Journey of the sparrow of Plato read a summary. Summary of the lesson on literary reading "A. Platonov" Love for the Motherland "

The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the monument to Pushkin. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise up to it from all four sides. Climbing up these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings on the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician put the case from his violin on the ground against the monument, it was closed, and there was a piece of black bread and an apple in it, so that you could eat whenever you wanted.

Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at first dusk. It was more useful for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know troubles from his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he did not bring people any good, and therefore he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the dusk, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force, captivating him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put dimes and kopecks on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when the people became rare, and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his grief, disturbed now by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he just drank wine ...

In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow sat on the case, which, as usual, lay at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was still awake and that even in the darkness of the evening it was busy working for its livelihood. True, it is difficult to feed oneself in a day now: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the land in the city is bare and hungry, because the horses rarely walk and the janitors immediately remove the manure after them. Where, in fact, to eat sparrows in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and meager between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it spreads tired wings, so that the sparrow has to wave and work all the time.

Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze kopeck out of them with his beak and flew away with it to no one knows where. So, he didn’t fly for nothing - at least something, but he took it! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.

The next evening, the old violinist opened the case - in case that if yesterday's sparrow arrives, he can feed on the pulp of bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear, probably, he ate somewhere else, and the penny was not good for him anywhere.

The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw him again. Sparrow, without interference, sat down on the bread in the case and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined a small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of his feathers turned gray; from time to time he glanced vigilantly around, in order to accurately see enemy and friend, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired a great mind from grief, misfortune and longevity.

For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; In the meantime, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, daily crumbled soft warm bread into the violin case. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly followed his open case, the nearby paths and the dead flower bushes in the summer flowerbed. The musician expected the sparrow and yearned for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? Quietly and brightly, the lanterns around the monument to Pushkin burned, beautiful clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy business. The old man played on, hiding in himself a miserable feeling of sadness for a small, zealous bird, which now lived somewhere and was exhausted.

But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the monument to Pushkin. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician's senses were already weary of waiting, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life forever. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread, now he was lying in a case in a whole piece, and only the musician left the lid open.

In the depths of winter, near midnight, one day a snowstorm began. The old man was playing Schubert's "Winter Road" with the last piece and then was going to retire. At that hour, out of the middle of the wind and snow, the familiar gray sparrow appeared. He sat down with thin, insignificant paws on the frosty snow; then he walked a little around the case, blowing whirlwinds all over his body, but indifferent to them and fearless, and flew into the case. There the sparrow began to peck at the bread, almost burrowing into its warm flesh. He ate for a long time, probably for half an hour; already the blizzard had almost completely covered the room with snow, and the sparrow was still stirring inside the snow, working on its food. So he knew how to eat for a long time. The old man went up to the case with the violin and the bow and waited a long time in the midst of the whirlwind for the sparrow to free the case. Finally, the sparrow got out, cleaned himself in a small snowdrift, briefly said something and ran away on foot to his lodging for the night, not wanting to fly in the cold wind, so as not to waste his strength in vain.

The next evening, the same sparrow again arrived at the monument to Pushkin; he immediately sank into the case and began to peck at the finished bread. The old man looked at him from the height of the foot of the monument, played music on the violin from there and felt good in his heart. This evening the weather was calm, as if tired after yesterday's caustic snow. Having eaten, the sparrow flew high from the case and muttered a small song in the air ...

It didn't dawn for a long time in the morning. Waking up in his room, the retired musician heard the singing of a blizzard outside the window. Frosty, hard snow rushed down the lane and blotted out the daylight. Even at night, in the darkness, frozen forests and flowers of an unknown magical land lay on the window glass. The old man began to admire this inspired play of nature, as if nature, too, languished for better happiness, like man and music.

You won't have to go to play on Tverskoy Boulevard today. Today the storm sings, and the sounds of the violin will be too weak. Nevertheless, towards evening the old man dressed himself in a coat, tied a shawl around his head and neck, crumbled some bread into his pocket, and went out. With difficulty, out of breath from the hardened cold and wind, the musician went along his lane to Tverskoy Boulevard. The icy branches of the trees on the boulevard creaked desertedly, and the monument itself rustled dejectedly from the flying snow rubbing over it. The old man wanted to put the lumps of bread on the step of the monument, but he saw that it was useless: the storm would immediately take away the bread, and the snow would cover it. All the same, the musician left his bread on the step and saw how he disappeared into the dusk of the storm.

In the evening the musician sat at home alone; he played his violin, but there was no one to listen to him, and the melody sounded bad in the emptiness of the room, it touched only one single soul of the violinist, and this was not enough, or his soul became poor from old age. He stopped playing. There was a torrent of a hurricane in the street - it’s probably bad now for the sparrows. The old man went to the window and listened to the strength of the storm through the frozen glass. Is the gray-haired sparrow even now not afraid to fly to the monument to Pushkin to eat bread from a case?

The gray-haired sparrow was not afraid of a snow storm. Only he did not fly to Tverskoy Boulevard, but went on foot, because it was a little quieter downstairs and you could hide behind local snowdrifts and various passing objects.

Sparrow carefully examined the entire neighborhood around the monument to Pushkin and even rummaged through the snow with his legs, where an open case with bread usually stood. Several times he tried to take off to leeward on the bare, blown steps of the monument, to see if the hurricane had brought some crumbs or old grains there; they could be caught and swallowed. However, the storm immediately took the sparrow as soon as it broke off the snow, and carried it away until it hit a tree trunk or a tram mast, and then the sparrow quickly fell and burrowed into the snow to warm up and rest. Soon the sparrow stopped hoping for food. He dug deep into the hole in the snow, huddled in it and dozed off: if only he would not freeze and die, and the storm would someday end. Still, the sparrow slept carefully, sensitively, following the action of the hurricane in his sleep. In the midst of sleep and night, the sparrow noticed that the snowy mound in which he slept crawled along with him, and then all the snow around him collapsed, dissipated, and the sparrow was left alone in the hurricane.

The sparrow was carried away into the distance, at a great empty height. There was not even snow here, but only a bare clean wind, hard from its own compressed force. Sparrow thought, curled up tighter with his body and fell asleep in this hurricane.

Having slept, he woke up, but the storm still carried him. Sparrow had already gotten used to living in a hurricane a little, it was even easier for him to exist now, because he did not feel the heaviness of his body and did not need to walk, fly, or take care of anything. Sparrow looked around in the dusk of the storm - he wanted to understand what time it was: day or night. But he failed to see the light or the darkness through the twilight, and again shriveled up and fell asleep, trying to keep warm at least inside himself, and let the feathers and skin cool down.

When the sparrow woke up the second time, he was still carried by the storm. He began to get used to it now, only he was taken care of by food. The sparrow did not feel the cold now, but there was no heat either - he only trembled in this twilight and a stream of empty air. Sparrow cringed again, trying not to be aware of anything until the hurricane had passed.

A sparrow woke up on the ground, in pure and warm silence. He lay on the leaves of a large green grass. Unknown and invisible birds sang long, musical songs, so that the sparrow was surprised and listened to them for a while. Then he cleaned and brushed his feathers after the blizzard and went to feed.

Here, probably, eternal summer went on, and therefore there was a lot of food. Almost every herb had fruit. On the stems between the leaves hung either ears with grains, or soft pods with small spicy cakes, or a large, satisfying berry grew openly. Sparrow pecked all day until he felt ashamed and disgusted; he came to his senses and stopped eating, although he could have eaten a little more.

After sleeping on a grass stalk at night, the sparrow began to feed again in the morning. However, he ate a little now. Yesterday, due to severe hunger, he did not notice the taste of food, but today he felt that all the fruits of herbs and shrubs were too sweet or, on the contrary, bitter. But on the other hand, the fruits contained great nutritional value, in the form of thick, almost intoxicating fat, and on the second day the sparrow became slightly stout and shiny. And at night, heartburn began to torment him, and then the sparrow yearned for the familiar acid of simple black bread; his small intestines and stomach whimpered at the sensation of warm, dark pulp in the musician's case at the monument to Pushkin.

Soon the sparrow became completely sad in this summer, peaceful land. The sweetness and abundance of food, the light of the air and the fragrance of plants did not attract him. Wandering in the shade of thickets, the sparrow did not meet either an acquaintance or a relative anywhere: sparrows did not live here. Local, obese birds had colorful, beautiful feathers; they used to sit high on tree branches and sing beautiful songs from there, as if light was coming from their throats. These birds rarely ate, because it was enough to peck one fat berry in the grass to get enough for the whole day and all night.

Sparrow began to live alone. He gradually flew around the whole local country, rising from the ground just above the bush, and everywhere he observed dense groves of herbs and flowers, thick low trees, singing, proud birds and a blue, windless sky. It even rained here only at night, when everyone was sleeping, so that bad weather would not spoil anyone's mood.

After a while, the sparrow found a permanent place to live. It was the bank of a stream, covered with small stones, where nothing grew, where the land lay more scarce and uncomfortable.

One snake still lived in a crevice on the coast, but it had no poison and teeth, it fed by swallowing moist soil like a worm - and small earthen animals remained inside it, and the chewed earth came back away. Sparrow made friends with this snake. He often appeared to her and looked into her dark, friendly eyes, and the snake also looked at the sparrow. Then the sparrow left, and it became easier for him to live alone after a date with the snake.

Down the stream, the sparrow once saw a rather high, bare rock. He flew up on it and decided to spend the night here, on an elevated stone, every night. Sparrow hoped that someday a storm would come and she would tear him, sleeping, from a stone and carry him back home, to Tverskoy Boulevard. The first night it was uncomfortable to sleep on the cool rock, but on the second night the sparrow got used to it and slept on the rock, deep as in a nest, warmed by the hope of a storm.

The old musician realized that the gray-haired, familiar sparrow died forever in a winter hurricane. Snowfall, cold days and blizzards often prevented the old man from going out to Tverskoy Boulevard to play the violin.

On such days, the musician sat at home, and his only consolation was to look at the frozen window pane, where the picture of an overgrown, magical land, probably inhabited by singing birds, formed and collapsed in silence. The old man could not imagine that his sparrow now lives in a warm, flowering land and sleeps at night on a high stone, exposing himself to the wind ... In February, the musician bought himself a small turtle in a zoological shop on the Arbat. He once read that turtles live long, and the old man did not want the creature to which his heart would get used to die before him. In old age, the soul does not heal, it suffers from memory for a long time, so let the turtle survive his death.

Living with the turtle, the musician began to go to the monument to Pushkin very rarely. Now every evening he played the violin at home, and the tortoise slowly went out into the middle of the room, stretched out its thin, long neck and listened to the music. She turned her head slightly away from the man, as if to hear better, and one of her black eyes looked at the musician with a meek expression. The tortoise was probably afraid that the old man would stop playing and that it would again become boring for her to live alone on the bare floor. But the musician played for the tortoise until late at night, until the tortoise laid its little head on the floor, tired and asleep. After waiting for the eyes of the turtle to close with wrinkles of the eyelids, the old man hid the violin in the case and himself also lay down to rest. But the musician slept badly. Somewhere in his body there would shoot, then it ached, then his heart would pound, and he would often suddenly wake up in fear that he was dying. It usually turned out that he was still alive, and outside the window, in the Moscow lane, the calm night continued. In the month of March, waking up from a sinking heart, the old man heard a mighty wind; the glass in the window thawed: the wind probably blew from the south, from the spring side. And the old man remembered the sparrow and felt sorry for him that he had died: soon it would be summer, the trees would rise again on Tverskoy Boulevard and the sparrow would still live in the world. And for the winter, the musician would take him to his room, the sparrow would make friends with the tortoise and freely endure the winter warm, as if in retirement ... The old man fell asleep again, reassured by the fact that he had a live tortoise and that was enough.

Sparrow also slept that night, although he flew in a hurricane south wind. He woke up only for a moment, when the blow of a hurricane tore him off a lofty stone, but, rejoicing, he immediately fell asleep again, shrinking warmer with his body. The sparrow woke up already before dark; the wind carried him with mighty force in a distant direction. Sparrow was not afraid of flight and heights; he stirred inside the hurricane, as if in a heavy, viscous dough, said something to himself and felt that he was hungry. Sparrow looked around with caution and noticed foreign objects around him. He carefully examined them and recognized them: they were individual fat berries from a warm country, grains, pods and whole ears, and even whole bushes and tree branches flew a little further from the sparrow. It means that the wind took with it more than one of him, the sparrow. A small grain rushed very close to the sparrow, but it was difficult to grab it, thanks to the severity of the wind: the sparrow stuck out its beak several times, but could not get the grain, because the beak rested against the storm, like against a stone. Then the sparrow began to rotate around itself: it turned its legs up, released one wing, and the wind immediately carried it to the side - first to a close grain, and the sparrow pecked it at once, and then the sparrow made its way to more distant berries and ears. He fed himself to his fill and, moreover, learned how to move almost across the storm. Having eaten, the sparrow decided to fall asleep. He felt good now: plentiful food flew next to him, and he did not feel cold or warm in the midst of a hurricane. The sparrow slept and woke up, and when he woke up, he again lay down in the wind with his legs up to doze at rest. In the intervals between one sleep and the next, he fed heartily from the surrounding air; sometimes some berry or pod with a sweet filling was nailed close to the sparrow's body, and then he had only to peck and swallow this food. However, the sparrow was afraid that the wind would someday stop blowing, and he was already used to living in a storm and eating abundantly from it. He no longer wanted to feed himself on the boulevards by constant predation, to chill in winters and wander on foot on empty asphalt so as not to waste strength on flying against the wind. He only regretted that there were no crumbs of sour black bread among all this mighty wind - only sweetness or bitterness flies. Fortunately for the sparrow, the storm went on for a long time, and, waking up, he again felt weightless and tried to hum a song to himself from the satisfaction of life.

On spring evenings, the old violinist went out to play near the Pushkin monument almost every day. He took a turtle with him and put it on its paws next to him. During the whole time of the music, the tortoise listened motionless to the violin and, during breaks in the game, patiently waited for the continuation. The violin case was still lying on the ground opposite the monument, but the lid of the case was now permanently closed, because the old man no longer expected a gray-haired sparrow to visit him.

One fine evening, the wind and snow began to blow. The musician hid the turtle in his bosom, put the violin in a case and went to the apartment. At home, he fed the tortoise as usual, and then placed it to rest in a box of cotton. After that, the old man wanted to take up tea to warm his stomach and prolong the time of the evening. However, there was no kerosene in the stove and the bottle was also empty. The musician went to buy kerosene on Bronnaya Street. The wind has already stopped; light, wet snow fell. On Bronnaya, the sale of kerosene was closed for inventory, so the old man had to go to the Nikitsky Gate.

Having bought kerosene, the violinist headed back home through the fresh, melting snow. Two boys were standing at the gates of an old apartment building, and one of them said to the musician:

Uncle, buy a bird from us... We don't have enough for the cinema!

The violinist stopped.

Come on, he said. - Where did you get it?

She herself fell from the sky onto the stones, - the boy answered and gave the bird to the musician in two folded handfuls.

The bird must have been dead. The old man put it in his pocket, paid the boy twenty kopecks, and went on.

At home, the musician took the bird out of his pocket into the light. The gray-haired sparrow lay in his hand; his eyes were closed, his legs bent helplessly, and one wing hung without strength. It is impossible to understand whether the sparrow has died for a while or forever. Just in case, the old man put the sparrow in his bosom under his nightgown - by morning he would either warm up or never wake up again.

After drinking tea, the musician carefully lay down to sleep on his side, not wanting to hurt the sparrow.

Soon the old man dozed off, but immediately woke up: a sparrow moved under his shirt and pecked at his body. "Alive! thought the old man. “It means that his heart has departed from death!” - and he took the sparrow out of the warmth under his shirt.

The musician put the revived bird to sleep with the turtle. She slept in a box - there was cotton wool, there the sparrow will be soft.

At dawn, the old man finally woke up and looked at what the sparrow was doing at the tortoise.

The sparrow was lying on the cotton wool with its thin legs up, and the tortoise, stretching out its neck, looked at him with kind, patient eyes. Sparrow died and forgot forever that he was in the world.

In the evening the old musician did not go to Tverskoy Boulevard. He took the violin out of its case and began to play gentle, happy music. The tortoise went out into the middle of the room and began meekly listening to him alone. But there was something lacking in the music for the complete consolation of the old man's grieving heart. Then he put the violin back and wept.

Platonov Andrey

Love for the motherland, or the journey of a sparrow

Andrey Platonovich PLATONOV

LOVE FOR THE HOMELAND, OR THE JOURNEY OF A SPARROW

(fantastic incident)

The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the monument to Pushkin. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise up to it from all four sides. Climbing up these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings on the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician put the case from his violin on the ground against the monument, it was closed, and there was a piece of black bread and an apple in it, so that you could eat whenever you wanted.

Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at first dusk. It was more useful for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know troubles from his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he did not bring people any good, and therefore he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the dusk, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force, captivating him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put dimes and kopecks on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when the people became rare, and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his grief, disturbed now by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he just drank wine ...

In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow sat on the case, which, as usual, lay at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was still awake and that even in the darkness of the evening it was busy working for its livelihood. True, it is difficult to feed oneself in a day now: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the land in the city is bare and hungry, because the horses rarely walk and the janitors immediately remove the manure after them. Where, in fact, to eat sparrows in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and meager between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it spreads tired wings, so that the sparrow has to wave and work all the time.

Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze kopeck out of them with his beak and flew away with it to no one knows where. So, he didn’t fly for nothing - at least something, but he took it! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.

The next evening, the old violinist opened the case - in case that if yesterday's sparrow arrives, he can feed on the pulp of bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear, probably, he ate somewhere else, and the penny was not good for him anywhere.

The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw him again. Sparrow, without interference, sat down on the bread in the case and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined a small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of his feathers turned gray; from time to time he glanced vigilantly around, in order to accurately see enemy and friend, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired a great mind from grief, misfortune and longevity.

For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; In the meantime, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, daily crumbled soft warm bread into the violin case. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly followed his open case, the nearby paths and the dead flower bushes in the summer flowerbed. The musician expected the sparrow and yearned for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? Quietly and brightly, the lanterns around the monument to Pushkin burned, beautiful clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy business. The old man played on, hiding in himself a miserable feeling of sadness for a small, zealous bird, which now lived somewhere and was exhausted.

But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the monument to Pushkin. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician's senses were already weary of waiting, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life forever. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread, now he was lying in a case in a whole piece, and only the musician left the lid open.

In the depths of winter, near midnight, one day a snowstorm began. The old man was playing Schubert's "Winter Road" with the last piece and then was going to retire. At that hour, out of the middle of the wind and snow, the familiar gray sparrow appeared. He sat down with thin, insignificant paws on the frosty snow; then he walked a little around the case, blowing whirlwinds all over his body, but indifferent to them and fearless, and flew into the case. There the sparrow began to peck at the bread, almost burrowing into its warm flesh. He ate for a long time, probably for half an hour; already the blizzard had almost completely covered the room with snow, and the sparrow was still stirring inside the snow, working on its food. So he knew how to eat for a long time. The old man went up to the case with the violin and the bow and waited a long time in the midst of the whirlwind for the sparrow to free the case. Finally, the sparrow got out, cleaned himself in a small snowdrift, briefly said something and ran away on foot to his lodging for the night, not wanting to fly in the cold wind, so as not to waste his strength in vain.

The next evening, the same sparrow again arrived at the monument to Pushkin; he immediately sank into the case and began to peck at the finished bread. The old man looked at him from the height of the foot of the monument, played music on the violin from there and felt good in his heart. This evening the weather was calm, as if tired after yesterday's caustic snow. Having eaten, the sparrow flew high from the case and muttered a small song in the air ...

It didn't dawn for a long time in the morning. Waking up in his room, the retired musician heard the singing of a blizzard outside the window. Frosty, hard snow rushed down the lane and blotted out the daylight. Even at night, in the darkness, frozen forests and flowers of an unknown magical land lay on the window glass. The old man began to admire this inspired play of nature, as if nature, too, languished for better happiness, like man and music.

You won't have to go to play on Tverskoy Boulevard today. Today the storm sings, and the sounds of the violin will be too weak. Nevertheless, towards evening the old man dressed himself in a coat, tied a shawl around his head and neck, crumbled some bread into his pocket, and went out. With difficulty, out of breath from the hardened cold and wind, the musician went along his lane to Tverskoy Boulevard. The icy branches of the trees on the boulevard creaked desertedly, and the monument itself rustled dejectedly from the flying snow rubbing over it. The old man wanted to put the lumps of bread on the step of the monument, but he saw that it was useless: the storm would immediately take away the bread, and the snow would cover it. All the same, the musician left his bread on the step and saw how he disappeared into the dusk of the storm.

In the evening the musician sat at home alone; he played his violin, but there was no one to listen to him, and the melody sounded bad in the emptiness of the room, it touched only one single soul of the violinist, and this was not enough, or his soul became poor from old age. He stopped playing. There was a torrent of a hurricane in the street - it’s probably bad now for the sparrows. The old man went to the window and listened to the strength of the storm through the frozen glass. Is the gray-haired sparrow even now not afraid to fly to the monument to Pushkin to eat bread from a case?

The gray-haired sparrow was not afraid of a snow storm. Only he did not fly to Tverskoy Boulevard, but went on foot, because it was a little quieter downstairs and you could hide behind local snowdrifts and various passing objects.

Sparrow carefully examined the entire neighborhood around the monument to Pushkin and even rummaged through the snow with his legs, where an open case with bread usually stood. Several times he tried to take off to leeward on the bare, blown steps of the monument, to see if the hurricane had brought some crumbs or old grains there; they could be caught and swallowed. However, the storm immediately took the sparrow as soon as it broke off the snow, and carried it away until it hit a tree trunk or a tram mast, and then the sparrow quickly fell and burrowed into the snow to warm up and rest. Soon the sparrow stopped hoping for food. He dug deep into the hole in the snow, huddled in it and dozed off: if only he would not freeze and die, and the storm would someday end. Still, the sparrow slept carefully, sensitively, following the action of the hurricane in his sleep. In the midst of sleep and night, the sparrow noticed that the snowy mound in which he slept crawled along with him, and then all the snow around him collapsed, dissipated, and the sparrow was left alone in the hurricane.

“The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the monument to Pushkin. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise up to it from all four sides. Climbing up these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings on the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician put the case from his violin on the ground against the monument, it was closed, and there was a piece of black bread and an apple in it, so that you could eat whenever you wanted ... "

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Andrey Platonovich Platonov

Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of the Sparrow

“The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the monument to Pushkin. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise up to it from all four sides. Climbing up these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings on the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician put the case from his violin on the ground against the monument, it was closed, and there was a piece of black bread and an apple in it, so that you could eat whenever you wanted ... "

Andrey Platonov

Love for the Motherland, or the Journey of the Sparrow

(fantastic incident)

The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the monument to Pushkin. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise up to it from all four sides. Climbing up these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings on the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician put the case from his violin on the ground against the monument, it was closed, and there was a piece of black bread and an apple in it, so that you could eat whenever you wanted.

Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at first dusk. It was more useful for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know troubles from his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he did not bring people any good, and therefore he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the dusk, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force, captivating him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put dimes and kopecks on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when the people became rare, and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his grief, disturbed now by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he just drank wine ...

In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow sat on the case, which, as usual, lay at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was still awake and that even in the darkness of the evening it was busy working for its livelihood. True, it is difficult to feed oneself in a day now: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the land in the city is bare and hungry, because the horses rarely walk and the janitors immediately remove the manure after them. Where, in fact, to eat sparrows in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and meager between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it spreads tired wings, so that the sparrow has to wave and work all the time.

Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze kopeck out of them with his beak and flew away with it to no one knows where. So, it was not for nothing that he flew in - at least something, but he took it! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.

The next evening, the old violinist opened the case in case that if yesterday's sparrow arrives, he can feed on the pulp of bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear, probably, he ate somewhere else, and the penny was not good for him anywhere.

The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw him again. Sparrow, without interference, sat down on the bread in the case and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined a small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of his feathers turned gray; from time to time he glanced vigilantly around, in order to accurately see enemy and friend, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired a great mind from grief, misfortune and longevity.

For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; In the meantime, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, daily crumbled soft warm bread into the violin case. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly followed his open case, the nearby paths and the dead flower bushes in the summer flowerbed. The musician expected the sparrow and yearned for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? Quietly and brightly, the lanterns around the monument to Pushkin burned, beautiful clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy business. The old man played on, hiding in himself a miserable feeling of sadness for a small, zealous bird, which now lived somewhere and was exhausted.

But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the monument to Pushkin. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician's senses were already weary of waiting, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life forever. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread, now he was lying in a case in a whole piece, and only the musician left the lid open.

The old violinist-musician loved to play at the foot of the monument to Pushkin. This monument stands in Moscow, at the beginning of Tverskoy Boulevard, poems are written on it, and marble steps rise up to it from all four sides. Climbing up these steps to the pedestal itself, the old musician turned his face to the boulevard, to the distant Nikitsky Gate, and touched the strings on the violin with his bow. Children, passers-by, newspaper readers from the local kiosk immediately gathered at the monument - and they all fell silent in anticipation of the music, because music consoles people, it promises them happiness and a glorious life. The musician put the case from his violin on the ground against the monument, it was closed, and there was a piece of black bread and an apple in it, so that you could eat whenever you wanted.

Usually the old man went out to play in the evening, at first dusk. It was more useful for his music to make the world quieter and darker. He did not know troubles from his old age, because he received a pension from the state and was fed enough. But the old man was bored by the thought that he did not bring people any good, and therefore he voluntarily went to play on the boulevard. There, the sounds of his violin were heard in the air, in the dusk, and at least occasionally they reached the depths of the human heart, touching him with a gentle and courageous force, captivating him to live a higher, beautiful life. Some music listeners took out money to give it to the old man, but did not know where to put it: the violin case was closed, and the musician himself was high at the foot of the monument, almost next to Pushkin. Then people put dimes and kopecks on the lid of the case. However, the old man did not want to cover his need at the expense of the art of music; hiding the violin back in the case, he showered money from it on the ground, not paying attention to their value. He went home late, sometimes already at midnight, when the people became rare, and only some random lonely person listened to his music. But the old man could play for one person and played the piece to the end until the listener left, crying in the darkness to himself. Maybe he had his grief, disturbed now by the song of art, or maybe he felt ashamed that he was living wrong, or he just drank wine ...

In late autumn, the old man noticed that a sparrow sat on the case, which, as usual, lay at a distance on the ground. The musician was surprised that this bird was still awake and that even in the darkness of the evening it was busy working for its livelihood. True, it is difficult to feed oneself in a day now: all the trees have already fallen asleep for the winter, the insects have died, the land in the city is bare and hungry, because the horses rarely walk and the janitors immediately remove the manure after them. Where, in fact, to eat sparrows in autumn and winter? After all, the wind in the city is weak and meager between the houses - it does not hold the sparrow when it spreads tired wings, so that the sparrow has to wave and work all the time.

Sparrow, having examined the entire lid of the case, did not find anything useful on it for himself. Then he moved the money coins with his legs, took the smallest bronze kopeck out of them with his beak and flew away with it to no one knows where. So, it was not for nothing that he flew in - at least something, but he took it! Let him live and care, he also needs to exist.

The next evening, the old violinist opened the case in case that if yesterday's sparrow arrives, he can feed on the pulp of bread that lay at the bottom of the case. However, the sparrow did not appear, probably, he ate somewhere else, and the penny was not good for him anywhere.

The old man still patiently waited for the sparrow, and on the fourth day he saw him again. Sparrow, without interference, sat down on the bread in the case and began to peck at the prepared food in a businesslike manner. The musician stepped down from the monument, approached the case and quietly examined a small bird. The sparrow was disheveled, big-headed, and many of his feathers turned gray; from time to time he glanced vigilantly around, in order to accurately see enemy and friend, and the musician was surprised at his calm, reasonable eyes. This sparrow must have been very old or unhappy, because he had already acquired a great mind from grief, misfortune and longevity.

For several days the sparrow did not appear on the boulevard; In the meantime, pure snow fell and it froze. The old man, before going to the boulevard, daily crumbled soft warm bread into the violin case. Standing at the height of the foot of the monument, playing a gentle melody, the old man constantly followed his open case, the nearby paths and the dead flower bushes in the summer flowerbed. The musician expected the sparrow and yearned for it: where does it sit now and keep warm, what does it eat in the cold snow? Quietly and brightly, the lanterns around the monument to Pushkin burned, beautiful clean people, illuminated by electricity and snow, gently passed by the monument, moving away on their important and happy business. The old man played on, hiding in himself a miserable feeling of sadness for a small, zealous bird, which now lived somewhere and was exhausted.

But another five days passed, and the sparrow still did not fly to visit the monument to Pushkin. The old violinist still left an open case with crumbled bread for him, but the musician's senses were already weary of waiting, and he began to forget the sparrow. The old man had to forget a lot in his life forever. And the violinist stopped crumbling the bread, now he was lying in a case in a whole piece, and only the musician left the lid open.

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