Reviews of the book "Wormwood Tales" by Yuri Koval. Koval “Wormwood Tales” Name the signs of village life in wormwood tales

Artist - Nikolai Alexandrovich Ustinov.

Wormwood Tales- bright and kind, and even slightly magical stories about the childhood of the little girl Lelya, about her mother and friends, about people living in a small village with beautiful name Polynovka. These are not even quite fairy tales - these are fairy tales-memories, like parables about an old forgotten life - amazing, quiet and beautiful! The book is good to read not only for children, but also for adults: once you start reading, it’s hard to stop... One of best books, which I managed to read in Lately.

Publisher: Publishing House Meshcheryakova, 2013 - A new book, very beautifully and efficiently published, but the circulation is very small - only 3000 copies.

84x108/16 (205x290 mm - A4), 136 pages, hardcover.

The stories in the book are unlike anything else, written in a melodious vernacular, smooth. These are not even fairy tales, but stories from life ordinary people Polynovtsev. A steppe village in Mari El, where a Russian teacher, Lelya’s mother, teaches local children who cannot speak Russian. All events are described from the perspective of the little girl Lelya, this is her memory of childhood. As an adult, she tells them to her son like fairy tales. “They were strange fairy tales. I have never read anything like them anywhere since.”

This book, according to many reviews (which we fully agree with!) is the best of all children's books that I have read recently. And not only for children - it is also interesting for adults - everyone who is close folk life.

And what illustrations are there!! Books with illustrations by Ustinov are always masterpieces, and here Ustinov and Koval were also friends - that’s why the book turned out so complete and real...

WHERE CAN I BUY. There is a book on sale in the labyrinth , in ozone, in myshop, .

The Tale of Gray Stones

A Tale of Huge Creatures
The Tale of Some Thing with a Golden Nose
The Tale of the Porch and the Heap
The Tale of the Next Room.
The Tale of the Main Man
The Tale of Grandfather Ignat
The Tale of Polynovka
Marfushina's tale is three pancakes long
The Tale of the Wormwood Tongue
Tale of a Soldier
A fairy tale about that. how Mishka went to war
The Tale of the Egg Game
Marfushina's tale about the steppe brother
The Tale of How Autumn Came
A tale about how classes started at school
Tale of a surname
A tale about a Russian language lesson

The Tale of the Pine Lamp
Grandfather Ignat's tale about the wolf Evstifsyka
A Tale of Holiday Poems
The Tale of the Snow Clock
The Tale of a Blizzard Festival
The Tale of Wolves and the Stupid Cow
Tale of the Spinning Tops
The Tale of the Tops (continued)
The Tale of Three Rubles
Grandfather Ignat's tale about the other three rubles
A Tale of Sisters
The Tale of the Roast Gander
The Tale of Ice
The Tale of the Silver Falcon, told by Natakai
The Tale of the Broken Droshky
The Tale of the Coming of Spring
The Tale of Goose Letters

A Tale of a Strict Holiday
Tale of the Sower
The tale of how the lilac did not bloom
Lunina's tale about the mountain ash
The tale of the devil with horns and a beard
Grandfather Ignat's tale about the goat Kozma Mikitich
The Tale of Katka
The Tale of the Happy Lilac

Wormwood tales completely fascinate the reader with their unusualness, dissimilarity from others, melodiousness and poetry of language and plot. You are immersed in the atmosphere of the steppe, flowering herbs, it’s not for nothing that fairy tales - wormwood... These are fairy tales that his mother told the author when he was little, these are his mother’s memories of childhood.

The main character of the book is a little girl who lives with her mother (a village teacher) in a village somewhere in the wide Russian steppe. The time that the book describes is the beginning of the 20th century. The author talks about the life of a zemstvo teacher who teaches illiterate children. There is a lot of folklore - wise and kind villagers ("Marfushina's Tales").

It was...

Those were wonderful times...

It was...
That was a long time ago.
This was when I still loved being sick. But just don’t hurt too much. Not to be so sick that you have to be taken to the hospital and given ten injections, but to be quietly sick, at home, when you are lying in bed and they bring you tea with lemon.
In the evening, my mother comes running from work:
- My God! What's happened?!
- Yes, nothing... Everything is fine.
- I need tea! Strong tea! - Mom is worried.
- You don’t need anything... leave me.
“My dear, my dear...” my mother whispers, hugs me, kisses me, and I moan. Those were wonderful times.

Then my mother would sit next to me on the bed and begin to tell me something or draw a house and a cow on a piece of paper. That's all she knew how to draw - a house and a cow, but I have never in my life seen anyone draw a house and a cow so well. I lay and moaned and asked:
- Another house, another cow!
And a lot came out on the leaf of houses and cows.
And then my mother told me fairy tales.
These were strange fairy tales. I have never read anything like this anywhere else.
Many years later. before I realized what my mother was telling me about her life. And in my head everything fit like fairy tales.
Year after year passed, days flew by.
And this summer I got very sick.
It's a shame to get sick in the summer.
I lay on the bed, looked at the tops of the birches and remembered mother's tales.

About the author and artist of this book. Koval and Ustinov

Wormwood fairy tales are a gift for mom. Yuri Iosifovich Koval did not hide this and spoke frankly: “The fact is that my mother was very ill then, these were her dying years. But I loved her very much, and I wanted to do something for her. And what a writer can do is write.”

There is also a gift for dad. All connoisseurs of “Kovalya’s” life immediately understand that they are cheerful and beautiful The Adventures of Vasya Kurolesov would never have been born if the boy Yura had not been so proud of his dad. The fact is that Joseph Koval was a very brave and unusual person. During the war, he worked in the city of Moscow, on Petrovka, in the department for combating banditry, then became the head of the criminal investigation department of the entire Moscow region, was wounded and awarded many times, but for all this he remained cheerful, witty and even “laughing.. About books He joked to his son like this: “In essence, I suggested everything to Yurka!”

Mom didn't tell me. She only often remembered. About my distant rural childhood and even wrote down my memories - quite simply, everything is as it was. So there are no inventions about old village life in Wormwood Tales.

Wormwood tales were the very last thing that two friends managed to talk about - Yuri Iosifovich Koval and Nikolai Aleksandrovich Ustinov. Once upon a time, in 1987, they made this book. Then another publishing house decided to release it again, and the artist Ustinov began to consult by phone on which picture would be best to put on the cover. We decided: let the wolf be Eustifika.

Soon a book with Evstifika appeared, but Yuri Koval did not see it... And that was also a long time ago, almost twenty years ago. That's why books are needed. If you open Wormwood Tales today or even tomorrow, if you know nothing at all about the writer Koval and the artists Ustinov, it is immediately clear that they are friends...

“Wormwood Tales” is a gift for mom. Yuri Iosifovich Koval did not hide this and spoke frankly: “The fact is that my mother was very ill then, these were her dying years. And I loved her very much, and I wanted to do something for her. What can a writer do - write?.

There is also a gift for dad. All experts in “Kovalya” life immediately understand that the funny and wonderful “Adventures of Vasya Kurolesov” would never have been born if the boy Yura had not been so proud of his dad. The fact is that Joseph Koval was a very brave and unusual person. During the war, he worked in the city of Moscow, on Petrovka, in the department for combating banditry, then became the head of the criminal investigation department of the entire Moscow region, was wounded and awarded many times, but for all this he remained cheerful, witty and even “laughing.” He joked about his son’s books like this: “In essence, I suggested everything to Yurka!”

Mom didn't tell me. She only often remembered her distant rural childhood and even wrote down her memories - quite simply, everything was as it was. So there are no inventions about old village life in Wormwood Tales. There is only love by inheritance and tenderness, which falls with a quiet light on the little girl Lelya, and on the rubble around the house, and on grandfather Ignat, who stoked the stoves, and on the nameless gypsy child Mishka, and in general on everyone who is kind. But then where do all the miracles come from in this book? For example, a magical story about the steppe brother Styopa or a downright amazing tale about the wolf Evstifika? And - most importantly! - why are all the stories of “Wormwood Tales” called fairy tales? After all, some of them talk about what happened, while others talk about what did not happen and could not have happened. How so?

Olga Dmitrievna Kolybina was a doctor. And her son Yuri Koval is a writer. And an artist. And a poet. And he also played the guitar. Olga Dmitrievna was probably a very good doctor: when Yura’s father was almost mortally wounded, she saved him. And Yuri Koval was very good writer. When he retold his mother’s favorite stories in his own way, he, of course, knew: any memory is a little bit of a fairy tale, and a good fairy tale is the truest story about life.

Here you have to stop for a minute and say one important thing.

Many people think that they need to live loudly. But that's not true. The most important things happen in silence. That is, this does not mean at all that all birds, and the wind, and human music, and even the roar of cars should be silent. But somewhere very deep, behind the sounds, behind the colors, behind the words, everyone has their own silence, and real joys, real sorrows happen there. One famous writer said about Yuri Koval this way: he “I chose goodness, light, children, forest, hunting, mushrooms, friends, dogs and warmth. He swore allegiance to all these creatures, objects and concepts.”. And Koval himself wrote about himself even better: “Everything I could say to adults, I say to children, and they seem to understand me.”.

So it was, so it is. The most in life different people, who sometimes didn’t even greet each other out of anger, each individually loved “Yuri Osich” because everyone felt warm and light around him. But in Russian literature there are still children’s and non-children’s books, either written or simply quietly told for everyone who wants to understand them: about good dog named Scarlet, about a nice village called Chisty Dor and, of course, about a young animal puppy, a half-dog with the proud name of Napoleon the Third, who never wanted to live in a cage. And “Wormwood Tales,” by the way, are actually not simple at all. If you read them with open eyes, you will find them there - more than once! - a direct hint about how to continue living and what to do. “Now Marfushi is no longer in the world,- writes Yuri Koval, - and I still exist. Therefore, listen to Marfusha’s tale as I tell it to you.”; “...grandfather Ignat is no longer in the world. And I still exist. So listen to Grandfather Ignat’s tale as I tell it to you.”

Everything is correct. If you don't catch it on the fly good stories, the world will collapse.

“Wormwood Tales” was the very last thing that two friends had time to talk about - Yuri Iosifovich Koval and Nikolai Aleksandrovich Ustinov. Once upon a time, in 1987, they made this book together. Then another publishing house decided to release it again, and the artist Ustinov began to consult by phone on which picture would be best to put on the cover. We decided: let the wolf be Eustifika. “The usual “how are you doing” and “nice to see each other” started.”, - recalls Nikolai Alexandrovich, - and, of course, it didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t have to see each other.”. Soon a book with Evstifika appeared, but Yuri Koval did not see it. And that was also a long time ago, almost twenty years ago. That's why books are needed. If you open “Wormwood Tales” today or even the day after tomorrow, if you know nothing at all about the writer Koval and the artist Ustinov, you can still immediately see that they are friends. A hundred artists can come up with pictures for the same words. One artist can invent illustrations for hundreds of different books. But only sometimes words and colors seem to breathe the same air. And this is not fiction. Air in a painting is generally very important. As a matter of fact, he is the main one. Professional people have always known this. When, in the late 1970s, one serious foreign publisher persuaded the artist Ustinov to work in his German publishing house, the main argument was this: in the book works of Nikolai Alexandrovich “he likes light and air”.

But then there were no “Wormwood Tales” yet! For example, there was no page thirteen, on which the door is open and the little girl is standing on the threshold. We don't even see faces. But together with her we look somewhere forward, to where it is light, to where we want to go when we cross the threshold. Lyolya, of course, is very little, she doesn’t know, but we know that the boards on the porch are almost white, because they are warm from the sun, and the trees and haystacks in the distance are blue, because it’s not yet hot and it’s easy to breathe. The writer did not say these words. And for what? Why, if it is also easy for an artist to breathe in the middle of the countryside, which he loves all his life.

It so happened that Nikolai Ustinov spent all his early childhood years in the village. Somewhere very close there was a war, it was remembered for its black signs even little boy. But what was around - in winter, spring, summer, autumn - it was not remembered, it grew into a living person once and for all, and then was passed on to others, because the person became an artist.

In his youth, Kolya Ustinov did not intend to draw trees. He actually decided to become a cartoonist. But things didn't work out. Then animals appeared on paper, very alive. Until now, the artist Ustinov is sometimes called an animal painter, and all sorts of wolves, bears, dogs and even goats walk through the pages of his books, as if at home. But... just as two people cannot be happy until they meet each other, so the artist will not be happy until he enters his own world. It turned out that Nikolai Aleksandrovich Ustinov should live in open space. So that the trees turn green and yellow, so that the sun rises and goes beyond the horizon right before your eyes, so that notebook, with which you wander through the forest, you could write: “The wind is from left to right. The gold of a birch is brighter than a cloud..."

If you try to list books different writers with illustrations by the artist Ustinov, the list includes both Shakespeare and french fairy tales, and Scottish legends. But they are visiting. And everything important in the work of this master happens in native literature: Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy, Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin, Ushinsky, Skrebitsky, Sokolov-Mikitov, Yuri Kazakov, Viktor Astafiev... It’s as if you’ve been walking through Russia for a long, long time, but the beauty still doesn’t end.

It turns out that a person can convey to the book page not just an image of an object, but that second when everything is visible. In Fyodor Abramov’s old, old thin children’s book, following a few lines of tiny stories, the artist had to draw not only “Willow”, “Aspen”, “Bird Cherry” or “Dandelions”. There is a page called "Nightingales". And the nightingale is almost invisible, but you can hear him singing. There is a page called "Silence". And in some incomprehensible way this silence is depicted: a few forest branches, a little quiet light and - everywhere - the promise of a cool, almost transparent fog.

It would be necessary to write poems about how the artist Ustinov can draw poetry. Blok, Bunin, Yesenin - a whole small library for very young children was made by him many years ago. They say that Nikolai Alexandrovich can spend hours reading poems by his favorite poets for friends. Even on the Internet there is a tiny recording with Gumilyov’s lines. Probably, yes for sure! - these long-time classic Gumilyov lines also sound in Ustinov’s house:

I know that the trees, not us,
The greatness of a perfect life is given...

The small village near Pereslavl-Zalessky, where Nikolai Ustinov lives for a long time, is called Ustinovka by his friends. Yuri Koval was there. "Late at night,- he wrote, - We turned off the highway onto a potty forest road. Woodcocks were pulling above us, geese were leaving for the North, a crazy spring hare jumped out onto the road and scratched somewhere in the bushes, that is, “scratched”.
Behind the pine trees we saw the dark silhouette of a church, a humpbacked night village. The light was still on in one house.

As soon as I saw the light, my heart was relieved. I carefully crept up to the illuminated window and looked into the house. A man with a beard - some kind of good-natured beard, there are such in the world - was holding a brush in his hands. I knocked on the glass. The bearded man took a closer look at the night outside the window and, recognizing me, raised his hands to the sky and shouted something very simple, I couldn’t really make it out through the glass, well, like: “Oh-ho-ho!”

“Wormwood Tales” by Yuri Koval and Nikolai Ustinov say that the very simple is the most important thing.

Read about the life and work of Yuri Koval and Nikolai Ustinov, about their work together and apart in the following publications:

Akim Ya. Writer and his book; Instead of an afterword / Y. Akim // Koval Y. Cap with crucian carp / Y. Koval. - Moscow: Children's literature, 2000. - P. 5–8, 235–236.
Beck T. The most special experience of special power / T. Beck // Literature at school. - 2001. - No. 15. - P. 10–12.
Bogatyreva N. Knights of a children's book: [about illustrators Viktor Duvidov and Nikolai Ustinov] / N. Bogatyreva // Reading together. - 2008. - No. 8/9. - P. 42.
Bykov R. The Red Book of Yuri Koval: (a completely personal letter to the reader) / R. Bykov // Koval Y. Shamayka / Y. Koval. - Moscow: Children's literature, 1990. - P. 3–4.
Voskoboynikov V. Holiday Man / V. Voskoboynikov // Library at school. - 2008. - February 1–15. - pp. 27–28.
Govorova Yu. Light boat Yuri Koval / Yu. Govorova // Our school. - 2001. - No. 5. - P. 31–32.
Il. N. Ustinova to “Wormwood Tales” by Y. Koval Kazyulkina I. Koval Yuri Iosifovich / I. Kazyulkina // Writers of our childhood. 100 names: biographical dictionary: part 1. - Moscow: Liberea, 1998. - pp. 208–212.
Koval’s book: remembering Yuri Koval / [comp. I. Skuridina; issued and model by V. Kalnins]. - Moscow: Time, 2008. - 494 p. : ill. - (Dialogue).
Koval Y. Illuminated windows / Y. Koval // Young naturalist. - 1987. - No. 7. - P. 24–25.
Koval Yu. I always fell out of the mainstream: impromptu prepared by life / Yu. Koval // Questions of literature. - 1998. - November-December. - pp. 115–124.
Korf O. Yuri Iosifovich Koval (1938-1995) / O. Korf // Korf O. For children about writers. 20th century from A to N/O. Korf. - Moscow: Sagittarius, 2006. - pp. 40–41.

Kudryavtseva L. The pure eye of humanity / L. Kudryavtseva // Children's literature. - 1997. - No. 1. - P. 79–92.
Moskvina M. Holiday of Yuri Koval / M. Moskvina // Murzilka. - 2008. - No. 2. - P. 4–5.
Nazarevskaya N. An image born of nature. Artist Nikolai Ustinov / N. Nazarevskaya // In the world of books. - 1979. - No. 11. - P. 31–32, 38–39 (color incl.).
Nikolai Aleksandrovich Ustinov is 70 years old! // Murzilka. - 2007. - No. 7. - P. 8–11.
Pavlova N. “Against the sky - on earth” / N. Pavlova // Koval Y. Late evening in early spring / Y. Koval. - Moscow: Children's literature, 1988. - P. 3–8.
Plakhova E. Nature of Ustinova / E. Plakhova // Children's literature. - 1981. - No. 4. - P. 79.
Poryadina M. About the author and artist of this book / M. Poryadina // Koval Y. Chisty Dor / Y. Koval. - Moscow: Meshcheryakov Publishing House, 2012. - P. 97–100.
Sivokon S. Exactly spoken word: Yuri Iosifovich Koval / S. Sivokon // Sivokon S. Your cheerful friends / S. Sivokon. - Moscow: Children's literature, 1986. - P. 250–267.
Tarkovsky A. About a friend’s book / A. Tarkovsky // Koval Yu. Beware of the bald and mustachioed / Yu. Koval. - Moscow: Book Chamber, 1993. - P. 6.
Ustinov N. How I draw / N. Ustinov // Bonfire. - 1974. - No. 6. - P. 34–35.
Ustinov N. “I am attracted to books about nature, travel, the countryside...” / conversation with the artist was conducted by M. Baranova // Children's literature. - 1990. - No. 4. - 2 p. region, village 54–60.
Freger E. Yamb in pictures / E. Freger // Children's literature. - 1980. - No. 1. - P. 77–78.
Shumskaya M. Artist Nikolai Ustinov / M. Shumskaya // Bonfire. - 1980. - No. 4. - P. 44–45.
Yuri Iosifovich Koval: life and work: biobibliographic index. - Moscow: Russian State Children's Library, 2008. - 109 p.

Irina Linkova

Current page: 1 (book has 7 pages in total)

Yuri Koval
Wormwood Tales

A Tale of Old Times

It was…

That was a long time ago.

This was when I still loved being sick. But just don’t hurt too much. Not to be so sick that you have to be taken to the hospital and given ten injections, but to be quietly sick, at home, when you are lying in bed and they bring you tea with lemon.

In the evening, my mother comes running from work:

- My God! What's happened?!

- Yes, nothing... Everything is fine.

- I need tea! Strong tea! - Mom is worried.

“You don’t need anything... leave me.”

“My dear, my dear...” my mother whispers, hugs me, kisses me, and I moan. Those were wonderful times.

Then my mother would sit next to me on the bed and begin to tell me something or draw a house and a cow on a piece of paper. That's all she could draw - a house and a cow, but I have never in my life seen anyone draw a house and a cow so well.

I lay and moaned and asked:

– Another house, another cow!

And a lot came out on the leaf of houses and cows.

And then my mother told me fairy tales.

These were strange fairy tales. I have never read anything like this anywhere else.

Many years passed before I realized what my mother was telling me about her life. And in my head everything fit like fairy tales.

Year after year passed, days flew by.

And this summer I became very ill.

It's a shame to get sick in the summer.

I lay on the bed, looked at the tops of the birches and remembered my mother’s fairy tales.

The Tale of Gray Stones

It was a long time ago... a very long time ago.

It was getting dark.

A horseman was racing across the steppe.

The horse's hooves thumped dully into the ground and got stuck in the deep dust. A cloud of dust rose behind the rider.

There was a fire burning by the road.

Four people were sitting by the fire, and to the side of them some gray stones lay in the field.

The rider realized that these were not stones, but a flock of sheep.

He drove up to the fire and said hello.

The shepherds looked gloomily into the fire. No one answered the greeting, no one asked where he was going.

Finally one shepherd raised his head.

“Stones,” he said.

The rider did not understand the shepherd. He saw sheep, but did not see stones. Having whipped his horse, he rushed on.

He rushed to the place where the steppe merged with the earth, and an evening black cloud rose towards him. Clouds of dust were spreading along the ground under a cloud.

The road led to a ravine with deep slopes. On the slope - red and clayey - lay gray stones.

“These are definitely stones,” the rider thought and flew into the ravine.

Immediately an evening cloud covered him and white lightning stuck into the ground in front of the horse’s hooves.

The horse rushed to the side, lightning struck again - and the rider saw how the gray stones turned into animals with sharp ears.

The animals rolled down the slope and threw themselves at the horse’s feet.

The horse snored, jumped, hit with his hoof - and the rider flew out of the saddle.

He fell to the ground and hit his head on a stone. It was a real stone.

The horse rushed off. Behind him, long gray stones trailed along the ground in pursuit. Only one stone remained on the ground. With his head pressed against him, there lay a man who was rushing to an unknown destination.

In the morning, silent shepherds found him. They stood over him and didn’t say a word.

They did not know that at the very moment when the rider hit his head on the stone, a new person appeared in the world.

And the rider rushed to see this man.

A minute before his death he thought:

“Who will be born? Son or daughter? A daughter would be nice."

A girl was born. She was named Olga. But everyone simply called her Lelya.

A Tale of Huge Creatures

It was a hot July day.

A girl was standing in the meadow. She saw in front of her green grass, on which large dandelions are scattered.

- Run, Lelya, run! - she heard. - Run quickly.

“I’m afraid,” Lelya wanted to say, but she couldn’t say it.

- Run Run. Do not be afraid of anything. Never be afraid of anything. Run!

“There are dandelions there,” Lelya wanted to say, but she couldn’t say it.

- Run straight through the dandelions.

“So they’re ringing,” thought Lyolya, but quickly realized that she would never be able to say such a phrase, and ran straight through the dandelions. She was sure that they would ring under her feet.

But they turned out to be soft and did not ring underfoot. But the earth itself rang, the dragonflies rang, and the silver lark rang in the sky.

Lyolya ran for a long, long time and suddenly saw that a huge white creature was standing in front of her.

Lelya wanted to stop, but she couldn’t stop.

And the huge creature beckoned with an unfamiliar finger, deliberately pulling me towards itself.

Lelya ran up. And then a huge creature grabbed her and threw her into the air. My heart sank quietly.

“Don’t be afraid, Lelya, don’t be afraid,” a voice was heard. – Don’t be afraid when they throw you into the air. You can fly, after all.

And Lelya really tried to fly, flapped her wings, but didn’t fly far, and again fell into her arms. Then she saw a wide face and small, small eyes. Little black ones.

“It’s me,” said the huge creature, Marfusha. You will not know? Run back now.

And Lelya ran back. She ran through the dandelions again. They were warm and tickled.

She ran for a long, long time and saw a new huge creature. Blue.

- Mother! – Lyolya shouted, and her mother picked her up and threw her into the sky:

- Don't be afraid. Do not be afraid of anything. You can fly.

And Lyolya had already flown longer and, probably, could have flown as much as she wanted, but she herself wanted to descend quickly into mother's hands. And she descended from the sky, and mother with Lelya in her arms walked through the dandelions to the house.

The Tale of Some Thing with a Golden Nose

It was... it was a long time ago. This was when Lelya learned to fly.

She flew every day now and always tried to land in her mother’s arms. It was safer and more pleasant this way.

She flew when she went outside, but sometimes she wanted to fly at home too.

“What can you do with you,” Mom laughed. - Fly.

And Lyolya took off, but it was no fun to fly in the room - the ceiling was in the way, and she couldn’t fly high.

But still she flew and flew. Of course, if it is not possible to fly outside, you need to fly inside the house.

“Okay, that’s it, stop flying,” my mother said. - It’s night outside, it’s time to sleep. Now fly in your sleep.

Nothing can be done - Lelya went to bed and flew in her sleep. Where will you go? If it is not possible to fly on the street or in the house, you need to fly in your sleep.

“Stop flying,” my mother said one day. - Learn to walk properly. Go.

And Lelya went. And she didn’t know where she went.

- Go boldly. Don't be afraid of anything.

And she went. And as soon as she walked away, something rang dully above her head:

- Don! Don!

Lyolya was scared, but she wasn’t scared right away.

She raised her head and saw something with a golden nose hanging high on the wall. She shook that nose, and her face was round and white, like Marfusha’s, only with a lot of eyes.

“What is that thing with the golden nose?” – Lelya wanted to ask, but she couldn’t ask. The tongue somehow hasn’t turned yet. But I wanted to talk.

Lyolya plucked up her courage and asked this thing:

- Do you fly?

“Yes,” the thing answered and waved its nose. She waved a bit scary.

Lelya got scared again, but then she wasn’t scared again.

“If you don’t fly, that’s fine,” Lyolya wanted to say, but she again failed to say it. She simply waved her hand at the thing, and it responded with her nose. Lyolya again with her hand, and she with her nose.

They waved like that for a while, some with their noses and some with their hands.

“Okay, that’s enough,” said Lelya. - I went.

She walked further, and it became dark around her. She stepped into the darkness, walked two steps and decided not to go further. Still, it was awkward in front of this thing that doesn’t fly, but only shakes its golden nose. Maybe she still flies?

Lelya came back, stood and looked: no, she doesn’t fly. He shakes his nose and that’s it.

And then Lelya herself wanted to fly up to this thing and grab it by the nose so that it wouldn’t dangle in vain.

And she flew up and grabbed his nose.

And the golden nose stopped swinging, and Lelya sank down into her mother’s arms.

– This is a watch, Leles, you can’t touch it.

“Why do they talk with their noses all the time?” – Lyolya wanted to ask, but again she didn’t turn her tongue. But I wanted to talk about watches.

- Do they fly? – she asked.

“No, they don’t fly,” Mom laughed. - They walk or stand.

The Tale of the Porch and the Heap

And this was when Lyolya stopped pulling the wall clock by the nose.

She decided to walk and stand now. Like a clock.

And all the time she walked and stood, walked and stood. It will reach the clock and wait.

“I walk and stand,” she said. - I walk and stand.

The clock ticked in response, waving its golden nose, which was called the pendulum. But Lelya forgot about the pendulum, she now thought that it was not only a nose, but also such a golden leg. A kind of nose-foot. So the clock walks with this nose and foot. But you can’t pull your nose or leg - the clock will stop. And I want to pull. Okay, let's move on.

“But you can do me,” thought Lelya and pulled her nose, and then sat down on the floor and pulled her leg.

The clock did not pay any attention to all these things.

And Lelya again went forward into the darkness. And I saw in the darkness a bright crack from which light was coming. And it so happened that Lelya stuck her nose into it. And of course, the gap could pinch her nose every second, because it was a door. But she didn’t pinch.

“It doesn’t pinch,” thought Lelya. “Lucky.”

And she pushed the door and went out onto the porch.

The light, green and golden, blinded her, and behind the light - green and golden - she saw a meadow and dandelions and was very happy. I was so happy as if I had never seen them before. But before they brought her here in their arms, but now she came on her own. It’s important to get to where you want to be.

Lyolya sat down on the porch and began to look at what she had come to.

“I’ve reached the dandelions,” she thought. - I got there. But it was quite difficult. The corridor is so dark, and even this crack in the door. I shouldn't have poked my nose into it. Never again."

So she sat and thought approximately like this and admired what she was looking at.

“What am I sitting on?” – she suddenly thought. And she turned her gaze to the porch. It was a cozy porch, planked, with carved columns, with a canopy so that the rain would not fall on the one sitting on the porch.

She knocked on the carved column, and the porch quietly answered her.

“Porch,” thought Lelya. - Porch. Although it’s not a wing, it probably flies. Let it fly, and I’ll sit on it and look at the meadow and dandelions.”

But the porch didn’t fly anywhere.

“Well, okay,” thought Lelya. - But it’s good to sit on it. I will always sit on it.”

Now every day she went to the clock, then walked along the corridor and sat on the porch step.

She loved her porch very much and called it the porch.

The kitten Vaska often sat next to her, and the little pig Fedya came up to her.

“Scratch my belly,” the pig seemed to say and rubbed against her leg.

And Lelya scratched his belly.

For some reason, by the way, she immediately realized that Fedya the pig did not fly. And it's not about the wings. Wings can also be attached to a piglet. But those who scratch their belly simply cannot fly. Either fly or scratch your belly.

So Lyolya sat on the porch, thinking about her belly, about the pig and about flying.

“Of course, Fedya doesn’t fly,” she thought. - But, perhaps, you can sit on it. Like on a porch."

Lelya got off the porch, went up to the pig and just wanted to sit on it - and Fedya ran away.

“Stop, Fedor!” – Lelya wanted to say, but she didn’t have time to say it and plopped down in the grass. She was not upset that the pig ran away - she was glad that she could sit on the grass.

Lelya looked around and saw that her mother was sitting not far from her. And she sits not on the porch, not on the grass and, of course, not on the little pig Fedya, but on something completely different.

- Come here, come. Sit down next to me on the rubble. She doesn't fly.

But Lelya herself already realized that the pile doesn’t fly, it’s clear that it’s collapsing, collapsing the house from below so that the wind doesn’t get under the house, and with the wind comes frost and snow.

It was a good pile, lined with gray boards. And you could sit on it, and not only sit, but even run around the rubble around the house. And Lyolya ran along the rubble, tapping her bare heels on the gray boards, and then sat and looked at the meadow and dandelions.

“You can sit on a chair,” thought Lelya. – Sit and look at the wall. But can a chair compare with a porch and a rubble, and a wall with a meadow and dandelions? Never in my life."

And then Lelya realized that the main thing is not that she can sit on the porch, the main thing is that she has this porch and the rubble, and the meadow, and dandelions.

And you can sit on anything.

Yes, even on a chair, or even on Fedya the pig, if you tell him in time:

- Stop, Fedor!

The Tale of the Next Room

Finally, Lelya realized that she lived in the house. And the house stands in a large clearing. And beyond the clearing other houses are visible. And people live in them.

And the house in which Lelya herself lives is called a school.

- Are those houses over there also schools? – she asked when she learned to ask properly.

- No, it’s just home there.

- Is this our house?

– Is it a house?

-Where is the school?

- Yes, here she is. Our home is a school. Children study here.

So Lelya realized that she did not live in simple house, and at school.

The school began with a porch, and, having climbed the steps, you had to run through the corridor, which was always a little dark, - here you would find yourself in the guardhouse, where the school watchman, Grandfather Ignat, lived.

Two doors led from the guardhouse into the depths of the school. One to the left, the other to the right.

And to the left was Lelya’s room, and there were three windows in it.

Through one window you could see kids running in the school meadow, through the other you could see the roofs of houses, those simple houses, not schools. They had thatched roofs and a dusty road wound between the houses. Horses walked along the road and people rode in carts.

And through the third window one could see lilacs, and there was no greater beauty in the world than this lilac.

When the lilacs bloomed, everything around was full of lilacs - both the windows and the sky in the windows.

In Lelya’s room there was a bed with bright silver balls, and on it there were three pillows at once. And the pillows had fluff inside! Duck, goose and chicken down! Wow! Lyolya never expected this, that the pillows had fluff inside.

But fluff, after all, is nonsense. There is fluff in the pillows, a table and chairs in every house, but such a huge yellow and tall thing that stood against the wall was nowhere to be found.

The thing was called a pulpit.

One could climb onto the pulpit and speak.

And Lyolya climbed onto the pulpit and gave a speech.

- And there is fluff in the pillows! - she said. – Duck, goose and chicken! That's how it is!

And the wall clock listened to Lelya, wondering about the pillows.

The pulpit was painted yellow oil paint. Not just any simple paint, but oil paint.

– Our pulpit is painted with oil paint! - Lelya was interpreting the wall clock from the pulpit. - That's how it is!

And in the department there was something in a special box.

There were notebooks, pens and quills!

And there was something else! Ink!

Wow! Ink! Just like that!

And next to Lelya’s room was the Next Room. And you couldn’t cry next to the Next Room.

When Lelya was still very little and was still lying in the cradle, she wanted to cry.

But as soon as she started this business, someone immediately came up to her and said:

- Hush... hush... don't cry... you can't... there - the next room.

“What nonsense? – Lelya thought. “You can cry everywhere, but here you can’t!” Some kind of mystery!”

And then she decided to stop crying once and for all, since the Next Room was nearby. And she stopped, and in all her future life didn't cry. And she cried only when it was impossible to resist.

So Lyolya lived next to the Next Room and did not cry, but only looked closely at what was happening in this room.

And that's what she noticed.

She noticed that some small people were walking into this room. Back and forth. They will come and they will go. They'll come again.

And in the room behind the wall, something was going on all the time. There would be silence, then suddenly there would be noise, hubbub and screams. Such screams that if Lyolya had cried, no one in the next room would have heard. And when screams were heard in the next room, Lelya cried a little to relieve her soul; the screams subsided and she too fell silent.

When Lelya learned to walk, she, of course, immediately went to the Next Room.

And as soon as she opened the door, as soon as she looked in, she immediately realized - the Magic Room!

She saw such things, such strange things that it was impossible to name them!

Then it turned out that all these things have names.

The board was the name of the long, black thing on legs. You could write on the board with chalk, and then erase the chalk with a cloth.

Desks were the name of those amazing things that stood in three rows in the middle of the room. Little people—students—sat on these desks. And there were many more amazing things - a globe, and bookcases, and maps, and pointers, and an abacus. And this whole room with all the things was called a classroom, and Lelya’s mother was a teacher.

She, it turns out, taught students.

And Lyolya thought for a long time, what is her mother teaching them?! And then I realized that my mother was teaching me to fly!

When there is silence in the class, it’s their mother teaching them, and when the noise starts, it means they all flew off at once.

And Lelya imagined how little students were flying together over their desks - some somersaulting in the air, some laughing, some screaming and just waving their arms.

And her mother flies the highest and best over the board!

The Tale of the Main Man

And, of course, her mother was the Main Person in the world.

It was clearer than ever.

When mom and Lelya walked along the lawn near the school, they often met people - big and small.

The little ones were spinning around their mother. They will run in front and shout:

– Tatyana Dmitrievna, hello!

And then they will run around and again:

- Hello, Tatyana Dmitrievna!

And so endlessly: hello and hello!

There were a lot of them running around and saying hello.

A big people they did not run or shout, but only bowed and took off their hats. And Lelya’s mother bowed in response.

One day on the road they came across a very large and wide man. Dark matter enveloped him from head to toe, and on his head stood a tall black pipe.

But only from the chimney of the house the smoke rises upward, and here it swirled below. And Lelya guessed that it was not smoke, but a curly beard.

Mom stopped. The man with the pipe on his head also stopped.

And mom bowed first. But the man with the pipe did not bow, he waved his hand in the air and extended this hand to his mother.

He pulled and pulled his hand, and Lyolya did not understand why.

Lelya’s mother, it seems, should have done something, but did nothing. She took Lyolya in her arms and walked past a man with a pipe on his head.

- Who is this? – Lelya whispered as they passed by.

- This is Father Priest.

"Wow! – thought Lelya. - Father priest! Why did he hold out his hand?”

- So that I kiss her.

“Why didn’t you kiss her?” – Lelya wanted to ask, but she didn’t ask, she just thought.

And mom answered:

- Yes, I don’t want anything.

And Lelya realized that the priest, although main man, and mother, whatever one may say, is still more important.

The Tale of Grandfather Ignat

And this was after Lelya realized who the main person in the world was.

She learned that there are many, many people and many things in the world, and her mother has many students - Marfusha, Maxim, and other guys. And their mother doesn’t teach them to fly at all, she teaches them to read and write.

And Grandfather Ignat lived at school.

Big and strong grandfather. He was chopping wood.

He swings his ax and grunts so hard that the log breaks in half.

Then the grandfather collected firewood in an armful and dragged it to school, and Lyolya dragged one log after him.

Grandfather Ignat threw firewood on the floor, and they crashed with a roar, and grandfather said:

- Well, here we are...

And Lelya threw her log. And there was less noise. But still there was.

Grandfather Ignat lit the stoves. And there were two of them at school - Russian and Dutch. And the Russian was larger than the Dutch and ate more firewood.

Having lit the stove, grandfather Ignat looked at the wall clock, took out a bell and rang it loudly.

And then the classroom doors opened - and all the students ran out to the guardhouse at once. And the eldest and kindest student, Marfusha, picked up Lelya in her arms. And all the guys, and Marfusha with Lelya in her arms, ran into the street, scattering across the clearing, but grandfather Ignat soon rang the bell again, and everyone returned to school. And as soon as the guys poured into the guardhouse in a crowd, the grandfather said:

- Well, here we are!

This was his favorite phrase.

When it rains outside, the grandfather says:

- Well, here we are.

The samovar will boil:

- Well, here we are.

Guests will arrive:

- Well, here we are.

One day Lelya told her grandfather that the porch and the rubble were still flying. Only late at night when everyone is sleeping. Grandfather Ignat didn’t believe it, he scratched his head and was surprised.

And Lelya went to bed early that day on purpose. And fell asleep. She was asleep, but she still saw and heard everything.

“Hey, Zavalinka,” said the porch. - Are you sleeping?

“No,” answered the Zavalinka, “I’m taking a nap.”

- Let's fly.

And they took off and flew over the village.

And grandfather Ignat was just returning home.

When he saw the porch and the rubble flying over the village, he was very surprised. And when a school lectern, painted with oil paint, appeared in the sky, the grandfather sat down in the grass and said:

- Well, here we are.

It was…

That was a long time ago.

In the evening, my mother comes running from work:

My God! What's happened?!

Yes, nothing... Everything is fine.

I need tea! Strong tea! - Mom is worried.

You don’t need anything... leave me alone.

My darling, my darling... - my mother whispers, hugs me, kisses me, and I moan. Those were wonderful times.

I lay and moaned and asked:

Another house, another cow!

And a lot came out on the leaf of houses and cows.

And then my mother told me fairy tales.

These were strange fairy tales. I have never read anything like this anywhere else.

Many years passed before I realized what my mother was telling me about her life. And in my head everything fit like fairy tales.

Year after year passed, days flew by.

And this summer I became very ill.

It's a shame to get sick in the summer.

I lay on the bed, looked at the tops of the birches and remembered my mother’s fairy tales.

The Tale of Gray Stones

It was a long time ago... a very long time ago.

It was getting dark.

A horseman was racing across the steppe.

The horse's hooves thumped dully into the ground and got stuck in the deep dust. A cloud of dust rose behind the rider.

There was a fire burning by the road.

Four people were sitting by the fire, and to the side of them some gray stones lay in the field.

The rider realized that these were not stones, but a flock of sheep.

He drove up to the fire and said hello.

The shepherds looked gloomily into the fire. No one answered the greeting, no one asked where he was going.

Finally one shepherd raised his head.

Stones,” he said.