A horse going slowly uphill. Peasant children poem by Nikolai Nekrasov

MAN WITH A NAIL

Once upon a time in the cold winter time,
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And, marching importantly, in serenity.
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
- Hello, boy! - “Go past yourself!”
- Painfully you are formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
- Does your father have a big family? -
“The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
- So there it is! What's your name? -
"Vlas".
- And what year are you? - “The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" shouted the little one in a bass voice.
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster ...

PEASANT CHILDREN

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long.
Meadow river: they jumped in a crowd,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
Home, kids! It's time to dine.
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... wow, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers.
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! Retreated...
Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen,
Who nurses his sister, two-year-old Glashka,
Who drags a bucket of kvass on the harvest,
And he, having tied a shirt under his throat,
Something mysteriously draws in the sand;
That one got into a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath.
All white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket:
Caught, jumped up and rides on it.
And is she, born under the sun's heat
And in an apron brought home from the field.
To be afraid of your humble horse? ..
Mushroom time did not have time to depart,
Look - everyone has black lips.
They stuffed the oskom: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts!
A childish cry echoing
From morning to night it rumbles through the forests.
Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter.
Will the grouse take off, croaking to the chicks,
Whether a hare jumps up - sodom, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing
It was brought into the bush ... well, the poor thing is bad!
The living are dragged to the village with triumph.

MOROZ-VOEVODA

It is not the wind that rages over the forest,
Streams did not run from the mountains -
Frost-voivode patrol
Bypasses his possessions.

Looks - good blizzards
Forest paths brought
And are there any cracks, cracks,
Is there any bare ground anywhere?

Are the tops of the pines fluffy?
Is the pattern on oak trees beautiful?
And are the ice floes tightly bound
In great and small waters?

Walks - walks through the trees.
Cracking on frozen water
and bright sun plays
In his shaggy beard...

Climbing on a large pine tree.
Hits the branches with a club
And delete myself about myself
Boastful song sings:

“... Blizzards, snows and fogs
Always submissive to frost
I'll go to the sea-okiyany -
I will build palaces of ice.

I think - the rivers are big
For a long time I will hide under oppression,
I will build ice bridges.
Which the people will not build.

Where fast, noisy waters
Recently flowed freely -
Pedestrians passed today.
Convoys with goods passed ...

I'm rich, I don't count the treasury
And everything does not lack goodness;
I'm taking away my kingdom
In diamonds, pearls, silver ... "

SASHA

AT winter twilight nanny's tales
Sasha loved. In the morning in a sleigh

Sasha sat down, flew like an arrow,
Full of happiness, from an icy mountain.

The nanny shouts: "Don't kill yourself, dear!"
Sasha, chasing his sleigh.

Fun running. Full run
Sled on one side - and Sasha in the snow!

Braids will be knocked out, a fur coat will be disheveled
Snow shakes off, laughs, dove!

No grumbling and gray-haired nanny:
She loves her young laugh...

My daughter is in the 3rd grade, she is learning an excerpt from the poem by N. Nekrasov (supposedly) "Peasant Children":

Once upon a time in the cold winter time

I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.

I look, it rises slowly uphill

Horse carrying firewood.

And marching importantly, in serenity,

A man is leading a horse by the bridle

In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,

In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!

"Hey boy!" - "Go past yourself!" -

"You are painfully formidable, as I can see!

Where are the firewood from?" - "From the forest, of course;

Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.

(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)

"Does your father have a big family?"

"The family is big, yes two people

All the men, something: my father and I ... "-

"So that's it! What's your name?" -

"Vlasom." - "What year are you?" - "The sixth passed ...

Well, dead!" - shouted the little one in a bass voice,

He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.

The analysis in the head turns on automatically: a six-year-old child cannot lead a horse by the bridle:

1. Small in stature and he will have to keep his arm outstretched all the time, which is impossible in a sheepskin coat (and without it).

2. The step of the horse (especially with a load) is wider than the step of the child and, in order not to fall under the hooves and not get hit by the shafts in the back of the head, he must run ahead of the horse, which is impossible in “big boots” and in a “sheepskin short coat” and on loose snow .

Or maybe the poet slightly corrected reality for the sake of rhyme and the little man leads the horse not by the bridle, but by the rein on the side of the sleigh?

But this is also not possible:

At that time there were no municipal services and equipment, and no one cleaned the road, which means that it was not a road, but a sledge track, on the sides of which there were snowdrifts that you couldn’t walk on.

It is also not clear what the poet was doing in the forest in the icy winter season and in severe frost? Did you draw inspiration or were people drawn to woodcutters?

And about the woodcutter himself: you shouldn’t have taken a child with you to work in such weather: medicine was only folk ...

Wife: "Don't split your child's consciousness! She will be expelled from school!"

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Again I am in the village. I go hunting, I write my verses - life is easy. Yesterday, tired of walking through the swamp, I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep. I woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn, the rays of the cheerful sun look. The dove coos; flew over the roof, Young rooks cry; Some other bird is also flying - I recognized the crow just by the shadow; Chu! a whisper of some kind... but a string Along the slit of attentive eyes! All gray, brown, blue eyes - Mixed like flowers in a field. They have so much peace, freedom and affection, They have so much holy kindness! I love the expression of a child's eye, I always recognize it. I froze: tenderness touched my soul ... Chu! whisper again! FIRST G O L O S Beard! SECOND A sir, they said! .. Third Slow down, you devils! The second bar does not have a beard - a mustache. FIRST And the legs are long, like poles. FOURTH FOURTH There is a watch on the cap, look! P i t y y Ay, an important thing! The sixth And the golden chain... The seventh Tea, is it expensive? In o s m o y How the sun burns! 9th A yonder dog - big, big! Water runs off the tongue. P i t y th gun! look at it: the stem is double, the locks are carved... (with fear) Looks! 4th th th Be quiet, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha! The third Will kill... _______________ My spies were frightened And they rushed away: they heard a man, So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff. I calmed down, narrowed my eyes - they appeared again, Eyes flash through the cracks. What happened to me - they marveled at everything And my sentence was pronounced: - Such a goose, what a hunt! I would lie on the stove! And you can see not the gentleman: how he was driving from the swamp, So next to Gavrila ... - “Hear, be silent!” _______________ O dear rascals! Who often saw them, He, I believe, loves peasant children; But even if you hated them, Reader, as “a low kind of people,” I still must confess openly That I often envy them: In their lives, so much poetry is merged, As God forbid your spoiled children. Happy people! Neither science nor bliss They know in childhood. I made mushroom raids with them: I dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps, I tried to notice a mushroom place, And in the morning I could not find it for anything. “Look, Savosya, what a ring!” We both bent down, and at once grab the Snake! I jumped: it hurt! Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!” But then we ruined them enough And put them side by side on the railing of the bridge. We must have been waiting for the feats of glory. We had a big road: People of working rank scurried along it without number. A ditch digger from Vologda, a tinker, a tailor, a wool beater, And then a city dweller goes to a monastery to pray on a holiday. Under our thick ancient elms Weary people were drawn to rest. The guys will surround: stories about Kyiv, about a Turk, about wonderful animals will begin. Another will take a walk, so just hold on - It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan "He will mimic Chukhna, Mordovians, Cheremis, And amuse with a fairy tale, and screw a parable:" Goodbye, guys! richer of all, Yes, I once thought of murmuring at God, - Since then, Vavilo has become shabby, ruined, No honey from bees, harvest from the earth, And only in one he was happy, That the hair from his nose grew rapidly ... "The worker will arrange, decompose shells - Planers, files, chisels, knives: "Look, little devils!" And the children are happy, How you saw, how you make, show them everything. the days flew by, - Like a new passerby, then a new story ... Wow, it's hot! desert river What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing! The river resounded with both laughter and a howl: Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game... And the sun scorches them with the midday heat. - Home, kids! it's time to have dinner. - We returned. Everyone has a basket full of baskets, And how many stories! Got caught by a scythe, Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little bit And saw a wolf... oh, what a terrible one! The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers, Roots gave him his milk - He does not drink! retreated ... Who catches leeches On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen, Who nurses the sister, two-year-old Glashka, Who drags kvass to the reaping bucket, And he, having tied his shirt under his throat, Mysteriously draws something in the sand; That one hid in a puddle, and this one with a new one: She wove herself a glorious wreath, Everything is white, yellow, pale purple Yes, occasionally a red flower. Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting. Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket - She caught it, jumped up and rides on it. And is she, born under the heat of the sun And brought home in an apron from the field, To be afraid of her humble horse? And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts! A childish cry echoed through the woods From morning till night. Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter, Will the black grouse take off, croaking to the chicks, Will the hare jump up - sodom, turmoil! Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing. The living are dragged to the village with triumph... - Enough, Vanyusha! You walked a lot, It's time to work, dear! - But even work will turn first To Vanyusha with its elegant side: He sees how his father fertilizes the field, How he throws grain into the loose earth, How the field then begins to turn green, How the ear grows, pours the grain ; The finished harvest will be cut with sickles, tied up in sheaves, taken to the barn, dried, beaten, beaten with flails, at the mill they will grind and bake bread. A child will taste fresh bread And in the field he more willingly runs after his father. Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!” Vanyusha enters the village as a tsar... However, it would be a pity for us to sow envy in a noble child. So, by the way, we are obliged to wrap the other side of the medal. Suppose a peasant child grows freely, without learning anything, But he will grow up, if God pleases, And nothing prevents him from bending. Suppose he knows the forest paths, Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water, But mercilessly eat his midges, But he is familiar with the works early ... Once, in the cold winter season, I came out of the forest; there was severe frost. I look, a horse is slowly rising up the mountain, carrying a cart of brushwood. And, marching importantly, in orderly calmness, The horse is led by the bridle by a peasant In large boots, in a sheepskin coat, In large mittens. .. and himself with a fingernail! - Great, boy! - “Go past yourself!” - Painfully you are formidable, as I can see! Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course; Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away. (A woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.) - What, does your father have a big family? “The family is big, but there are two people. All the men are: my father and I ...” - So there it is! And what is your name? - "Vlas". - And what year are you? - “The sixth passed ... Well, dead!” - the little one shouted in a bass, He jerked by the bridle and walked faster. The sun shone so brightly on this picture, The child was so hilariously small, As if all this was cardboard, As if I had got into a children's theater! But the boy was a living, real boy, And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse, And snow lying up to the windows of the village, And a cold fire in the winter sun - Everything, everything was real Russian, With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter, That the Russian soul is so Excruciatingly sweet, What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds, Those honest thoughts that have no will, Which have no death - do not push, In which there is so much malice and pain, In which there is so much love! Play on, children! Grow at will! That's why a red childhood was given to you, To love this meager field forever, To make it seem sweet to you forever. Keep your centuries-old heritage, Love your labor bread - And let the charm of childhood poetry Guide you into the bowels of your native land! .. _______________ Now it's time for us to return to the beginning. Noticing that the guys became bolder, - “Hey, thieves are coming!” I shouted to Fingal: “They will steal, they will steal! Well, hide quickly! Fingalushka made a serious face, He buried my belongings under the hay, He hid the game with special diligence, He lay down at my feet and growled angrily. The vast area of ​​canine science was perfectly familiar to Him; He began to throw out such things that the audience could not leave the place. They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here! They command themselves! - “Fingalka, die!” - Don't stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyakha, - "Look - it's dying - look!" I myself enjoyed, lying in the hay, Their noisy fun. Suddenly it became dark In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage, When the storm is destined to break out. And sure enough: a blow thundered over the barn, A rain river poured into the barn, The actor burst into a deafening bark, And the audience gave an arrow! The wide door opened, creaked, hit the wall, locked again. I looked out: a dark cloud hung just above our theater. Under heavy rain the children ran Barefoot to their village... Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm And went out to look for great snipes.