our blood. Oh, if only there was strength and power!.. May I not stay here long; I'll go wherever my eyes lead me.

-Where are you going, Stepanych? They do not seek good from good. Here you have a home, warmth, and a little land. Your wife is a worker...

- Earthlings! You should look at my little land. There is not a rod on it. I planted cabbages in the spring, and then the road foreman came. “This, he says, what is it? Why no report? Why without permission? Dig it up so it won’t even exist.” He was drunk. Another time I wouldn’t have said anything, but then it got in my head... “Three rubles fine!..”

Vasily paused, pulled the pipes and said quietly:

- A little more, I would have beaten him to death.

- Well, neighbor, you are hot, I’ll tell you.

“I’m not hot, but I speak and reflect in the truth.” Yes, he will wait for me, red face! I will complain to the head of the distance himself. Let's see!

And sure enough, he complained.

Once the head of the course passed by to inspect the path. Three days after that, important gentlemen from St. Petersburg were supposed to pass along the road: they were doing an inspection, so before their passage everything had to be put in order. Ballast was added, leveled, sleepers were revised, crutches were pinned, nuts were tightened, poles were tinted, and yellow sand was ordered to be added at crossings. The neighbor's watchman and her old man took her out to pick the grass. Semyon worked for a whole week; He got everything in order and repaired his caftan, cleaned it, and polished the copper plaque with a brick until it shined. Vasily also worked. The head of the course arrived on a handcar; four workers turn the handle; the gears whir; The cart rushes twenty miles an hour, only the wheels howl. He flew up to the Semyon booth; Semyon jumped up and reported like a soldier. Everything turned out to be in good order.

- How long have you been here? - asks the boss.

- From the second of May, your honor.

- OK. Thank you. Who's in issue one hundred and sixty-four?

The road foreman (who was riding with him on the handcar) replied:

- Vasily Spiridov.

- Spiridov, Spiridov... Oh, is this the same one that you noticed last year?

- He is the one, sir.

- Well, okay, let's see Vasily Spiridov. Touch it.

The workers leaned on the handles; the trolley began to move.

Semyon looks at her and thinks: “Well, he and his neighbor will have a game.”

About two hours later he went around. He sees someone walking along the canvas from the recess, with something white visible on his head. Semyon began to take a closer look - Vasily; there is a stick in his hand, a small bundle behind his shoulders, a scarf tied on his cheek.

- Neighbor, where are you going? - Semyon shouts.

Vasily came very close: there was no face on him, he was white as chalk, his eyes were wild; started to speak - the voice breaks off.

“To the city,” he says, “to Moscow... to the board.”

- To the board... That's it! So, are you going to complain? Come on, Vasily Stepanych, forget it...

- No, brother, I won’t forget. It's too late to forget. You see, he hit me in the face and made me bleed. As long as I’m alive, I won’t forget, I won’t leave it like that. We need to teach them, bloodsuckers...

Semyon took him by the hand:

- Leave it, Stepanych, I’m telling you right: you can’t do better.

- What's better there! I know myself that I won’t do better; You spoke the truth about talent-fate. I won’t do anything better for myself, but you have to stand for the truth, brother.

- Tell me, where did it all start?

- Why... I looked around, got off the trolley, and looked into the booth. I already knew that I would ask strictly; everything was fixed properly. I really wanted to go, but I complained. He's screaming now. “Here,” he says, “there is a government audit, this and that, and you file complaints about the garden!” Here, he says, are the Privy Councilors, and you are meddling with the cabbage!” I couldn’t stand it, I said a word, not really, but it seemed so offensive to him. How will he give me... Our damned patience! It should be here... but I stand there as if this is how it should be. They left, I came to my senses, so I washed my face and went.

- What about the booth?

- My wife stayed. Doesn't miss; Yes, well, they are absolutely and with their dear ones!

Vasily stood up and got ready.

- Goodbye, Ivanovich. I don’t know if I’ll find control for myself.

-Are you really going to go on foot?

- At the station I’ll ask for freight; I'll be in Moscow tomorrow.

The neighbors said goodbye; Vasily left and was gone for a long time. His wife worked for him, did not sleep day and night; I was completely exhausted, waiting for my husband. On the third day the inspection passed: a steam locomotive, a baggage car and two first class ones, but Vasily was still missing. On the fourth day, Semyon saw his owner: her face was plump from tears, her eyes were red.

Alexander Pushkin

IMITATION OF THE QURAN

Dedicated to P. A. Osipova

I swear by odd and even,
I swear by the sword and the right battle,
I swear by the morning star
I swear by the evening prayer:

No, I didn't leave you.
Who's in the shade of peace?
I introduced, loving his head,
And hid it from watchful persecution?

Was it not I who gave you something to drink on the day of thirst?
Desert waters?
Was it not I who gave your tongue
Mighty power over minds?

Take courage, despise deception,
Follow the path of righteousness cheerfully,
Love the orphans and my Koran
Preach to a trembling creature.

O pure wives of the prophet,
You are different from all wives:
The shadow of vice is also terrible for you.
Under the sweet canopy of silence
Live modestly: it behooves you
The celibate virgin's veil.
Keep true hearts
For those who are legitimate and bashful,
Yes, the evil gaze of the wicked
He won't see your face!

And you, O guests of Mohammed,
Flocking to his supper,
Avoid the vanities of the world
Confuse my prophet.
The guy has pious thoughts,
He doesn't like big talkers
And immodest and empty words:
Honor the feast with his humility,
And with chaste inclination
His young slaves.

Confused, the prophet frowned,
Hearing the blind man approaching:
Run, let vice not dare
Show him bewilderment.

The list is given from the heavenly book
You, prophet, are not for the obstinate;
Calmly proclaim the Quran,
Without forcing the wicked!

Why is a person arrogant?
Because he came into the world naked,
That he breathes for a short time,
That the weak will die, just as the weak was born?

Because God will kill
And he will resurrect him - according to his will?
What from the sky protects his days
And in joys and in bitterness?

For giving him fruit,
And bread, and dates, and olives,
Blessing his works,
And the helicopter town, and the hill, and the cornfield?

But the angel will sound twice;
Heavenly thunder will strike the earth:
And brother will run from brother,
And the son will shrink away from his mother.

And everyone will flock to God,
Disfigured by fear;
And the wicked will fall,
Covered in flames and ashes.

With you from ancient times, O omnipotent one,
The mighty one thought he could compete,
Abundant with insane pride;
But you, Lord, humbled him.
You say: I am to the world I give life,
I punish the earth with death,
My hand is raised for everything.
I also, he said, give life,
And I also punish with death:
With you, God, I am equal.
But the boasting of vice fell silent
From the word of your wrath:
I will raise the sun from the east;
Raise him from sunset!

The earth is motionless - the sky is the vault,
Creator, supported by you,
May they not fall on dry land and water
And they will not suppress us.

You lit the sun in the universe,
May it shine on heaven and earth,
Like flax watered with oil,
The crystal shines in the lamp.

Pray to the Creator; he is mighty:
He rules the wind; on a hot day
It sends clouds to the sky;
Gives the earth tree shade.

He is merciful: he is to Mohammed
Opened the shining Koran,
May we too flow towards the light,
And let the fog fall from your eyes.

No wonder I dreamed about you
In battle with shaved heads,
With bloody swords
In the ditches, on the tower, on the wall.

Hear the joyful cry,
O children of the fiery deserts!
Lead the young slaves into captivity,
Share the spoils of war!

You have won: glory to you,
And a laugh for the faint-hearted!
They are on a calling
We didn’t go, not believing the wondrous dreams.

Seduced by the spoils of war,
Now in my repentance
Rekut: take us with you;
But you say: we won’t take it.

Blessed are those who fell in battle:
Now they have entered Eden
And drowned in pleasure,
Not poisoned by anything.

Arise, fearful one:
In your cave
Holy lamp
It burns until the morning.
Heartfelt prayer,
Prophet, go away
Sad thoughts
Crafty dreams!
Until the morning I pray
Create humbly;
Heavenly book
Read until morning!

VIII

Trading conscience before pale poverty,
Do not pour out your gifts with a calculating hand:
Complete generosity pleases heaven.
On the day of terrible judgment, like a fat field,
O prosperous sower!
She will reward your labors a hundredfold.

But if, having regretted the labors of earthly acquisition,
Handing a meager alms to a beggar,
You squeeze your envious hand, -
Know: all your gifts are like a handful of dust,
That the heavy rain washes the stone,
They will disappear - a tribute rejected by the Lord.

And the tired traveler grumbled at God:
He was thirsty and hungry for shade.
Wandering in the desert for three days and three nights,
And the eyes are heavy with heat and dust
With hopeless melancholy he drove around,
And suddenly he sees a treasure trove under a palm tree.

And he ran towards the desert palm tree,
And greedily refreshed with a cold stream
The tongue and the apple of the eye burned heavily,
And he lay down and fell asleep next to the faithful donkey -
And many years passed over him
By the will of the ruler of heaven and earth.

The hour of awakening has come for the traveler;
He gets up and hears an unknown voice:
“How long ago did you fall asleep deeply in the desert?”
And he answers: the sun is already high
Yesterday was shining in the morning sky;
In the morning I slept deeply until the morning.

But a voice: “O traveler, you slept longer;
Look: you lay down young, and rose up old;
The palm tree has decayed and the well is cold
Dried up and dried up in the waterless desert,
Long covered by the sands of the steppes;
And the bones of your donkey turn white.”

And the instant old man, overcome with grief,
Sobbing, his head drooped, trembling...
And then a miracle happened in the desert:
The past has come to life in new glory;
The palm tree sways again with its shady head;
Once again the well is filled with coolness and darkness.

And the old bones of the donkey stand up,
And they clothed themselves with their bodies, and made a roar;
And the traveler feels both strength and joy;
Resurrected youth began to play in the blood;
Holy delights filled my chest:
And with God he sets off on his journey.

In Runet in Lately One poem is very popular. They forward it to friends, copy it on their blogs, and give their own translation options. And the poem is preceded by a short preface. In the “canonical” version it all looks like this.

This old man was in a nursing home last days own life.

After his death, everyone believed that he had passed away without leaving a valuable mark on it.

When the nurses began to sort through his meager belongings, they came across interesting poem, which amazed the workers with its content and meaning.

One of the employees took a copy to Melbourne. Since then, his poem has appeared in Christmas magazines across the country, as well as in psychology magazines.

And this old man, who died a beggar in a godforsaken town in Australia, is now blowing up the Internet with the depths of his soul. (We present literal translation into Russian. In the English original, the verse sounds very poetic and amazes with its depth of thought and beauty of rhyme).

Cranky old man

What do you see, nurse? What do you see?

What do you think when you look at me?

A capricious old man, rather stupid...

With an incomprehensible way of life, with absent eyes?

Wasting food?

When you shout "Let's try harder!"

And it seems to you that he doesn’t notice what you’re doing.

Always losing socks or shoes?

Not insisting on anything,

but allowing you to do whatever you want with him?

A day with nothing to fill it with,

other than bathing and feeding?

So what do you think? Is this what you see?

Open your eyes, nurse.

You don't look at me.

I'll tell you who I am.

Even sitting here quietly,

subject to your distribution,

eating according to your wishes.

I'm still a 10 year old boy living with my father and mother,

Brothers and sisters and we all love each other.

A young boy, 16 years old, with wings on his feet,

Dreaming of meeting the love of my life one of these days.

The groom, who is almost 20 and whose heart is jumping out,

Remembering the vows that he promised to fulfill.

And now I’m 25 and I have my own baby.

Which needs my guidance, protection and home.

A man who is 30! The baby grew up quickly

We are bound to each other by unbreakable bonds.

And at 40, my sons grew up and left home.

But my woman is next to me and she doesn’t let me grieve.

And now at 50 the kids are playing at my feet again,

Again we are with the children, my beloved and I.

The darkness thickened over me - my wife is dead.

I look into the future and shudder in horror.

Now I live for the sake of children and for the sake of their children.

And I think about the years... about the love I had.

Now I'm an old man... and life is a cruel thing.

Mocking makes old age look stupid.

The body becomes decrepit and falls apart, greatness and strength disappear.

And now there is a stone where the heart once was.

But inside this decrepit shell there still lives a young man,

And again and again the heart pulsates from the beats.

I remember all the joy, I remember all the pain.

And I love and live! In this life as before.

I think about the years that were so few

and which flew by so quickly.

And I agree with the stubborn fact

that nothing can last forever.

So open your eyes, people!

Open it and take a look. Not a capricious old man!

Look closely and you will see ME!

Cranky Old Man (Original)

What do you see nurses? . . . . What do you see?

What are you thinking. . . . when you"re looking at me?

A cranky old man, . . . . not very wise,

Uncertain of habit. . . . with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food. . . . and makes no reply.

When you say in a loud voice. . . "I do wish you"d try!"

Who seems not to notice. . . .the things that you do.

And forever is losing. . . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not. . . . lets you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding. . . .The long day to fill?

Is that what you"re thinking? . . .Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse. . . . you"re not looking at me.

I"ll tell you who I am . . . As I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, . . . . as I eat at your will.

I"m a small child of Ten . . . with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters. . . . who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen. . . . . with wings on his feet

Dreaming that soon now. . . . a lover he"ll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty. . . . my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows. . . . that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now. . . . I have young of my own.

Who needs me to guide. . . . And a secure happy home.

A man of Thirty. . . . My young now grown fast,

Bound to each other. . . . With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons. . . have grown and are gone,

But my woman is beside me. . . . to see I don't mourn.

At Fifty, once more, . . . . Babies play "round my knee,

Again, we know children. . . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me. . . . My wife is now dead.

I look at the future. . . . I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing. . . . young of their own.

And I think of the years. . . . And the love that I"ve known.

I"m now an old man... and nature is cruel.

It's jest to make old age... look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles. . . . grace and vigor, depart.

There is now a stone. . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass. . . . A young man still dwells,

And now and again. . . . my battered heart swells

I remember the joys. . . . I remember the pain.

And I"m loving and living... life over again.

I think of the years, all too few. . . . gone too fast.

And accept the stark fact. . . . that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people. . . . open and see.

Not a cranky old man. . . .

Look closer. . . . see. . . . ME!!

As often happens on the Internet, anonymous content turned out to be a beautiful fairy tale, although real story The poem is also very interesting. It was first published in a small Scottish magazine in 1966 under the title "The Grumpy Old Woman." The text was almost the same as in modern version, only from a female person.

The poem was remembered and began to circulate in other British literary collections, changing the name (options: “Kate”, “Look more closely, sister”, “What do you see?” and so on). From magazine to magazine, the legend about the author acquired new details. Common place they only said that the manuscript was found in the belongings of a certain Kate, who died in a Scottish nursing home. Although even then, some researchers attributed the authorship of the verse to the Scottish nurse Phyllis McCormack, who worked at Sunnyside Hospital in Montrose in the 1960s.

The truth was revealed in 1998. Phyllis's son, in an interview with the Daily Mail, confirmed long-standing rumors that his mother was the real author of the poem, whose original title was "Look Closely, Sister." However, she did not dare admit authorship, and therefore published it anonymously in the magazine. In addition, she planted the manuscript in the belongings of one of the residents of the nursing home where she worked. When she died, a copy of the poem written in her hand was given to the Sunday Post. And then a beautiful accompanying story was born.

As for the modern male version of the poem, it is an adaptation by Texas poet David Griffith. He called his version “Old Too Soon,” although the name “Cranky Old Man” became more widespread.

The poem “Imitation of the Koran” was written by Pushkin in 1825. This work consists of 9 poems written by the poet under the impression received from reading the Koran translated into Russian by M. Verevkin. In his work, the poet describes episodes from the life of the Prophet (PBUH) and a free exposition of some surahs of the Koran.

In the first poem Imitations of the Koran cycle Pushkin writes about the revelation of the Koran to the Prophet (PBUH), about the power of Allah and his mercy to Muhammad (PBUH) and people. The poet’s words: “Love the orphans” are inspired by Surah Al-Maidat (“Alms”). A reminder that Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) cared for the children of dead Muslims.

Second poem“Imitations” is dedicated to the wives of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and his life.

O pure wives of the Prophet.
You are distinguished from all wives:

Under the sweet canopy of silence
Live modestly: it behooves you
The celibate maiden's veil...

Based on surahs “Abasa”, “Al-Wakiat”, “Hajj” the third poem was written works.

Ayat of the Qur'an: “On the day you see him, every woman who feeds will forget the one she fed, and every bearer of a burden will lay down her burden. And you will see people drunk, but they are not drunk. But Allah’s punishment is severe” (Quran, 22:2). Pushkin retold it in the following words:

But the angel will sound twice;

And brother will run from brother,
And the son will shrink away from his mother
And everyone will flow before God
Disfigured by fear
And the wicked will fall
Covered in flames and ashes."

Next part- this is a free retelling of the meaning of the verse “Didn’t you see the one who argued with Ibrahim about his Lord because Allah gave him power? So Ibrahim said: “My Lord, Who gives life and kills.” He said: “I give life and I kill.” Ibrahim said: “Behold, Allah brings out the sun from the east, so bring it out from the west.” And the one who did not believe was confused: Allah does not directly lead unrighteous people!

Pushkin's definition of the Qur'an as the "Shining Qur'an" comes from the well-known definitions of the Last Scripture: "Clear, Glorious, Noble, Wise." Pushkin’s expression “let us too flow into the light” is his understanding of the essence of Islam.

Verse six The poem is dedicated to those who died in battles with idolaters and pagans. It talks about Paradise, which awaits the lost.

In the seventh verse Pushkin retells the Koran sura “The Family of Imran”. It begins with a call to the Prophet - “Arise!”

Arise, fearful one:
In your cave
Holy lamp
It burns until the morning.
Heartfelt prayer,
Prophet, go away
Sad thoughts...

“In your cave” - this refers to the cave of Mount Hira, in which the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) prayed for a long time, in which on the night of the 27th of Ramadan in 610 the Koran was revealed.

Eighth poem Imitations of Pushkin's Koran are written in the form of a prayer based on many surahs of the Koran, which speaks of fair treatment of orphans and the poor.

Do not pour out your gifts with a calculating hand:
Complete generosity pleases heaven.

Zakat or alms is the duty of a Muslim. A person’s property is the property of Allah, from which a person is obliged to give zakat: “...If you know what is good in them; Give them something of your wealth that God has given you.”

In the last verse“Imitations of the Koran” Pushkin described his impressions of the Al-Bakarat sura (Koran, 2:261). In it, the poet uses a parable about a traveler who grumbled against God, about the mercy that was shown by the “Lord of heaven and earth” to this traveler:

He was thirsty and hungry for shade...

The past has come to life in new glory...

“Imitation of the Koran” by A.S. Pushkin, is his personal impression of reading the translation of the Koran and an attempt to use the style of the Koran in writing this work.

A.S. Pushkin. Poems "Imitations of the Koran" in full