Evgeny Nosov Doll (collection). Presentation: "Living Flame" - (Nosov E.)

Aunt Olya looked into my room, again caught me behind the papers, and, raising her voice, said commandingly:
- Will write something! Go get some air, help cut the flower bed. Aunt Olya took out a birch bark box from the closet. While I gladly kneaded my back, raking the damp earth with a rake, she sat down on a mound and poured bags and bundles of flower seeds onto her knees and sorted them into varieties.
“Olga Petrovna, what is it,” I remark, “do you not sow poppies in flowerbeds?”
- Well, which of the poppies is the color! she answered confidently. - It's a vegetable. It is sown in the beds along with onions and cucumbers.
- What do you! I laughed. - In some old song it is sung:
And her forehead, like marble, is white. And the cheeks are burning, as if the color of poppies.
“It only blooms for two days,” Olga Petrovna persisted. - For a flower bed, this does not fit in any way, puffed and immediately burned out. And then all summer this mallet sticks out and only spoils the view.
But all the same, I secretly poured a pinch of poppy seeds into the very middle of the flower bed. She turned green after a few days.
- Have you planted poppies? - Aunt Olya approached me. - Oh, you are such a mischievous! So be it, leave the top three, you felt sorry. And shed the rest.
Unexpectedly, I left on business and returned only two weeks later. After a hot, tiring road, it was nice to enter Aunt Olya's quiet old house. The freshly washed floor was cool. A jasmine bush growing under the window cast a lacy shadow on the desk.
- Pour kvass? she suggested, looking sympathetically at me, sweaty and tired. - Alyoshka was very fond of kvass. It used to be that he himself bottled and sealed
When I rented this room, Olga Petrovna, raising her eyes to the portrait of a young man in a flight uniform that hangs over the desk, asked:
- Not prevent?
- What do you!
- This is my son Alex. And the room was his. Well, you settle down, live on health.
Handing me a heavy copper mug with kvass, Aunt Olya said:
- And your poppies have risen, the buds have already been thrown away. I went to look at the flowers. The flower bed was unrecognizable. Along the very edge was spread a rug, which, with its thick cover with flowers scattered over it, very much resembled a real carpet. Then the flower bed was girded with a ribbon of matthiols - modest night flowers that attract not by brightness, but by a gently bitter aroma, similar to the smell of vanilla. Curtains of yellow-violet pansies were full of flowers, purple-velvet hats of Parisian beauties swayed on thin legs. There were many other familiar and unfamiliar colors. And in the center of the flower bed, above all this flower diversity, my poppies rose, throwing out three tight, heavy buds towards the sun.
They broke up the next day.
Aunt Olya went out to water the flower bed, but immediately returned, rattling an empty watering can.
- Well, go look, bloomed.
From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live, merrily blazing flames in the wind. A light wind swayed a little, the sun pierced the translucent scarlet petals with light, which made the poppies either flare up with a quivering bright fire, or fill with a thick crimson. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you!
Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, dimmed.
Poppies burned wildly for two days. And at the end of the second day, they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately on a lush flower bed without them it became empty.
I picked up from the ground still quite fresh, in drops of dew, a petal and straightened it in my palm.
“That's all,” I said loudly, with a feeling of admiration that had not yet cooled down.
- Yes, it burned down ... - Aunt Olya sighed, as if in a living being. - And somehow I used to pay no attention to this poppy. His life is short. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. And it happens to people...
Aunt Olya, somehow hunched over, suddenly hurried into the house.
I have already been told about her son. Aleksei died diving on his tiny "hawk" onto the back of a heavy fascist bomber...
I now live on the other side of the city and occasionally visit Aunt Olya. I recently visited her again. We sat at the summer table, drank tea, shared the news. And nearby, in a flower bed, a large carpet of poppies blazed. Some crumbled, dropping petals to the ground like sparks, others only opened their fiery tongues. And from below, from the damp, full of vitality of the earth, more and more tightly rolled buds rose up to keep the living fire from going out.

“Olga Petrovna, what is it,” I remark, “do you not sow poppies in flowerbeds?”

- Well, what color is the poppy! she answered confidently. - It's a vegetable. It is sown in the beds along with onions and cucumbers.

- What do you! I laughed. - In some old song it is sung:

And her forehead, like marble, is white,

And the cheeks are burning, as if the color of poppies.

“It only blooms for two days,” Olga Petrovna persisted. - This is not suitable for a flower bed, puffed - and immediately burned out. And then this very mallet sticks out all summer, only spoils the view.

But all the same, I secretly poured a pinch of poppy seeds into the very middle of the flower bed. She turned green after a few days.

Did you sow poppies? - Aunt Olya approached me. - Oh, you are such a mischievous! So be it, I left the top three, I felt sorry for you. The rest were all weeded out.

Unexpectedly, I left on business and returned only two weeks later. After a hot, tiring road, it was nice to enter Aunt Olya's quiet old house. The freshly washed floor was cool. A jasmine bush growing under the window cast a lacy shadow on the desk.

- Pour kvass? she suggested, looking sympathetically at me, sweaty and tired. Alyosha was very fond of kvass. Sometimes he bottled and sealed it himself.

When I rented this room, Olga Petrovna, raising her eyes to the portrait of a young man in a flight uniform that hangs over the desk, asked:

- Doesn't it interfere?

- What do you!

This is my son Alex. And the room was his. Well, you settle down, live on health ...

Handing me a heavy copper mug with kvass, Aunt Olya said:

- And your poppies have risen, the buds have already been thrown away.

I went out to look at the flowers. The flowerbed became unrecognizable. Along the very edge was spread a rug, which, with its thick cover with flowers scattered over it, very much resembled a real carpet. Then the flower bed was girded with a ribbon of matthiols - modest night flowers that attract not by brightness, but by a gently bitter aroma, similar to the smell of vanilla. Curtains of yellow-violet pansies were full of flowers, purple-velvet hats of Parisian beauties swayed on thin legs. There were many other familiar and unfamiliar colors. And in the center of the flower bed, above all this flower diversity, my poppies rose, throwing out three tight, heavy buds towards the sun. They broke up the next day.

Aunt Olya went out to water the flower bed, but immediately returned, rattling an empty watering can.

- Well, go, look, they bloomed.

From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live flames blazing merrily in the wind. A light wind swayed a little, and the sun pierced the translucent scarlet petals with light, which made the poppies either flare up with a quivering bright fire, or fill with a thick crimson. It seemed that one had only to touch - they would immediately scorch!

Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, dimmed.

Poppies burned wildly for two days. And at the end of the second day they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately on a lush flower bed without them it became empty. I picked up from the ground still quite fresh, in drops of dew, a petal and straightened it in my palm.

“That's all,” I said loudly, with a feeling of admiration that had not yet cooled down.

“Yes, it burned down ...” Aunt Olya sighed, as if in a living being. - And somehow I used to pay no attention to this poppy. He has a short life. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. And it happens to people...

Aunt Olya, somehow hunched over, suddenly hurried into the house.

I have already been told about her son. Alexei died diving on his tiny "hawk" on the back of a heavy fascist bomber.

I now live on the other side of the city and occasionally visit Aunt Olya. I recently visited her again. We sat at the summer table, drank tea, shared the news. And nearby, in a flower bed, a large fire of poppies blazed. Some crumbled, dropping petals to the ground like sparks, others only opened their fiery tongues. And from below, from the damp, full of vitality of the earth, more and more tightly rolled buds rose up to keep the living fire from going out.

Summer rushed away somehow suddenly, like a frightened bird. At night the garden rustled alarmingly, an old hollow bird-cherry tree creaked under the window.

The slanting heavy rain whipped against the windows, drummed muffledly on the roof, and the drainpipe gurgled and choked. Dawn reluctantly seeped through the gray, bloodless sky. Bird cherry almost completely flew around during the night and thickly littered the veranda with leaves.

Aunt Olya cut the last dahlias in the garden. Fingering the wet flowers, breathing with damp freshness, she said:

- It's autumn.

And it was strange to see these flowers in the twilight of a room with tear-stained windows.

I hoped that the suddenly creeping bad weather would not linger long. The cold is, in fact, too early. After all, Indian summer is still ahead - one or two weeks of quiet sunny days with silver flying cobwebs, with the aroma of late antonovka and penultimate mushrooms.

But the weather didn't improve. The rains turned into winds. And endless strings of clouds crawled and rolled. The garden slowly withered, crumbled, and did not blaze with bright autumn colors.

The day somehow imperceptibly melted behind the bad weather. Already at four o'clock Aunt Olya was lighting the lamp. Wrapped up in a goat shawl, she brought in the samovar, and we, having nothing to do, began to drink tea for a long time. Then she chopped cabbage for pickling, and I sat down to work or, if something interesting came across, I read aloud.

“But they haven’t stocked up on fungi these days,” said Aunt Olya. - Come on, now they are completely gone. Is it just again ...

And sure enough, the last week of October was going on, still just as gloomy and joyless. Somewhere the golden Indian summer passed by. There was no longer any hope for warmer days. Wait for it, it will start. What kind of mushrooms now!

And the next day I woke up from the feeling of some kind of holiday in myself. I opened my eyes and gasped in amazement. The small, previously gloomy room was full of joyful light. On the windowsill, pierced by the sun's rays, a geranium was young and freshly green.

I looked out the window. The roof of the shed was silver with frost. The white sparkling coating quickly thawed, and cheerful, lively drops fell from the eaves. Through the thin netting of the bare branches of the bird-cherry, the cleanly washed sky was serenely blue.

I couldn't wait to get out of the house as soon as possible. I asked Aunt Olya for a small box of mushrooms, slung a double-barreled shotgun over my shoulder and walked into the forest.

The last time I was in the forest, when it was still quite green, full of careless bird chatter. And now he is all somehow quiet and stern. The winds have bared the trees, scattered the foliage far around, and the forest stands strangely empty and transparent.

Only the oak tree, which stood alone at the very edge of the forest, did not shed its foliage. She only turned brown, curled up, scorched by the breath of autumn. The oak stood like an epic warrior, stern and mighty. Lightning had once struck him, drained the peak, and now a broken branch stuck out above his heavy, bronze-forged crown, like a formidable weapon raised for a new fight.

I went deep into the forest, cut out a stick with a fork on the end and began to look for mushroom places.

Finding mushrooms in a motley mosaic of fallen leaves is not an easy task. And are they available at such a late hour? I wandered for a long time through the echoing, deserted forest, tedding under the bushes with a spear, joyfully stretching out my hand to the reddish mushroom cap that appeared, but it immediately mysteriously disappeared, and instead of it only aspen leaves turned red. At the bottom of my box rolled only three or four late russula with dark purple wide-brimmed hats.

Only towards noon did I come across an old felling, overgrown with grasses and tree growth, among which stumps blackened here and there. On one of them, I found a cheerful family of red, thin-legged mushrooms. They crowded between two knotty rhizomes, just like mischievous children who ran out to bask on a mound. I carefully cut them all at once, without separating them, and put them in a container. Then he found another such happy stump, more, and soon regretted that he had not taken with him a basket more spacious. Well, and this is a good gift for my kind old lady. Something will be glad!

Year of publication of the story: 1958

Children's books by Evgeny Nosov, such as the story "Living Flame", have long won the love of our reader. Many current parents grew up on the stories of this writer. Therefore, it is not surprising that they offer the same books to their children. Partly due to this, as well as the presence of Nosov's works in the school curriculum, the writer's work is still in demand. And the author himself occupies high places among.

The story "Living Flame" summary

In the story "The Living Flame" by Nosov, the story is told in the first person. It begins with the fact that Aunt Olya, from whom our narrator rents a room, offers to help her cut a flower bed. And while the main character is happy to knead his back while working with a chopper, she sorts through the bags of flowers. The protagonist wonders why she never sows poppies. But Aunt Olya is sure that poppy is a vegetable and its place is in the garden. After all, it blooms for only two days. Nevertheless, the main character throws a handful of seeds into the very center of the flower bed. This is discovered quite quickly, and Aunt Olya decides to leave only a trio of flowers, and weeds out the rest.

Further, in the summary of Nosov's Living Flame, you can read about how the main character leaves for two weeks. Upon his return, Aunt Olya sings it with kvass, which her son Alyoshka loved so much, and says that the narrator's poppies have already risen. The flowerbed was indeed a feast for the eyes and the poppies had already thrown out their buds.

Further in Nosov's story "Living Flame" you can read about how the very next day Aunt Olya called the narrator to look at her poppies. In the center of the flowerbed they blazed like torches. And two days later they fell off and the flowerbed was somehow empty. Aunt Olya said: “Burned! Lived without looking back, to the fullest. That's the way it is with people." And then somehow quickly hurried home. I immediately remembered the story of her son Alyoshka, who, like the hero, was a pilot. He dived on the back of a German bomber in his little hawk.

A lot of time has passed since then. Now the main character of the story "The Living Flame" Nosova lives at the other end of the city and only occasionally visits Aunt Olya. They drink tea, share news, and a lot of poppies grow in a flower bed nearby. Some fall, but others rise nearby, and new poppies are already rising from the ground to replace them.

The story "Living Flame" on the Top Books website

Nosov's story "The Living Flame" is quite popular to read, especially on the eve of Victory Day. So this year the story took a high place in our rating. Well, in the rankings, he almost always takes a worthy place. And this trend is likely to continue in the future.

In the lesson you will get acquainted with the content of the story by E. Nosov "Living Flame"; determine the theme and idea of ​​the story, which has become a continuation of the military theme in the author's work. The proposed citation material will help you evaluate the artistic originality of the story, find and interpret the main images and metaphors.

The author leads first person narration. He tells how he once helped his landlady Aunt Olya plant flowers in the flower bed in front of the house. Among other seeds, they came across poppy seeds. Aunt Olya did not want to plant them in a flower bed.

“- Well, which of the poppies is the color! she answered confidently. - It's a vegetable. It is sown in the beds along with onions and cucumbers ... It only happens to be a flower for two days. This is not suitable for a flower bed, it puffed and immediately burned out. And then all summer long this mallet sticks out and only spoils the view.

Nevertheless, the narrator, on the sly from the hostess, poured seeds in the center of the flower bed. When the flowers sprouted, Aunt Olya noticed the poppies, but did not pick them up. When the flower bed bloomed, the beauty of the flowers amazed everyone:

“From a distance, poppies looked like lit torches with live flames blazing merrily in the wind. A light wind swayed a little, the sun pierced the translucent scarlet petals with light, which made the poppies either flare up with a quivering bright fire, or fill with a thick crimson. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you!

Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, dimmed” (Fig. 2).

Rice. 2. "Living flame" ()

Lit torches, blazing flames, blinding and burning. The images that the writer uses are vivid, memorable, symbolic.

Really, poppies in the story became a symbol of the Eternal Flame. Therefore, the author chose the appropriate name: “Living Flame”. Such a hidden comparison in the literature is called metaphor.

Metaphor (from other Greek μεταφορά - “transfer”, “figurative meaning”) is a trope, a word or expression used in a figurative sense, which is based on an unnamed comparison of an object with any other on the basis of their common feature. The term belongs to Aristotle and is associated with his understanding of art as an imitation of life.

Rice. 3. Photo. E.I. Nosov ()

The Patriotic War found the writer, a sixteen-year-old boy, in his native village, who had to endure the fascist occupation. After the Battle of Kursk (July 5 - August 23, 1943), which he witnessed, Nosov goes to the front, joining the artillery troops.

In 1945, near Koenigsberg, he was wounded and met on May 9, 1945 in a hospital in Serpukhov, about which he would later write the story “Red Wine of Victory”.

Nosov's stories are characterized by one feature. War is often present in his works, but not in stories about the heroism of Soviet soldiers, but in the fate of ordinary Russian people who went through the war. So it was in the story "The Doll", when we got acquainted with the fate of Akimych. This is what happens in the story "The Living Flame", when we learn about the fate of Olga Petrovna, who lost her son in the war.

It’s hard for her to talk about the death of her son, so we only learn that he was a pilot and died, “diving on his tiny“ hawk ”on the back of a heavy fascist bomber ...”

The lines of E. Nosov's story are too sparing and do not describe in detail the feat of Alexei.

The pain that lives in the heart of a mother who lost her son in the war breaks out on the day when the poppy petals fell: “And immediately the lush flowerbed was empty without them.

Yes, it burned down ... - Aunt Olya sighed, as if in a living being. - And somehow I used to pay no attention to this poppy. He has a short life. But without looking back, lived to the fullest. And it happens to people...

Aunt Olya, somehow hunched over, suddenly hurried into the house.

There, in the house, is a photograph of the deceased son, his belongings. They keep the memory of a person. But the poppies, with their bright and short life, reminded Olga Petrovna of her son even more and more vividly.

Since then, Olga Petrovna has not planted any other flowers in the flowerbed. Only poppies. When the narrator visited his old acquaintance, he saw a striking picture: “And nearby, in a flower bed, a large carpet of poppies was blazing. Some crumbled, dropping petals to the ground like sparks, others only opened their fiery tongues. And from below, from the damp, full of vitality of the earth, more and more tightly rolled buds rose up to keep the living fire from going out.

Bibliography

1. Korovina V.Ya. Didactic materials on literature. 7th grade. — 2008.
2. Tishchenko O.A. Homework in literature for grade 7 (to the textbook by V.Ya. Korovina). — 2012.
3. Kuteynikova N.E. Literature lessons in grade 7. — 2009.
4. Korovina V.Ya. Literature textbook. 7th grade. Part 1. - 2012.
5. Korovina V.Ya. Literature textbook. 7th grade. Part 2. - 2009.
6. Ladygin M.B., Zaitseva O.N. Textbook-reader on literature. 7th grade. — 2012.
7. Kurdyumova T.F. Textbook-reader on literature. 7th grade. Part 1. - 2011.

1. FEB: Dictionary of literary terms ().
2. Dictionaries. Literary terms and concepts ().
3. Explanatory dictionary of the Russian language ().
4. E.I. Nosov. Biography ().
5. E.I. Nosov "Living Flame" ().

Homework

1. Read the story of E.I. Nosov "Living Flame". Plan it.
2. What moment was the climax of the story?
3. Read the description of flowering poppies. What means of artistic expression does the author use?
4. What unites the stories of E. Nosov "Doll" and "Living Flame"?

Aunt Olya looked into my room, again caught me behind the papers, and, raising her voice, said commandingly:
- Will write something! Go get some air, help cut the flower bed. Aunt Olya took out a birch bark box from the closet. While I gladly kneaded my back, raking the damp earth with a rake, she sat down on a mound and poured bags and bundles of flower seeds onto her knees and sorted them into varieties.
“Olga Petrovna, what is it,” I remark, “do you not sow poppies in flowerbeds?”
- Well, which of the poppies is the color! she answered confidently. - It's a vegetable. It is sown in the beds along with onions and cucumbers.
- What do you! I laughed. - In some old song it is sung:
And her forehead, like marble, is white. And the cheeks are burning, as if the color of poppies.
“It only blooms for two days,” Olga Petrovna persisted. - For a flower bed, this does not fit in any way, puffed and immediately burned out. And then all summer this mallet sticks out and only spoils the view.
But all the same, I secretly poured a pinch of poppy seeds into the very middle of the flower bed. She turned green after a few days.
- Have you planted poppies? - Aunt Olya approached me. - Oh, you are such a mischievous! So be it, leave the top three, you felt sorry. And shed the rest.
Unexpectedly, I left on business and returned only two weeks later. After a hot, tiring road, it was nice to enter Aunt Olya's quiet old house. The freshly washed floor was cool. A jasmine bush growing under the window cast a lacy shadow on the desk.
- Pour kvass? she suggested, looking sympathetically at me, sweaty and tired. - Alyoshka was very fond of kvass. It used to be that he himself bottled and sealed
When I rented this room, Olga Petrovna, raising her eyes to the portrait of a young man in a flight uniform that hangs over the desk, asked:
- Not prevent?
- What do you!
- This is my son Alex. And the room was his. Well, you settle down, live on health.
Handing me a heavy copper mug with kvass, Aunt Olya said:
- And your poppies have risen, the buds have already been thrown away. I went to look at the flowers. The flower bed was unrecognizable. Along the very edge was spread a rug, which, with its thick cover with flowers scattered over it, very much resembled a real carpet. Then the flower bed was girded with a ribbon of matthiols - modest night flowers that attract not by brightness, but by a gently bitter aroma, similar to the smell of vanilla. Curtains of yellow-violet pansies were full of flowers, purple-velvet hats of Parisian beauties swayed on thin legs. There were many other familiar and unfamiliar colors. And in the center of the flower bed, above all this flower diversity, my poppies rose, throwing out three tight, heavy buds towards the sun.
They broke up the next day.
Aunt Olya went out to water the flower bed, but immediately returned, rattling an empty watering can.
- Well, go look, bloomed.
From a distance, the poppies looked like lit torches with live, merrily blazing flames in the wind. A light wind swayed a little, the sun pierced the translucent scarlet petals with light, which made the poppies either flare up with a quivering bright fire, or fill with a thick crimson. It seemed that if you just touched it, they would immediately scorch you!
Poppies blinded with their mischievous, burning brightness, and next to them all these Parisian beauties, snapdragons and other flower aristocracy faded, dimmed.
Poppies burned wildly for two days. And at the end of the second day, they suddenly crumbled and went out. And immediately on a lush flower bed without them it became empty.
I picked up from the ground still quite fresh, in drops of dew, a petal and straightened it in my palm.
“That's all,” I said loudly, with a feeling of admiration that had not yet cooled down.
Yes, it burned down. . . - Aunt Olya sighed, as if in a living being. - And somehow I used to pay no attention to this poppy. His life is short. But without looking back, lived to the fullest.