Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky interesting facts. Stories about spring - Skrebitsky Georgy Alekseevich

Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky was born on July 20 (August 2), 1903 in Moscow. At the age of four, still a baby, he was adopted by Nadezhda Nikolaevna Skrebitskaya. Some time later, Nadezhda Nikolaevna marries a zemstvo doctor Alexei Mikhailovich Polilov, after which the whole family moves to live in the Tula province, in the small town of Chern. In the family where the boy grew up, they loved nature very much, and the adoptive father of the future writer was an avid hunter and fisherman, and he managed to pass on his hobbies to the boy. Sincere love for nature, which appeared and realized in childhood and youth, has become the benchmark of all life path Georgy Skrebitsky, giving an incomparable originality to his work. Georgy Skrebitsky often recalled that since childhood he was most interested in two things: natural history and fiction. And he managed to embody both of these professions, successfully combined with one another and gave us a wonderful naturalist writer.

In 1921, Georgy Alekseevich graduated from the Chern school of the 2nd stage and went to study in Moscow, where in 1925 he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of the Word. After that, he turned to his other passion and entered the Faculty of Game Science and Fur Breeding at the Higher Zootechnical Institute in order to thoroughly study the world of nature and animals close to him since childhood. After graduating from this institute, Georgy Skrebitsky became a researcher at the All-Union research institute animal husbandry and hunting. Here he worked for five years, and these years were excellent for him. scientific school, because every year in the summer he went on various expeditions and participated in the study of the natural life of animals.

Later, Georgy Alekseevich becomes a researcher in the laboratory of zoopsychology at the Institute of Psychology at Moscow State University. Here he became a candidate of biological sciences, and took the position of assistant professor at the Department of Animal Physiology at Moscow University. He traveled a lot on various expeditions, in which he observed the life of animals in their natural environment. During this time he wrote a lot scientific papers in zoology and zoopsychology. But in the memory of Georgy Alekseevich, memories of childhood, of the very first meetings with native nature, constantly surfaced. Scientific work constantly enriched knowledge about the nature and life of animals, and hunting trips often turned into truly adventure stories. Georgy Skrebitsky begins to write down his memoirs, addressing them to all those readers who are not indifferent to the nature around them.

Thus, the unification of two favorite professions in one person began, and Georgy Alekseevich realized his true calling - to be a singer native nature. Georgy Skrebitsky wrote his first story - "Ushan", about a leaf-falling hare - in 1939, after which he devoted himself completely to writing a variety of literary works, dedicated to nature. His books have always enjoyed great popularity both in our country and in many other countries. foreign countries, being translated into many foreign languages- Bulgarian, German, Albanian, Hungarian, Slovak, Czech, Polish and others.

The pinnacle of the creative talent of Georgy Skrebitsky big books which he wrote in last years own life. This is a wonderful story about childhood "From the first thaw to the first thunderstorm" and a wonderful story about youth "Chicks grow wings." it autobiographical works, whose action takes place for the most part in Cherni in the decades before the October Revolution and in the first years after the formation Soviet power. These books crown creative way Georgy Skrebitsky, they especially expressively revealed the bright features of his literary talent, which is directly related to a subtle understanding of the natural world and its most diverse inhabitants. Children's and youthful perceptions help especially accurately convey the story of a whole strip of Russian life, which was marked by significant historical events. Georgy Skrebitsky's works are written with great spiritual warmth, they are unusually poetic and kind.

In the summer of 1964, Georgy Alekseevich felt unwell, and with an attack of acute pain in his heart, he was taken to the hospital.
Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky died on August 18, 1964, he died of a heart attack, was buried in Moscow at the Vagankovsky cemetery.

G. Skrebitsky

Hunter's Tales

Out of breath, village children ran into my room.

Uncle, who did we find! Oh, who did we find! They turn their eyes like that! .. - they all started clamoring at once, interrupting each other.

From the confused stories of the guys, I only understood that they found a den in the forest with some gray shaggy animals, probably with wolf cubs. I took a gun and, together with the children, went into the forest.

They led me to the very wilderness, to an old, swampy burnt-out place.

Dark, half-rotted trunks of trees piled on top of one another all around. I had to crawl under them, then climb over solid barriers. The twisted roots stuck up like the tentacles of giant octopuses. In the pits below them blackened, thick as tar, swamp water.

A young green birch forest and various swamp grasses have grown densely between the decaying trees.

Even in the heat, it was cool here and smelled sharply of fragrant swamp dampness.

Where are we going? I asked my guides.

And over there on that mane. There, at the very edge ... - they started talking, pointing to a small mound overgrown with pine trees.

And what about the mother herself with them? they said. - Oh, and she will ask us - you won’t climb anymore.

I had little idea what kind of animals the children found, and therefore, I confess, I also approached the mysterious lair not without timidity. Maybe there are not wolves, but a lynx! With her, the conversation will be worse. The she-wolf is cowardly, in case of danger she will run away from the children, and the lynx, perhaps, can rush.

The kids let me go ahead, and they themselves huddled behind me.

There, there, you see, the pine tree is fallen down, under the roots like a hole. They are sitting there ... all gray, shaggy, their eyes are burning ... Terrible! ..

I cocked the trigger of my gun and began to cautiously approach the lair. Approaching ten steps, I whistled and prepared to shoot. But no one showed up from under the pine tree. I stepped closer and whistled again. Nobody again.

Is there anyone there? Maybe they all ran away?

I got close to the pine itself and looked under the roots.

I see two gray fluffy creatures huddling together. I took a closer look and almost cried out in surprise: in a hole under the roots were two gray shaggy owls. “Well, the birds! I didn't take them for animals. Yes, what funny, big-eyed! I'll take, - I think, - one home, I'll take it to the city, to the school living corner. The kids will be happy!”

I wrapped my hand in a handkerchief so that the owl would not hurt me, and with some difficulty pulled out from under the roots of a large, desperately resisting chick.

The guys surrounded me.

Well, it's scary! And look, look, look! And it doesn't even look like a bird!

The owl was already almost from an adult owl, with huge head and yellow cat eyes; all in brown-gray down, in some places feathers were already breaking through.

He looked around frightened, opened his mouth and hissed angrily.

We brought him home and put him in a spacious closet.

The caught owl very soon got used to me. When I entered the closet, he no longer huddled in a corner, but, on the contrary, clumsily ran towards me, opened his mouth and demanded food.

I fed him finely chopped raw meat which he ate with great greed. I named him Filyusha.

Filyusha felt great; it grew rapidly and was covered with feathers. Often, sitting on the floor, he began to flap his wings and bounce, trying to take off.

Once, when I entered the closet, I did not find the owl in its usual place - in the corner behind the box. I searched the whole closet - Filyusha was nowhere to be found. So he got away somehow.

I was very annoyed and sorry for the filinenka. “After all, he still doesn’t know how to fly, he won’t be able to feed himself, he’ll hide somewhere under a barn or under a house and die,” I thought.

Suddenly, someone was moving over me. I look, and this is Filyusha: he is sitting on a shelf near the ceiling and looking at me.

I rejoiced, I told him:

There you are, robber, climbed! This means that the wings are stronger than steel; soon you will be able to fly.

After that, I pass once by a closet. Suddenly I hear - there is noise, some kind of fuss. I opened the door, I looked - Filyusha was sitting in the middle of the floor; all fluffed up, hisses at me, clicks with his beak.

I can't figure out what happened to him. I took a closer look: I see - and a huge rat sticks out from under the owl's paw.

Ege, brother, are you already starting to hunt for rats here?

“That's how interesting! I thought. “I took the owl from the nest as a very small one, no one taught him, but the time has come, he himself began to hunt.”

Filyusha ate the rat, down to the last bone, and also ate the skin, then he flew up to his shelf, sat down there and dozed off. And in the morning I look - on the floor under the shelf lies a hard gray lump: it was Filyusha who spat out the rest.

Birds of prey always do this: they swallow their prey in whole pieces, with bones, with wool, with feathers. The meat in their stomach will be digested, and everything inedible will stick together into a hard lump. They will spit it out. Such lumps are called riddles.

Ever since Filyusha caught the rat, I stopped feeding him minced meat, and started shooting sparrows, jackdaws, and crows for him. I will bring and throw the dead bird on the floor. The filyusha will immediately fluff up all over, aim at the prey as if it were alive, then rush from the shelf, grab it with its claws and begin to tear it with its hooked beak. Eat - and back on the shelf.

One day, yard dogs strangled a hedgehog. I have long heard that eagle owls love hedgehog meat. I took a hedgehog, I carry Filyusha and I think: “How will he tear off the meat from the skin with needles from the hedgehog? After all, it will probably be pierced, and even the needle, as if by accident, did not swallow.

Filyusha only saw the hedgehog, rushed at him, seized the prey with his claws and began to tear off big chunks meat. Tears and swallows, right along with the skin, with thorns.

I froze - the needles are sharp, how can he not pierce his entire mouth and stomach with them? And Filyusha, at least that! He ate the whole meal.

The whole day I was restless - I was afraid that the owl would not get sick from such a "prickly dinner". Several times I went to visit him, but Filyusha was dozing peacefully on his shelf.

The next morning I found two pellets with hedgehog needles on the floor.

It has been about a month since I brought the eagle owl from the forest. Now he flew quite well around the closet.

Once I was sitting in the yard near the house. Suddenly I see - Filyusha flies out of the open passage. That's right, by accident the door to the closet was left open.

Before I could gasp, the owl was already sitting on the roof. Bright sunlight blinded him, he turned his huge head in surprise and did not dare to fly further.

I rushed to the attic stairs, but at that moment Filyusha flapped his huge soft wings and quietly flew across the yard to the birch grove.

I ran after him, not knowing what to do. “My gift to the guys flew away!”

Suddenly, a whole flock of rooks broke from the birches. With a loud croak they pounced on Filyusha. Wings and feathers flashed in the air. Everything mixed up and flew down.

Crazed with fear, Filyusha fell to the ground and, spreading his wings wide, fought off the rooks.

I ran up, chased away the pugnacious birds, and brought the eagle owl back to the closet.

Since then, he no longer tried to escape from the closet during the day.

But at dusk, I myself began to release it.

He usually flew not far: over the house, over the yard. Then he will sit on the barn and start hooting, as if in a forest.

Filyusha knew his nickname well.

As soon as I called him, he instantly flew off the roof and sat on my arm or shoulder.

His claws were large and sharp, and for walks with Filyusha I began to put on an old wadded jacket so that he would not scratch me.

One evening, as usual, I let Filyusha out for a walk. Having flown, he sat on the roof. I called him to carry home, but this time he did not - thought to fly to me.

It's like something happened to him. No matter how much I called him, Filyusha never came down. He sits on his roof, as if he does not hear.

Before two or three minutes had passed, a terrible commotion arose in the rook grove.

“Have the rooks noticed Filyusha even in the dark and are tearing him up again?” I ran into the grove. The rooks are screaming, but I can’t see anything. So he came back with nothing.

I go up to the porch, and what would you think? Filyusha is already at home. He sits on the porch, on the railing, and holds a dead rook in his paws.

That, then, is why the rooks in the grove were so alarmed! They slept in the trees, in the dark, and did not notice how Filyusha attacked them. And the owl sees everything perfectly at night. He grabbed one rook, pulled him up and dragged him to dinner.

Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky is a famous naturalist writer.

Georgy Skrebitsky was born in Moscow, in the family of a doctor. His childhood years were spent in the provincial town of Chern, Tula province, and childhood impressions of the dim nature of these places remained forever in the memory of the future writer. In 1921, Skrebitsky graduated from the Chern school of the 2nd stage and went to study in Moscow, where in 1925 he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of the Word. Then he enters the Moscow Higher Forestry Engineering Institute, after which he works at the All-Union Institute of Fur Farming, in the laboratory of zoopsychology of the Institute of Psychology at Moscow State University. Candidate of Biological Sciences.

However, not the scientific career of a naturalist-researcher, but literary creativity becomes the main thing in the life of Georgy Skrebitsky since the late 1930s. In 1939, according to the script he wrote, the popular science film "The Island of White Birds" was released, the material for which was a scientific expedition to the bird nests of the White Sea.

At the same time, the writer's own debut took place: the story "Ushan" was published. “This,” said Georgy Alekseevich later, “is like a crack through which I looked into the country of the past, the country of my childhood” (“Leaf Fall. Instead of a Preface”). Already the first collections of Skrebitsky's "Coot and Cunning" (1944), "Hunter's Tales" (1948) put him among the best children's naturalist writers.
Since the late 1940s, the well-known animal writer Vera Chaplina has become a like-minded person and literary co-author of Georgy Skrebitsky. In their joint work, they also turned to the smallest readers - they wrote very short educational stories about nature in the magazine "Murzilka" and in the book for first-graders "Native speech". But these simple and easy-to-understand texts turned out to be technically very difficult work for real writers and connoisseurs of nature, which Skrebitsky and Chaplin were in full measure. It was important for them, while achieving simplicity, not to stray into primitiveness. Special accuracy of the word was required, the rhythm of each phrase was verified in order to give the kids a figurative and at the same time true idea of ​​“How the squirrel hibernates” or how the cockchafer lives.
In collaboration with Skrebitsky and Chaplin, they create scripts for the cartoons Forest Travelers (1951) and In the Forest Thicket (1954). After a joint trip to Western Belarus, they publish a book of essays "In Belovezhskaya Pushcha" (1949).
In the 1950s, Skrebitsky continued to work on his new collections of short stories: In the Forest and on the River (1952), Our Reserves (1957). The result of the writer's work were two autobiographical novels "From the first thawed patches to the first thunderstorm" (1964) and "Chicks grow wings" (1966); the text of the last story remained unfinished - after the death of Georgy Skrebitsky, Vera Chaplina prepared it for publication.

Georgy Skrebitsky "The Orphan"

The guys brought us a small shirt ... he still could not fly, he only jumped. We fed him cottage cheese, porridge, soaked bread, gave him small pieces of boiled meat; he ate everything, refused nothing.

Soon the chemise grew a long tail and wings were overgrown with stiff black feathers. He quickly learned to fly and moved to live from the room to the balcony.

Only this was the trouble with him: our shirt could not learn to eat on his own. A very adult bird, such a beautiful one, flies well, but everything, like a little chick, asks for food. You go out onto the balcony, sit down at the table, the magpie is right there, spinning in front of you, crouches, puffs up its wings, opens its mouth. And it's funny and pitiful. Mom even called her Orphan. She used to put cottage cheese or soaked bread in her mouth, swallow forty - and again begins to ask, but she herself does not peck from the plate. We taught and taught her - nothing came of it, so we had to stuff food into her mouth. Orphan used to eat, shake himself, look at the plate with a sly black eye to see if there was anything else tasty there, and fly up on the crossbar to the very ceiling or fly into the garden, into the yard ...

She flew everywhere and was familiar with everyone: with the fat cat Ivanovich, with the hunting dog Jack, with ducks, chickens; even with the old pugnacious rooster Petrovich, the magpie was in friendly relations. He bullied everyone in the yard, but did not touch her. It used to be that chickens pecked from the trough, and the magpie immediately turned around. It smells deliciously of warm soaked bran, you want a magpie to have breakfast in a friendly chicken company, but nothing comes of it.

The Orphan sticks to the chickens, crouches, squeaks, opens its beak - no one wants to feed it.

She will also jump up to Petrovich, squeak, and he will only look at her, muttering: “What an outrage this is!” — and walk away. And then he suddenly flaps his strong wings, stretches his neck up, strains, stands on tiptoe and sings: “Ku-ka-re-ku!” so loud you can even hear it across the river.

And the magpie jumps and jumps around the yard, flies into the stable, looks into the cow's stall ... everyone eats themselves, and again she has to fly to the balcony and ask to be fed from her hands.

Once there was no one to mess with the magpie. Everyone was busy all day. Already she pestered, pestered everyone, no one feeds her!

That day I fished in the river in the morning, returned home only in the evening and threw out the remaining worms in the yard. Let the chickens peck.

Petrovich immediately noticed the prey, ran up and began to call the chickens: “Ko-ko-ko-ko! Ko-ko-ko-ko!" And, as luck would have it, they scattered somewhere, not a single one in the yard.

Already the rooster is knocked out of his strength! He calls, calls, then grabs the worm in his beak, shakes it, throws it and calls again - for no reason does the first one want to eat. Even hoarse, but the chickens still do not go.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, forty. She flew up to Petrovich, spread her wings and opened her mouth: feed me, they say.

The rooster immediately cheered up, grabbed a huge worm in its beak, lifted it up, shaking it in front of the very nose of the magpie. She looked, looked, then the worm's chop - and ate it! And the rooster gives her the second one. She ate both the second and the third, and Petrovich himself pecked the fourth.

I look out the window and wonder how a rooster feeds a magpie from its beak: either he will give it to her, then he will eat it himself, then he will offer it to her again. And he keeps saying: “Ko-ko-ko-ko! ..” He bows, shows worms on the ground with his beak: “Eat, they say, don’t be afraid, they are so delicious.”

And I don’t know how it all worked out for them there, how he explained to her what was the matter, I only see a rooster crowed, showed a worm on the ground, and a magpie jumped up, turned its head on its side, on the other, took a closer look and ate it right from the ground . Petrovich even shook his head as a sign of encouragement; then he grabbed a hefty worm himself, threw it up, caught it more comfortably with his beak and swallowed: “Here, they say, as in our opinion.” But the magpie, apparently, understood what was the matter - it jumps near him and pecks. The rooster also began to pick up worms. So they try to race against each other - who is faster. In an instant, all the worms were pecked.

Since then, the magpie did not have to be hand-fed. Once, Petrovich taught her how to handle food. And how he explained it to her, I myself do not know.

Georgy Skrebitsky "White coat"

It didn't snow for a long time that winter. Rivers and lakes have long been covered with ice, but there is still no snow.

The winter forest without snow seemed gloomy and dull. All the leaves have long fallen off the trees, migratory birds have flown south, not a single bird squeaks anywhere; only cold wind whistles among the bare icy boughs.

Once I was walking with the guys through the forest, we were returning from neighboring village. We went out to the forest clearing. Suddenly we see - in the middle of a clearing above a large bush crows are circling. They croak, fly around him, then they will fly up, then they will sit on the ground. They must have found some food there.

They started getting closer. Crows noticed us - some flew off to the side, sat down in the trees, while others did not want to fly away, so they circled overhead.

We went up to the bush, we look - something turns white under it, and what - through the frequent branches and we can’t make out.

I parted the branches, I looked - a hare, white-white as snow. He huddled under the very bush, clung to the ground, lies not moving.

Everything around is gray - both the earth and fallen leaves, and the hare among them turns white.

That's why he caught the eye of the crows - he dressed in a white fur coat, but there was no snow, which means that he, white, had nowhere to hide. Let's try to catch him alive!

I slipped my hand under the branches, quietly, carefully, and immediately slammed behind the ears - and pulled it out from under the bush!

The hare is beating in his hands, he wants to escape. We just look - one of his legs somehow hangs strangely. They touched her, but she was broken! It means that the crows beat him badly. If we had not come on time, perhaps we would have scored completely.

I brought the rabbit home. Dad took out a bandage, cotton wool from the first-aid kit, bandaged the broken leg of the hare and put it in a box. Mom put hay, carrots, a bowl of water there. So we have a bunny and stayed to live. Lived for a whole month. His leg had completely grown together, he even began to jump out of the box and was not at all afraid of me. He jumps out, runs around the room, and when one of the guys comes to me, he hides under the bed.

While the hare lived at our house, and the snow fell, white, fluffy, like a hare's fur coat. It is easy for a hare to hide in it. In the snow you will not notice it soon.

“Well, now you can let him go back into the forest,” dad once told us.

So we did - we took the hare to the nearest forest, said goodbye to him and released him into the wild.

The morning was quiet, the night before poured a lot of snow. The forest became white, shaggy.

In an instant, our bunny in the snow-covered bushes disappeared.

That's when he needed a white coat!

Georgy Skrebitsky "Caring mother"

Once the shepherds caught a fox and brought it to us. We put the animal in an empty barn.

The fox was still small, all gray, the muzzle was dark, and the tail was white at the end. The animal huddled in the far corner of the barn and looked around frightened. From fear, he did not even bite when we stroked him, but only pressed his ears and trembled all over.

Mom poured milk into a bowl for him and put it right next to him. But the frightened animal did not drink milk.

Then dad said that the fox should be left alone - let him look around, get used to the new place.

I really didn't want to leave, but dad locked the door and we went home. It was already evening, and soon everyone went to bed.

I woke up at night. I hear a puppy yelping and whining somewhere very close by. Where do you think he came from? Looked out the window. It was already light outside. From the window I could see the barn where the fox cub was. It turns out that he was whining like a puppy.

The forest began right behind the barn.

Suddenly I saw a fox jump out of the bushes, stop, listen, and stealthily run up to the barn. Immediately the yelping in it stopped, and instead a joyful screech was heard.

I slowly woke my mom and dad, and we all started looking out the window together.

The fox was running around the barn, trying to dig the ground under it. But there was a strong stone foundation, and the fox could not do anything. Soon she ran away into the bushes, and the fox cub again began to whine loudly and plaintively.

I wanted to watch the fox all night, but dad said that she would not come again, and ordered me to go to bed.

I woke up late and, having dressed, first of all hastened to visit the little fox. What is it? .. On the threshold near the door lay a dead hare.

I rather ran to my dad and brought him with me.

- That's the thing! - said dad, seeing the hare. - This means that the fox mother once again came to the fox cub and brought him food. She could not get inside, so she left it outside. What a caring mother!

All day I hovered around the barn, looked into the cracks, and twice went with my mother to feed the fox. And in the evening I couldn’t fall asleep in any way, I kept jumping out of bed and looking out the window to see if the fox had come.

Finally, my mother got angry and covered the window with a dark curtain.

But in the morning I got up a little before light and immediately ran to the barn. This time, it was no longer a hare lying on the threshold, but a strangled neighbor's chicken. It can be seen that the fox again came to visit the fox cub at night. She failed to catch prey in the forest for him, so she climbed into the neighbors' chicken coop, strangled the chicken and brought it to her cub.

Dad had to pay for the chicken, and besides, he got a lot from the neighbors.

“Take the fox away wherever you want,” they shouted, “otherwise the fox will transfer the whole bird with us!”

There was nothing to do, dad had to put the fox in a bag and take it back to the forest, to the fox holes.

Since then, the fox has not returned to the village.

Georgy Skrebitsky "Forest Voice"

Sunny day at the very beginning of summer.

I wander not far from the house in a birch copse. Everything around seems to be bathing, splashing in golden waves of heat and light. Birch branches flow above me. The leaves on them seem either emerald green or completely golden. And below, under the birches, light bluish shadows run and stream along the grass, like waves. And bright bunnies, like the reflections of the sun in the water, run one after another along the grass, along the path.

The sun is both in the sky and on the ground ... and it becomes so good, so fun that you want to run away somewhere far away, to where the trunks of young birch trees sparkle with their dazzling whiteness.

And suddenly, from this sunny distance, I heard a familiar forest voice: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

Cuckoo! I've heard it many times before, but I've never even seen it in a picture.

What is she like? For some reason, she seemed to me plump, big-headed, like an owl. But maybe she's not like that at all? I'll run and have a look.

Alas, it turned out not to be easy at all. I - to her voice. And she will be silent and here again: “Ku-ku, ku-ku!” — but in a completely different place.

How can you see her? I stopped in thought. Maybe she's playing hide-and-seek with me? She's hiding and I'm looking. And let's play the other way around: now I'll hide, and you look.

I climbed into a hazel bush and also cuckooed once, twice. The cuckoo fell silent - maybe looking for me? I sit silently and I, even my heart is pounding with excitement. And suddenly somewhere nearby: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

I'm silent: look better, don't shout at the whole forest.

And she is already very close: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

I look: some kind of bird flies through the clearing, the tail is long, it is gray itself, only the breast is covered with dark spots. Probably a hawk. This one in our yard hunts for sparrows. He flew up to a neighboring tree, sat down on a branch, bent down and shouted: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

Cuckoo! That's it! So, she is not like an owl, but like a hawk.

I will cuckoo her from the bush in response! With a fright, she almost fell off the tree, immediately darted down from the branch, sniffing somewhere in the thicket, only she could be seen.

But I don't need to see her anymore. So I solved the forest riddle, and besides, for the first time I myself spoke to the bird in its native language.

So the sonorous forest voice of the cuckoo revealed to me the first secret of the forest. And since then, for half a century now, I have been wandering in winter and summer along deaf, untrodden paths and discovering more and more secrets. And there is no end to these winding paths, and there is no end to the secrets of native nature.

For one year we lived in Ukraine, in a small village, surrounded by continuous cherry orchards.

There was an old tree growing near our house. And then one day in early spring a stork flew on it and sat down. He examined something for a long time, awkwardly stepping on his long legs on a fat bitch. Then he flew away.

And the next morning we saw that two storks were busy on the tree.

They made a nest.

Soon the nest was ready. The stork laid eggs there and began to incubate them. And the stork either flew off to the swamp for food, or stood near the nest on a bough, tucking one leg under it. So, on one leg, he could stand for a very long time, he could even take a little nap.

One day my mother called me:

Yura, come quickly, look at the booty I brought!

I rushed towards the house. Mom was standing on the porch, she was holding a purse woven from rods. I looked inside. There, on a litter of grass and leaves, someone plump, in a silvery coat, was scurrying around.

Who is this puppy? I asked.

No, some kind of animal, - answered my mother, - but I don’t know which one. I have now bought from the kids. They say they brought it from the forest.

We entered the room, approached leather sofa and carefully tilted the purse to one side.

Well, get out, baby, don't be afraid! - Mom suggested to the animal.

It didn't snow for a long time that winter. Rivers and lakes have long been covered with ice, but there is still no snow.

The winter forest without snow seemed gloomy and dull. All the leaves have fallen from the trees, migratory birds flew south, not a single bird squeaks anywhere; only a cold wind whistles among the bare icy boughs.

Once I was walking with the guys through the forest, we were returning from a neighboring village. We went out to the forest clearing. Suddenly we see - in the middle of a clearing above a large bush crows are circling. They croak, fly around him, then they will fly up, then they will sit on the ground. They must have found some food there.

They started getting closer. Crows noticed us - some flew off to the side, sat on the trees, while others didn’t want to fly away, they circled overhead.

A bustling squirrel woke up in the branches of an old spruce in its nest. Actually, she did not build this nest herself, it was twisted by a magpie in the form of a dense ball, leaving only a round loophole in one side.

Inside the nest, the magpie arranged a tray of soft grass stalks. It turned out a cozy apartment with wicker walls and the same wicker roof. In it, the magpie calmly raised chicks.

In the summer, the kids grew up, and the entire magpie family left their native nest, scattered in different directions.

But the forest apartment was empty for long. In the fall, a squirrel found her. She immediately began to equip the future home in her own way, insulate it, and prepare it for the winter.

My favorite time of the year - spring, but not at all like that, when the grass turns green and leaves bloom on the trees, no, I love the very beginning of spring.

Here they ran along the hollows, brooks gurgled, the roads became muddy, and black, white-nosed rooks walked importantly along them. Here in the fields, along the mounds, on the bake, the first thawed patches appeared, the larks sang over them. This is my favorite time of the year - the awakening of the earth, its first smile to the sun.

At this time I like to put on not a fur coat, but a light hunting jacket, high boots and go wandering out of town.

I walk, without hesitation, right through the mud, through puddles, and then I sit down somewhere by the side of the road on fallen logs or on a pile of stones, take off my hat and expose my face to the hot April sun.

The reserve is a place where all hunting is prohibited and animals are quietly bred, as in a huge zoo, only not in cages, but in complete freedom. Such reserves are necessary in order to preserve valuable animals in nature - sables, beavers, seals, elks ... In one of these reserves I served as a researcher.

Our reserve was located among forests and swamps, in which a wide variety of animals and birds were found. On the bank of a small forest river there was a house where we, the employees of the reserve, lived.

Every morning at sunrise, we took field bags, notebooks, food with us and went to the forest for the whole day to observe and study the life of its winged and four-legged inhabitants. For tens of kilometers in a circle, we knew every mink, every nest, how many cubs where, when they were born, what their parents feed them, knew all their joys and hardships, and tried in every possible way to help our forest friends.

So we lived in the forest together with animals and birds, learned to understand their voices and read records of paws and tails on fresh mud and sand near swamps and rivers.

Once in the morning, when we were already going on a regular hike, we hear cart wheels rattling under the windows. It was a rare event: not often someone looked into our wilderness. We all jumped out onto the porch.

I really like to go hunting not alone, but with one of my friends, but on one condition: my companion must also understand and love hunting, and not just wander with me as an outside observer.

Therefore, I resolutely protested when my friend Georgy Nikolin, an excellent comrade, but not a hunter at all, decided to go with me to the capercaillie current.

But I hope I can see you through? - asked George.

Yes, you certainly may. I'm always glad to see you, but not on the hunt.

We said goodbye amicably, and George went home. And I, having finished the preparations, went to bed.

The next morning at exactly nine o'clock I was already at the station, took a ticket and went to get into the car.

A friend was waiting for me on the platform. His attire somewhat surprised me. George was wearing a short jacket and high boots.

Sometimes at the beginning of autumn a rare day is given out. It is all as if poured out of blue glass and decorated with fine gilding. The distance is transparently turning blue, and the birches on the slope are thin and straight, like white candles. Their withering foliage glows with a golden light. The blue sky, the blue distance, the brilliance of the sun and the multi-colored dressing of the forests - how it all resembles some kind of fabulous holiday, for the last hello of the outgoing summer.

Everything in nature seems to say goodbye to the sun, to warmth, wants last time dress up brighter, so that later you can take off your farewell outfit for a long time and lock it in a heavy chest of winter forged with silver.

On such a fine autumn day, I remember, I wandered with a gun and a dog through birch copses - I hunted woodcocks.

I walked around one clearing, another, a third ... It was already beginning to get dark. Burning brighter in autumn twilight yellow birch candles. The wind died down. It was a clear September evening.

I sat on a stump. Karo lay down at my feet; so we saw off this quiet day.

Suddenly, something crunched in the distance, branches crackled - getting closer, closer ... Some kind of hoarse jerky roar, or rather a groan, was heard in the silence.

A cold, dim sun rises in the winter fog. The snow-covered forest sleeps. It seems that all living things froze from this cold - not a sound, only trees occasionally crackle from frost.

I go out into the forest clearing. Behind the clearing is a dense old spruce forest. All trees are hung with large cones. There are so many cones that the ends of the branches bowed under their weight.

How quiet! In winter, you will not hear the birds singing. Now they are not up to the songs. Many flew south, and those that remained huddled in secluded corners, hiding from the bitter cold.

Suddenly, like a spring breeze, rustled over the frozen forest: a whole flock of birds, merrily calling to each other, swept over the clearing. Why, these are crossbills - natural northerners! They are not afraid of our frosts.

Crossbills stuck around the tops of fir trees. The birds grabbed the cones with tenacious claws and pulled out tasty seeds from under the scales. When the harvest of cones is good, these birds are not threatened by the starvation of winter. They will find food everywhere.

I stood in the clearing and watched how the crossbills bustled about in their airy dining room.

The morning sun brightly illuminated the green tops of fir trees, bunches of ruddy cones and cheerful, feasting birds. And it seemed to me that spring had already come. Now it will smell of thawed earth, the forest will come to life and, meeting the sun, birds will chirp.

It happened a long time ago. Spring-Krasna flew from the south to our region. She gathered to decorate the forests with green foliage, to spread a motley carpet of herbs and flowers in the meadows. But here's the trouble: Winter doesn't want to leave, apparently, she liked visiting us; every day, it becomes fervent: it will spin a blizzard, a blizzard, it will roam with all its might ...

When are you going to your North? Spring asks her.

Wait, - Zima answers, - your time has not come yet.

Waited, waited for Spring and was tired of waiting. And then all the birds and animals - all living things prayed to her: "Drive away Winter, she froze us completely, let us at least bask in the sun, lie in the green grass."

Again Spring asks Winter:

Georgy Skrebitsky is known to the world as a naturalist writer. Georgy Alekseevich was born in Moscow in 1903. He grew up in a provincial town, which was not distinguished by the brightness of nature. However, in the family of the future writer they loved nature in any of its manifestations. The father was engaged in hunting and fishing, and the son shared his hobbies. Love for nature, pinned back in childhood, has become the main reference point in creativity for Skrebitsky.

Georgy Alekseevich perfectly combined his scientific career with literary activity. He used his knowledge to write naturalistic works. Skrebitsky makes his debut by publishing the story "Ushan". According to the author himself, in this work he seems to look into the past, into the world of his childhood. The sincerity of the story did not leave readers indifferent. Skrebitsky's stories can be read in the collections "Coot and Cunning" and "Notes of a Hunter". It was they who brought the author fame as one of the best children's naturalist writers.

It is known that Georgy Alekseevich often worked in collaboration with the talented animal writer Vera Chaplina. Their creative tandem gave good results. They wrote small instructive stories about the natural world for young readers. The text of such stories is perceived very easily, but the work on their creation was not easy. Being responsible researchers, Skrebitsky and Chaplin always tried to recreate the real nature in the stories in exact details. They sought to ensure that readers could not only figuratively, but also correctly imagine how, for example, a squirrel hibernates or how a cockchafer lives. The accuracy of each word, the rhythm of phrases brought to perfection - all this became the key to the success of their stories.

Georgy Alekseevich wrote not only stories. Skrebitsky's tales make up a smaller part creative heritage naturalist writer, but they are also important. It's instructive small stories, bright and emotional, in which animals are often the main characters, and the natural world is opposed to human society. Skrebitsky's fairy tales will definitely appeal to young readers. They can be read at home or studied in class at lower grades. The texts of the fairy tales of Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky can be found in this section of the literary site.