Annotation
In the collection " Green noise» famous Russian Soviet writer M.M. Prishvin (1873–1954) included his most significant works, telling about meetings with interesting people, about the beauty of Russian nature and the animal world of our country.
Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin
Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin
We had a revolution in nineteen hundred and five. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought on the barricades at Presnya. Strangers meeting him called him brother.
“Tell me, brother,” they will ask him, “where.”
They will name the street, and the “brother” will answer where this street is.
Came first world war one thousand nine hundred and fourteen, and I hear them say to him:
- Father, tell me.
They began to call him not brother, but father.
The Great One has come October Revolution. My friend had white silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at his white-silver hair and said:
- What, father, have you started selling flour?
“No,” he answered, “in silver.” But that's not the point.
His real job was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also very kind person and he helped everyone who turned to him for advice in everything. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years Soviet power.
I hear someone stop him on the street one day:
- Grandpa, grandpa, tell me.
And my friend, the old boy with whom we sat on the same bench in the old school, became a grandfather.
So time passes, time just flies, you won’t have time to look back.
Okay, I'll continue about my friend. Our grandfather grows whiter and whiter, and so the day of the great celebration of our victory over the Germans finally arrives. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, walks under an umbrella and is not afraid of the rain. So we go to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen, around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. The dampness around is from the rain, but you look at them, how they stand, and it seems as if the weather is very good.
We began to present our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some mischievous boy, probably planning to sneak into the parade someday. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:
- Why are you going, old mushroom?
I felt offended, I admit, I got very angry and grabbed this boy by the collar. He broke free, jumped like a hare, looked back as he jumped and ran away.
The parade on Red Square temporarily displaced both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came to my mind again. And I said this to the invisible mischief maker:
- Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.
And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly collect mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birch and aspen trees begin to sprinkle golden and red spots down on the young fir trees.
The day was warm and even parky, when mushrooms climb out of the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything out, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from that very place, collect again: you take it, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.
This is what it was like now, a mushroom, park day. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I put all sorts of rubbish into my basket: russula, redcap, boletus mushrooms, but there were only two porcini mushrooms. If boletus mushrooms were real mushrooms, I would old man, lean over for the black mushroom! But what can you do? If necessary, you will bow to the russula.
It was very parky, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I was dying to drink.
There are streams in our forests, from the streams there are paws, paws from the paws or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that I probably would have even tried some wet strawberries. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: the legs would not reach the stream, the hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.
And I hear somewhere behind a dense spruce tree a gray bird squeaks:
- Drink, drink!
It happens that before the rain, a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:
- Drink, drink!
“You fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.”
I looked at the sky, and where to expect rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the ground, like in a bathhouse.
What to do here, what to do?
And the bird also squeaks in its own way:
- Drink, drink!
I chuckled to myself that this is what an old man I am, I’ve lived so much, seen so much of everything in the world, learned so much, and here it’s just a bird, and we have the same desire.
“Let me,” I said to myself, “let me look at my comrade.”
I moved forward carefully, silently in the dense spruce forest, lifted one branch: well, hello!
Through this forest window I saw a clearing in the forest, in the middle of it there were two birch trees, under the birches there was a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry there was a red russula, so huge, the likes of which I had never seen in my life. It was so old that its edges, as only happens with russula, were curled up.
And because of this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water.
My soul became happier.
Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch tree, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - into the water. And turn your head up so that the drop goes down your throat.
- Drink, drink! - another bird squeaks to her from the birch tree.
There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. The bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go wild. But I see everything from the window and am happy and not in a hurry: how much does the bird need, let him drink, we have enough!
One got drunk and flew to the birch tree. The other one came down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one who got drunk is on top of her.
- Drink, drink!
I left the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch tree to another.
But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so much that I was the only one asking.
-Will you drink?
Another replied:
- He won’t drink!
I understood that they were talking about me and about the plate of forest water, one of them made a wish - “he will drink”, the other argued - “he will not drink”.
- I’ll drink, I’ll drink! – I told them out loud.
They squeaked their “drink-drink” even more often.
But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.
Of course, you could do it very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for themselves. With his mushroom knife, he would carefully trim the russula, pick it up, drink the water, and immediately squash the unnecessary cap from an old mushroom on a tree.
What daring!
And, in my opinion, this is simply stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this, if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will start drinking. And then the seeds - spores - will ripen in the mushroom, the wind will pick them up and scatter them throughout the forest for the future.
Apparently there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank to my old knees and lay down on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula.
And the birds! The birds are playing their game.
– Will he drink or won’t he drink?
“No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I’ve got there and I’ll drink.”
So it turned out well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met the cold lips of the mushroom. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me, in a golden boat made of birch leaves, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needed to get drunk.
- How many of you are here, willing! – I told him. - Well, you.
And in one breath he drank the entire forest cup to the bottom.
We had a revolution in nineteen hundred and five. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought on the barricades at Presnya. Strangers meeting him called him brother.
“Tell me, brother,” they will ask him, “where.”
They will name the street, and the “brother” will answer where this street is.
The First World War came in nineteen fourteen, and I heard people say to him:
- Father, tell me.
They began to call him not brother, but father.
The Great October Revolution has arrived. My friend had white silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at his white-silver hair and said:
- What, father, have you started selling flour?
“No,” he answered, “in silver.” But that's not the point.
His real job was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also a very kind person and helped everyone who turned to him for advice in everything. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years under Soviet rule.
I hear someone stop him on the street one day:
- Grandpa, grandpa, tell me.
And my friend, the old boy with whom we sat on the same bench in the old school, became a grandfather.
So time passes, time just flies, you won’t have time to look back.
Okay, I'll continue about my friend. Our grandfather grows whiter and whiter, and so the day of the great celebration of our victory over the Germans finally arrives. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, walks under an umbrella and is not afraid of the rain. So we go to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen, around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. The dampness around is from the rain, but you look at them, how they stand, and it seems as if the weather is very good.
We began to present our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some mischievous boy, probably planning to sneak into the parade someday. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:
- Why are you going, old mushroom?
I felt offended, I admit, I got very angry and grabbed this boy by the collar. He broke free, jumped like a hare, looked back as he jumped and ran away.
The parade on Red Square temporarily displaced both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came to my mind again. And I said this to the invisible mischief maker:
- Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.
And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly collect mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birch and aspen trees begin to sprinkle golden and red spots down on the young fir trees.
The day was warm and even parky, when mushrooms climb out of the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything out, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from that very place, collect again: you take it, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.
This is what it was like now, a mushroom, park day. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I put all sorts of rubbish into my basket: russula, redcap, boletus mushrooms, but there were only two porcini mushrooms. If boletus mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend over for a black mushroom! But what can you do? If necessary, you will bow to the russula.
It was very parky, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I was dying to drink.
There are streams in our forests, from the streams there are paws, paws from the paws or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that I probably would have even tried some wet strawberries. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: the legs would not reach the stream, the hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.
And I hear somewhere behind a dense spruce tree a gray bird squeaks:
- Drink, drink!
It happens that before the rain, a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:
- Drink, drink!
“You fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.”
I looked at the sky, and where to expect rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the ground, like in a bathhouse.
What to do here, what to do?
And the bird also squeaks in its own way:
- Drink, drink!
I chuckled to myself that this is what an old man I am, I’ve lived so much, seen so much of everything in the world, learned so much, and here it’s just a bird, and we have the same desire.
“Let me,” I said to myself, “let me look at my comrade.”
I moved forward carefully, silently in the dense spruce forest, lifted one branch: well, hello!
Through this forest window I saw a clearing in the forest, in the middle of it there were two birch trees, under the birches there was a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry there was a red russula, so huge, the likes of which I had never seen in my life. It was so old that its edges, as only happens with russula, were curled up.
And because of this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water.
My soul became happier.
Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch tree, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - into the water. And turn your head up so that the drop goes down your throat.
- Drink, drink! - another bird squeaks to her from the birch tree.
There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. The bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go wild. But I see everything from the window and am happy and not in a hurry: how much does the bird need, let him drink, we have enough!
One got drunk and flew to the birch tree. The other one came down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one who got drunk is on top of her.
- Drink, drink!
I left the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch tree to another.
But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so much that I was the only one asking.
-Will you drink?
Another replied:
- He won’t drink!
I understood that they were talking about me and about the plate of forest water, one of them made a wish - “he will drink”, the other argued - “he will not drink”.
- I’ll drink, I’ll drink! – I told them out loud.
They squeaked their “drink-drink” even more often.
But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.
Of course, you could do it very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for themselves. With his mushroom knife, he would carefully trim the russula, pick it up, drink the water, and immediately squash the unnecessary cap from an old mushroom on a tree.
Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin (1873-1954) - Russian Soviet writer, author of works about nature, hunting stories, works for children.
Almost all of Prishvin’s works published during his lifetime are devoted to descriptions of his own impressions of encounters with nature, these descriptions differ extraordinary beauty language. Konstantin Paustovsky called him “the singer of Russian nature,” Gorky said that Prishvin had “the perfect ability to give a flexible combination simple words almost physical perceptibility to everything."
http://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki
"Old Mushroom"
Chit.N.Litvinov
recording 1978
It was towards autumn, when birch and aspen trees begin to sprinkle golden and red spots down on the young fir trees. The day was warm and even parky, when mushrooms climb out of the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything out, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from that very place, collect again: you take it, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing. This is what it was like now, a mushroom, park day. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I put all sorts of rubbish into my basket: russula, redcap, boletus mushrooms, but there were only two porcini mushrooms. If boletus mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend over for a black mushroom! But what can you do? If necessary, you will bow to the russula. It was very parky, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I was dying to drink. There are streams in our forests, from the streams there are paws, paws from the paws or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that I probably would have even tried some wet strawberries. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: the legs would not reach the stream, the hands would not be enough to reach the cloud. And somewhere behind a thicket of fir trees I hear a gray bird squeaking: “Drink, drink!” It happens that before the rain, a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink: - Drink, drink! “You fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.” I looked at the sky, and where to expect rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the ground, like in a bathhouse. What to do here, what to do? And the bird also squeaks in its own way: “Drink, drink!” I chuckled to myself that this is what an old man I am, I’ve lived so much, seen so much of everything in the world, learned so much, and here it’s just a bird, and we have the same desire. “Let me,” I said to myself, “let me look at my comrade.” I moved forward carefully, silently in the dense spruce forest, lifted one branch: well, hello! Through this forest window I saw a clearing in the forest, in the middle of it there were two birch trees, under the birches there was a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry there was a red russula, so huge, the likes of which I had never seen in my life. It was so old that its edges, as only happens with russula, were curled up. And because of this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water. My soul became happier. Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch tree, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - into the water. And turn your head up so that the drop goes down your throat. - Drink, drink! - another bird squeaks to her from the birch tree. There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. The bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go wild. And I see everything from the window and am happy and not in a hurry: how much does a bird need, let him drink, we have enough! One got drunk and flew to the birch tree. The other one came down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one who got drunk is on top of her. - Drink, drink! I left the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch tree to another. But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so much that I was the only one asking. -Will you drink? Another answered: “He won’t drink!” I understood that they were talking about me and about the plate of forest water, one of them made a wish - “he will drink”, the other argued - “he will not drink”. - I’ll drink, I’ll drink! – I told them out loud. They squeaked their “drink, drink” even more often. But it wasn’t so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water. Of course, you could do it very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for themselves. With his mushroom knife, he would carefully trim the russula, pick it up, drink the water, and immediately squash the unnecessary cap from an old mushroom on a tree. What daring! And, in my opinion, this is simply stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this, if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will start drinking. And then the seeds - spores - will ripen in the mushroom, the wind will pick them up and scatter them throughout the forest for the future. Apparently there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank to my old knees and lay down on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula. And then the birds! The birds are playing their game. – Will he drink or won’t he drink? “No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I’ve got there and I’ll drink.” So it turned out well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met the cold lips of the mushroom. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me, in a golden boat made of birch leaves, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needed to get drunk. - How many of you are here, willing! – I told him. - Well, you. And in one breath he drank the entire forest cup to the bottom.
http://www.prishvin.org.ru/ll-al-elbook-1464/
We had a revolution in nineteen hundred and five. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought on the barricades at Presnya. Strangers meeting him called him brother.
“Tell me, brother,” they will ask him, “where.”
They will name the street, and the “brother” will answer where this street is.
The First World War came in nineteen fourteen, and I heard people say to him:
- Father, tell me.
They began to call him not brother, but father.
The Great October Revolution has arrived. My friend had white silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at his white-silver hair and said:
- What, father, have you started selling flour?
“No,” he answered, “in silver.” But that's not the point.
His real job was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also a very kind person and helped everyone who turned to him for advice in everything. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years under Soviet rule.
I hear someone stop him on the street one day:
- Grandpa, grandpa, tell me.
And my friend, the old boy with whom we sat on the same bench in the old school, became a grandfather.
So time passes, time just flies, you won’t have time to look back.
Okay, I'll continue about my friend. Our grandfather grows whiter and whiter, and so the day of the great celebration of our victory over the Germans finally arrives. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, walks under an umbrella and is not afraid of the rain. So we go to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen, around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. The dampness around is from the rain, but you look at them, how they stand, and it seems as if the weather is very good.
We began to present our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some mischievous boy, probably planning to sneak into the parade someday. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:
- Why are you going, old mushroom?
I felt offended, I admit, I got very angry and grabbed this boy by the collar. He broke free, jumped like a hare, looked back as he jumped and ran away.
The parade on Red Square temporarily displaced both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came to my mind again. And I said this to the invisible mischief maker:
- Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.
And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly collect mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birch and aspen trees begin to sprinkle golden and red spots down on the young fir trees.
The day was warm and even parky, when mushrooms climb out of the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything out, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from that very place, collect again: you take it, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.
This is what it was like now, a mushroom, park day. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I put all sorts of rubbish into my basket: russula, redcap, boletus mushrooms, but there were only two porcini mushrooms. If boletus mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend over for a black mushroom! But what can you do? If necessary, you will bow to the russula.
It was very parky, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I was dying to drink.
There are streams in our forests, from the streams there are paws, paws from the paws or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that I probably would have even tried some wet strawberries. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: the legs would not reach the stream, the hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.
And I hear somewhere behind a dense spruce tree a gray bird squeaks:
- Drink, drink!
It happens that before the rain, a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:
- Drink, drink!
“You fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.”
I looked at the sky, and where to expect rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the ground, like in a bathhouse.
What to do here, what to do?
And the bird also squeaks in its own way:
- Drink, drink!
I chuckled to myself that this is what an old man I am, I’ve lived so much, seen so much of everything in the world, learned so much, and here it’s just a bird, and we have the same desire.
“Let me,” I said to myself, “let me look at my comrade.”
I moved forward carefully, silently in the dense spruce forest, lifted one branch: well, hello!
Through this forest window I saw a clearing in the forest, in the middle of it there were two birch trees, under the birches there was a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry there was a red russula, so huge, the likes of which I had never seen in my life. It was so old that its edges, as only happens with russula, were curled up.
And because of this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water.
My soul became happier.
Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch tree, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - into the water. And turn your head up so that the drop goes down your throat.
- Drink, drink! - another bird squeaks to her from the birch tree.
There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. The bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go wild. But I see everything from the window and am happy and not in a hurry: how much does the bird need, let him drink, we have enough!
One got drunk and flew to the birch tree. The other one came down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one who got drunk is on top of her.
- Drink, drink!
I left the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch tree to another.
But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so much that I was the only one asking.
-Will you drink?
Another replied:
- He won’t drink!
I understood that they were talking about me and about the plate of forest water, one of them made a wish - “he will drink”, the other argued - “he will not drink”.
- I’ll drink, I’ll drink! – I told them out loud.
They squeaked their “drink-drink” even more often.
But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.
Of course, you could do it very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for themselves. With his mushroom knife, he would carefully trim the russula, pick it up, drink the water, and immediately squash the unnecessary cap from an old mushroom on a tree.
What daring!
And, in my opinion, this is simply stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this, if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will start drinking. And then the seeds - spores - will ripen in the mushroom, the wind will pick them up and scatter them throughout the forest for the future.
Apparently there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank to my old knees and lay down on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula.
And the birds! The birds are playing their game.
– Will he drink or won’t he drink?
“No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I’ve got there and I’ll drink.”
So it turned out well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met the cold lips of the mushroom. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me, in a golden boat made of birch leaves, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needed to get drunk.
- How many of you are here, willing! – I told him. - Well, you.
And in one breath he drank the entire forest cup to the bottom.
We had a revolution in nineteen hundred and five. Then my friend was in the prime of his youth and fought on the barricades at Presnya. Strangers meeting him called him brother.
“Tell me, brother,” they will ask him, “where.”
They will name the street, and the “brother” will answer where this street is.
The First World War came in nineteen fourteen, and I heard people say to him:
- Father, tell me.
They began to call him not brother, but father.
The Great October Revolution has arrived. My friend had white silver hair in his beard and on his head. Those who knew him before the revolution met now, looked at his white-silver hair and said:
- What, father, have you started selling flour?
“No,” he answered, “in silver.” But that's not the point.
His real job was to serve society, and he was also a doctor and treated people, and he was also a very kind person and helped everyone who turned to him for advice in everything. And so, working from morning until late at night, he lived for fifteen years under Soviet rule.
I hear someone stop him on the street one day:
- Grandpa, grandpa, tell me.
And my friend, the old boy with whom we sat on the same bench in the old school, became a grandfather.
So time passes, time just flies, you won’t have time to look back.
Okay, I'll continue about my friend. Our grandfather grows whiter and whiter, and so the day of the great celebration of our victory over the Germans finally arrives. And grandfather, having received an honorary invitation card to Red Square, walks under an umbrella and is not afraid of the rain. So we go to Sverdlov Square and see there, behind a chain of policemen, around the entire square, troops - well done to well done. The dampness around is from the rain, but you look at them, how they stand, and it seems as if the weather is very good.
We began to present our passes, and then, out of nowhere, some mischievous boy, probably planning to sneak into the parade someday. This mischievous man saw my old friend under an umbrella and said to him:
- Why are you going, old mushroom?
I felt offended, I admit, I got very angry and grabbed this boy by the collar. He broke free, jumped like a hare, looked back as he jumped and ran away.
The parade on Red Square temporarily displaced both the boy and the “old mushroom” from my memory. But when I came home and lay down to rest, the “old mushroom” came to my mind again. And I said this to the invisible mischief maker:
- Why is a young mushroom better than an old one? The young one asks for a frying pan, and the old one sows spores of the future and lives for other, new mushrooms.
And I remembered one russula in the forest, where I constantly collect mushrooms. It was towards autumn, when birch and aspen trees begin to sprinkle golden and red spots down on the young fir trees.
The day was warm and even parky, when mushrooms climb out of the damp, warm earth. On such a day, it happens that you pick everything out, and soon another mushroom picker will follow you and immediately, from that very place, collect again: you take it, and the mushrooms keep climbing and climbing.
This is what it was like now, a mushroom, park day. But this time I had no luck with mushrooms. I put all sorts of rubbish into my basket: russula, redcap, boletus mushrooms, but there were only two porcini mushrooms. If boletus mushrooms were real mushrooms, I, an old man, would bend over for a black mushroom! But what can you do? If necessary, you will bow to the russula.
It was very parky, and from my bows everything inside me caught fire and I was dying to drink.
There are streams in our forests, from the streams there are paws, paws from the paws or even just sweaty places. I was so thirsty that I probably would have even tried some wet strawberries. But the stream was very far away, and the rain cloud was even further away: the legs would not reach the stream, the hands would not be enough to reach the cloud.
And I hear somewhere behind a dense spruce tree a gray bird squeaks:
- Drink, drink!
It happens that before the rain, a gray bird - a raincoat - asks for a drink:
- Drink, drink!
“You fool,” I said, “so the cloud will listen to you.”
I looked at the sky, and where to expect rain: a clear sky above us, and steam from the ground, like in a bathhouse.
What to do here, what to do?
And the bird also squeaks in its own way:
- Drink, drink!
I chuckled to myself that this is what an old man I am, I’ve lived so much, seen so much of everything in the world, learned so much, and here it’s just a bird, and we have the same desire.
“Let me,” I said to myself, “let me look at my comrade.”
I moved forward carefully, silently in the dense spruce forest, lifted one branch: well, hello!
Through this forest window I saw a clearing in the forest, in the middle of it there were two birch trees, under the birches there was a stump and next to the stump in a green lingonberry there was a red russula, so huge, the likes of which I had never seen in my life. It was so old that its edges, as only happens with russula, were curled up.
And because of this, the whole russula was exactly like a large deep plate, moreover, filled with water.
My soul became happier.
Suddenly I see: a gray bird flies from a birch tree, sits on the edge of a russula and with its nose - a bale! - into the water. And turn your head up so that the drop goes down your throat.
- Drink, drink! - another bird squeaks to her from the birch tree.
There was a leaf on the water in a plate - small, dry, yellow. The bird will peck, the water will tremble, and the leaf will go wild. But I see everything from the window and am happy and not in a hurry: how much does the bird need, let him drink, we have enough!
One got drunk and flew to the birch tree. The other one came down and also sat on the edge of the russula. And the one who got drunk is on top of her.
- Drink, drink!
I left the spruce forest so quietly that the birds were not very afraid of me, but only flew from one birch tree to another.
But they began to squeak not calmly, as before, but with alarm, and I understood them so much that I was the only one asking.
-Will you drink?
Another replied:
- He won’t drink!
I understood that they were talking about me and about the plate of forest water, one of them made a wish - “he will drink”, the other argued - “he will not drink”.
- I’ll drink, I’ll drink! – I told them out loud.
They squeaked their “drink-drink” even more often.
But it was not so easy for me to drink this plate of forest water.
Of course, you could do it very simply, as everyone does who does not understand forest life and comes to the forest only to take something for themselves. With his mushroom knife, he would carefully trim the russula, pick it up, drink the water, and immediately squash the unnecessary cap from an old mushroom on a tree.
What daring!
And, in my opinion, this is simply stupid. Think for yourself how I could do this, if two birds got drunk from an old mushroom before my eyes, and you never know who drank without me, and now I myself, dying of thirst, will now get drunk, and after me it will rain again, and again everyone will start drinking. And then the seeds - spores - will ripen in the mushroom, the wind will pick them up and scatter them throughout the forest for the future.
Apparently there is nothing to do. I grunted, grunted, sank to my old knees and lay down on my stomach. Out of necessity, I say, I bowed to the russula.
And the birds! The birds are playing their game.
– Will he drink or won’t he drink?
“No, comrades,” I told them, “now don’t argue anymore, now I’ve got there and I’ll drink.”
So it turned out well that when I lay down on my stomach, my parched lips met the cold lips of the mushroom. But just to take a sip, I see in front of me, in a golden boat made of birch leaves, on its thin cobweb, a spider descends into a flexible saucer. Either he wanted to swim, or he needed to get drunk.
- How many of you are here, willing! – I told him. - Well, you.
And in one breath he drank the entire forest cup to the bottom.
