Read the fairy tale peasant children. Fairy tale peasant children read text online, free download

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
Cheerful sun rays are looking.
The dove coos; flying over the roof
Young rooks cry
Some other bird is flying -
I recognized the crow by the shadow;
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!

Second
And the barin, they said! ..

Third
Shut up, damn you!

Second
A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

First
And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth
And there on the hat, look, it's a watch!

Fifth
Hey, important stuff!

Sixth
And a golden chain...

Seventh
Is tea expensive?

Eighth
How the sun burns!

Ninth
And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs off the tongue.

Fifth
Gun! look at it: the barrel is double,
Carved clasps…

Third
(with fear)
Looks!

Fourth
Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha!

Third
Will beat…

* * *
My spies are afraid
And they rushed away: they heard a man,
So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff.
I calmed down, squinted - they came again,
The eyes flicker through the cracks.
What happened to me - marveled at everything
And my sentence was pronounced:
“What a goose like that!
I would lie on the stove!
And it is clear that he is not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp,
So next to Gavrila ... "-" Hear, be silent!

* * *
O dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning I could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!”
But then we ruined them pretty much
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory,
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks, so it just keeps -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan!
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
Please the Lord God in everything:
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That hair was growing out of his nose…”
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened that whole days flew by here -
What a new passerby, then a new story ...

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
Meadow river: they jumped in a crowd,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with both laughter and a howl:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
Home, kids! it's time to dine.
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... oh, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...

Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen,
Who nurses his two-year-old sister Glashka,
Who drags a bucket of kvass on the harvest,
And he, having tied a shirt under his throat,
Something mysteriously draws in the sand;
That one got into a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath, -
All white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket:
Caught, jumped up and rides on it.
And is she, born under the sun's heat
And in an apron brought home from the field,
To be afraid of your humble horse? ..

Mushroom time did not have time to depart,
Look - everyone has black lips,
They stuffed the oskom: the blueberries are ripe!
And there are raspberries, lingonberries, walnuts!
A childish cry echoing
From morning to night it rumbles through the forests.
Frightened by singing, hooting, laughter,
Will the grouse take off, croaking to the chicks,
Whether a hare jumps up - sodom, turmoil!
Here is an old capercaillie with a slick wing
It was brought into the bush ... well, the poor thing is bad!
The living are dragged to the village with triumph ...

“Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot
Time to get to work, dear!"
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth.
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain.
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king ...

However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
So, we have to wrap up by the way
The other side of the medal.
Let's put the peasant child loose
Growing without learning
But he will grow, if God wills,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But mercilessly eat his midges,
But he was early familiar with the works ...

Once upon a time in the cold winter time
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
"Hey boy!" - “Go past yourself!”
- “You are painfully formidable, as I see it!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
"What about the father? big family?»
- “The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
- “So that's it! And what's your name?" - "Vlas".
- “And what year are you?” - “The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" - shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
It's like it was all cardboard.
As if in children's theater they got me!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow, lying to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
To whom there is no death - do not push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!

Play on, children! Grow at will!
That's why you have been given a red childhood,
To forever love this meager field,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your age-old legacy,
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the bowels of the native land! ..

* * *
Now it's time for us to go back to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys have become bolder,
"Hey, the thieves are coming! I cried to Fingal. -
Steal, steal! Well, hide quickly!
Fingalushka made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
With special diligence he hid the game,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
Extensive field of canine science
He was perfectly familiar;
He started throwing things like this
That the audience could not leave the place,
They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here!
Command themselves! "Fingalka, die!"
- “Don't stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyaha!"
- "Look - dying - look!"
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it got dark
In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage,
When the storm is destined to break.
And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn,
A rain river poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave an arrow!
The wide door opened, creaked,
Hit the wall, locked again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Above our theater just.
In the heavy rain, the children ran
Barefoot to their village ...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for great snipes.

Gavrila - G. Ya. Zakharov, to whom "Pedlars" are dedicated.

We had a long road ... - I mean the route from Kostroma to Yaroslavl, which passed near the village of Greshnevo.

Lava - here: platform, raft.

The text of Nekrasov's poem "Peasant Children" (sometimes the work is also called a poem) is studied in grades 5-6. At this time, it is still difficult to fully understand the poet's intention, therefore, when starting to read the poem "Peasant Children" by Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov in a literature lesson, one must pay attention to the semantic nuances.

The work saw the light in the year of the abolition of serfdom. Therefore, perhaps, the theme of freedom slips through the poem, although it is only about the relative freedom of the child. Nekrasov's childhood memories were reflected here: he often spent time among peasant children, played with them and participated in their daily activities. In the depiction of the everyday life of children, nostalgia slips through. Their life is filled with joy, freedom, communication with nature. Then, using his favorite technique - the antithesis - Nekrasov depicts the hard work that often fell to the lot of still very young peasant children. In the poem, one can hear both tenderness for the children, and admiration for their spontaneity, courage, and concern for their fate. interesting compositional technique is a dialogue: it reveals the characters of the children spying on the master.

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy,
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
Cheerful sun rays are looking.
The dove coos; flying over the roof
Young rooks cry
Another bird is flying
I recognized the crow by the shadow;
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!

And the barin, they said! ..

Shut up, damn you!

A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And there on the hat, look, it's a watch!

Hey, important stuff!

And a golden chain...

Is tea expensive?

How the sun burns!

And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs off the tongue.

Gun! look at it: the barrel is double,
Carved clasps…

(with fear)

Fourth

Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha!

Will beat…

My spies are afraid
And they rushed away: they heard a man,
So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff.
I calmed down, squinted - they came again,
The eyes flicker through the cracks.
What happened to me - they marveled at everything
And my sentence was pronounced:
“What a goose like that!
I would lie on the stove!
And, apparently, not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp,
So next to Gavrila ... "- Hear, be silent! —

O dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning I could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!”
But then we ruined them pretty much
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory,
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger - Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick, ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan!
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
Please the Lord God in everything.
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That the hair from the nose grew rapidly ... "
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can't sharpen it even in a day!
Break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened that whole days flew by here -
What a new passerby, then a new story ...

“Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot
Time to get to work, dear!"
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain.
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king ...

Once upon a time in the cold winter time
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
"Hey, boy!" - Get past yourself! —
“You are painfully formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.) -
“What, does your father have a big family?”
- The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... -
“So there it is! And what's your name?"
- Vlas. —
"And what year are you?" - The sixth passed ...
Well, dead! shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
It's like it was all cardboard.
It's like I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow, lying to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter.
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
To whom there is no death - do not press,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!

Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys have become bolder,
"Hey, the thieves are coming! I called out to Fingal. —
Steal, steal! Well, hide quickly!
Fingalushka made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
With special diligence he hid the game,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
Extensive field of canine science
He was perfectly familiar;
He started throwing things like this
That the audience could not leave the place,
They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here!
Command themselves! "Fingalka, die!" —
“Don’t stop, Sergey! Don't push, Kuzyaha!"
"Look - dying - look!"
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it got dark
In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage,
When the storm is destined to break.
And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn,
A rain river poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave an arrow!
The wide door opened, creaked,
Hit the wall, locked again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Above our theater just.
In the heavy rain, the children ran
Barefoot to their village ...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for great snipes.

Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov wrote a lot and simply about the life of peasants. He did not bypass the village children, he wrote for them and about them. Little heroes appear in Nekrasov's works as well-established personalities: courageous, inquisitive, dexterous. At the same time, they are simple and open.

The writer knew the life of serfs well: at any time of the year, hard work from morning to evening, lordly showdowns and punishments, harassment and humiliation. Carefree childhood passed very quickly.

The poem "Peasant Children" is special. In this work, the author managed to reflect reality and naturalness. I used one of my favorite tricks - time travel. To get acquainted with the bright character, little Vlas, the writer takes the reader from the summer time to the winter cold, and then returns to the summer village again.

Poem idea

The occasion prompted the poet to write this poem. This work is biographical, there is no fiction in it.

Just starting work, the writer had the idea to call his work "Children's Comedy". But in the process of work, when the verse turned from a humorous story into a lyric-epic poem, the name had to be changed.

It all happened in the summer of 1861, when a successful writer came to his village Greshnevo to relax and be like hunting. Hunting was the real passion of Nikolai Alekseevich, inherited from his father.

In their estate, where little Kolya grew up, there was a huge kennel. In this campaign, the writer was accompanied by the dog Fingal. The hunter and his dog wandered through the swamps for a long time and, tired, they most likely went to the house of Gavril Yakovlevich Zakharov, which stood on the Shod. The hunter made a halt in the barn and fell asleep on the hay.

The presence of the hunter was discovered by the village children, who were afraid to come close, but out of curiosity could not pass by.

This meeting inspired Nikolai Alekseevich with memories of his own childhood. After all, despite his noble origin, and his father’s prohibitions not to hang out with village children, he was very friendly with the peasants. I went with them to the forest, swam in the river, participated in fistfights.

And now the grown-up Nekrasov was very attached to his native land and its people. In their discussions of fate ordinary people, he often thought about the future and about the children who live in this future.

After this meeting with the village tomboys, he was inspired to write a verse, which turned into a whole poem, calling his work simply - "Peasant Children".

Work on the creation of the poem lasted only two days. After the author made only a few small additions.

✔ This is one of the works of the writer, where human grief does not gush over the edge.

✔ On the contrary, the poem is saturated with peace and happiness, albeit short-lived.

✔ The poet does not draw illusions about the future of children, but he does not burden the verse with too sad predictions.

Story line

The acquaintance of the main characters happens by chance, at a time when the awakened hunter enjoys unity with nature, its polyphony, in the form of bird calls.

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the shed and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
Cheerful sun rays are looking.
The dove coos; flew over the roof
Young rooks cry;
Some other bird is flying -
I recognized the crow by the shadow;
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!

The poet, with trepidation and love, is touched by the meeting with the kids, does not want to frighten them away and quietly listens to their babble.
Meanwhile, the guys begin to discuss the hunter. They have big doubts, is it a gentleman? After all, bars do not wear beards, but this one has a beard. Yes, someone noticed that:

And you can see not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp,
So next to Gabriela ...

Exactly, not a sir! Although he has: a watch, a gold chain, a gun, a big dog. Probably still a barin!

While the little one is looking at and discussing the master, the poet himself breaks away from storyline and is transferred first to his memories and friendship with the same uneducated, but open and honest peasants in his childhood. He recalls all sorts of pranks that they did together.

He remembers the road that passed under his house. Who just did not walk on it.

We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.

Here the walkers sat down to rest. And curious children could get their first lessons. The peasants had no other education, and this communication became a natural school of life for them.

Under our thick ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan"
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable.

Here the children received their first labor skills.

The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened that whole days flew by here, -
What a new passerby, then a new story ...

The poet is so immersed in memories that it becomes clear to the reader how pleasant and close the narrator is about everything he tells.

What the hunter just does not remember. He swims through the memories of his childhood, like a stormy river. There are mushroom trips, swimming in the river, and interesting finds in the form of a hedgehog or a snake.

Who catches leeches
On the lava, where the uterus beats the linen,
Who nurses his sister, two-year-old Glashka,
Who drags a bucket of kvass on the harvest,
And he, having tied a shirt under his throat,
Something mysteriously draws in the sand;
That one got into a puddle, and this one with a new one:
I wove myself a glorious wreath,
All white, yellow, lavender
Yes, occasionally a red flower.
Those sleep in the sun, those dance squatting.
Here is a girl catching a horse with a basket -
Caught, jumped up and rides on it.
And is she, born under the sun's heat
And in an apron brought home from the field,
To be afraid of your humble horse? ..

The poet gradually introduces the reader to the worries and anxieties of the life of rural workers. But heartfelt beautiful summer picture shows her attractive, so to speak, elegant side. In this part of the work, Nikolai Alekseevich describes in detail the process of growing bread.

- Enough, Vanyusha! you walked a lot
It's time for work, dear!
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain;
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senets: “Climb, little shooter!”

The brightest character

Many readers who are unfamiliar with Nekrasov's work consider an excerpt from the poem "Frost, Red Nose" since a peasant with a fingernail to be a separate work.

Of course, this is no coincidence. After all, this part of the poem has its own introduction, main part and ending, in the form of the author's reasoning.

Once upon a time in the cold winter time,
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And, marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
- Great, boy! - “Go past yourself!”
- Painfully you are formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
- Does your father have a big family?
“The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
- So there it is! And what is your name? - "Vlas".
- And what year are you? - “The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" - shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
As if it was all cardboard
It's like I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow, lying to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian...

The narrator was surprised and discouraged by what he saw. The boy was so tiny, for the performance of a completely adult, and male work that it stuck in his memory and eventually found its reflection in his work.

To the surprise of the reader, he does not lament or shed tears over difficult childhood baby. The poet admires the little man, tries to show him from all sides.

The tiny helper, realizing his importance, immediately declares that he has no time to stop and make conversations, he performs an important mission - together with his father he supplies his family with firewood. He proudly puts himself next to his father - the peasants, something: my father and me. A smart child knows how old he is, he can get along with a horse, and most importantly, he is not afraid of work.

Return to storyline

Returning from his memories, Nekrasov turns his attention to the tomboys who continue to covertly attack his hideout. He mentally wishes them to see their land always attractive, as it is now.

The narrator decided to please and entertain the baby. He begins to give various commands to his dog. The dog with zeal fulfills all the orders of the owner. The children are no longer hiding, they are happy to accept the performance that the master gave them.

Such communication is liked by all participants: the hunter, the children, the dog. There is no more distrust and tension, described at the beginning of the acquaintance.

But then came the summer rain. The barefoot baby ran to the village. And the poet can only once again admire this living picture.

The meaning of the poem "Peasant Children"

It must be said that the poem was written in the year of the abolition of serfdom. At this time, the issue of educating peasant children was discussed very lively at the government level. There were active discussions about the organization of schools in the countryside.

Writers also did not stand aside. One after another, publications were published about life, way of life and education, or rather, the lack of education among the people. Some authors did not have information about rural life, but also actively offered their views on the problem. Nekrasov easily stopped such limited ideas about the peasant way of life.

Not surprisingly, Peasant Children became very popular on this wave. The poem was published in the autumn of 1861.

The educational process in the villages progressed very poorly. Often the progressive intelligentsia took a region into their own hands and supervised it at their own expense.

Nikolai Alekseevich was such an innovator. He built a school with his own money, bought textbooks, and hired teachers. The priest Ivan Grigoryevich Zykov helped him in many ways. So the children got the opportunity to primary education. True, at first education was optional. Parents themselves decided how much to study for the child, and how much to help around the house. Considering this circumstance, educational process in tsarist Russia progressed very slowly.

Nekrasov is a true public servant. His life is an example of selfless devotion to the simple Russian people.

Again I am in the village. I go hunting
I write my verses - life is easy.
Yesterday, tired of walking in the swamp,
I wandered into the barn and fell deeply asleep.
Woke up: in the wide cracks of the barn
The rays of the cheerful sun are looking.
The dove coos; flying over the roof
Young rooks cry;
Some other bird is flying -
I recognized the crow by the shadow;
Chu! some whisper ... but a string
Along the slit of attentive eyes!
All gray, brown, blue eyes -
Mixed like flowers in a field.
They have so much peace, freedom and affection,
There is so much holy goodness in them!
I love the expression of a child's eye,
I always recognize him.
I froze: tenderness touched the soul ...
Chu! whisper again!

And the barin, they said! ..

Shut up, damn you!

A bar does not have a beard - a mustache.

And the legs are long, like poles.

Fourth

And there on the hat, look, it's a watch!

Hey, important stuff!

And a golden chain...

Is tea expensive?

How the sun burns!

And there is a dog - big, big!
Water runs off the tongue.

Gun! look at it: the barrel is double,
Carved locks...

Third
(with fear)

Fourth

Shut up, nothing! Let's stand still, Grisha!

Will beat...

My spies are afraid
And they rushed away: they heard a man,
So a flock of sparrows fly from the chaff.
I calmed down, squinted - they came again,
The eyes flicker through the cracks.
What happened to me - marveled at everything
And my sentence was pronounced:
- Such a goose, what a hunt!
I would lie on the stove!
And you can see not a gentleman: how he was driving from a swamp,
So next to Gavrila ... - "Hears, be silent!"
_______________

O dear rascals! Who often saw them
He, I believe, loves peasant children;
But even if you hated them,
The reader, as a "low kind of people" -
I still have to confess openly
What I often envy them:
There is so much poetry in their lives,
How God forbid your spoiled children.
Happy people! Neither science nor bliss
They do not know in childhood.
I did mushroom raids with them:
He dug up the leaves, ransacked the stumps,
I tried to notice a mushroom place,
And in the morning I could not find anything.
“Look, Savosya, what a ring!”
We both bent down, yes at once and grab
Serpent! I jumped: it hurt!
Savosya laughs: “Caught for nothing!”
But then we ruined them pretty much
And they laid them side by side on the railing of the bridge.
We must have been waiting for the feats of glory.
We had a big road.
Working rank people scurried
On it without a number.
Ditch digger Vologda,
Tinker, tailor, wool beater,
And then a city dweller in a monastery
On the eve of the holiday, he rolls to pray.
Under our thick ancient elms
Tired people were drawn to rest.
The guys will surround: the stories will begin
About Kyiv, about the Turk, about wonderful animals.
Another walks up, so just hold on -
It will start from Volochok, it will reach Kazan,
Chukhna mimics, Mordovians, Cheremis,
And he will amuse with a fairy tale, and he will screw a parable:
"Goodbye guys! Try your best
To please the Lord God in everything:
We had Vavilo, he lived richer than everyone,
Yes, I once decided to grumble at God, -
Since then, Vavilo has gone bankrupt, ruined,
No honey from bees, harvest from the earth,
And only in one he was happy,
That the hair from the nose grew rapidly ... "
The worker will arrange, spread out the shells -
Planers, files, chisels, knives:
"Look, you little devils!" And the children are happy
How you saw, how you tinker - show them everything.
The passer-by will fall asleep under his jokes,
Guys for the cause - sawing and planing!
They step out the saw - you can’t sharpen it even in a day!
They break the drill - and run away in fright.
It happened, here the whole days flew by, -
What a new passerby, then a new story ...

Wow, it's hot!.. We picked mushrooms until noon.
Here they came out of the forest - just towards
A blue ribbon, winding, long,
meadow river; jumped off,
And blond heads over the desert river
What porcini mushrooms in a forest clearing!
The river resounded with laughter and howling:
Here a fight is not a fight, a game is not a game ...
And the sun scorches them with midday heat.
- Home, kids! it's time to dine. -
Have returned. Everyone has a full basket,
And how many stories! Got scythe
Caught a hedgehog, got lost a little
And they saw a wolf ... wow, what a terrible one!
The hedgehog is offered both flies and boogers,
Roots gave him his milk -
Doesn't drink! retreated...

Enough, Vanya! you walked a lot
Time to get to work, dear! -
But even labor will turn first
To Vanyusha with her elegant side:
He sees how the father fertilizes the field,
Like throwing grain into loose earth,
As the field then begins to turn green,
As the ear grows, it pours grain;
The ready harvest will be pruned with sickles,
They will bind them in sheaves, they will take them to the barn,
Dry, beaten, beaten with flails,
The mill will grind and bake bread.
A child will taste fresh bread
And in the field he more willingly runs after his father.
Will they wind up the senza: “Climb, little shooter!”
Vanyusha enters the village as a king...

However, envy in a noble child
We would be sorry to sow.
So, we have to wrap up by the way
The other side of the medal.
Suppose peasant child free
Growing without learning
But he will grow, if God pleases,
And nothing prevents him from bending.
Suppose he knows forest paths,
Prancing on horseback, not afraid of water,
But mercilessly eat his midges,
But he was early familiar with the works ...

Once upon a time in the cold winter time,
I came out of the forest; there was severe frost.
I look, it rises slowly uphill
Horse carrying firewood.
And, marching importantly, in serenity,
A man is leading a horse by the bridle
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens ... and himself with a fingernail!
- Hello, boy! - “Go past yourself!”
- Painfully you are formidable, as I can see!
Where are the firewood from? - “From the forest, of course;
Father, you hear, cuts, and I take away.
(The woodcutter's ax was heard in the forest.)
- Does your father have a big family?
“The family is big, yes two people
All the men, something: my father and I ... "
- So there it is! What's your name? - "Vlas".
- And what year are you? - “The sixth passed ...
Well, dead!" - shouted the little one in a bass voice,
He jerked by the bridle and walked faster.
The sun shone on this picture
The baby was so hilariously small
It's like it was all cardboard.
It's like I was in a children's theater!
But the boy was a living, real boy,
And firewood, and brushwood, and a piebald horse,
And the snow, lying to the windows of the village,
And the cold fire of the winter sun -
Everything, everything was real Russian,
With the stigma of an unsociable, deadly winter,
What is so painfully sweet to the Russian soul,
What Russian thoughts inspire in the minds,
Those honest thoughts that have no will,
To whom there is no death - do not push,
In which there is so much anger and pain,
In which there is so much love!

Play on, children! Grow at will!
That's why you have been given a red childhood,
To forever love this meager field,
So that it always seems sweet to you.
Keep your age-old legacy
Love your labor bread -
And let the charm of childhood poetry
Leads you into the bowels of the native land! ..
_______________

Now it's time for us to return to the beginning.
Noticing that the guys have become bolder, -
"Hey, the thieves are coming! I cried to Fingal:
Steal, steal! Well, hide quickly!
Fingalushka made a serious face,
I buried my belongings under the hay,
With special diligence he hid the game,
He lay down at my feet and growled angrily.
Extensive field of canine science
He was perfectly familiar;
He started throwing things like this
That the audience could not leave the place.
They wonder, they laugh! There is no fear here!
Command themselves! - "Fingalka, die!"
- Don't stop, Sergey! Do not push, Kuzyaha, -
"Look - dying - look!"
I myself enjoyed lying in the hay,
Their noisy fun. Suddenly it got dark
In the barn: it gets dark so quickly on the stage,
When the storm is destined to break.
And sure enough: the blow thundered over the barn,
A rain river poured into the barn,
The actor burst into a deafening bark,
And the audience gave an arrow!
The wide door opened, creaked,
Hit the wall, locked again.
I looked out: a dark cloud hung
Above our theater just.
In heavy rain, the children ran
Barefoot to their village...
Faithful Fingal and I waited out the storm
And they went out to look for great snipes.