Short stories, small tales about nature by Konstantin Dmitrievich Ushinsky transport the reader to a world of nature filled with magic, where the author, as if with an artist’s brush, in light lines of fairy-tale prose describes the nature of different seasons.
Nature in stories and fairy tales for children is instructive in the descriptions and dialogues of heroes, teaches goodness, where in simple words the author conveys the murmur of a stream, the singing of birds, the noise of the forest and many others natural phenomena in an educational and moral context.
Stories about plants and animals
Tales of the Seasons
Nature in short stories
Summer in the forest
It's good in the forest on a hot afternoon. What you won’t see here! Tall pines hung their needle-like tops. Christmas trees arch their thorny branches. A curly birch tree with fragrant leaves shows off. The gray aspen tree is trembling. A stocky oak tree spreads its carved leaves. A strawberry eye peeks out from the grass. A fragrant berry is blushing nearby.
Lily of the valley catkins swing between the long, smooth leaves. A woodpecker knocks on the trunk with its strong nose. The oriole screams. A tenacious squirrel flashed its fluffy tail. A cracking sound is heard far away in the bowl. Isn't this a bear?
On the field in summer
Fun on the field, free on the wide field! Multi-colored fields seem to run along the hills to the blue stripe of the distant forest. The golden rye is agitated; she inhales the strengthening air. Young oats turn blue; Blooming buckwheat with red stems and white-pink, honey-colored flowers turns white. Hidden away from the road was a curly pea, and behind it a pale green strip of flax with bluish eyes. On the other side of the road, the fields turn black under the flowing steam.
The lark flutters over the rye, and the sharp-winged eagle looks vigilantly from above: he sees a noisy quail in the thick rye, he also sees a field mouse as it hurries into its hole with a grain that has fallen from a ripe ear. Hundreds of invisible grasshoppers are chattering everywhere.
Morning rays
The red sun floated into the sky and began sending out its golden rays everywhere - waking up the earth.
The first ray flew and hit the lark. The lark started, flew out of the nest, rose high, high and sang its silver song: “Oh, how good it is in the fresh morning air! How good! How fun!”
The second beam hit the bunny. The bunny twitched his ears and hopped merrily across the dewy meadow: he ran to get some juicy grass for breakfast.
The third beam hit the chicken coop. The rooster flapped his wings and sang: ku-ka-re-ku! The chickens flew away from their infestations, clucked, and began to rake away the rubbish and look for worms. The fourth beam hit the hive. A bee crawled out of its wax cell, sat on the window, spread its wings and - zoom-zoom-zoom! - flew off to collect honey from fragrant flowers.
The fifth ray hit the nursery, on the little lazy man’s bed: it hit him right in the eyes, and he turned on the other side and fell asleep again.
Bread
The earth feeds man, but it does not feed him in vain. People must work a lot so that the field, instead of grass, suitable only for livestock, produces rye for black bread, wheat for rolls, buckwheat and millet for porridge.
First, the farmer plows the field with a plow if there is no need to plow deeply, or with a plow if he plows new land, or a field that needs to be plowed deeper. The plow is lighter than a plow, and it is harnessed to one horse. The plow is much heavier than the plow, goes deeper, and is harnessed to several pairs of horses or oxen.
The field is plowed; it was all covered with large blocks of earth. But this is still not enough. If the field is new or the soil itself is very rich, then manure is not needed; but if something has already been sown in the field and it has become depleted, then it must be fertilized with manure.
Peasants take manure to the field in the fall or spring and scatter it in heaps. But in heaps, manure will be of little use: it must be plowed into the ground with a plow.
The manure has rotted; but you still can’t sow. The earth lies in clods, but a grain needs a soft bed. Peasants go out to the field with toothed harrows: they harrow until all the clods are broken, and then they just begin to sow.
Sow either in spring or autumn. In autumn, winter bread is sown: rye and winter wheat. In the spring, spring grain is sown: barley, oats, millet, buckwheat and spring wheat.
Winter crops sprout in the fall, and when the grass in the meadows has long since turned yellow, then the winter fields are covered with seedlings, like green velvet. It’s a pity to watch snow fall on such a velvet field. Young winter leaves under the snow soon wither; but the better the roots grow, bush and go deeper into the ground. The winter plant will sit under the snow all winter, and in the spring, when the snow melts and the sun warms up, it will sprout new stems, new leaves, stronger, healthier than before. It is only bad if frosts begin before the snow falls; Then, perhaps, the winter may freeze. That is why peasants are afraid of frosts without snow and do not regret, but rejoice when the winter crop is covered with a thick blanket of snow for the winter.
Wind and sun
One day the Sun and the angry North Wind started a dispute about which of them was stronger. They argued for a long time and finally decided to measure their strength against the traveler, who at that very time was riding on horseback along the high road.
“Look,” said the Wind, “how I’ll fly at him: I’ll instantly tear off his cloak.”
He said, and began to blow as hard as he could. But the more the Wind tried, the tighter the traveler wrapped himself in his cloak: he grumbled about the bad weather, but rode further and further. The wind became angry, fierce, and showered the poor traveler with rain and snow; Cursing the Wind, the traveler put his cloak into the sleeves and tied it with a belt. At this point the Wind himself became convinced that he could not pull off his cloak.
The sun, seeing the powerlessness of its rival, smiled, looked out from behind the clouds, warmed and dried the earth, and at the same time the poor half-frozen traveler. Feeling the warmth of the sun's rays, he perked up, blessed the Sun, took off his cloak, rolled it up and tied it to the saddle.
“You see,” the meek Sun then said to the angry Wind, “you can do much more with affection and kindness than with anger.”
Four wishes
Mitya sledded down an icy mountain and skated on a frozen river, ran home rosy, cheerful and said to his father:
- How fun it is in winter! I wish it were all winter!
“Write your wish in my pocket book,” said the father.
Mitya wrote it down.
Spring came. Mitya ran to his heart’s content in the green meadow for colorful butterflies, picked flowers, ran to his father and said:
- What a beauty this spring is! I wish it were still spring.
The father again took out the book and ordered Mitya to write down his wish.
Summer has come. Mitya and his father went to haymaking. The boy had fun all long day: he fished, picked berries, tumbled in the fragrant hay, and in the evening he said to his father:
- I had a lot of fun today! I wish there was no end to summer!
And this desire of Mitya was written down in the same book. Autumn has come. Fruits were collected in the garden - ruddy apples and yellow pears. Mitya was delighted and said to his father:
— Autumn is the best time of the year!
Then the father took out his notebook and showed the boy that he had said the same thing about spring, and winter, and summer.
Summer in the forest Author: Ushinsky Konstantin Dmitrievich It’s good in the forest on a hot afternoon. What you won’t see here! Tall pines hung their needle-like tops. Christmas trees arch their thorny branches. A curly birch tree with fragrant leaves shows off. The gray aspen tree is trembling. A stocky oak tree spreads its carved leaves. A strawberry eye peeks out from the grass. A fragrant berry is blushing nearby. Lily of the valley catkins swing between the long, smooth leaves. A woodpecker knocks on the trunk with its strong nose. The oriole screams. A tenacious squirrel flashed its fluffy tail. A cracking sound is heard far away in the bowl. Isn't this a bear? Forest Author: Turgenev Ivan Sergeevich Otherwise, you order the racing droshky to be laid and you will go into the forest to hunt hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along the narrow path between two walls of tall rye. Ears of corn quietly hit you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; the long, hanging branches of the birches barely move; a mighty oak tree stands like a fighter next to a beautiful linden tree. You are driving along a green path dotted with shadows; large yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, lighter in the shade, darker in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds with innocent, chatty joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest becomes deaf... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and everything around is so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown leaves; The mushrooms stand separately under their caps. The hare will suddenly jump out, the dog will rush after him with a ringing bark. Author: Astafiev Viktor Petrovich The aspen groves were darkening in the depths, the forest was becoming a thick cloud, and over the white-trunked birches the crowns that had just turned red, but were already turning black, silently closed. The sky was still light, but it was burning down from the sunset edge. The birds chattered less and less, shaking themselves off on the branches before going to sleep. Blackbirds chattered grumpily, and woodcocks rarely flew through the bush, marked in the middle with last year's black snow, uttering a calling cry and shaking their beaks in tune with their leathery creaking. ... In the evening, which has already shrouded the forest, in the cooling sky, in the eared anemone flowers, closing their white eyelashes at night, in the splayed corydalis, in the spiny herbal grasses, in an anthill leaned against a stump, in the rustle of a mouse under a haystack, in every aspen tree , a birch tree, a fir tree - in everything, in everything, there was hidden the joy of awakening that was close to me, although it seemed that everything around was going to rest. It seemed to me like a child's game. Nature closed only one eye at night, pretending to be asleep - after all, the sun had set, and evening had come, and there was supposed to be peace, sleep and rest. The earth sighed and was damply foggy with the distances, but it did all this with slyness, as if playing at sleep and obedience. Chu! A snowy stream mutters in the ravine, covered with dark bird cherry trees; a hare wandered into the aspen forests, having lost its fear and caution in passion; and the raven, the silent raven, fussed about in the fir trees and began to purr and talk so much that it seemed that in the whole forest there was not a single living soul more kind and loving than him. Somewhere a little sandpiper, a cheerful cavalryman, is crying; somewhere, a black woodpecker made a burst of bursts of beak on a dry trunk. I jerked off and listened to it myself - what music! And far, far away, in quiet and deserted fields filled with puddles, the lapwings burst into tears and awakened the groan in the chest of a lonely crane, which for the third day had been walking lanky across the field and calling, calling someone in a sick voice... There is no sleep, there is the appearance of it. There is no peace either, and there will not be until the first leaf. Everything lives, rejoices and mischiefs in the homelessness of the forest, enjoying freedom, confusion, and the premonition of love. Mother Earth and all of nature wisely, with a condescending grin, watches her children - soon, very soon, all this will end: nests will be made, holes will be dug, hollows will be found in trees, there will be fights on the currents, only feathers will fly, passions will rage. The forest brotherhood, careless and careless, will boil over, rage, split into families and strengthen itself by caring for children and home. Busyness and long troubles will enter the world, respectful work will triumph in the forest... In the meantime, the emaciated but smart forest people, subsisting more on songs rather than on the food of God, are impatiently waiting for the first ray of sunshine, raving about the inevitably approaching love. In the veins of all living things, in the cores of trees, in the hearts of birds and animals, the juices and blood of spring flow, pound, and ferment. On the field in summer Author: Ushinsky Konstantin Dmitrievich Fun on the field, free on the wide one! Multi-colored fields seem to run along the hills to the blue stripe of the distant forest. The golden rye is agitated; she inhales the strengthening air. Young oats turn blue; Blooming buckwheat with red stems and white-pink, honey-colored flowers turns white. Hidden away from the road was a curly pea, and behind it a pale green strip of flax with bluish eyes. On the other side of the road, the fields turn black under the flowing steam. The lark flutters over the rye, and the sharp-winged eagle looks vigilantly from above: he sees a noisy quail in the thick rye, he also sees a field mouse as it hurries into its hole with a grain that has fallen from a ripe ear. Hundreds of invisible grasshoppers are chattering everywhere. Morning rays Author: Ushinsky Konstantin Dmitrievich The red sun floated into the sky and began to send out its golden rays everywhere - to awaken the earth. The first ray flew and hit the lark. The lark started, flew out of the nest, rose high, high and sang its silver song: “Oh, how good it is in the fresh morning air! How good! How fun!” The second beam hit the bunny. The bunny twitched his ears and hopped merrily across the dewy meadow: he ran to get some juicy grass for breakfast. The third beam hit the chicken coop. The rooster flapped his wings and sang: ku-ka-re-ku! The chickens flew away from their infestations, clucked, and began to rake away the rubbish and look for worms. The fourth beam hit the hive. A bee crawled out of its wax cell, sat on the window, spread its wings and - zoom-zoom-zoom! - flew off to collect honey from fragrant flowers. The fifth ray hit the nursery, on the little lazy man’s bed: it hit him right in the eyes, and he turned on the other side and fell asleep again. *** Dostoevsky Fyodor Mikhailovich I remembered the month of August in our village: the day was dry and clear, but somewhat cold and windy; summer is coming to an end, and soon we will have to go to Moscow again to be bored all winter French lessons , and I’m so sorry to leave the village. I walked behind the threshing floor and, descending into the ravine, climbed up to Losk - that’s what we called the dense bush on the other side of the ravine all the way to the rain. I am completely immersed in my work, I am busy: I break out a walnut whip for myself to whip frogs with; hazel whips are so beautiful and so fragile, compared to birch ones. I am also interested in insects and beetles, I collect them, there are some very elegant ones; I also love small, agile, red-yellow lizards with black spots, but I’m afraid of snakes. However, snakes are found much less often than lizards. There are few mushrooms here, you have to go to the birch forest to get mushrooms, and I’m going to go. And I loved nothing in life more than the forest with its mushrooms and wild berries, with its insects and birds, hedgehogs and squirrels, with its so-beloved damp smell of decaying leaves. Nikita's childhood (Excerpts) Author: Tolstoy Alexey Nikolaevich... The languor and heat intensified. The birds fell silent, the flies grew drowsy on the windows. By evening, the low sun disappeared into the hot darkness. Dusk came quickly. It was completely dark - not a single star. The barometer needle firmly pointed - “storm”... And in the dead silence, the willows on the pond were the first to rustle, dully and importantly, and the frightened cries of the rooks were heard. The noise became louder and more solemn, and finally, a strong gust of wind crushed the acacia trees near the balcony, a fragrant perfume blew through the door, brought in several dry leaves, the fire flickered in the frosted globe of the lamp, the rushing wind whistled and howled in the chimneys and in the corners of the house. Somewhere a window crashed and broken glass rang. The whole garden was now noisy, the trunks creaked, the invisible peaks swayed. And then - the night opened up with a dazzling white-blue light, and for a moment low-bending trees appeared as black outlines. And again darkness. And the whole sky thundered and collapsed. Over the noise, no one heard the raindrops falling and flowing on the windows. The rain poured down - strong, abundant, in torrents. The smell of moisture, rain, rain and grass filled the hall... Bezhin meadow Author: Turgenev Ivan Sergeevich It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that happen only when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull purple, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - peacefully emerges from under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and plunges into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver. .. But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose merrily and majestically, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; perhaps here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and the vortex-gyres - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain... *** Summer morning in July: an oak forest stands like a wall and shines, turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming. And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn... There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; an autumn smell, similar to the smell of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a thin fog stands in the distance... the earth is elastic under your feet... Your chest breathes calmly... *** On an early summer morning, go to the forest, to the river that quietly flows between the trees. Take care of food: take bread and butter with you. Near the river, sit down on a mossy bank, undress and throw yourself into the cold water. Don't be afraid to catch a cold. Discover willpower. After swimming, find an open spot and lie down in the hot sun. Do this daily and you will be healthy. And a summer, July morning!.. You part the wet bush and you will be doused with the accumulated warm smell of the night. Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a spring... You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move, you are in the shadows, you are breathing odorous dampness; you feel good... Summer evening Author: Tolstoy Alexey Nikolaevich In the distant and pale depths of the sky, stars were just appearing; in the west it was still red - there the sky seemed clearer and cleaner; the semicircle of the moon glittered gold through the black mesh of the weeping birch. Other trees either stood as gloomy giants, with a thousand gaps, like eyes, or merged into solid gloomy masses. Not a single leaf moved; the upper branches of lilacs and acacias seemed to be listening to something and stretched out in the warm air. The house grew dark nearby; Long, illuminated shadows were drawn on it with spots of reddish light. The evening was gentle and quiet; but a restrained, passionate sigh was felt in this silence. Thunderstorm in the forest Alexey Nikolaevich Tolstoy But what is this? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is there a cloud coming? But then lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing; its front edge is extended by the sleeve, tilted by the arch. The grass, the bushes, everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... quickly... You ran, entered... How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how joyfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!.. *** The recently risen sun flooded the entire grove with a strong, although not bright, light; Dewdrops glittered everywhere, and here and there large drops suddenly lit up and glowed; everything breathed with freshness, life and that innocent solemnity of the first moments of the morning, when everything is already so light and still so silent. All that could be heard was the scattered voices of larks over the distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three birds, in a hurry, raised their short little knees and seemed to listen later to how it turned out for them. There was a healthy, strong smell from the wet earth, and the clean, light air shimmered with cool currents. *** The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white, like late spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round, spongy growths with gray edges, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; the strawberries sent out their pink tendrils over them: the mushrooms immediately sat closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of “crane peas”, golden cups of “night blindness”, half purple, half yellow flowers Ivan da Marya; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles - there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up, then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out - everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully - you would be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and everything again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth. *** And a summer, July morning! Who, besides the hunter, has experienced how pleasant it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? The trace of your feet lies like a green line across the dewy, whitened grass. If you part the wet bush, you will be bombarded with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the whole air is filled with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, buckwheat honey and “porridge”; In the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming. The head is languidly spinning from the excess of fragrances. There is no end to the bush... here and there in the distance ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. The cart creaked; A man makes his way step by step, places his horse in the shade... You greeted him, walked away - the sonorous clang of a scythe can be heard behind you... The sun is getting higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. It's already getting hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; The still air breathes with stinging heat. “Where can I get a drink here, brother?” - you ask the mower. “And there’s a well in the ravine.” Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a source; the oak bush greedily spread its clawed branches over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom covered with fine velvet moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe the odorous dampness; you feel good, but opposite you the bushes heat up and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is a cloud approaching?.. But lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud grows: its front edge stretches out like a sleeve, tilts like an arch. The grass, the bushes - everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! Over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... hurry up! You ran, entered... How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!.. But then evening comes. The dawn burst into flames and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; lies in the distance soft steam , warm in appearance; along with the dew, a scarlet shine falls onto the clearings, recently doused with streams of liquid gold; Long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the tall haystacks... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of sunset... Now it is turning pale; the sky turns blue; individual shadows disappear, the air fills with darkness. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing the gun over your shoulders, you walk quickly, despite your fatigue... Meanwhile, night comes; twenty steps away you can no longer see anything; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Here, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky becomes vaguely clear. What is this? Fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. *** The heat forced us to enter the grove. I rushed under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple had spread its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads widely beneath you, that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far away, ending at the end of a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and next to it another sways, reminiscent of the play of a fish bank, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass - and now, suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to endless fine sand of a sudden swell. You don't move - you look; and it is impossible to express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in the heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them, in a slow string, happy memories pass through your soul, and it still seems to you that your gaze is leaving further and further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth. .. *** (“Taras Bulba”) Author: Gogol Nikolai Vasilyevich... The further the steppe went, the more beautiful it became. Then the whole south, all that space... right up to the Black Sea was a green, virgin desert... Nothing in nature could be better. The entire surface of the earth seemed like a green-golden ocean, over which millions of different colors splashed... an ear of wheat brought from God knows where was pouring in the thick... The air was filled with a thousand different bird whistles. Hawks stood motionless in the sky, spreading their wings and motionlessly fixing their eyes on the grass... A seagull rose from the grass with measured strokes and bathed luxuriously in blue waves air. There she has disappeared in the heights and only flickers like a single black dot; there she turned her wings and flashed in front of the sun... Damn you, steppes, how beautiful you are! ... Everything seemed to have died; only above, in the heavenly depths, the lark trembles, and silvery songs fly along the airy steps to the loving land, and occasionally the cry of a seagull or the ringing voice of a quail echoes in the steppe. Lazily and soullessly, as if walking without a goal, the oak trees stand under the clouds, and the dazzling blows of the sun's rays ignite entire picturesque masses of leaves, casting over others a shadow dark as night, along which gold flecks only with a strong wind. Emeralds, topazes, and jahonts of ethereal insects rain down over the colorful vegetable gardens, overshadowed by old sunflowers. Gray haystacks and golden sheaves of bread are encamped in the field and wander through its immensity. Wide branches of cherries, plums, apple trees, pears bent over from the weight of fruits: the sky, its pure mirror-river in green, proudly raised frames. The forest is noisy Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich The forest is noisy... There has always been a noise in this forest - even, drawn-out, like the echo of a distant ringing, calm and vague, like a quiet song without words, like a vague memory of the past. There was always noise in it, because it was an old, dense forest, which had not yet been touched by the saw and ax of the forest dealer. Tall hundred-year-old pines with red mighty trunks stood like a gloomy army, tightly closed at the top with green tops. It was quiet below and smelled of resin; through the canopy of pine needles with which the soil was strewn, bright ferns emerged, luxuriantly spread out in a bizarre fringe and standing motionless, without moving a leaf. In damp corners green grasses stretched on tall stems; the white porridge bowed its heavy heads, as if in quiet languor. And above, without end or interruption, the forest noise continued, like the vague sighs of an old forest. What kind of dew happens on the grass? Author: Tolstoy Lev Nikolaevich When on a sunny morning in the summer, you go into the forest, you can see diamonds in the fields, in the grass. All these diamonds sparkle and shimmer in the sun in different colors - yellow, red, and blue. When you come closer and see what it is, you will see that these are drops of dew collected in the triangular leaves of the grass and glistening in the sun. The inside of the leaf of this grass is shaggy and fluffy, like velvet. And the drops roll on the leaf and do not wet it. When you carelessly pick a leaf with a dewdrop, the droplet will roll off like a light ball, and you will not see how it slips past the stem. It used to be that you would tear off such a cup, slowly bring it to your mouth and drink the dewdrop, and this dewdrop seemed tastier than any drink. Burdock Author: Tolstoy Lev Nikolaevich I was returning home through the fields. It was the very middle of summer. The meadows had been cleared and they were just about to mow the rye. There is a lovely selection of flowers for this time of year: red, white, pink, fragrant, fluffy porridges... milky white, with a bright yellow center “love it or not” with its rotten spicy stench; yellow colza with its wise smell; tall purple and white tulip-shaped bells; creeping peas; yellow, red, pink, lilac, neat scabioses; with slightly pink fluff and a slightly audible pleasant smell of plantain, cornflowers, bright blue in the sun and in youth and blue and reddening in the evening and in old age; and tender, almond-scented, immediately fading dodder flowers. I picked a large bouquet of different flowers and was walking home when I noticed in a ditch a wonderful crimson, in full bloom, burdock of the variety that we call “Tatar” and which is carefully mowed, and when it is accidentally mowed down, they throw out the mows from the hay so as not to prick your hands on him. I decided to pick this burdock and put it in the middle of the bouquet. I climbed down into the ditch and, having driven away the shaggy bumblebee that had dug into the middle of the flower and sweetly and sluggishly slept there, I began to pick the flower. But it was very difficult: not only did the stem prick from all sides, even through the scarf with which I wrapped my hand, it was so terribly strong that I fought with it for about five minutes, tearing the fibers one by one. When I finally tore off the flower, the stem was already all in tatters, and the flower no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. In addition, due to its rudeness and clumsiness, it did not suit the delicate flowers of the bouquet. I regretted that I had in vain destroyed a flower that was good in its place, and threw it away. “What energy and strength of life, however,” I thought, remembering the efforts with which I tore off the flower. “How he strenuously defended and sold his life dearly.” Young shoots Author: Mamin-Sibiryak Dmitry Narkisovich Along the banks of the river, currant bushes, willows, alders and wild raspberries huddled together; the green, juicy sedge went into the very water, where it glistened and bent under the pressure of the river stream, as if alive. In some places the logs sticking out of the ground were rotting, and young shoots of honeysuckle were already crawling out from under them; immediately the pink arrows of the fireweed swayed and swamp yellow flowers dazzled. Near the old stumps, like expensive lace, fragrant meadowsweet clung with its yellow caps. Near the forest itself, a whole island of young aspen trees stretched out, shimmering in the sun with their ever-moving, metallic foliage, and then a birch forest rose like a green wall and went out of sight along the flow of the river. But most beautiful of all were the young spruce and birch trees that grew along the dumps and landfills: they looked like a crowd of children running out onto the steep slope with all their might and from here admiring everything that was below. It seemed that these forest youth were whispering slyly among themselves, happy with the sunny day and the fact that only youth full of strength gives. Summer nights in the Urals Author: Dmitry Narkisovich Mamin-Sibiryak At the end of July, summer nights in the Urals are especially good: a bottomless blue depth looks down at you from above, flickering with intense phosphorescent light, so that individual stars and constellations are somehow lost in the general light tone; the air is quiet and sensitive to the slightest sound; the forest sleeps in the fog; the water stands motionless; even night birds appear and disappear in the frozen air completely silently, like shadows on the screen of a magic lantern. My Russia Author: Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich Since this summer, I have become forever and with all my heart attached to Central Russia. I don’t know a country that has such enormous lyrical power and such touchingly picturesque - with all its sadness, tranquility and spaciousness - as central Russia. The magnitude of this love is difficult to measure. Everyone knows this for themselves. You love every blade of grass, drooping from the dew or warmed by the sun, every mug of water from the summer well, every tree above the lake, its leaves fluttering in the calm, every rooster crow, every cloud floating on the pale and high sky. And if I sometimes want to live to be one hundred and twenty years old, as grandfather Nechipor predicted, it is only because one life is not enough to fully experience all the charm and all the healing power of our Central Ural nature.
In the highlighted sentences, highlight the basis (tall pines hung their needle tops, fir trees arched their prickly branches, a stocky oak spread their carvedleaves). Use arrows to show the phrases in which they are dependent words. Decide which of them you will indicate gender and case, and which ones you will indicate only case.
The text itself:
It's good in the forest on a hot afternoon. What can you see here! Tall pines have hung their needle-like tops. Fir-trees arch their prickly branches. A curly birch tree with fragrant leaves flaunts. Gray aspen trembles. A stocky oak tree has spread its carved leaves. A strawberry eye peeks out from the grass. A fragrant berry is blushing nearby. Earrings of a lily of the valley are swinging between the long , smooth leaves. A woodpecker knocks on the trunk with its strong nose. An oriole screams. A tenacious squirrel flashes its fluffy tail. A crackling sound is heard far in the thicket. Is it a bear?
Please help! :)
Write down the text, dividing it into sentences. It’s good in the forest at noon, green fir trees arch their thorny branches, a white birch tree with fragrant leaves flauntsthe gray aspen trembles. Underline words with unstressed vowels at the root. Which ones are verifiable and which ones are not? Explain why words with unchecked vowels are called dictionary words. Select the root, put the accent.
Well, in the forest on a hot afternoon, tall pines hung their needle-like tops, a birch tree flaunts, a mighty oak spread out its carved leaves like a tent. Helpplease add punctuation.
a good breeze blows evenly. In such a wind you can only fly a kite. A paper kite flies high and pulls the thread tightly. The wet tail flutters merrily.write down the verbs. indicate their tense. you cannot determine the tense of which verb. In the text, indicate the number and gender of adjectives. Look up the meaning of a word you don’t know in a dictionary.
Why is it difficult for a hunter to hunt pheasants by bait? Prove your answer with words from the text.Pheasant
In the Caucasus, wild chickens are called pheasants. There are so many of them that they are cheaper than domestic chicken. Pheasants are hunted with a filly, from a decoy and from under a dog.
This is how they hunt with a filly: they take canvas, stretch it over a frame, make a crossbar in the middle of the frame, and make a hole in the canvas. This canvas frame is called a filly. With this filly and a gun they go out into the forest at dawn. They carry the filly in front of them and look out for pheasants through the gaps. Pheasants feed in the clearings at dawn; sometimes a whole brood - a hen with
chickens, sometimes a rooster and a hen, sometimes several roosters together.
Pheasants do not see a person, but are not afraid of canvas and allow them to come close to them. Then the hunter places the filly, sticks his gun into the hole and shoots at his choice.
This is how they hunt from bait: they let a yard dog into the forest and follow it. When the dog finds a pheasant, it will rush after it. The pheasant flies up into the tree, and then the little dog starts barking at him. The hunter approaches the barking and shoots a pheasant in a tree. This hunt would be easy if the pheasant sat on a tree in a clean place and sat right on the tree - so that it could be seen. But pheasants always sit on dense trees, in thickets, and when they see a hunter, they hide in the branches. And it can be difficult to get through the thicket to the tree where the pheasant sits, and it is difficult to see it. When a dog alone barks at a pheasant, he is not afraid of her, sits on a twig and still cocks at her and flaps his wings. But as soon as he sees a person, he immediately stretches out along the branch, so that only an accustomed hunter will distinguish him, and an unaccustomed one will stand nearby and see nothing.
When the Cossacks creep up on the pheasants, they pull their hats down over their faces and do not look up, because the pheasants are afraid of a man with a gun, and most of all they are afraid of his eyes.
This is how they hunt from under a dog: they take a pointing dog and follow it through the forest. The dog will instinctively hear where the pheasants walked and fed at dawn, and will begin to make out their tracks. And no matter how much the pheasants mess up, a good dog will always find the last trace, a way out from the place where they fed. The further the dog follows the trail, the stronger the smell, and so it will reach the place where the pheasant sits in the grass during the day or walks. When she comes close, then it will seem to her that the pheasant is already there, right in front of her, and she will continue to walk more carefully so as not to scare him away, and will stop in order to immediately jump and catch him. When the dog comes very close, then the pheasant flies out and the hunter shoots.
Mid summerOh my, today is July 15th, the very middle of summer. There were so many plans, ideas and plans for this time. There is so much more I want to do. Finish a light dress and have time to show off in it before such weather sets in. When driving past a bright chamomile field, don’t just fly by soullessly just by looking, but be sure to stop, collect a bouquet and take home a piece of the summer mood. 
Mid summer. Have time to visit your aunt’s hospitable dacha near Kirzhach, feel the aroma of juniper branches in a hot bath, swim in a forest lake surrounded on all sides by tall pine trees, sit late in the evening on the lawn in front of the house, watching the night moths that flock to small garden lanterns.
Mid summer. Mid year. You need to get a lot done at work before your long-awaited vacation, so that while basking on the beach and catching the salty sea wind in your hair, you don’t feel the feeling of “unfinished business.”
Mid summer. Mid year. To have time to do something that I haven’t done yet, to learn something that I don’t yet know how to do, to visit countries that I have only dreamed of, to remain an incurable optimist, to be happy in spite of everything, to live like I have never before lived, not to be afraid to become who I could once be.
Midsummer... midyear... midlife... 
Short stories about summer
My Russia. Paustovsky Konstantin
Since this summer, I have become forever and wholeheartedly attached to Central Russia. I don’t know a country that has such enormous lyrical power and such touchingly picturesque - with all its sadness, tranquility and spaciousness - as central Russia. The magnitude of this love is difficult to measure. Everyone knows this for themselves. You love every blade of grass, drooping from the dew or warmed by the sun, every mug of water from the summer well, every tree above the lake, its leaves fluttering in the calm, every rooster crow, every cloud floating across the pale and high sky. And if I sometimes want to live to be one hundred and twenty years old, as grandfather Nechipor predicted, it is only because one life is not enough to fully experience all the charm and all the healing power of our Central Ural nature. 
Summer in the forest. Ushinsky Konstantin
It's good in the forest on a hot afternoon. What you won’t see here! Tall pines hung their needle-like tops. Christmas trees arch their thorny branches. A curly birch tree with fragrant leaves shows off. The gray aspen tree is trembling. A stocky oak tree spreads its carved leaves. A strawberry eye peeks out from the grass. A fragrant berry is blushing nearby.
Lily of the valley catkins swing between the long, smooth leaves. A woodpecker knocks on the trunk with its strong nose. The oriole screams. A tenacious squirrel flashed its fluffy tail. A cracking sound is heard far away in the bowl. Isn't this a bear? 
Forest. Turgenev Ivan
Otherwise, you’ll order a racing droshky and go into the forest to hunt hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along the narrow path between two walls of tall rye. Ears of corn quietly hit you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; the long, hanging branches of the birches barely move; a mighty oak tree stands like a fighter next to a beautiful linden tree. You are driving along a green path dotted with shadows; large yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, lighter in the shade, darker in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds with innocent, chatty joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest becomes deaf... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and everything around is so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown leaves; The mushrooms stand separately under their caps. The hare will suddenly jump out, the dog will rush after him with a ringing bark. 
The aspen groves darkened in the depths, the forest became a thick cloud, and over the white-trunked birches the crowns that had just turned red, but were already turning black, silently closed. The sky was still light, but it was burning down from the sunset edge. The birds chattered less and less, shaking themselves off on the branches before going to sleep. Blackbirds chattered grumpily, and woodcocks rarely flew through the bush, marked in the middle with last year's black snow, uttering a calling cry and shaking their beaks in tune with their leathery creaking.
In the evening, which has already shrouded the forest, in the cooling sky, in the eared anemone flowers, closing their white eyelashes for the night, in the spreading corydalis, in the needle-like herbs, in the anthill leaned against a stump, in the rustle of a mouse under a haystack, in every aspen, birch, Christmas tree - in everything, in everything, there was hidden the joy of awakening that was close to me, although it seemed that everything around me was going to rest.
It seemed to me like a child's game. Nature closed only one eye at night, pretending to be asleep - after all, the sun had set, and evening had come, and there was supposed to be peace, sleep and rest.
The earth sighed and was damply foggy with the distances, but it did all this with slyness, as if playing at sleep and obedience.
Chu! A snowy stream mutters in the ravine, covered with dark bird cherry trees; a hare wandered into the aspen forests, having lost its fear and caution in passion; and the raven, the silent raven, fussed about in the fir trees and began to purr and talk so much that it seemed that in the whole forest there was not a single living soul more kind and loving than him. Somewhere a little sandpiper, a cheerful cavalryman, is crying; somewhere, a black woodpecker made a burst of bursts of beak on a dry trunk. I jerked off and listened to it myself - what music! And far, far away, in quiet and deserted fields filled with puddles, the lapwings burst into tears and awakened a groan in the chest of a lonely crane, which for the third day had been walking lanky across the field and calling, calling someone in a sick voice...
There is no dream, there is the appearance of it. There is no peace either, and there will not be until the first leaf. Everything lives, rejoices and mischiefs in the homelessness of the forest, enjoying freedom, confusion, and the premonition of love.
Mother Earth and all of nature wisely, with a condescending grin, watches her children - soon, very soon, all this will end: nests will be made, holes will be dug, hollows will be found in trees, there will be fights on the currents, only feathers will fly, passions will rage. The forest brotherhood, careless and careless, will boil over, rage, split into families and strengthen itself by caring for children and home. Business and long troubles will enter the world, respectful work will triumph in the forest...
In the meantime, the emaciated but smart forest people, subsisting more on songs rather than on the food of God, are impatiently waiting for the first ray of sunshine, delirious about the inevitably approaching love. In the veins of all living things, in the cores of trees, in the hearts of birds and animals, the juices and blood of spring flow, pound, and ferment. 
On the field in summer. Ushinsky Konstantin
Fun on the field, free on the wide field! Multi-colored fields seem to run along the hills to the blue stripe of the distant forest. The golden rye is agitated; she inhales the strengthening air. Young oats turn blue; Blooming buckwheat with red stems and white-pink, honey-colored flowers turns white. Hidden away from the road was a curly pea, and behind it a pale green strip of flax with bluish eyes. On the other side of the road, the fields turn black under the flowing steam.
The lark flutters over the rye, and the sharp-winged eagle looks vigilantly from above: he sees a noisy quail in the thick rye, he also sees a field mouse as it hurries into its hole with a grain that has fallen from a ripe ear. Hundreds of invisible grasshoppers are chattering everywhere. 
Morning rays. Ushinsky Konstantin
The red sun floated into the sky and began to send its golden rays everywhere - waking up the earth.
The first ray flew and hit the lark. The lark started, flew out of the nest, rose high, high and sang its silver song: “Oh, how good it is in the fresh morning air! How good! How fun!”
The second beam hit the bunny. The bunny twitched his ears and hopped merrily across the dewy meadow: he ran to get some juicy grass for breakfast.
The third beam hit the chicken coop. The rooster flapped his wings and sang: ku-ka-re-ku! The chickens flew away from their infestations, clucked, and began to rake away the rubbish and look for worms. The fourth beam hit the hive. A bee crawled out of its wax cell, sat on the window, spread its wings and - zoom-zoom-zoom! - flew off to collect honey from fragrant flowers.
The fifth ray hit the nursery, on the little lazy man’s bed: it hit him right in the eyes, and he turned on the other side and fell asleep again. 
Dostoevsky Fyodor
I remembered the month of August in our village: the day was dry and clear, but somewhat cold and windy; Summer is coming to an end, and soon I have to go to Moscow again to be bored all winter with French lessons, and I’m so sorry to leave the village. I walked behind the threshing floor and, descending into the ravine, climbed up to Losk - that’s what we called the dense bush on the other side of the ravine all the way to the rain. I am completely immersed in my work, I am busy: I break out a walnut whip for myself to whip frogs with; hazel whips are so beautiful and so fragile, compared to birch ones. I am also interested in insects and beetles, I collect them, there are some very elegant ones; I also love small, agile, red-yellow lizards with black spots, but I’m afraid of snakes. However, snakes are found much less often than lizards. There are few mushrooms here, you have to go to the birch forest to get mushrooms, and I’m going to go. And I loved nothing in life more than the forest with its mushrooms and wild berries, with its insects and birds, hedgehogs and squirrels, with its so-beloved damp smell of decaying leaves.
Nikita's childhood. Tolstoy Alexey
... The languor and heat intensified. The birds fell silent, the flies grew drowsy on the windows. By evening, the low sun disappeared into the hot darkness. Dusk came quickly. It was completely dark - not a single star. The barometer needle firmly pointed - “storm”...
And in the dead silence, the willows on the pond were the first to rustle, dully and importantly, and the frightened cries of the rooks could be heard. The noise became louder and more solemn, and finally, a strong gust of wind crushed the acacia trees near the balcony, a fragrant perfume blew through the door, brought in several dry leaves, the fire flickered in the frosted globe of the lamp, the rushing wind whistled and howled in the chimneys and in the corners of the house.
Somewhere a window crashed and broken glass rang. The whole garden was now noisy, the trunks creaked, the invisible peaks swayed.
And then - the night opened up with a dazzling white-blue light, and for a moment low-bending trees appeared as black outlines. And again darkness. And the whole sky thundered and collapsed. Over the noise, no one heard the raindrops falling and flowing on the windows. The rain poured down - strong, abundant, in torrents.
The smell of moisture, dampness, rain and grass filled the hall...
Bezhin meadow. Turgenev Ivan
It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull purple, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - peacefully emerges from under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and plunges into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver... But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose both cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges.
Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; perhaps here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness.
On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and the vortex-gyres - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white pillars along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain... 
***
Summer morning in July: the oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming.
And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn... There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; an autumn smell, similar to the smell of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a thin fog stands in the distance... the earth is elastic under your feet... Your chest breathes calmly... 
***
On an early summer morning, go into the forest, to the river that quietly flows between the trees.
Take care of food: take bread and butter with you. Near the river, sit down on a mossy bank, undress and throw yourself into the cold water.
Don't be afraid to catch a cold. Discover willpower. After swimming, find an open spot and lie down in the hot sun. Do this daily and you will be healthy. And a summer, July morning!.. You part the wet bush and you will be doused with the accumulated warm smell of the night. Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a spring... You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move, you are in the shadows, you are breathing odorous dampness; you well... 
Summer evening. Tolstoy Alexey
In the distant and pale depths of the sky, stars were just appearing; in the west it was still red - there the sky seemed clearer and cleaner; the semicircle of the moon glittered gold through the black mesh of the weeping birch. Other trees either stood as gloomy giants, with a thousand gaps, like eyes, or merged into solid gloomy masses. Not a single leaf moved; the upper branches of lilacs and acacias seemed to be listening to something and stretched out in the warm air. The house grew dark nearby; Long, illuminated shadows were drawn on it with spots of reddish light. The evening was gentle and quiet; but a restrained, passionate sigh was felt in this silence. 
Thunderstorm in the forest. Tolstoy Alexey
But what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is there a cloud coming? But then lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing; its front edge is extended by the sleeve, tilted by the arch. The grass, the bushes, everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... quickly... You ran, entered...
How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!.. 
***
The recently risen sun flooded the entire grove with a strong, although not bright, light; Dewdrops glittered everywhere, and here and there large drops suddenly lit up and glowed; everything breathed with freshness, life and that innocent solemnity of the first moments of the morning, when everything is already so light and still so silent. All that could be heard was the scattered voices of larks over the distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three birds, in a hurry, raised their short little knees and seemed to listen later to how it turned out for them. There was a healthy, strong smell from the wet earth, and the clean, light air shimmered with cool currents. 
***
The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white, like late spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. Kasyan and I wandered around the clearings for a long time. The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round, spongy growths with gray edges, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; the strawberries sent out their pink tendrils over them: the mushrooms immediately sat closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of “crane peas”, golden cups of “night blindness”, half lilac, half yellow Ivan da Marya flowers; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles - there was no other shadow anywhere.
A light breeze would wake up, then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out - everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully - you would be glad to see it... but then it froze again, and everything again it became quiet. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it is as if he was born by him, as if summoned by him from the hot earth.
***
And a summer, July morning! Who, besides the hunter, has experienced how pleasant it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? The trace of your feet lies like a green line across the dewy, whitened grass. If you part the wet bush, you will be bombarded with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the whole air is filled with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, buckwheat honey and “porridge”; In the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red in the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming. The head is languidly spinning from the excess of fragrances. There is no end to the bush... here and there in the distance ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. The cart creaked; A man makes his way step by step, places his horse in the shade... You greeted him, walked away - the sonorous clang of a scythe can be heard behind you... The sun is getting higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. It's already getting hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; The still air breathes with stinging heat. “Where can I get a drink here, brother?” - you ask the mower. “And there’s a well in the ravine.”
Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a source; the oak bush greedily spread its clawed branches over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom covered with fine velvet moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe the odorous dampness; you feel good, but opposite you the bushes heat up and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is a cloud approaching?.. But lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud grows: its front edge stretches out like a sleeve, tilts like an arch. The grass, the bushes - everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! Over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... hurry up! You ran, entered... How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!..
But then evening comes. The dawn burst into flames and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; soft steam lies in the distance, warm in appearance; along with the dew, a scarlet shine falls onto the clearings, recently doused with streams of liquid gold; Long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the tall haystacks... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of sunset... Now it is turning pale; the sky turns blue; individual shadows disappear, the air fills with darkness. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing the gun over your shoulders, you walk quickly, despite your fatigue... Meanwhile, night comes; twenty steps away you can no longer see anything; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Here, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky becomes vaguely clear. What is this? Fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. 
***
The heat forced us to enter the grove. I rushed under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple had spread its light branches.
Kasyan sat down on the thick end of a felled birch tree. I looked at him. The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads widely beneath you, that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green.
Somewhere far away, ending at the end of a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and next to it another sways, reminiscent of the play of a fish bank, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass - and now, suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves drenched in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to endless fine sand of a sudden swell. You don't move - you look; and it is impossible to express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in the heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them, in a slow string, happy memories pass through your soul, and it still seems to you that your gaze is leaving further and further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth... 
Taras Bulba. Gogol Nikolay
... The further the steppe went, the more beautiful it became. Then the whole south, all that space... right up to the Black Sea was a green, virgin desert... Nothing in nature could be better. The entire surface of the earth seemed like a green-golden ocean, over which millions of different colors splashed... an ear of wheat brought from God knows where was pouring in the thick... The air was filled with a thousand different bird whistles. Hawks stood motionless in the sky, spreading their wings and motionlessly fixing their eyes on the grass... A seagull rose from the grass with measured strokes and bathed luxuriously in the blue waves of air. There she has disappeared in the heights and only flickers like a single black dot; there she turned her wings and flashed in front of the sun... Damn you, steppes, how good you are!..”
***
How tedious are those hot hours when midday shines in silence and heat.
... Everything seemed to have died; only above, in the heavenly depths, the lark trembles, and silvery songs fly along the airy steps to the loving land, and occasionally the cry of a seagull or the ringing voice of a quail echoes in the steppe. Lazily and soullessly, as if walking without a goal, the oak trees stand under the clouds, and the dazzling blows of the sun's rays ignite entire picturesque masses of leaves, casting over others a shadow dark as night, along which gold flecks only with a strong wind. Emeralds, topazes, and jahonts of ethereal insects rain down over the colorful vegetable gardens, overshadowed by old sunflowers. Gray haystacks and golden sheaves of bread are encamped in the field and wander through its immensity. Wide branches of cherries, plums, apple trees, pears bent over from the weight of fruits: the sky, its pure mirror-river in green, proudly raised frames. 
The forest is noisy. Korolenko Vladimir
There was always a noise in this forest - even, drawn-out, like the echo of a distant ringing, calm and vague, like a quiet song without words, like a vague memory of the past. There was always noise in it, because it was an old, dense forest, which had not yet been touched by the saw and ax of the forest dealer. Tall hundred-year-old pines with red mighty trunks stood like a gloomy army, tightly closed at the top with green tops. It was quiet below and smelled of resin; through the canopy of pine needles with which the soil was strewn, bright ferns emerged, luxuriantly spread out in a bizarre fringe and standing motionless, without moving a leaf. In damp corners green grasses stretched on tall stems; the white porridge bowed its heavy heads, as if in quiet languor. And above, without end or interruption, the forest noise continued, like the vague sighs of an old forest. 
What kind of dew happens on the grass? Tolstoy Lev
When you go into the forest on a sunny morning in summer, you can see diamonds in the fields and grass. All these diamonds sparkle and shimmer in the sun in different colors - yellow, red, and blue.
When you come closer and see what it is, you will see that these are drops of dew collected in the triangular leaves of the grass and glistening in the sun. The inside of the leaf of this grass is shaggy and fluffy, like velvet.
And the drops roll on the leaf and do not wet it.
When you carelessly pick a leaf with a dewdrop, the droplet will roll off like a light ball, and you will not see how it slips past the stem. It used to be that you would tear off such a cup, slowly bring it to your mouth and drink the dewdrop, and this dewdrop seemed tastier than any drink.
Burdock. Tolstoy Lev
I was returning home through the fields. It was the very middle of summer. The meadows had been cleared and they were just about to mow the rye.
There is a lovely selection of flowers for this time of year: red, white, pink, fragrant, fluffy porridges... milky white, with a bright yellow center “love it or not” with its rotten spicy stench; yellow colza with its wise smell; tall purple and white tulip-shaped bells; creeping peas; yellow, red, pink, lilac, neat scabioses; with slightly pink fluff and a slightly audible pleasant smell of plantain, cornflowers, bright blue in the sun and in youth and blue and reddening in the evening and in old age; and tender, almond-scented, immediately fading dodder flowers.
I picked a large bouquet of different flowers and was walking home when I noticed in a ditch a wonderful crimson, in full bloom, burdock of the variety that we call “Tatar” and which is carefully mowed, and when it is accidentally mowed down, they throw out the mows from the hay so as not to prick your hands on him. I decided to pick this burdock and put it in the middle of the bouquet. I climbed down into the ditch and, having driven away the shaggy bumblebee that had dug into the middle of the flower and sweetly and sluggishly slept there, I began to pick the flower. But it was very difficult: not only did the stem prick from all sides, even through the scarf with which I wrapped my hand, it was so terribly strong that I fought with it for about five minutes, tearing the fibers one by one.
When I finally tore off the flower, the stem was already all in tatters, and the flower no longer seemed so fresh and beautiful. In addition, due to its rudeness and clumsiness, it did not suit the delicate flowers of the bouquet. I regretted that I had in vain destroyed a flower that was good in its place, and threw it away. “What energy and strength of life, however,” I thought, remembering the efforts with which I tore off the flower.
“How he strenuously defended and sold his life dearly.”
Young growth. Mamin-Sibiryak Dmitry
Along the banks of the river, currant bushes, willows, alders and wild raspberries huddled together; the green, juicy sedge went into the very water, where it glistened and bent under the pressure of the river stream, as if alive. In some places the logs sticking out of the ground were rotting, and young shoots of honeysuckle were already crawling out from under them; immediately the pink arrows of the fireweed swayed and swamp yellow flowers dazzled. Near the old stumps, like expensive lace, fragrant meadowsweet clung with its yellow caps. Near the forest itself, a whole island of young aspen trees stretched out, shimmering in the sun with their ever-moving, metallic foliage, and then a birch forest rose like a green wall and went out of sight along the flow of the river. But most beautiful of all were the young spruce and birch trees that grew along the dumps and landfills: they looked like a crowd of children running out onto the steep slope with all their might and from here admiring everything that was below. It seemed that these forest youth were whispering slyly among themselves, happy with the sunny day and the fact that only youth full of strength gives.
Summer nights in the Urals. Mamin-Sibiryak Dmitry
At the end of July, summer nights in the Urals are especially good: a bottomless blue depth looks down at you from above, flickering with intense phosphorescent light, so that individual stars and constellations are somehow lost in the general tone of light; the air is quiet and sensitive to the slightest sound; the forest sleeps in the fog; the water stands motionless; even night birds appear and disappear in the frozen air completely silently, like shadows on the screen of a magic lantern.
At the beginning of August. Mamin-Sibiryak Dmitry
The first days of August have arrived. Two cold mornings fell, and the forest flowers that had not had time to bloom faded, and the grass became covered with yellow spots. The sun no longer shone so brightly from the blue sky; it rose later and went to bed earlier; a gusty wind came from nowhere, shook the tops of the trees and quickly disappeared, leaving a cold stream in the air. The joys of the short northern summer were coming to an end, and endless autumn with its torrential rains, bad weather, dark nights, mud and cold was threateningly approaching ahead. I spent almost all my free time in the forest, hunting; With the onset of autumn, the coniferous forest became even better and seemed fresher every day. 
Mowing. Aksakov Sergey
On a beautiful summer day, when the sun’s rays had long since absorbed the freshness of the night, my father and I drove up to the so-called “Hidden Peg”, consisting mostly of young and already quite thick, straight linden trees, like a pine tree - a peg that had long been reserved and preserved with particular rigor. As soon as we climbed up to the forest from the ravine, a dull, extraordinary noise began to reach my ears: now some kind of abrupt and measured rustling, momentarily intermittent and reappearing, now some kind of ringing metallic shuffling. I now asked: “What is this?” - “But you’ll see!” - answered the father, smiling. But behind the young and dense aspen trees nothing was visible; when we rounded it, a wonderful sight struck my eyes. About forty peasants were mowing down, lining up in one line, as if by a thread; Shining brightly in the sun, the scythes flew up, and the thick cut grass lay in orderly rows.
Having passed a long row, the mowers suddenly stopped and began to sharpen their braids with something, cheerfully exchanging playful speeches among themselves, as one could guess from the loud laughter: it was still impossible to hear the words. Metallic sounds occurred while the braids were being sharpened with wooden spatulas coated with clay and sand, which I learned about later. When we arrived close and my father said the usual greeting: “God help!” or “God help you”, loud: “Thank you, Father Alexey Stepanovich!” announced the clearing, was echoed in the ravine, and again the peasants continued to swing their scythes widely, deftly, easily and freely! There was something kind and cheerful about this work, so I didn’t suddenly believe it when they told me that it was also very hard. What a light air, what a wonderful smell wafted from the nearby forest and the grass that was mown early in the morning, replete with many fragrant flowers, which from the hot sun had already begun to wither and emit a particularly pleasant aromatic smell!
The untouched grass stood like a wall, waist-high, and the peasants said: “What kind of grass! Bear is a bear! Jackdaws and crows, having flown in from the forest where their nests were located, were already walking along the green, tall rows of mown grass. I was told that they were picking up various bugs, boogers and worms that had previously been hidden in the thick grass, but were now running in plain sight on overturned plant stems and on the bare ground. As I came closer, I saw with my own eyes that this was absolutely true. Moreover, I noticed that the bird also pecked berries. The strawberries were still green in the grass, but unusually large; in open places she was already keeping up. From the mown rows, my father and I picked a large bunch of berries, some of which were larger than an ordinary nut; Many of them, although they had not yet turned red, were already soft and tasty. 
Sea of grass. Arsenyev Vladimir
From the very first step, lush grasses engulfed us from all sides. They were so high and so thick that the person seemed to be drowning in them. Below your feet there is grass, in front and behind there is grass, on the sides there is also grass, and only at the top - blue sky. It seemed as if we were walking along the bottom of a sea of grass. This impression became even stronger when, having climbed some hummock, I saw how the steppe was agitated. With timidity and apprehension, I again plunged into the grass and walked on. It is just as easy to get lost in these places as in the forest. We lost our way several times, but immediately rushed to correct our mistake. Having found some hummock, I climbed onto it and tried to look at something ahead. Dersu grabbed the wormwood with his hands and bent it to the ground. I looked ahead - an endless sea of grass spread out everywhere in front of me. 
In the forest. M. Gorky (Peshkov Alexey Maksimovich)
We go further into the forest, into the bluish darkness, cut by the golden rays of the sun. In the warmth and comfort of the forest, some special noise is quietly breathing, dreamy and exciting dreams. Crossbills creak, tits ring, the cuckoo laughs, the oriole whistles, the jealous song of the finch sounds incessantly, and a strange bird, the bee-eater, sings thoughtfully. Emerald frogs jump underfoot; between the roots, having raised its golden head, it lies and guards them. A squirrel clicks, its fluffy tail flashes in the paws of the pine trees; you see an incredible amount, you want to see more and more, go further.
Night fire in the forest. M. Gorky (Peshkov A. M.)
And at night the forest took on an indescribably eerie, fabulous appearance: its blue wall grew higher, and in the depths of it, between the black trunks, red, furry animals darted and jumped madly. They fell to the ground to the roots and, hugging the trunks, climbed up like agile monkeys, fought with each other, breaking branches, whistled, hummed and hooted.
The figures of fire between the black trunks were built in infinitely varied ways, and the dance of these figures was tireless. So, clumsily bouncing, tumbling, a red bear rolls out to the edge of the forest and, losing tufts of fiery fur, climbs up the trunk, as if for honey, and, having reached the crown, embraces its branches with a shaggy embrace of crimson paws, swings on them, showering the needles with a rain of golden ones. sparks; Now the animal easily jumped to the next tree, and where it was, a multitude of blue candles were lit on the black, bare branches, purple mice were running along the branches, and with their bright movement, one could clearly see how intricately the blue smoke smoked and how Hundreds of fire ants crawl up and down the trunk bark.
Sometimes the fire crawled out of the forest, stealthily, like a cat hunting for a bird, and suddenly, raising its sharp muzzle, it looked around - what to grab? Or suddenly a sparkling, fiery fescue bear would appear and crawl along the ground on its belly, spreading its paws wide, raking grass into its huge red mouth. 
Native places. Paustovsky Konstantin
I love the Meshchersky region because it is beautiful, although all its charm is not revealed immediately, but very slowly, gradually.
At first glance, this is a quiet and simple land under a dim sky. But the more you get to know it, the more, almost to the point of pain in your heart, you begin to love this extraordinary land. And if I have to defend my country, then somewhere in the depths of my heart I will know that I am also defending this piece of land, which taught me to see and understand beauty, no matter how inconspicuous in appearance it may be - this thoughtful forest land, love for who will never be forgotten, just as first love is never forgotten.
Summer thunderstorms. Paustovsky Konstantin
Summer thunderstorms pass over the land and fall below the horizon. Lightning either strikes the ground with a direct blow, or blazes on black clouds.
A rainbow sparkles over the damp distance. Thunder rolls, rumbles, grumbles, rumbles, shakes the earth.
Summer heat. Paustovsky Konstantin
It was hot. We walked through pine forests. The bears screamed. It smelled of pine bark and strawberries. A hawk hung motionless over the tops of the pines. The forest was heated with heat. We rested in dense bowls of aspen and birch trees. There they breathed the smell of grass and roots. In the evening we went to the lake. The stars were shining in the sky. The ducks flew to roost for the night with a heavy whistle. 
***
Lightning... The very sound of this word seems to convey the slow night shine of distant lightning.
Most often, lightning occurs in July, when the grain is ripening. That’s why there is a popular belief that lightning “lights the bread” - they illuminate it at night - and this makes the bread pour faster.
Next to lightning stands in the same poetic row the word dawn - one of the most beautiful words in the Russian language.
This word is never spoken loudly. It is impossible to even imagine that it could be shouted. Because it is akin to that established silence of the night, when a clear and faint blue shines over the thickets of a village garden. “Unseeing,” as people say about this time of day.
At this dawn hour, the morning star burns low above the earth itself. The air is as pure as spring water.
There is something girlish and chaste in the dawn, in the dawn. At dawn the grass is washed with dew, and the villages smell of warm fresh milk. And the pitiful shepherds sing in the fogs outside the outskirts.
It's getting light quickly. There is silence and darkness in the warm house. But then squares of orange light fall on the log walls, and the logs light up like layered amber. The sun is rising.
The dawn is not only morning, but also evening. We often confuse two concepts - sunset and evening dawn.
The evening dawn begins when the sun has already set beyond the edge of the earth. Then it takes possession of the fading sky, spills a multitude of colors across it - from red gold to turquoise - and slowly passes into the late twilight and night.
Corncrakes scream in the bushes, quails strike, bitterns hum, the first stars are burning, and the dawn smolders for a long time over the distances and fogs. 
Flowers. Paustovsky Konstantin
Near the water, innocent blue-eyed forget-me-nots peeked out from the mint thickets in large clumps. And further, behind the hanging loops of blackberries, wild rowan with tight yellow inflorescences bloomed along the slope. Tall red clover mixed with mouse peas and bedstraw, and above all this closely crowded community of flowers rose a gigantic thistle. He stood waist-deep in the grass and looked like a knight in armor with steel spikes on his elbows and knee pads.
The heated air above the flowers “mellowed”, swayed, and from almost every cup the striped abdomen of a bumblebee, bee or wasp protruded. Like white and lemon leaves, butterflies always flew at random.
And even further, hawthorn and rose hips rose like a high wall. Their branches were so intertwined that it seemed as if the fiery rosehip flowers and the white, almond-scented hawthorn flowers had somehow miraculously blossomed on the same bush.
The rosehip stood with its large flowers turned towards the sun, elegant, completely festive, covered with many sharp buds. Its flowering coincided with the shortest nights - our Russian, slightly northern nights, when nightingales thunder in the dew all night long, the greenish dawn does not leave the horizon and in the deepest part of the night it is so light that the mountain peaks of the clouds are clearly visible in the sky. 
Blessed rain. Sholokhov Mikhail
At the beginning of June there were frequent rains that were unusual for summer: quiet, calm, autumn-like, without thunderstorms, without wind. In the mornings, an ash-gray cloud crawled out from the west, from behind the distant hillocks. It grew, expanded, occupied half the sky - its dark wings darkened ominously, and then sank so that its lower flakes, transparent as muslin, clung to the roof of a tree standing in the steppe, on a mound. windmill; somewhere high and good-naturedly, thunder spoke in a barely audible octave, and blessed rain descended.
Warm drops, like splashes of fresh milk, fell vertically onto the ground hidden in the foggy silence and swelled in white bubbles on the wet, foamy puddles. And this light summer rain was so quiet and peaceful that the flowers did not bow their heads, even the chickens in the yards did not seek shelter from it. With businesslike concern, they rummaged around the sheds and damp, blackened wattle fences in search of food, and the wet roosters, which had slightly lost their majestic posture, despite the rain, crowed at length and in turns. Their cheerful voices merged with the chirping of sparrows shamelessly bathing in puddles and the squeaking of swallows, as if falling in swift flight to the gently alluring earth smelling of rain and dust.
***
In the steppe, wheatgrass rose above the knee. Behind the pasture the sweet clover blossomed. By evening the honey smell spread throughout the entire farm. The winter crops stood like a solid dark green wall to the horizon, while the spring crops pleased the eye with unusually friendly shoots. The gray sands were thickly bristling with the arrows of young shoots of corn. By the end of the first half of June, the weather had firmly established itself, not a single cloud appeared in the sky, and the blooming steppe, washed by the rains, looked marvelous under the sun! She was now like a young nursing mother - unusually beautiful, quiet, a little tired and all glowing with a beautiful, happy and pure smile of motherhood. 
Rain in the forest. Sokolov-Mikitov Ivan
A large dark cloud rose and covered half the sky. Thunder rumbled.
A strong whirlwind swept through the forest tops. The trees rustled, swayed, and torn leaves swirled over the path. Heavy drops fell. Lightning flashed and thunder struck.
Warm, pouring rain poured drop by drop.
After heavy rain, the forest smells strongly of mushrooms. In the grass near the path, strong boletus mushrooms, pink wet russula are hiding, and fly agaric mushrooms are turning red. Black-headed boletuses crowd around like little kids.
Between the white trunks of the birches a young spruce forest has grown densely. Fragrant milk mushrooms and red-headed boletuses hide here.
And in the forest clearings the first saffron milk caps appeared, the golden chanterelles turned yellow.
Summer has begun. Abramov Fedor
There was a dull thump in the distance - dark, heavy clouds were creeping towards the village. They crawled slowly, swirling menacingly and imperiously growing to the very horizon.
The village became dark and silent. Even the cattle became silent in anticipation. And suddenly a deafening roar shook the earth.
Doors and gates slammed all over the village. People ran out into the street, placed tubs under the floods, and joyfully called to each other in the pouring rain. Barefoot children ran through the puddles like foals, and the short northern summer began.
Heat. Abramov Fedor
August brought with him a dry wind. The heat has begun. In the mornings the dew was not caught in the white haze, the streams and rivulets dried up, and by midday the leaves withered on the trees. In the sultry, white-hot sky, an ash-gray buzzard darted about all day long, crying piercingly and sadly:
“Pi-it!.. Pi-it!..” Summer is over.
The short northern summer is over.
A squirrel came out into the home pine forests, still red and not molted. With the first snow, when autumn passes through it with a blue fog, the squirrel will migrate to the remote sezemes, onto a fir cone.
Fog, fog over the village...
It was as if white clouds had descended to the ground, as if rivers of milk had spilled under the window.
By noon, the fog will settle, the sun will emerge briefly, and you will see cranes in the sky. They fly in their well-known wedge, humming sadly and pitifully, as if apologizing: we, they say, are flying away to warmer climes, and you’re here to croak.
* * * * *
July is the peak of summer. Tvardovsky Alexander
July is the peak of summer, -
The newspaper reminded
But above all newspapers -
Daylight loss of light;
But before this little one,
The most secretive of signs, -
Cuckoo, cuckoo, - top of the head, -
The cuckoo has tapped
Farewell greetings.
And from linden blossom
Consider the song sung
Consider that half the summer is gone, -
July is the peak of summer. 
Summer. Short stories about summer for children 5-7 years old.
Dear colleagues, in this section we present short stories about summer for children 5-7 years old. There are a huge number of them, I have made a selection of the most convenient and understandable for children of senior preschool age.
Stories for children about summer, nature and animals in summer.
Summer in the forest.
It's good in the forest on a hot afternoon. What you won’t see here! Tall pines hung their needle-like tops. Christmas trees arch their thorny branches. A curly birch tree with fragrant leaves shows off. The gray aspen tree is trembling. A stocky oak tree spreads its carved leaves. A strawberry eye peeks out from the grass. A fragrant berry is blushing nearby.
Lily of the valley catkins swing between the long, smooth leaves. A woodpecker knocks on the trunk with its strong nose. The oriole screams. A tenacious squirrel flashed its fluffy tail. A cracking sound is heard far away in the bowl. Isn't this a bear?
On the field in summer.
Fun on the field, free on the wide field! Multi-colored fields seem to run along the hills to the blue stripe of the distant forest. The golden rye is agitated; she inhales the strengthening air. Young oats turn blue; Blooming buckwheat with red stems and white-pink, honey-colored flowers turns white. Hidden away from the road was a curly pea, and behind it a pale green strip of flax with bluish eyes. On the other side of the road, the fields turn black under the flowing steam.
The lark flutters over the rye, and the sharp-winged eagle looks vigilantly from above: he sees a noisy quail in the thick rye, he also sees a field mouse as it hurries into its hole with a grain that has fallen from a ripe ear. Hundreds of invisible grasshoppers are chattering everywhere.
Morning rays.
The red sun floated into the sky and began to send its golden rays everywhere - waking up the earth.
The first ray flew and hit the lark. The lark started, flew out of the nest, rose high, high and sang its silver song: “Oh, how good it is in the fresh morning air! How good! How fun!”
The second beam hit the bunny. The bunny twitched his ears and hopped merrily across the dewy meadow: he ran to get some juicy grass for breakfast.
The third beam hit the chicken coop. The rooster flapped his wings and sang: ku-ka-re-ku! The chickens flew away from their infestations, clucked, and began to rake away the rubbish and look for worms. The fourth beam hit the hive. A bee crawled out of its wax cell, sat on the window, spread its wings and - zoom-zoom-zoom! - flew off to collect honey from fragrant flowers.
The fifth ray hit the nursery, on the little lazy man’s bed: it hit him right in the eyes, and he turned on the other side and fell asleep again.
My Russia
Since this summer, I have become forever and wholeheartedly attached to Central Russia. I don’t know a country that has such enormous lyrical power and such touchingly picturesque - with all its sadness, tranquility and spaciousness - as central Russia. The magnitude of this love is difficult to measure. Everyone knows this for themselves. You love every blade of grass, drooping from the dew or warmed by the sun, every mug of water from the summer well, every tree above the lake, its leaves fluttering in the calm, every rooster crow, every cloud floating across the pale and high sky. And if I sometimes want to live to be one hundred and twenty years old, as grandfather Nechipor predicted, it is only because one life is not enough to fully experience all the charm and all the healing power of our Central Ural nature.
Thunderstorm in the forest
Tolstoy Alexey NikolaevichBut what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is there a cloud coming? But then lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing; its front edge is extended by the sleeve, tilted by the arch. The grass, the bushes, everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... quickly... You ran, entered...
How is the rain? What are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!..
Summer morning.
Iris ReviewSummer is the time when nature wakes up early. Summer morning is amazing. Light clouds are floating high in the sky, the air is clean and fresh, it is filled with the aromas of herbs. The forest river sheds the haze of fog. A golden ray of the sun skillfully makes its way through the dense foliage, illuminating the forest. A nimble dragonfly, moving from place to place, looks carefully, as if looking for something.
It's nice to wander through the summer forest. Among the trees, the tallest are pine trees. Spruce trees are also not small, but they do not know how to stretch their tops so high towards the sun. You step softly on the emerald moss. What is there in the forest: mushrooms and berries, mosquitoes and grasshoppers, mountains and slopes. The summer forest is nature's storehouse.
And here is the first meeting - a large, prickly hedgehog. Seeing people, he gets lost, stands on a forest path, probably wondering where he should go next?
