Scenario for the school stage of the live classics competition. Scenario for the school round of the "Living Classics" reading competition. tour: "Who is this?"
“Scenario for holding the “Living Classics” competition at school. GOALS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE COMPETITION: Propaganda of Russian classical and modern works...”
Scenario for the “Living Classics” competition at school.
GOALS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE COMPETITION:
Propaganda of works of Russian classical and modern domestic prose.
Identification, support and stimulation of talented performers who master the genre of artistic expression;
Acquaintance with the literary heritage of Russia, reflecting the greatness of our culture and the richness of the Russian language;
Increasing public attention to the genre of artistic expression.
Conditions of the competition: Performers present a completed fragment of any literary genre that corresponds to the theme of the competition. Evaluation criteria and performance requirements
Selecting the text of a work for use within the Competition;
Grammatically correct speech;
Artistry of performance;
Depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text;
Speech time limit: Speech duration up to 5 minutes. Summing up the results of the competition
The winners and runners-up of the competition are awarded certificates.
Progress of the event. MUSIC SONG “Read!..”
Presenter 1: Hello, dear participants, jury and guests. We are pleased to welcome you to the school stage of the Living Classics competition. Presenter 2: We would like to start our competition with a poem by R. Rozhdestvensky, because its goal is to increase children’s interest in reading books not only by modern authors, but also by immortal classics. Presenter 1: The books are getting old... No, not the binding, The pages untouched by mold, But what lives there, behind the letters, And no one will ever dream of anymore. Time has stopped its flight, The lungwort has dried up the old fairy tales, And no one will fully understand , What illuminated the faces of our ancestors. But we must descend into this world, Like divers into the darkness of Atlantis, - Past centuries of hope and resentment, Not just a completely erased dotted line: The centuries in their expanded poem emerge from the Darkness to the Light, to the eternal theme.
Presenter 2: Our time is a time of great achievements in science and technology, a time of wonderful discoveries. But of all the miracles created by man, A. M. Gorky considered the book the most complex and great. The book contains the vast spiritual world of humanity. A book is the most powerful and most universal means of communication between people, nations, and generations. It is called the only time machine with which you can travel to unprecedented countries, to the past, to the future and to the present... The book is our faithful and constant companion. It remains the main source from which we draw knowledge. No wonder K. G. Paustovsky wrote: “Read! And may there not be a single day in your life when you do not read at least one page from a new book!”
Presenter2 - The art of the sounding word... Presenter1 - It is not given to many. The ability to convey the author’s thoughts is a special gift...
Presenter 2 - Keeping the word, bringing it to people is not easy work... Presenter 1 - Labor, work, deed... and sometimes - not just a deed, but a feat... Presenter 2 - Feat - akin to the feat of Prometheus, who brought fire to people... Presenter 1 - Fire of the Word, air of the Word, ocean of Words, salt and power of Words, - elements... poetry and prose... Presenter 2 - The manager of this element is not just a person... He is the Prometheus of Words... Presenter 1 - To the Prometheans of the Word - to the Prometheans of Good - to the Prometheans of Art - our school is always open
Presenter 1: Today we have gathered to hold a reading competition “Living Classics” and show that interest in reading Russian classics has not faded. Presenter 2: Introducing the jury of the “Living Classics” competition
Karimova L.R. - chairman of the jury, school director
Kutlueva Z.M. - teacher, beginning. classes
Shaikhutdinova F.G.-teacher, beginning. classes, librarian Presenter 1: Evaluation criteria and requirements for performances: Presenter 2: Selecting the text of a work for use in the Competition; Presenter 1: Competent speech; Presenter 2: Artistic performance; Presenter 1: Depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text; Presenter 1: Speech time should not exceed 5 minutes. Presenter 2: The winners and runners-up of the competition are awarded certificates.
Music is playing.
The candle burns - life goes on, there is hope that you can achieve something, you can change the world, maybe your life... The light does not dim while the candle burns...
Presenter 1: Our competition program opens with an excerpt from V.P. Astafiev’s work “Candle over the Yenisei.” Read by Svetlana Mikryukova
Presenter 2. “When you really want something, the whole Universe will help make your wish come true,” says the famous writer, whose books have sold more than 300 million.
The secret of the popularity of Coelho's works is in their amazing wisdom and at the same time understandability. Quotes from them can be used as a collection of guiding phrases.
"Back to life". Paulo Coelho. Let's listen to Anastasia Akhmadeeva.
Presenter 2
Boris Ganago has been educating children and young people in the traditions of goodness and morality for more than twenty years, and his books are widely known to the reader. The works of Boris Ganago help people of all ages think about the most important spiritual and moral problems of our time.
"Back to life". Boris Ganago. Read by Lilya Gazetdinova
Presenter 1.
I.S. Turgenev is a Russian realist writer, poet, publicist, playwright, translator. One of the classics of Russian literature who made the most significant contribution to its development in the second half of the 19th century. Today we will hear a poem in prose by I.S. Turgenev “Pigeons”. "Poems in Prose" were created by the writer over four years (from 1878 to 1882); they were written, as the writer claimed, for himself and for a small circle of people. "To this day, Turgenev's "Poems in Prose" remain an example of masterful command of the Russian syllable . The writer knew the secret of artistic inspiration and knew how to excite not only with beauty, but also with the conscience of his talent.
Prose poem "Pigeons". Read by Vagina Sasha
Music is playing
Presenter 2
Grishkovets Evgeniy Valerievich is a modern Russian writer, playwright, director, actor, musician. He became famous after he was awarded the Golden Mask national theater award in 1999. He is the author of the books “Shirt”, “Rivers”, “Traces on Me”, “Asphalt”.
Krasko Ksenia will perform a fragment of the story “About Choice”.
Presenter 1.
Stefan Zweig - Austrian writer, critic,
"Gratitude to books." Read by Shakirova Liana
Presenter 1: Chingiz Torekulovich Aitmatov is a writer who created his books in two languages: Russian and Kyrgyz. But his works are read all over the world, as they have been translated into more than a hundred languages.
In 1963, a heartfelt story about the fate of a mother who lost her sons was published. Writer Chingiz Aitmatov knew about the difficult life of women during the war years. In addition, he knew the hardships of rural life firsthand. But when reading the story “Mother’s Field,” it still seems surprising that a man created it. With extraordinary authenticity and bitterness, he conveys the thoughts of a woman whose sons did not return from the front. There is no patriotic pathos in this work. It's not about a big victory, but about grief little man– a woman who finds strength only in her love. Even when her husband and three sons die, she has warmth and tenderness in her heart for someone else’s child.
Ch. Aitmatov. An excerpt from the story “Mother’s Field” will be performed by Khaibullina Laysan.
Music is playing
Presenter 2.
And another excerpt from the story “Mother’s Field” will be performed by Katya Averina.
Music is playing
Presenter 1.
These are kind, these are sweet,
Never known laziness
Hands in senile difficult veins,
What rests on your knees,
They don’t expect cheap praise,
Not languishing in boredom,
All-forgiving, all-powerful
Mother's hands
Mom's hands..
Our competition program is continued by Ruslan Chibiryaev. He will perform an excerpt from the novel “The Young Guard” by Alexander Fadeev.
Music is playing
Presenter 1.
M. Prishvin “Blue Dragonfly”. It will be performed by Titlin Yaroslav.
Just recently I had the chance to read Mikhail Prishvin’s story “The Blue Dragonfly”. In this work, the narration is told from the author himself, that is, from the first person. He talks about the events that happened to him during the First World War in 1914, who he was during that time period, and what he was able to do for the benefit of others.
In my opinion, the story itself contains more deep meaning than it sometimes seems to us upon first and thoughtless reading. This is not just a kind of note about a sick and dying boy, but the embodiment of life in the form of hope - hope that the dragonfly is still flying... The dragonfly is life.
Presenter2.
Particularly interesting in Boris Vasiliev’s story “And Tomorrow There Was War” is the character of the main character, Iskra Polyakova. The epilogue of the story shows that all the guys really managed to realize their youthful dream of heroism. They embodied it on the fronts of the Great Patriotic War, and tragically - almost all the students of the former 9 “B” died.
An excerpt from the story is read by Vagina Oksana.
Music is playing
Presenter 1.
Pisakhov Stepan Grigorievich, Russian writer and artist.
Pisakhov is an amazing storyteller. Nothing is impossible for his hero Senya Malina. If he wants, he will brew beer using the star rain. If he wants, he will go to the sea for fish in a bathhouse. It will be necessary - he will shoot a gun from the swamp. Or he will fly to the Moon with the help of a samovar and almost die there at the hands of the feisty “moon women”.
“How the merchant’s wife fasted” STEPAN PISAKHOV. Read by Darina Gaisina.
Presenter 2
Dmitry Narkisovich Mamin-Sibiryak was born in a small factory village in the Perm region in the Urals. His father was a teacher at the village school.
The house had an excellent library, and therefore many people came to their house: workers, hunters. Even in early childhood, he was shocked by the majestic nature of the Urals. And all this left its mark on his future fate. He began publishing educational stories, fairy tales for children about nature and animals.
Nastya Cherepanova will read an excerpt from the story “Medvedko”
Presenter 1.
And our competition ends with the modern Siberian writer Lev Trutnev, who loves to create works telling about the life of birds and animals. Often the author makes a forest dweller the main character. The person looks like an observer, a guest in this mysterious kingdom. With his work, L. Trutnev instills in readers the ability to love, treat with care and respect a completely unfamiliar world, as it turns out, for us - the world of Nature.
Zhavoronko Angelina reads Lev Trutnev’s story “Stranger.”
Presenters 1 and 2 take turns reading the poem
Meeting with a book, or with a friend, For everyone it’s like a holiday, But for a child’s soul It’s Ariadne’s thread,
What leads them from fairy tales, epics and legends to the world of real life, the world of science and knowledge.
Books teach children All the wisdom of life - How to be a Human Being, And to be needed by the Fatherland,
And how truth is from lies Everyone must distinguish, How to fight the enemy And how to defeat evil.
Books help them comprehend beauty, how to see beauty, how to convey it,
How to convey it, And how to see Big meaning in small things, And how to find the Golden ratio in life.
The wisdom of book pages - These are life lessons About the coming day, And about our origins.
They encourage them to dream high, to think about the future - about distant descendants.
In books there is knowledge, light, In books there is the memory of centuries, In books there is the wisdom of people - Our grandfathers, fathers.
We can’t live without books, like without bread, we can’t even live a day. So let’s take care of them and love them.
Presenter 1.
Our competition has come to an end. We ask the jury to sum up the results and announce the names of the winners.
LIVING CLASSICS - 2017
Selecting the text of a work for use within the framework of the Competent Speech Competition
Artistry of performance
Depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
Ch. Aitmatov “Mother Field”
We were finishing plowing when suddenly we heard some running and noise in the street. Aliman ran to find out what was wrong and returned instantly.
Mom, get ready quickly,” she hurried me. - People go to meet the soldiers to meet the Plow, the yoked bulls remain on the arable land. Indeed, the entire village on horseback, on foot, hunched over old men and women, children, wounded on crutches were all running somewhere. As they ran, they reported that some traveler (from Zarechensk, it seemed) told someone that the soldiers were returning home, that two trains had arrived at the station, there were guys from all the villages, and that they were already on the road and should arrive in time . Nobody asked if it was true. People wanted this truth, people dreamed of this long-awaited day, so no one had any doubts.
We ran to the outskirts of the village, to where a new street was being built before the war. The horsemen did not dismount from their saddles, those on foot climbed the hill near the ditch, the boys climbed the ruins of unfinished walls, and others climbed the trees. And everyone waited and looked at the road. Some, impatiently interrupting each other, talked about good dreams they had seen the day before, others collected a handful of stones and began to tell fortunes on them. And in all this: in dreams, and in fortune-telling, and in other premonitions and signs - people saw good, desired omens. I remember now and think that if people all over the world always waited like this, seized by one feeling, always loved their sons, brothers, fathers and husbands as much as we waited and loved them, then perhaps there would not be war.
When the conversations in the crowd died down, everyone silently thought about their own things, with their heads down. People were waiting for fate to decide. Everyone asked themselves: who will return and who will not? Who will wait and who won't? Life and future fate depended on it.
It was at such a moment that one boy suddenly shouted from a tree: “They are coming!” And everyone froze, tensed like the strings of a komuz, and then they all repeated dully at once: “They are coming!” - and again they fell silent in anticipation, it became quiet again. Very quiet. But then, as if having come to their senses, everyone started making noise: “Where? Where are they going? Where?” - and fell silent again. A chaise appeared on the highway ahead. She drove briskly along the road, stopped at a fork where the dirt road leads to our village, and a soldier jumped off the chaise. He took his overcoat and duffel bag, said goodbye to the driver and walked towards us. No one in the crowd uttered a word, everyone looked in silence and surprise at the road along which only one soldier was walking with an overcoat and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was approaching, but none of us moved. There was bewilderment on people's faces. We were still waiting for some miracle. We couldn't believe our eyes because we were expecting not just one, but many.
The soldier came closer and closer, then stopped in indecision - he also became timid when he saw a silent crowd of people on the outskirts of the village. He probably thought, what kind of people are these, why are they silent, why do they stand rooted to the spot? Maybe they are waiting for someone? The soldier looked back at the road twice, but besides him, there was not a soul on it. He walked towards us again, and again he stopped, and again he looked back. The barefoot girl who stood in front of us suddenly shouted:
This is my brother! Ashiraly! Ashiraly! - And, tearing off the scarf from her head, she rushed towards him as fast as she could.
God knows how she recognized him, only her scream, like a shot, brought us out of our stupor. Boys and girls ran after her.
But it’s him, Ashiraly! It is he! - the voices began to rustle, and then everyone, old and young, we all rushed in a crowd towards the soldier.
Some powerful force picked us all up and carried us as if on wings. When we ran to the soldier, with our arms open, we carried with us our whole lives, everything we had experienced and suffered, our torments of waiting and our sleepless nights, our gray hair, our aged girls, our widows and orphans, our tears and groans, We carried our courage to the victorious soldier. And he suddenly, realizing that they were meeting him, also ran towards us.
And when we were running as a whole crowd, it seemed to me that a train was rushing past with a roar; the wind hits my face, I hear a cry: “Mom-ah! Alima-an!” - and the wheels are pounding in my ears.
The horsemen were the first to gallop up to the soldier, on the fly they picked up his overcoat and duffel bag, and took him by the arms on both sides.
Oh, Victory! We've been waiting for you for so long. Hello, Victory! Hello! Forgive our tears! Forgive my daughter-in-law Aliman for beating her head on Ashirala’s chest and asking him, shaking his shoulders: “Where? Where is my Kasym?” Forgive us all, Victory. We have made so many sacrifices for you. Forgive us for our cries: "Where are the others? Where is mine? Where is mine? Where are all the others? When will everyone return?" Sorry soldier! Ashiraly for the fact that he answered all of us: “My relatives will return, everyone will return. They will return soon, they will return tomorrow.” Forgive us, Victory, forgive us. Hugging and kissing Ashiraly, I was thinking at that moment about Jainak, about Maselbek, about Kasym, about Suvankul: none of them returned. Forgive me, Victory...
CH.AYTMATOV “MOTHER FIELD”
Mother Earth, why don’t the mountains fall, why don’t the lakes overflow when people like Suvankul and Kasym die? Both of them - father and son - were great grain growers. The world has always been supported by such people, they feed it, give it water, and in war they protect it, they are the first to become warriors. If not for the war, how many more things Suvankul and Kasym would have done, how many people they would have given the fruits of their labor, how many more fields they would have sown, how much more grain they would have threshed. And you yourself, rewarded a hundredfold by the efforts of others, would see how many more joys of life! Tell me, Mother Earth, tell me the truth: can people live without war?
You asked a difficult question, Tolgonai. There were peoples who disappeared without a trace in wars, there were cities burned by fire and covered with sand, there were centuries when I dreamed of seeing a human trace. And every time people started wars, I told them: “Stop, don’t shed blood!” Even now I repeat: “Hey, people beyond the mountains, beyond the seas! Hey, people living in this world, what do you need - land? Here I am - earth! I am the same for all of you, you are all equal to me. I don’t need your discord, I need your friendship, your work! Throw one grain into a furrow - and I will give you a hundred grains. Stick a twig - and I will grow you a plane tree. Plant a garden - and I will fill you with fruits. Raise livestock - and I will be grass. "Build houses - and I will be a wall. Be fruitful, multiply - I will be a wonderful home for all of you. I am infinite, I am limitless, I am deep and high, I am enough for all of you!" And you, Tolgonai, ask whether people can live without war. This is not up to me - it depends on you, on people, on your will and mind.
When you think about it, our native land, after all, your best workers, your most the best masters War kills. But I don’t agree with this, I don’t agree with my whole life!
And you, Tolgonai, think I don’t suffer from wars? No, I'm suffering a lot. I really miss the peasant hands, I always mourn my children, grain growers, I always miss Suvankul, Kasym, Jainak and all the dead soldiers. When I remain unplowed, when the fields remain unharvested and the grain unthreshed, I call them: “Where are you, my plowmen, where are you, my sowers? Arise, my children, grain growers, come, help me, I am suffocating, I am dying!” And if Suvankul had come then with a ketmen in his hands, if Kasym had brought his combine harvester, if Jainak had brought his chaise! But they don't respond...
Thank you, earth, for that. This means that you miss them just as much as I do, you mourn them just as much as I do. Thank you, earth.
Chingiz Aitmatov And the day lasts longer than a century...
In this confrontation of feelings, she suddenly saw, having crossed a gentle ridge, a large herd of camels, freely grazing along a wide valley. Brown feeding camels wandered through small bushes and thorn thickets, gnawing their tops. Naiman-Ana hit her Akmaya, set off as fast as she could, and at first she literally choked with joy that she had finally found the herd, then she got scared, got chills, and became so scared that she would now see her son turned into a mankurt. Then she was overjoyed again and no longer really understood what was happening to her. There it was, a herd grazing, but where was the shepherd? Must be here somewhere. And I saw a man on the other edge of the valley. From a distance it was impossible to discern who he was. The shepherd stood with a long staff, holding a riding camel with luggage behind him, and calmly looked from under his pulled-down hat at her approach. And when she approached, when she recognized her son, Naiman-Ana did not remember how she rolled off the camel’s back. It seemed to her that she had fallen, but was that so possible! - My dear son! And I'm looking for you all around! “She rushed towards him as if through a thicket that separated them. “I am your mother!” And immediately I understood everything and began to sob, trampling the ground with my feet, bitterly and fearfully, curling my convulsively jumping lips, trying to stop and unable to control myself. To stay on her feet, she tenaciously grabbed the shoulder of her indifferent son and cried and cried, deafened by the grief that had been hanging for a long time and now collapsed, crushing and burying her. And, crying, she peered through the tears, through the sticky strands of gray wet hair, through the shaking fingers with which she smeared the road dirt on her face, at the familiar features of her son and still tried to catch his gaze, still waiting, hoping that he would recognize her, because this it’s so easy to recognize your own mother! But her appearance did not have any effect on him, as if she had been here constantly and visited him every day in the steppe. He didn't even ask who she was or why she was crying. At some point, the shepherd took her hand off his shoulder and walked, dragging an inseparable riding camel with luggage, to the other side of the herd to see if the young animals who had started playing had run too far. Naiman-Ana remained in place, sat down on squatted, sobbing, holding her face in her hands, and sat there without raising her head. Then she gathered her strength and went to her son, trying to maintain calm. The Mankurt son, as if nothing had happened, senselessly and indifferently looked at her from under his tightly pulled cap, and something like a weak smile slid across his emaciated, blackly weathered, roughened face. But the eyes, expressing a dense lack of interest in anything in the world, remained as detached as before. “Sit down, let’s talk,” Naiman-Ana said with a heavy sigh. And they sat down on the ground. “Do you recognize me?” - asked the mother. Mankurt shook his head negatively. “What’s your name?” “Mankurt,” he answered. “That’s your name now.” Do you remember your former name? Remember your real name. Mankurt was silent. His mother saw that he was trying to remember; large drops of sweat appeared on the bridge of his nose from tension and his eyes were clouded with a trembling fog. But a blank, impenetrable wall must have appeared in front of him, and he could not overcome it. “What was your father’s name?” Who are you, where are you from? Do you even know where you were born? No, he didn’t remember anything and didn’t know anything. “What did they do to you!” - the mother whispered, and again her lips began to jump against her will, and, choking with resentment, anger and grief, she began to sob again, trying in vain to calm herself down. The mother’s sorrows did not affect the mankurt in any way. “You can take away land, you can take away wealth, you can take away life,” she said out loud, “but who came up with the idea, who dares to encroach on a person’s memory?!” Oh God, if you exist, how did you inspire this in people? Is there not enough evil on earth even without this? And then she said, looking at her son-Mankurt, her famous sad word about the sun, about God, about herself, which knowledgeable people retell to this day when it comes to Sarozek history... And then she began his cry, which to this day is remembered by knowledgeable people: - Men botasy olgen boz may, tulybyn kelip iskeg Having searched back and forth, the zhuanzhuan soon retired back to the herd. It was already evening. The sun had set, but the glow lingered over the steppe for a long time. Then it got dark all at once. And the dead of night came. Completely alone, Naiman-Ana spent that night in the steppe somewhere not far from her unfortunate son Mankurt. I was afraid to return to him. The recent Ruanzhuan could stay overnight with the herd. And she came to the decision not to leave her son in slavery, to try to take him with her. Even if he is a mankurt, even if he doesn’t understand what’s what, it’s better for him to be at home, among his own people, than among the shepherds of the Ruanzhuans in deserted Sarozeks. That's what her mother's soul told her. She could not come to terms with what others were coming to terms with.
She could not leave her blood in slavery. What if in his native place his sanity returns, he suddenly remembers his childhood... The next morning Naiman-Ana again sat astride Akmaya. It took her a long time to get to the herd, which had moved quite far during the night, along long, roundabout paths. Having discovered the herd, she peered for a long time to see if there were any of the Ruanzhuans. And only after making sure that there was no one there, they called out to their son by name: “Zholaman!” Zholaman! Hello! The son looked around, the mother screamed with joy, but immediately realized that he was simply responding to a voice. Naiman-Ana again tried to awaken the lost memory in her son. “Remember your name, remember your name!” - she begged and convinced. - Your father Donenby, don’t you know? And your name is not Mankurt, but Zholaman. We called you that because you were born on the road during a large nomadic Naiman camp. And when you were born, we stopped there for three days. There was a feast for three days. And although all this did not make any impression on the Mankurt son, the mother continued to talk, vainly hoping that suddenly something would flash in his dim consciousness. But she fought against a tightly closed door. And yet she continued to repeat her words: “Remember what your name is?” Your father Donenby! Then she fed him, gave him something to drink from her provisions and began to sing lullabies to him. He really liked the songs. He was pleased to listen to them, and something alive, some kind of warmth appeared on his frozen, hardened face to the point of blackness. And then his mother began to convince him to leave this place, leave the Ruanzhuans and go with her to their native place. Mankurt couldn’t imagine how he could get up and go somewhere - but what about the herd? No, the owner ordered to be with the herd all the time. That's what the owner said. And he will never leave the herd... And again, once again, Naiman-Ana tried to break through the blind door of crushed memory and kept repeating: “Remember, whose are you?” What is your name? Your father Donenby! In her vain diligence, my mother did not notice how much time had passed, but she only realized it when a Ruanzhuan on a camel appeared again at the edge of the herd. This time he was much closer and drove quickly, driving faster and faster. Naiman-Ana quickly sat down on Akmaya. And she started off. But from the other side another Ruanzhuan on a camel appeared across the line. Then Naiman-Ana, dispersing Akmaya, went between them. The fleet-footed white Akmaya carried her forward in time, and the Ruanzhuans pursued from behind, shouting and shaking their pikes. Where were they before Akmai? They fell further and further behind, trundling along on their shaggy camels, and Akmaya, catching her breath, rushed along the Sarozeks with unattainable speed, carrying Naiman-Anu away from the deadly pursuit. She did not know, however, that upon returning, the embittered Ruanzhuans began to beat the mankurt. But what is the demand for him? All he answered was: “She said she was my mother.” “She’s not your mother!” You don't have a mother! Do you know why she came? You know? She wants to rip off your hat and steam your head! - they intimidated the unfortunate mankurt. At these words, the mankurt turned pale, his black face became grey-gray. He pulled his neck into his shoulders and, grabbing his hat, began to look around like an animal. “Don’t be afraid!” Here you go! - The elder Ruanzhuan put a bow and arrows in his hands. - Well, take aim! - The younger Ruanzhuan threw his hat high into the air. The arrow pierced the hat. - Look! - the owner of the hat was surprised. - The memory remained in my hand! Like a bird, scared from its nest, Naiman-Ana circled around the Saroz region. And I didn’t know what to do, what to expect. Will the Ruanzhuans now drive the entire group and with him her son-mankurt to another place, inaccessible to her, closer to their large horde, or will they lie in wait to capture her? Lost in conjecture, she made detours through hidden places and looked out, and was very happy when she saw that those two Ruanzhuans had left the herd. We drove away side by side without looking back. Naiman-Ana did not take her eyes off them for a long time and, when they disappeared into the distance, she decided to return to her son. Now she wanted to take him with her at all costs. Whatever he is, it is not his fault that fate turned out this way that his enemies mocked him, but his mother will not leave him in slavery. And let the Naimans, seeing how the invaders mutilate the captured horsemen, how they humiliate and deprive them of their reason, let them become indignant and take up arms. It's not about the land. There would be enough land for everyone. However, the Zhuanzhuan evil is intolerable even for an alienated neighborhood... With these thoughts, Naiman-Ana returned to her son and kept thinking about how to convince him, persuade him to escape that very night. It was already getting dark. Over the great Sarozeks, another night from the countless series of past and future nights was falling, invisibly creeping through the ravines and valleys in the reddish twilight. The white camel Akmaya easily and freely carried her owner to the large herd. The rays of the fading sun clearly highlighted her figure on the camel's interhump. Wary and preoccupied, Naiman-Ana was pale and stern. Gray hair, wrinkles, thoughts on the brow and in the eyes, like those Sarozek twilights, inescapable pain... So she reached the herd, rode between the grazing animals, began to look around, but her son was not visible. For some reason, his riding camel with luggage grazed freely, dragging the reins along the ground... - Zholaman! My son, Zholaman, where are you? - Naiman-Ana began calling. No one appeared or responded. - Zholaman! Where are you? It's me, your mother! Where are you? And, looking around in concern, she did not notice that her son, mankurt, hiding in the shadow of a camel, was already on his knees, aiming with an arrow stretched on a bowstring. The reflection of the sun disturbed him, and he waited for the right moment to shoot. - Zholaman! My son! - Naiman-Ana called, afraid that something had happened to him. She turned in the saddle. - Do not shoot! - she managed to scream and was just about to urge the white camel Akmaya to turn around, but the arrow whistled briefly, piercing her left side under her arm. It was a fatal blow. Naiman-Ana bent down and began to slowly fall, clinging to the camel’s neck. But first, a white scarf fell from her head, which turned into a bird in the air and flew away shouting: “Remember, whose are you? What is your name? Your father Donenby! Donenby! Donenby!
B. Vasiliev
Tomorrow there was a war
The door slammed behind me. Iskra knew that her mother had returned and did not look back.
The spark jumped up as usual. The mother, with a distorted, twitching face, was feverishly tearing at the belt that tied her wet Chonov leather jacket.
Did you have a funeral service at the cemetery? You?..
Be silent! I warned! - The belt unfastened, its end slid flexibly to the floor, the mother clutched the buckle tightly in her fist.
Mom, wait...
The belt flew into the air. Now he had to land on her head, chest, face - wherever it hit. But Iskra did not close, did not move. She just turned pale.
I love you very much, Mom, but if you ever, even once, hit me, I will leave forever.
She said this quietly and calmly, although she was shaking all over. The belt hit the floor nearby. Iskra, with trembling hands, for some reason straightened her old wet coat and sat down at the table. “With her back to her mother. She looked at the notice, but no longer understood anything. She heard a soldier’s belt fall to the floor, how her mother walked towards her room, how the chair creaked heavily and struck a match. She heard it, and she was painfully sorry for her mother, but she could no longer stand up and throw herself on her neck. She had already taken a step, she did it suddenly, without preparing, but having done so, she realized that she had to go to the end. Until end and without looking back, no matter how painful the first steps were. And so she continued to sit, blindly looking at the notice of the parcel, written in such an elusively familiar handwriting. Behind her, the chair creaked again, footsteps were heard, but Iskra did not move. The mother went to the closet, She was looking for something, rearranging it. “Change. Change everything - stockings, underwear. You’re soaking wet. Please.” The spark shuddered at the unfamiliar gentle and tired intonations. She suddenly wanted to rush to her mother, hug her and cry. To cry, to sob desperately and helplessly , as in childhood. But she restrained herself and did not turn around again. “Okay.” Mother stood, carefully put the linen on the bed and quietly went to her half.
Excerpt from AFadeev’s novel The Young Guard Mother’s Hands
…Mom mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became aware of myself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered in tan, and it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, only a little darker on the veins. And in the dark veins.
From the very moment I became aware of myself, and until the last minute, when you, exhausted, quietly, for the last time, laid your head on my chest, seeing me off on the difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried around in soapy foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they didn’t look like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets in a yoke, placing a small mittened hand on the yoke in front , she herself is so small and fluffy, like a mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the ABC book, and I repeat after you: “Ba-a-ba, ba-ba.”
I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would not disdain.
But most of all, for all eternity, I remembered how gently they stroked your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And whenever I opened my eyes, you were next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands!
Look around, young man, my friend, look around, like me, and tell me who you offended in life more than your mother - wasn’t it from me, wasn’t it from you, wasn’t it from him, wasn’t it from our failures, mistakes and not Is it because of our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave.
Mom, mom!.. Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive...
From the moment the sun began to shine and the dew dried, Fedyukha and I, hiding in a ditch overgrown with burdock, watched a red-breasted and black-headed bird dragging whole bunches of small insects somewhere under the fence. It was clear that she was feeding the chicks, and we wanted to find out where this nest was, to look at the yellowthroats.
We started creeping up to that place from afar, at a time when the bird was not there. But another one, a gray one, also with worms, noticed us, and “chickened” alarmingly, as if she were knocking pebbles against each other: “Chick-chick, chick-chick...” Most likely, it was a female red-breasted, and we had to be cunning again and return to starting place and hide. Gradually, moving closer and closer in the burdocks, when the birds flew away for their next food, we found ourselves not far from a noticeable place.
“Over there,” whispered Fedyukha, “where the stake is long, right under it...
Parting the grass, I even pumped myself away, noticing a large, almost the size of a dove, gray-motley bird sitting in the grass thicket, with a pink, wide-open mouth and yellow, unblinking eyes. She suddenly threw her head up once or twice with her mouth open, and an unpleasant chill splashed onto my back.
“There’s some kind of bird here,” I showed Fedyukha the find, “probably pecking at the chicks.”
Together we began to examine the incomprehensible stranger. Then the host birds appeared and fluttered along the fence from stake to stake with alarming cries: “Chick-chick-chick...”
“I don’t understand anything...” Fedyukha’s eyes widened in confusion. - Did they really feed him like that?
I saw the ridges of a grass nest under the bird’s plumage, and next to them were the shrunken carcasses of baby chicks.
- No, Fedya, he pushed the chicks out of the nest. There they lie, dried up. Someone else is someone.
- What a parasite! - the friend was amazed. – And he still threatens. Now I’ll hit you in the head with a stick and that’s it...
I looked at the birds flying anxiously around us.
- No need. There's something wrong here. Let's go ask grandpa.
And we ran, sparkling with our bare heels in our high ponies.
The next day, our stranger was already hanging out, ruffling his feathers, on the back fence of the garden, and the little birds continued to feed him. We saw a cuckoo bird there for two or three days, and then it disappeared.
And in the forest there was still no, no, and one could hear the sad: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku...” Maybe the cuckoo was calling her foundling or was just missing him, who knows?
A.P.Chekhov
JOY
It was twelve o'clock at night. Mitya Kuldarov, excited and disheveled, rushed into his parents' apartment and quickly walked through all the rooms.
The parents had already gone to bed. My sister lay in bed and finished reading the last page of the novel. The high school brothers were sleeping. - Where are you from? - the parents were surprised. - What's wrong with you? - Oh, don't ask! I never expected it! No, I never expected it! This... this is even incredible! Mitya laughed and sat down in a chair, unable to stand on his feet with happiness. “This is incredible!” You can't imagine! Look! The sister jumped out of bed and, throwing the blanket over herself, went up to her brother. The schoolchildren woke up. - What's wrong with you? There’s no face on you! - It’s me out of joy, mom! After all, now all of Russia knows me! All! Previously, only you alone knew that the collegiate registrar Dmitry Kuldarov existed in this world, but now all of Russia knows about it! Mother! Oh, my God! Mitya jumped up, ran around all the rooms and sat down again. “What happened?” Speak clearly! - You live like wild animals, you don’t read newspapers, you don’t pay any attention to publicity, but there are so many wonderful things in newspapers! If anything happens, everything is known now, nothing can be hidden! How happy I am! Oh my God! After all, only about famous people They publish it in the newspapers, but then they published it about me! - What are you saying? Where? Dad turned pale. Mother looked at the image and crossed herself. The schoolchildren jumped up and, as they were, in only short nightgowns, approached their older brother. “Yes, sir!” They published about me! Now all of Russia knows about me! You, mother, hide this number as a souvenir! We'll read sometimes. Look! Mitya pulled out a copy of the newspaper from his pocket, handed it to his father and pointed his finger at the place outlined in blue pencil. “Read!” Father put on his glasses. “Read!” Mom looked at the image and crossed herself. Dad coughed and began to read: “On December 29, at eleven o’clock in the evening, college registrar Dmitry Kuldarov... - See, see? Next!...college registrar Dmitry Kuldarov, leaving the porterhouse on Malaya Bronnaya, in Kozikhin’s house, and being in drunk...- This is me and Semyon Petrovich... Everything is described down to the subtleties! Carry on! Further! Listen!...and being in a drunken state, he slipped and fell under the horse of a cab driver standing here, a peasant from the village. Durykina, Yukhnovsky district, Ivan Drotov. The frightened horse, stepping over Kuldarov and dragging through him the sleigh with the Moscow merchant Stepan Lukov of the second guild in it, rushed down the street and was detained by the street cleaners. Kuldarov, initially in an unconscious state, was taken to the police station and examined by a doctor. The blow he received on the back of the head... - I hit it on the shaft, dad. Further! Read on!...which he received on the back of the head is classified as lung. A report has been drawn up about the incident. The victim was given medical assistance.” They ordered the back of his head to be soaked in cold water. Have you read it now? A? That's it! Now it has spread all over Russia! Give it here! Mitya grabbed the newspaper, folded it and put it in his pocket. “I’ll run to the Makarovs, I’ll show them... I also need to show the Ivanitskys, Natalia Ivanovna, Anisim Vasilich... I’ll run!” Farewell! Mitya put on a cap with a cockade and, triumphant, joyful, ran out into the street
If you don't like it, don't listen. Tales of Stepan Pisakhov.
How the merchant's wife fasted
Was the merchant’s wife really so pious, was she living such a correct life that it’s simply touching!
This is how a merchant’s wife sits down in the morning to eat pancakes, and eats and eats pancakes: with sour cream, and with caviar, with salmon, with mushrooms, with herring, with small onions, with sugar, with jam, with various spices, eats with sighs and drinks.
And he eats so piously that it’s even scary. He eats, eats, sighs and eats again.
And when Lent came, well, the merchant’s wife began to fast.
In the morning I opened my eyes and wanted to drink tea, but I couldn’t have tea, because I was fasting.
During fasting, they ate neither dairy nor meat, and those who strictly fasted did not eat fish. And the merchant's wife fasted with all her might - she didn't even drink tea and didn't eat crushed or sawn sugar, but she ate special sugar - lean, like sweets.
So the pious woman drank five cups of boiling water with honey, five cups with lean sugar, five cups with raspberry juice, five cups with cherry juice, and don’t think about it with tincture - no, with juice, and ate black crackers.
While she was drinking boiling water and breakfast was ripe, the merchant’s wife ate a plate of salted cabbage, a plate of grated radish, a plate of small mushrooms, dozens of pickled cucumbers, and washed it all down with white kvass.
Instead of tea, I started drinking sbiten with molasses.
Time doesn’t stand still; it’s already time for noon. It's time for lunch. Lunch is all Lenten! For starters, thin oatmeal with onions, mushroom pickle with cereal, onion soup. For the main course: fried milk mushrooms, baked rutabaga, soloniki - juicy and folded with salt, porridge with carrots and six other different porridges with different jams and three jelly: kvass jelly, pea jelly, raspberry jelly. I ate it all with boiled blueberries and raisins.
She refused poppy seeds.
No, no, I won’t eat poppy seeds, I want there not to be a drop of poppy in my mouth during the entire fast.
After lunch, the fasting woman drank boiling water with cranberries and marshmallows.
And time goes on and on. After the afternoon boiling water with cranberries and marshmallows, the turn came.
The merchant's wife sighed, but there was nothing to be done - she had to fast!
I ate soaked peas with horseradish, lingonberries with oatmeal, steamed rutabaga, flour turi, soaked apples with small pears in kvass.
If an ungodly person cannot withstand such a fast, he will burst.
And the merchant’s wife drinks boiling water with dry berries until dinner. They work and fast.
So dinner was served.
What I ate at lunch, I ate everything at dinner. But she couldn’t resist and ate a piece of fish - nine pounds worth of fish.
The merchant's wife went to bed and looked into the corner, and there was a devil, she looked in the other, and there was a devil! I looked towards the door - and there it was! From under the bed there are devils, there are devils all around! And they wag their tails.
The merchant's wife screamed in fear.
The cook came running, gave her a pie with peas - the merchant’s wife felt better.
The doctor came, looked at it and said:
For the first time I see that I overate to the point of delirium tremens.
The point is clear: doctors are educated and do not understand anything about pious matters.
Mikhail PrishvinBLUE DRAGONFLY
During that First World War in 1914, I went to the front as a war correspondent dressed as a medical orderly and soon found myself fighting in the west in the Augustow Forest. I wrote down all my impressions in my own short way, but I confess that not for one minute did the feeling of personal uselessness and the impossibility of catching up with my words with the terrible things that were happening around me leave me.
I walked along the road towards war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep crater, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at the flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.
I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with a gray mustache was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter heated up, he shouted to me:
How can you, you such-and-such a writer, aren’t you ashamed to be busy with your own trifles at such moments? - What should I do? - I asked, very pleased by his decisive tone. - Run immediately, pick up those people over there, order them to drag benches from the school, pick up and lay down the wounded...
I lifted people, dragged benches, laid out the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that I was here at war, not just a writer.
At this time, one dying man whispered to me:
I wish I had some water...
At the first word from the wounded man, I ran for water. But he did not drink and repeated to me:
Water, water, stream...
I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with sparkling eyes, with thin, trembling lips that reflected the trembling of his soul.
The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I was left face to face with the dying boy on the bank of a forest stream.
In the slanting rays of the evening sun, the minarets of horsetails, the leaves of telores, and water lilies glowed with a special green light, as if emanating from within the plants, and a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And very close to us, where the creek ended, the streams of the stream, joining on the pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And then the struggle ended with a sweet childish smile, and the eyes opened.
Thank you,” he whispered.
Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the creek, he smiled again, said thank you again, and closed his eyes again.
Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:
What, does she still fly?
The blue dragonfly was still circling.
“It flies,” I answered, “and how!”
He smiled again and fell into oblivion. Meanwhile, little by little it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away with my thoughts and forgot myself. When suddenly I hear him ask:
Still flying? “Flying,” I said, without looking, without thinking. “Why can’t I see?” - he asked, hardly opening his eyes.
I was afraid. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, but still spoke to us quite intelligently. Isn’t it the same here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly was flying and saw nothing.
The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.
I felt pain, and suddenly I saw the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain light even when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.
It flies, it flies! - I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully that the patient immediately opened his eyes.
And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.
I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe: they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my decisive and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek in the dark.
B. Ekimov. “Speak, mother, speak...”
In the mornings the mobile phone now rang. The black box came to life: the light came on in it, cheerful music sang and the daughter’s voice announced, as if she were nearby: “Mom, hello!” Are you okay? Well done! Questions or suggestions? Amazing! Then I kiss you. Be, be! The box went rotten and fell silent. Old Katerina marveled at her and could not get used to it. It's like a little thing - a matchbox. No wires. He lays and lies there, and suddenly he starts playing, lights up, and his daughter’s voice: “Mom, hello!” Are you okay? Have you thought about going? Look... Any questions? Kiss. Be, be! But the city where the daughter lives is one and a half hundred miles away. And not always easy, especially in bad weather. But this year the autumn turned out to be long and warm. Near the farm, on the surrounding mounds, the grass had turned red, and the poplar and willow fields near the Don stood green, and in the courtyards pears and cherries were green like summer, although by time it was high time for them to burn out with a red and crimson quiet fire. The bird's flight dragged on. A goose slowly went south, calling somewhere in the foggy, stormy sky a quiet ong-ong... ong-ong... But what can we say about a bird if Grandma Katerina, withered, hunchbacked from age, but still a nimble old woman, could not get herself together in any way? departure. “I’m throwing it with my mind, I won’t throw it…” she complained to her neighbor. - Should I go or not?.. Or maybe it will stay warm? They are talking on the radio: the weather has completely broken down. Now the fast has begun, but the magpies have not come to the yard. It's warm and warm. Back and forth... Christmas and Epiphany. And then it’s time to think about seedlings. There’s no point in going and sorting out tights. The neighbor just sighed: it was still oh so far away from spring, from seedlings. But old Katerina, rather convincing herself, took out another argument from her bosom - a mobile phone. - Mobile! - she proudly repeated the words of the city grandson. - One word - mobile. I pressed the button, and suddenly - Maria. Pressed another - Kolya. Who do you want to feel sorry for? Why shouldn't we live? - she asked. - Why leave? Throwing away the house, the farm... This conversation was not the first. She talked with the children, with her neighbor, but more often with herself. In recent years, she went to spend the winter with her daughter in the city. Age is one thing: it’s difficult to light the stove every day and carry water from the well. Through mud and ice. You will fall and hurt yourself. And who will raise it? The farmstead, which until recently was populous, with the death of the collective farm, dispersed, moved away, died out. Only old people and drunks remained. And they don’t carry bread, not to mention the rest. It's hard for an old person to spend the winter. So she left for her family. But it’s not easy to part with a farm, with a nest. What to do with small animals: Tuzik, cat and chickens? Shove it around people?.. And my heart aches about the house. Drunkards will climb in and the last pots will be stuck. And it’s not too much fun to settle into new corners in your old age. Even though they are our own children, the walls are foreign and life is completely different. Guest and look around. So I was thinking: should I go, should I not go?.. And then they brought a telephone for help - a “mobile”. They explained for a long time about the buttons: which ones to press and which ones not to touch. Usually my daughter called from the city in the morning. Cheerful music would start playing and the light would flash in the box. At first, it seemed to old Katerina that her daughter’s face would appear there, as if on a small television. Only a voice announced, distant and not for long: “Mom, hello!” Are you okay? Well done. Any questions? That's good. Kiss. Be, be. Before you have time to come to your senses, the light has already gone out, the box has fallen silent. In the first days, old Katerina was only amazed at such a miracle. Previously, on the farm there was a telephone in the collective farm office. Everything is familiar there: wires, a big black tube, you can talk for a long time. But that phone floated away with the collective farm. Now there is “mobile”. And thank God. - Mom! Do you hear me?! Alive and healthy? Well done. I kiss you. Before you even have time to open your mouth, the box has already gone out. “What kind of passion is this…” the old woman grumbled. - Not a telephone, waxwing. He crowed: be it... So be it. And here... And here, that is, in the life of the farm, the old man, there was a lot of things that I wanted to talk about. - Mom, can you hear me? - I hear, I hear... Is that you, daughter? And the voice doesn’t seem to be yours, it’s somehow hoarse. Are you sick? Look, dress warmly. Otherwise, you are urban - fashionable, tie a down scarf. And don't let them look. Health is more valuable. Because I just had a dream, such a bad one. Why? It seems like there is some cattle in our yard. Alive. Right on the doorstep. She has a horse's tail, horns on her head, and a goat's muzzle. What kind of passion is this? And why would that be? “Mom,” came a stern voice from the phone. - Talk to the point, and not about goat faces. We explained to you: the tariff. “Forgive me for Christ’s sake,” the old woman came to her senses. They really warned her when the phone was delivered that it was expensive and she needed to talk briefly about the most important thing.
But what is the most important thing in life? Especially among old people... And in fact, I saw such passion at night: a horse’s tail and a scary goat’s face. So think about it, what is this for? Probably not for the good. Another day passed, followed by another. The old woman’s life went on as usual: get up, tidy up, release the chickens; feed and water your small living creatures and even have something to peck at yourself. And then he’ll go and hook things up. It’s not for nothing that they say: although the house is small, it doesn’t tell you to sit. A spacious courtyard that once fed a large family: a vegetable garden, a potato garden, a levada. Sheds, cubbyholes, chicken coop. Summer kitchen-mazanka, cellar with exit. Pletnevaya town, fence. Earth that needs to be dug little by little while it’s warm. And cut firewood, cutting it wide with a hand saw. Coal has become expensive these days, you can’t buy it. Little by little the day dragged on, cloudy and warm. Ong-ong... ong-ong... - was heard sometimes. This goose went south, flock after flock. They flew away to return in the spring. But on the ground, on the farm, it was cemetery-like quiet. Having left, people did not return here either in the spring or in the summer. And therefore, the rare houses and farmsteads seemed to crawl apart like crustaceans, shunning each other. Another day passed. And in the morning it was slightly frosty. Trees, bushes and dry grass stood in a light layer of frost - white fluffy frost. Old Katerina, going out into the courtyard, looked around at this beauty, rejoicing, but she should have looked down at her feet. She walked and walked, stumbled, fell, hitting a rhizome painfully. The day started awkwardly, and it didn’t go well. As always in the morning, the mobile phone lit up and began to sing. “Hello, my daughter, hello.” Just one title: alive. “I’m so upset now,” she complained. - Either the leg played along, or maybe the slime. Where, where... - she became annoyed. - In the courtyard. I went to open the gate at night. And there, near the gate, there is a black pear. Do you love her. She's sweet. I’ll make you compote from it. Otherwise I would have liquidated it long ago. Near this pear... “Mom,” a distant voice came through the phone, “be more specific about what happened, and not about the sweet pear.” “And that’s what I’m telling you.” There, the root crawled out of the ground like a snake. But I walked and didn’t look. Yes, there’s also a stupid-faced cat poking around under your feet. This root... Letos Volodya asked how many times: take it away for Christ’s sake. He's on the move. Chernomyaska... - Mom, please be more specific. About myself, not about the black meat. Don't forget that this is a mobile phone, a tariff. What hurts? Didn’t you break anything? “It seems like I didn’t break anything,” the old woman understood everything. - I’m attaching a cabbage leaf. That’s where the conversation with my daughter ended. I had to explain the rest to myself: “What hurts, what doesn’t hurt... Everything hurts, every bone. Such a life is behind us...” And, driving away bitter thoughts, the old woman went about her usual activities in the yard and in the house. But I tried to huddle more under the roof so as not to fall. And then she sat down near the spinning wheel. A fluffy tow, a woolen thread, the measured rotation of the wheel of an ancient self-spinner. And thoughts, like a thread, stretch and stretch. And outside the window it’s an autumn day, like twilight. And it seems chilly. It would be necessary to heat it, but the firewood is tight. Suddenly I really have to spend the winter. At one time I turned on the radio, waiting for words about the weather. But after a short silence, a soft, gentle voice of a young woman came from the loudspeaker: “Are your bones hurting?.. These heartfelt words were so fitting and appropriate that they answered by themselves: “They hurt, my daughter...” Are your arms and legs aching?.. - as if guessing and knowing fate, a kind voice asked. “There is no salvation... They were young, they didn’t sense it.” In milkmaids and pig farms. And no shoes. And then they got into rubber boots, in winter and summer. So they’re boring me... - Your back hurts... - a female voice softly cooed, as if bewitching. - It’s going to hurt, my daughter... For a century I carried chuvals and wakhlis with straw on my hump. How not to get sick... Such a life... Life really turned out to be difficult: war, orphanhood, hard collective farm work. The gentle voice from the loudspeaker spoke and spoke, and then fell silent. The old woman even cried, scolding herself: “Stupid sheep... Why are you crying? .” But I cried. And the tears seemed to make me feel better. And then, quite unexpectedly, at an inopportune lunch hour, the music started playing and my mobile phone woke up. The old woman got scared: “Daughter, daughter... What happened?” Who's not sick? And I was alarmed: you’re not calling on time. Don't hold a grudge against me, daughter. I know that the phone is expensive, it's a lot of money. But I really almost died. Tama, taking this stick... - She came to her senses: - Lord, I’m talking about this stick again, forgive me, my daughter... From afar, many kilometers away, I heard my daughter’s voice: - Speak, mom, talk... - So I’m playing gutar. It's kind of a mess now. And then there’s this cat... Yes, this root is creeping under my feet, from a pear tree. For us old people, everything is in the way now. I would completely eliminate this pear tree, but you love it. Steam it and dry it, as usual... Again, I’m doing the wrong thing... Forgive me, my daughter. Do you hear me?..In a distant city, her daughter heard her and even saw, closing her eyes, her old mother: small, bent, in a white scarf. I saw it, but suddenly felt how unsteady and unreliable it all was: telephone communication, vision. “Tell me, mom...” she asked and was afraid of only one thing: suddenly this voice and this life would end, and perhaps forever. - Talk, mom, talk...
Vitaly Zakrutkin Mother of Man
On this September night, the sky trembled, trembled frequently, glowed crimson, reflecting the fires blazing below, and neither the moon nor the stars were visible on it. Near and distant cannon salvos thundered over the dully humming earth. Everything around was flooded with an uncertain, dim copper-red light, an ominous rumbling could be heard from everywhere, and indistinct, frightening noises crawled from all sides...
Huddled to the ground, Maria lay in a deep furrow. Above her, barely visible in the vague twilight, a thick thicket of corn rustled and swayed with dried panicles. Biting her lips in fear, covering her ears with her hands, Maria stretched out in the hollow of the furrow. She wanted to squeeze into the hardened, grass-overgrown plowed land, cover herself with earth, so as not to see or hear what was happening now on the farm.
She lay down on her stomach and buried her face in the dry grass. But lying there for a long time was painful and uncomfortable for her - the pregnancy was making itself felt. Inhaling the bitter smell of grass, she turned on her side, lay there for a while, then lay down on her back. Above, leaving a trail of fire, buzzing and whistling, rockets flashed past, and tracer bullets pierced the sky with green and red arrows. From below, from the farm, a sickening, suffocating smell of smoke and burning lingered.
Lord,” Maria whispered, sobbing, “send me death, Lord... I have no more strength... I can’t... send me death, I ask you, God...
She rose, knelt, and listened. “Whatever happens,” she thought in despair, “it’s better to die there, with everyone.” After waiting a little, looking around like a hunted she-wolf, and seeing nothing in the scarlet, moving darkness, Maria crawled to the edge of the corn field. From here, from the top of a sloping, almost inconspicuous hill, the farmstead was clearly visible. It was a kilometer and a half away, no more, and what Maria saw penetrated her with mortal cold.
All thirty houses of the farm were on fire. Slanting tongues of flame, swayed by the wind, broke through black clouds of smoke, raising thick scatterings of fiery sparks to the disturbed sky. Along the only farm street, illuminated by the glow of the fire, German soldiers walked leisurely with long flaming torches in their hands. They stretched torches to the thatched and reed roofs of houses, barns, chicken coops, not missing anything on their way, not even the most strewn coil or dog kennel, and after them new strands of fire flared up, and reddish sparks flew and flew towards the sky.
Two strong explosions shook the air. They followed one after another on the western side of the farm, and Maria realized that the Germans had blown up the new brick cowshed that the collective farm had built just before the war.
All the surviving farmers - there were about a hundred of them, along with women and children - the Germans drove them out of their houses and gathered them in an open place, behind the farm, where there was a collective farm current in the summer.
A kerosene lantern was swinging on a current, suspended on a high pole. Its weak, flickering light seemed like a barely noticeable point. Maria knew this place well. A year ago, shortly after the start of the war, she and the women from her brigade were stirring grain on the threshing floor. Many cried, remembering their husbands, brothers, and children who had gone to the front. But the war seemed distant to them, and they did not know then that its bloody wave would reach their inconspicuous, small farm, lost in the hilly steppe. And on this terrible September night, their native farm was burning down before their eyes, and they themselves, surrounded by machine gunners, stood on the current, like a flock of dumb sheep on the rear, and did not know what awaited them...
Maria's heart was pounding, her hands were shaking. She jumped up and wanted to rush there, towards the current, but fear stopped her. Backing away, she crouched to the ground again, sank her teeth into her hands to muffle the heart-rending scream bursting from her chest. So Maria lay for a long time, sobbing like a child, suffocating from the acrid smoke creeping up the hill.
The farm was burning down. The gun salvos began to subside. In the darkened sky the steady rumble of heavy bombers flying somewhere was heard. From the side of the current, Maria heard a woman's hysterical crying and short, angry cries of the Germans. Accompanied by submachine gun soldiers, a discordant crowd of farmers slowly moved along the country road. The road ran along a corn field very close, about forty meters away.
Maria held her breath and pressed her chest to the ground. “Where are they driving them?” a feverish thought beat in her feverish brain. “Are they really going to shoot? There are small children, innocent women...” Opening her eyes wide, she looked at the road. A crowd of farmers wandered past her. Three women were carrying babies in their arms. Maria recognized them. These were two of her neighbors, young soldiers whose husbands had gone to the front just before the Germans arrived, and the third was an evacuated teacher, she gave birth to a daughter here on the farm. The older children hobbled along the road, holding on to the hems of their mothers' skirts, and Maria recognized both mothers and children... Uncle Korney walked awkwardly on his homemade crutches; his leg had been taken away during that German war. Supporting each other, two decrepit old widowers walked, grandfather Kuzma and grandfather Nikita. Every summer they guarded the collective farm's melon plant and more than once treated Maria to juicy, cool watermelons. The farmers walked quietly, and as soon as one of the women began to cry loudly, sobbingly, a German in a helmet immediately approached her and knocked her down with blows from a machine gun. The crowd stopped. Grabbing the fallen woman by the collar, the German lifted her, quickly and angrily muttered something, pointing his hand forward...
Peering into the strange luminous twilight, Maria recognized almost all the farmers. They walked with baskets, with buckets, with bags on their shoulders, they walked, obeying the short shouts of the machine gunners. None of them said a word, only the crying of children was heard in the crowd. And only at the top of the hill, when for some reason the column was delayed, a heartbreaking cry was heard:
Bastards! Pala-a-chi! Fascist freaks! I don't want your Germany! I won't be your farmhand, you bastards!
Maria recognized the voice. Fifteen-year-old Sanya Zimenkova, a Komsomol member, the daughter of a farm tractor driver who had gone to the front, was screaming. Before the war, Sanya was in seventh grade and lived in a boarding school in a distant regional center, but the school had not been open for a year, Sanya came to her mother and stayed on the farm.
Sanechka, what are you doing? Shut up, daughter! - the mother began to wail. Please shut up! They will kill you, my child!
I will not remain silent! - Sanya shouted even louder. - Let them kill, damned bandits!
Maria heard a short burst of machine gun fire. The women began to voice hoarsely. The Germans croaked in barking voices. The crowd of farmers began to move away and disappeared behind the top of the hill.
A sticky, cold fear fell on Maria. “It was Sanya who was killed,” a terrible guess struck her like lightning. She waited a little and listened. Human voices were not heard anywhere, only machine guns were tapping dully somewhere in the distance. Behind the copse, in the eastern hamlet, flares flared up here and there. They hung in the air, illuminating the mutilated earth with a dead yellowish light, and after two or three minutes, flowing out in fiery drops, they went out. In the east, three kilometers from the farmstead, was the front line of the German defense. Maria was there with other farmers: the Germans were forcing residents to dig trenches and communication passages. They wound in a sinuous line along the eastern slope of the hill. For many months, fearing the darkness, the Germans illuminated their defense line with rockets at night in order to notice the chains of attacking Soviet soldiers in time. And the Soviet machine gunners - Maria saw this more than once - used tracer bullets to shoot enemy missiles, cut them apart, and they, fading away, fell to the ground. So it was now: machine guns crackled from the direction of the Soviet trenches, and the green lines of bullets rushed towards one rocket, to a second, to a third and extinguished them...
“Maybe Sanya is alive?” Maria thought. Maybe she was just wounded and, poor thing, she’s lying on the road, bleeding? Coming out of the thicket of corn, Maria looked around. There is no one around. An empty grassy lane stretched along the hill. The farm was almost burnt down, only here and there flames still flared up, and sparks flickered over the ashes. Pressing herself against the boundary at the edge of the corn field, Maria crawled to the place from where she thought she heard Sanya’s scream and shots. It was painful and difficult to crawl. At the boundary, tough tumbleweed bushes, blown by the winds, clung together, they pricked her knees and elbows, and Maria was barefoot, wearing only an old chintz dress. So, undressed, last morning, at dawn, she ran away from the farm and now cursed herself for not taking a coat, a scarf, and putting on stockings and shoes.
She crawled slowly, half-dead with fear. She often stopped, listened to the dull, guttural sounds of distant shooting, and crawled again. It seemed to her that everything around was humming: both the sky and the earth, and that somewhere in the most inaccessible depths of the earth this heavy, mortal hum also did not stop.
She found Sanya where she thought. The girl lay prostrate in the ditch, her thin arms outstretched and her bare left leg uncomfortably bent under her. Barely discerning her body in the unsteady darkness, Maria pressed herself close to her, felt the sticky wetness on her warm shoulder with her cheek, and put her ear to her small, sharp chest. The girl’s heart beat unevenly: it froze, then pounded in fitful tremors. "Alive!" - thought Maria.
Looking around, she stood up, took Sanya in her arms and ran to the saving corn. The short path seemed endless to her. She stumbled, breathed hoarsely, afraid that she would drop Sanya, fall and never rise again. No longer seeing anything, not understanding that the dry stalks of corn were rustling around her like a tinny rustle, Maria sank to her knees and lost consciousness...
She woke up from Sanya’s heart-breaking moan. The girl lay under her, choking from the blood filling her mouth. Blood covered Maria's face. She jumped up, rubbed her eyes with the hem of her dress, lay down next to Sanya, and pressed her whole body against her.
Sanya, my baby,” Maria whispered, choking on tears, “open your eyes, my poor child, my little orphan... Open your little eyes, say at least one word...
With trembling hands, Maria tore off a piece of her dress, raised Sanya’s head, and began wiping the girl’s mouth and face with a piece of washed chintz. She touched her carefully, kissed her forehead, salty with blood, her warm cheeks, the thin fingers of her submissive, lifeless hands.
Sanya’s chest was wheezing, squelching, bubbling. Stroking the girl’s childish, angular-columnar legs with her palm, Maria felt with horror how Sanya’s narrow feet were getting colder under her hand.
“Come on, baby,” she began to beg Sanya. - Take a break, my dear... Don’t die, Sanechka... Don’t leave me alone... It’s me with you, Aunt Maria. Do you hear, baby? You and I are the only two left, only two...
The corn rustled monotonously above them. The cannon fire died down. The sky darkened, only somewhere far away, behind the forest, the reddish reflections of the flame still shuddered. That early morning hour came when thousands of people killing each other - both those who, like a gray tornado, rushed to the east, and those who with their breasts held back the movement of the tornado, were exhausted, tired of mutilating the earth with mines and shells and, stupefied by the roar, smoke and soot, they stopped their terrible work to catch their breath in the trenches, rest a little and begin the difficult, bloody harvest again...
Sanya died at dawn. No matter how hard Maria tried to warm the mortally wounded girl with her body, no matter how she pressed her hot chest against her, no matter how she hugged her, nothing helped. Sanya’s hands and feet grew cold, the hoarse bubbling in her throat ceased, and she began to freeze all over.
Maria closed Sanya’s slightly open eyelids, folded her scratched, stiff hands with traces of blood and purple ink on her fingers on her chest, and silently sat down next to the dead girl.
Now, in these moments, Maria’s heavy, inconsolable grief - the death of her husband and little son, two days ago hanged by the Germans on the old farm apple tree - seemed to float away, shrouded in fog, sank in the face of this new death, and Maria, pierced by a sharp, sudden thought , realized that her grief was only a drop invisible to the world in that terrible, wide river of human grief, a black river, illuminated by fires, which, flooding, destroying the banks, spread wider and wider and rushed faster and faster there, to the east, moving it away from Mary , how she lived in this world all her short twenty-nine years...
"Local history" Second direction "Household culture..."
“Explanatory note The work program for the course on project activities “The Path to Literacy” was developed on the basis of: - Federal State Educational Standard 2009; Letter of the Ministry of Education and Science of the Russian Federation dated May 12, 2011 No. 03-296 “On the organization of extracurricular activities with the introduction of federal state education.. ."
“REPORT ON THE WORK OF THE INFORMATION AND LIBRARY SERVICE COMPLEX FOR 2016 During the worked period in 2016, thanks to the Information and Library Service Complex, 221 working trips were carried out, covering...”
"Ministry of Education and Science, Youth and Sports of Ukraine Lutsk National Technical University Commodity of non-food products Modular control of knowledge for students directly preparing 6.030510 Commodity and trade entrepreneurship The current form is the beginning of the editorial and editorial office of Luts...”
“"AGREED" Executive Director of the All-Russian public organization "Russian Chess Federation" M.V. Glukhovsky "_" 2017 "APPROVED" Executive Director ROO "Sports Chess Federation of St. Petersburg" _V.V. Bykov "_" 2017 Regulations on holding the open chess festival "Memorial M. I. Chigor..."
“MAIN HONEY-BEARING AND PILKOVY ROSSINESHoney-bearing fields, fodder and sheep crops. Medicinal plants In Ukraine, in the minds of intensive farming, wild melliferous plants can be found almost every day, along with melliferous pastures, grasslands, and foxes. For this purpose, civil society can be developed in the state states...”
Valuables to safe areas For the purpose of implementation Federal Law"On Civil Defense" The Government of the Russian Federation of the post..."
"Myzgin K.V. List of publications Myzgin K.V. Monuments of Chernyakhov culture on the river. Mzha (North-Eastern Ukraine) // The most ancient communities of farmers and pastoralists of the Northern Black Sea region (V millennium BC - V century AD). – Tiraspol, 2002. – P. 384-388. Myzgin K.V. Numismatic data on the time of the appearance of the Chernyakhov culture..."
“Cherkashina S.A., Candidate of Cultural Studies, Associate Professor Department of Management of Mass Communications Public Relations, full-time Course 4 2013-2014 academic year. year CROSS CULTURAL COMMUNICATIONS Special seminarCulture and communications. Culture as a symbolic system. The communicative essence of culture. The role of communications in the social functioning of cultures...”
Yourself" "people's actions best translators their thoughts" "act according to..." Lesson
Dzyuba Galina Anatolevna
Job title: teacher of Russian language and literature
Educational institution: MBOU secondary school No. 78
Locality: n. Giant
Name of material: competition script
Subject: script for the reading competition "Living Classics"
Publication date: 26.02.2016
Chapter: additional education
Scenario for the “Living Classics” reading competition. MBOU secondary school No. 78 in the village of Gigant, Salsky district, Rostov region. (School stage) Goals: 1. Formation of reading horizons in children and acquisition of experience in independent reading activity. 2. Formation of an aesthetic attitude towards the art of words. 3. Development in children of artistic, creative and cognitive abilities, emotional responsiveness when reading works of fiction, artistry. 4. Raising children's interest in books and reading. Objectives: 1. Read a prose work expressively and emotionally. 2. Show the significance of a prosaic word. 5. Identify and support talented children. INTRODUCTION
Presenter 1
. Hello, dear participants, jury and guests! We are pleased to welcome you to the school stage of the All-Russian competition for young readers “Living Classics”.
Presenter 2.
This is the first time this competition has been held at our school on such a large scale. And we are glad that it is becoming increasingly popular and important. The competition helps to increase the interest of schoolchildren in reading books not only by modern authors, but also by immortal classics; expanding the reader's horizons. The “Living Classics” competition is a search for and support for talented children.
Presenter 1.
Nowadays it is difficult to surprise anyone. There are so many wonderful things around! But no miracles in the world can compare with a book. Together with its heroes, we fly into space, descend into the depths of the ocean, go to the future, and find ourselves in the past. But the creation of a book is a real miracle. Because no one will ever reveal the secrets of birth! The birth of a great word!
Presenter 2.
I am the world, and the world became me, I barely opened the page! I can instantly turn into a book hero! Speaking in verse and prose, in drawings and words,
The pages of books lead me along magical paths. In the world of words I will cross the borders of any time, I can now fly around the entire globe like a bird! Pages, chapters and words fly before your eyes. The book and I have become good friends forever.
Presenter 2.
Let me introduce the jury school competition:
Presenter 1.
Today students from grades 5-10 will perform before you. They will read excerpts from prose works of Russian and foreign writers. Performances are assessed according to the following criteria: Choice of text of the work Competent speech Artistic performance Depth of penetration into the figurative and semantic structure of the text. The competition participants are divided into three age groups. Winners and runners-up will be determined in each. The winners in their age group will represent our school at municipal stage competition. The “Audience Choice” nomination has also been established, the winner of which will be chosen by you, our dear viewers! The distinguished jury will hard work, and we wish them fruitful work. To the participants - success! Viewers will have a useful and interesting time spent! Begin!
Presenter 2.
Being first is a huge responsibility. We invite you, dear friends, to meet the wonderful writer, Irina Pivovarova. Many have read her book “What is My Head Thinking About.” These are stories told by a little girl, the same age as many of you, about school, about friends, about childhood joys and problems. The heroine's name is Lyusya Sinitsyna. Class 5A student Marina Panova will tell you what her head is thinking about.
Presenter 1.
The name of Valentin Petrovich Kataev is known to many generations of Russian schoolchildren. His story “Son of the Regiment” is rightfully considered one of the best works about the Great Patriotic War for children. The story of Vanya Solntsev still touches the hearts of young readers, because it is a story about friendship, mutual assistance, a great feat, great love to the homeland. A student of grade 5B, Kovalenko Angelina, will tell us about the meeting with the scouts of the orphan boy Vanya.
Presenter 2.
And again we turn to the pages of Irina Pivovarova’s book “What is my head thinking about”. Now the role of Lucy Sinitsyna will be played by 5B grade student Yulia Kurylenko.
Presenter 1.
It is difficult to imagine children's literature without the works of the wonderful writer Viktor Dragunsky. Dragunsky’s book “Deniska’s Stories” is 55 years old, but children of our 21st century are enthusiastically following
adventures of a mischievous boy, playing hide and seek with him, learning lessons, building a spaceship, riding a bike and singing ditties at a children's party. The writer often received letters from young readers and always tried to answer them. He ended each of his messages with the motto: “Friendship! Loyalty! Honor!" His characters are always cheerful, playful, they constantly get into funny stories, sometimes they deceive, play pranks, but they invariably value friendship, love school and our amazing world. One of the funny stories about Denis Korablev will be read to us by Olesya Bedenko, a student of class 5A.
Presenter 2.
Who said fairy tales were written in the distant past? No! Fairy tales always live! Yuri Dyakonov is our fellow countryman, a Don writer, who dedicated many pages of his work to children. One of the writer’s most famous works is the fairy tale “Eight Magic Acorns.” An excerpt from a fairy tale is read by Gulya Mamedova, a student of class 6A.
Presenter 1.
Lyubov Fedorovna Voronkova dedicated her entire wonderful life to children. Her works are filled with light and love for children. The heroes of her works teach goodness and nobility; they are naive, honest, and mischievous. But not only did Voronkova write about the joyful world of childhood, but also a terrible, difficult wartime childhood appears on the pages of her book “Girl from the City.” It’s scary to imagine what would have happened to thousands of orphans if it weren’t for human kindness. The pages of the story are read by 6B grade student Anastasia Bobrovskaya.
Presenter 2.
Who would have thought that stories written about the lives of children of the early 20th century would be read by modern schoolchildren? Nadezhda Teffi called her works about children's sorrows and joys mischievous stories. She wrote them in difficult times of revolutions, wars, devastation, famine, but it was in children that Teffi found inexperience and a natural commitment to moral truth, selfless love. You will be introduced to the heroine of the story “Exam” by 6B grade student Yulia Lokhmanova.
Performances by participants of age groups 2 and 3.
Presenter 1.
“And the dawns here are quiet...” Is there anyone in Russia to whom these words will not say anything? Created on the basis of true events, composed by a simple warrior, the story of Boris Leonidovich Vasiliev turned into a “book of memory” for the entire Russian people. “I considered writing about this my civic, moral duty to everyone who did not return from the war, to my comrades and friends...” - this is what the author himself states. The story that happened with five girl soldiers and their foreman is so close to people also due to the fact that we all do not forget about the price that our country paid for the great victory. An excerpt from Boris Vasiliev’s book “The Dawns Here Are Quiet...” is read by Alina Vorontsova, a 7A student.
Presenter 2.
Russian literature has given the world many great names and immortal works. We know the name of Vladimir Galaktionovich Korolenko well. His stories and short stories amaze the reader with the amazing spiritual beauty of the characters and the author himself, his deep humanity. An excerpt from the story “The Blind Musician” is read by 7B grade student Aisha Safarova.
Presenter 1.
We would like to introduce the next writer and his book by quoting his own words. Gabriel Nikolaevich Troepolsky wrote: “Not a single dog in the world considers ordinary devotion to be something unusual. But people
They came up with the idea of extolling this feeling of a dog as a feat only because not all of them, and not so often, possess devotion to a friend and fidelity to duty so much that this is the root of life, the natural basis of the being itself, when the nobility of the soul is a self-evident state.” A wonderful dog teaches us the nobility of soul, devotion and fidelity from the story “White Bim, Black Ear”, an excerpt from which will be read to us by 7A class student Kalashnik Anna.
Presenter 2.
We know the amazing fairy tale “The Nutcracker and the Mouse King” by Hoffmann mostly from the magical ballet by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Hoffmann lived and wrote in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, but the story of love and devotion still touches our hearts. An excerpt from the fairy tale will be presented to us by 7B grade student Madina Chakhalova.
Presenter 1.
And again we return to the work of the wonderful writer Irina Pivovarova. The stories of Lyuska Sinitsina are always entertaining stories, imbued with subtle and playful humor. The story “Spring Rain” is read by 7A class student Anastasia Nemchenkova.
Presenter 2.
Alexander Ivanovich Kuprin is known to all generations of schoolchildren: the younger ones for the stories “The Wonderful Doctor”, “The Golden Rooster”, the older ones for “Olesya”, “The Duel”, “The Garnet Bracelet”. In each work of the writer, the world of the human soul with its joys and tragedies is revealed. The story “The Duel” is full of tragic events. And yet she affirms eternal moral values: love, honesty, sincerity of feelings, nobility. An excerpt from the story is read by Alina Chelikova, a student in class 8A.
Presenter 1.
We primarily associate the name of O. Henry with the hero of his story “Business People”. This boy drove his kidnappers crazy with his pranks: they were not only happy to send the tireless prankster to his father, but also paid him to hold his son until the unfortunate kidnappers escaped. O. Henry is a master of humorous storytelling. But he also has subtle lyrical works that assert that love can overcome any grief and overcome all obstacles. This is exactly what his story “The Gifts of the Magi” is about. Read by 8A class student Elena Smykova
Presenter 2.
Today we are pleased to present modern American literature in the person of the writer Cheryl Strayed. Readers are amazed by the story of the main character, who decided to return to the natural world, spend time in harmony with the world around her, understand what is happening to humanity and how to return it to its roots. The book is called “Wild. A dangerous journey as a way to find yourself” Read by 9A class student Marina Svintsova.
Presenter 1.
Yuri Yakovlevich Yakovlev is not familiar to a wide circle of writers. But as soon as you remind children about the little white bear Umka, they will immediately recognize their favorite hero. Yakovlev loved to write about children and for children. Therefore, the lines of his story “The Girl from Vasilyevsky Island” about Tanya Savicheva, about her dead family, friends, neighbors are heard with special pain for the murder of her wartime childhood. It’s good that there are writers who will never let the tragic pages of military history be forgotten. About the memory of the heart, about the spiritual connection of generations, the story “The Girl from Vasilyevsky Island” is read by 10th grade student Kamila Fatulova.
Presenter 2.
We know Valentina Aleksandrovna Oseeva from many works, especially “Vasek Trubachev and his comrades”, “Dinka” and “Dinka says goodbye to childhood”, “Blue Leaves” and “The Magic Word”. For the writer, the moral health of children has always been important. She strove to raise a real person, kind, smart, decent, honest and just, in every story she told in a fairy tale or story. Valentina Oseeva’s story “Grandma” is about relationships in the family, about who we are raising, read by 10th grade student Angelina Martynyuk.
Presenter 1.
So all the participants in our competition performed. We will give the jury time to sum up the results, and we ourselves will vote for the participant who aroused the greatest sympathy in each of you, dear viewers. So, we choose the winner in the “Audience Choice” nomination (Summing up the results of the competition.)
Presenter 2.
Dear friends! Now we know the participants in the municipal stage of the “Living Classics” competition. We congratulate all the winners and runners-up of the competition. We hope that for many of you the book will become a constant companion in your life.
Presenter 1.
“My homeland is where my library is,” wrote Erasmus of Rotterdam. And Ludwig Feuerbach argued: “The situation with books is the same as with people. Although we meet many people, we choose only a few as our friends, as our heartfelt companions in life.”
Presenter 2.
Vladimir Vysotsky wrote about the word, about the great power of the book: Reflection of vanished years, Relief from the yoke of life, Unfading light of eternal truths - This is a book. Long live the book! A guarantee of tireless quest, The joy of each new shift, An indication of future roads - This is a book. Long live the book! A bright source of pure joys, Consolidation of a happy moment, Best friend if you are lonely - This is a book. Long live the book!
Presenter 1.
Dear friends! Thank you for your attention! We wish the book to become a true friend and advisor for you! We hope to see you next year not only among the spectators, but also among the participants in the wonderful “Living Classics” competition! Creative success! See you again!
“Tarkhanov School SCENARIO OF THE READING COMPETITION “Living Classics” Prepared by: Shemarulina S.Yu. 2016 School recitation competition “Living Classics” is held on the 16th ..."
Tarkhanov school
READER COMPETITION SCRIPT
"Living Classic"
Prepared by: Shemarulina S.Yu.
The school reading competition “Living Classics” is held on the 16th
February 2016 within the framework of the All-Russian competition for young
Readers "Living Classics"
GOALS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE COMPETITION:
Propaganda of Russian classical and modern works
domestic prose of a patriotic orientation, educating the younger generation in the spirit of patriotism;
Identification, support and stimulation of talented performers who master the genre of artistic expression;
Acquaintance with the literary heritage of Russia, reflecting the greatness of our culture and the richness of the Russian language;
Increasing public attention to the genre of artistic expression.
Competition jury E.V. Dryagina - director;
Participants of the review-competition:
School students aged 10-15 years old take part in the competition.
Conditions of the competition:
Performers present a completed fragment of any literary genre that corresponds to the theme of the competition.
Evaluation criteria and requirements for performances Selection of the text of the work for use within the Competition;
Grammatically correct speech;
Artistry of performance;
Depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text;
Speech schedule:
Speech duration is up to 5 minutes.
Summing up the results of the competition The winners and runners-up of the competition are awarded with certificates.
Scenario for the reading competition “Living Classics”
Presenter 1 Hello, dear participants, jury and guests. We are pleased to welcome you to the school stage of the Living Classics competition.
Slide 1 Presenter 2 We would like to start our competition with a poem by V.
Vysotsky’s “Book Children”, after all, his goal is to increase children’s interest in reading books not only by modern authors, but also by immortal classics. Slide 2 Presenter 1 Reflection of vanished years, Relief from the yoke of life, Eternal truths, unfading light - This is a book. Long live the book!
A guarantee of tireless quest, The joy of each new shift, An indication of future roads - This is a book. Long live the book!
A bright source of pure joys, Consolidation of a happy moment, Best friend if you are lonely - This is a book. Long live the book!
Presenter 2 Our time is a time of great achievements in science and technology, a time of wonderful discoveries. But of all the miracles created by man, M. Gorky considered the book the most complex and great. The book contains the vast spiritual world of humanity. A book is the most powerful and most universal means of communication between people, nations, and generations. It is called the only time machine with which you can travel to unprecedented countries, to the past, to the future and to the present... The book is our faithful and constant companion. It remains the main source from which we draw knowledge. No wonder K. G. Paustovsky wrote: “Read! And may there not be a single day in your life when you do not read at least one page from a new book!” Slide 3 Presenter 1 Today we have gathered to hold a reading competition “Living Classics”. And to show that interest in reading Russian classics has not faded.
Presenter 2 Competition Jury:
Dryagina E.V - director;
Tsyplenkova I.N. - German language teacher;
Head N.P. – librarian, mathematics teacher.
Presenter 1 Evaluation criteria and requirements for speeches:
Presenter 2 Selecting the text of the work for use within the Competition;
Presenter 1 Competent speech;
Presenter 2 Artistry of performance;
Presenter 1 Depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text;
Presenter 1 Speech time should not exceed 5 minutes.
Presenter 2 The winners and runners-up of the competition are awarded certificates.
– – –
The photo was taken at Dietrich’s creative evening at the Central House of Writers. The actress gave several concerts in Moscow. At one of them she was asked: “What would you like to see in Moscow? The Kremlin, the Bolshoi Theater, the Mausoleum?” And the world-famous star quietly asked: “I would like to see the writer Konstantin Paustovsky. This is my old dream.”
Paustovsky was already seriously ill at that time, but he was persuaded to come. As soon as he got up on stage, the world celebrity, friend of Remarque and Hemingway, the beauty in a diamond necklace, Marlene Dietrich, suddenly, without saying a single word, fell to her knees in front of the writer. And then she grabbed his hand and kissed it. The hall first froze, and then burst into applause.
Then, when the surprised Paustovsky was seated in a chair and the applause died down, Marlene Dietrich explained that she had read a lot of books, but she considered the story “Telegram” by the Soviet writer Konstantin Paustovsky to be the greatest literary event in her life.
Paustovsky's "Telegram" is read by Shemarulina Dasha.
Presenter I.S. Turgenev was a highly developed, convinced man who never left the soil of universal human ideals. He carried these ideals into Russian life with that conscious constancy, which constitutes his main, invaluable service to Russian society. These were those simple, universally accessible “good feelings”, which were based on a deep belief in the triumph of light, goodness and moral beauty.
I.S. Turgenev "Alms". Read by Agafonova Dasha.
The presenter Turgenev did a great job by painting amazing portraits of women.
A.P. Chekhov.
“Prose Poems” is the final chord in the writer’s literary activity, colored by the tragedy of sunset, flashes of light, the brilliance of established wisdom, the stopping of moments that seemed immortal to the artist.
The author dedicated one of his works to his friend, Baroness Yulia Vrevskaya. Yu.P. Vrevskaya (née Varpakhovskaya) at the age of 16 married Lieutenant General I.A. Vrevsky, famous in the Caucasus, who studied with M.Yu. Lermontov at the school of cadets, but very soon became a widow (in 1858). Her husband died in battle in the Caucasus. During the Russian-Turkish War, she was a nurse at a field hospital of the Russian Red Cross. Epidemics and diseases are inevitable companions of wars. Yu.P.
Vrevskaya, who learned to wash herself with snow, felt sorry for the heroic soldiers, became a victim of a typhus epidemic. She died in the Bulgarian town of Byala on January 24, 1878. Her grave was dug by the soldiers she cared for.
I. Turgenev “In Memory of Yulia Vrevskaya” is read by Elena Korobova.
Presenter "Poems in Prose" consist of two sections: "Senile" and "New Poems in Prose". A significant part of the "poems" touches on socio-political problems, is devoted to the writer's thoughts about the Russian people, about the homeland, about happiness and beauty, about humanity human relations.
Our competition program will continue with I. Turgenev’s work “Pigeons”. Read by Irina Ostroumova.
Leading. E. Nosov Born on January 15, 1925 in the village of Tolmachevo, Kursk district, Kursk region. After the war he worked for the newspaper Molodaya Gvardiya
After graduating from the Higher Literary Courses (1961-1963), Evgeny Nosov switched to professional writing. At the time of creative maturity, his books “Where the Sun Wakes Up” (1965), “In an Open Field Beyond a Country Road” (1967), “Banks” (1971), “The Meadow Fescue Is Noisy” (1973), “Bridge” (1974) were published. , “And the Steamboats Sail Away” (1975), “Red Wine of Victory” (1979), “Usvyatsky Helmet Bearers” (1980), “My Chomolungma” (1982), “Selected Works” in 2 volumes (1983).
In life, Evgeniy Ivanovich, according to the testimony of numerous admirers of his talent, is different. He can be taciturn and gloomy, looking at everyone from under his brows, when old front-line wounds make themselves known, he can be full of affection and humor, and then all of him, a large, stocky man, glowing with kindness and a cunning mind, fills hearts and minds. He can be an amazing oral storyteller, enchanting or plunging friends and listeners into laughter.
E. Nosov's story “The White Goose” is unusual in that it describes the story not of a person, but of a bird.
E. Nosov's smart and subtle story teaches us to love and better understand nature, to see in it not ordinary birds and animals, but creatures that are near and dear to us.
E.I. Nosov “The White Goose” reads Yulia Matveeva.
Presenter 2 Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy left us a great artistic legacy. Reading and re-reading his works, you experience true pleasure from the beauty of the Russian language. His works teach you to think.
L. N. Tolstoy “Swans”. Read by Tatyana Ostroumova.
Presenter 1.
Alekseev S.P.
Alekseev entered literary and social life first as an editor and critic, and then as a writer. Alekseev’s first book was “History of the USSR. Educational book for 4th grade" (1955). Over forty years of work in literature, he created more than thirty original books dedicated to the history of Russia over four centuries: from the mid-16th to the mid-20th centuries. Alekseev’s books have become widely known not only in our country, but also abroad; his works were published in 50 languages of the world.
Alekseev S.P. “Evil Name” is read by Shemarulina Marina.
Presenter 1 Maxim Gorky wrote: “Take Bunin out of Russian literature, and it will fade, lose life. Everyone who met Bunin knows that he almost never had coherent, somewhat abstract conversations, that he almost always joked, made wisecracks, and pretended to grumble , avoided long disputes. But just as there are stupid bickering on the most profound topics, so there is all the talk about trifles, glowing with intelligence and hidden content. Bunin’s mind shone in his every word, and his charm was enhanced by this. And he was charming like no one else , when he wanted, when he deigned to be charming. But even this was not important. What was important was that in his words about every little thing, something huge, lofty, and the best that we had spoke: the spirit and voice of Russian literature I. Bunin “The Roman of the Hunchback "reads Ilya Golov..
– – –
(Summing up and awarding the winners) CONCLUSION Presenter 1. Let me thank everyone present!
Presenter 2. Our competition program has come to an end.
But the fire of the sounding Word did not go out.
– – –
All together: This is a book. Long live the BOOK!
Presenter 1.
Our festival is over.
But the creativity is not finished.
Presenter 2.
There are new achievements and victories ahead. There are new poems and prose ahead!
Presenter 1.
We tell you - see you again!
Presenter 2.
Similar works:
“The narrative in the apovest “Reach out and remember us, black beads” is based on the paeta of the assassy, phantasmagoria, absurdity, and grates. And menavita tamu yana is so specific, not very familiar to the Belarusian reader. Literature 1. Vasyuchenka P. Three apocalypses // Kryn...”
“Copier machine “KOPIRKIN” MODIFICATIONS “KOPIRKIN OPTIMA” and “KOPIRKIN PRINT” OPERATOR INSTRUCTIONS Document version dated 08.20.2012. © 2007-2012 Liscom Techno LLC Contents Introduction General information Essential elements..."
"INTERACTION ZONE UDC 339.543.62 BBK 65.401.143 A. S. SERGEEV Models of management of seaports in a free regime of commercial activity. The main (basic) models of management of maritime commercial..."
Municipal educational institution
Andreapol secondary school No. 3
READER COMPETITION SCRIPT
"Living Classic"
The school recitation competition “Living Classics” is held on February 13, 2014 as part of the All-Russian competition of young reciters “Living Classics”
GOALS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE COMPETITION:
Propaganda of works of Russian classical and modern domestic prose of a patriotic orientation, education of the growing up
generations in the spirit of patriotism;
Identification, support and stimulation of talented performers who master the genre of artistic expression;
Acquaintance with the literary heritage of Russia, reflecting the greatness of our culture and the richness of the Russian language;
Increasing public attention to the genre of artistic expression.
Organizing committee of the competition:
Kolosova E.V. – Deputy Director for VR;
Bobarykina T.A. - teacher-organizer;
Egorova I.V. – teacher of Russian language and literature.
Competition jury:
Bakulina N.Yu., Azizbaeva E.D. - teachers of Russian language and literature.
Participants of the review-competition:
Pupils of the 6th grade of the school take part in the competition.
Conditions of the competition:
Performers present a completed fragment of any literary genre that corresponds to the theme of the competition.
Evaluation criteria and performance requirements:
Selecting the text of a work for use within the Competition;
Grammatically correct speech;
Artistry of performance;
Depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text;
Speech schedule:
Speech duration is up to 5 minutes.
Summing up the results of the competition
The winners and runners-up of the competition are awarded certificates.
Scenario for the reading competition “Living Classics”
Leading: Hello dear participants, jury and guests. We are pleased to welcome you to the school stage of the Living Classics competition. Slide 1
Leading: We would like to start our competition with the poem “Book Children” by Vladimir Vysotsky, because its goal is to increase children’s interest in reading books not only by modern authors, but also by immortal classics. Slide 2
Leading: Reflection of vanished years,
Relief from the yoke of life,
Eternal truths unfading light -
Tireless searching is the guarantee,
The joy of every new shift,
Indication of future roads -
This is a book. Long live the book!
A bright source of pure joys,
Securing a happy moment
Best friend if you're lonely -
This is a book. Long live the book!
Leading: Our time is a time of great achievements in science and technology, a time of wonderful discoveries. But of all the miracles created by man, A. M. Gorky considered the book the most complex and great. The book contains the vast spiritual world of humanity. A book is the most powerful and most universal means of communication between people, nations, and generations. It is called the only time machine with which you can travel to unprecedented countries, to the past, to the future and to the present... The book is our faithful and constant companion. It remains the main source from which we draw knowledge. No wonder K. G. Paustovsky wrote: “Read! And may there not be a single day in your life when you do not read at least one page from a new book!” Slide 2.
Scenario for the “Living Classics” school tour
The book is faithful
The book is the first
Book - best friend Guys.
We can't live without a book,
We can't live without a book! –
All the guys are talking.
(Z. Bychkov)
1 ved.:- Good afternoon dear friends. Today we are holding a school competition for young readers “Living Classics”. This competition is a competition in reading aloud passages from prose works of Russian and foreign writers among 6th and 7th grade students.
It is necessary to look for the road that will lead the child to the book. One of the good opportunities is to participate in All-Russian competition young readers "Living Classics".
2 ved.: Today 8 young readers from grades 6 and 7 will compete.
Victory in the competition will be brought not only by artistic skill, but also by the depth of penetration into the semantic structure and figurative system of a literary text.
1 ved.: Our participants will be assessed by a respected jury consisting of:
Jury members:
2 ved.: Performances are assessed according to the following parameters:
Selecting the text of the work;
grammatically correct speech;
artistry of performance;
depth of penetration into the figurative system and semantic structure of the text.
The participant's performance is assessed on a 10-point scale.
1 ved .: Our competition program opens with a work by the Russian writer Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev. Turgenev feels the souls of children especially subtly and shows their little world with a kind and bright smile. In the prose poem “Dog” philosophical reflections on life and death are presented.
This poem will be read to us by Obukhova Anastasia, a student of grade 7 “B”,
Igonina Marina, student
Chapter 2: In works of fiction, nature appears before readers as a living fairy-tale creature. And the writer’s skill lies in conveying to us, the readers, all the beauty and mystery of the world around us.
Listen to the prose poem “Stone” performed by Lyudmila Urazova, student
The prose poem “My Trees” will be told by Tatyana Kondratenko
1st lecture: Theme of the Great Patriotic War wars - an unusual topic... Unusual, because so much has been written about the war that a whole book would not be enough if you only remembered the titles of the works. Unusual because it never ceases to excite people, opening up old wounds and souls with heartache. Unusual because memory and story merged together in her. Irina Radaeva is speaking and will tell us the story “Naida”.
2nd speaker: “The Little Prince” ...It is this kind of work that is remembered when the name of a writer or poet is pronounced, it is this that symbolizes his ability to create. When this name is pronounced, Antoine Saint Exupery, “The Little Prince” is remembered as the very work that symbolizes the author’s creativity. This is an opportunity to look into childhood, into the world of fairy tales, imagination and miracles. An excerpt from this work will be read by Ksenia Korchagina
1st section: A special place in the work of A. Absalyamov is occupied by the documentary military-political novel “The Eternal Man”. It tells the story of the uprising of prisoners of fascism in the Buchenwald concentration camp, which was prepared by the international organization of communists. The novel instills in people vigilance and faith in the victory of the mighty forces of peace and socialism over the forces of reaction and war. An excerpt from this novel will be read by Danila Kalashnikov, student 7
2nd lead: Mikhail Zoshchenko is a great humorist whose stories amaze with rich, folk language and unique humor. Zoshchenko's characters are funny, but at the same time they evoke sympathy and pity. There is a lot of truth in Zoshchenko’s story, which allows us to evaluate his story as satirical. Guryanova’s student Anastasia is invited to present the story “Galosh”
1st: Our competition program has come to an end.
Part 2: We want the high jury to appreciate the talent of our contestants
We ask the jury to sum up the results.
1 ved.: To sum up the results and present diplomas to the winners and laureates of the school competition for young prose readers “Living Classics”, the floor is given to the chairman of the competition jury, Tatyana Mikhailovna Miroshnichenko.
Presentation of diplomas and awards for competition participants.
All fiction– this is a fascinating world that delights us, teaches us politeness, honesty, respect for others, in general, teaches us to be human.
It might be useful to read:
- Traffic management design (pod);
- Russian Aviation What is the speed of the Su 35;
- Executive Form of accumulation sheet in construction;
- Job responsibilities of a cloakroom attendant in a cultural center;
- Speech therapy presentations Framework for speech therapist teacher presentation;
- Abstract on economics on the topic of economic fundamentals of a company's activities. Economic fundamentals of an organization's activities using an example.;
- Registration and submission of an application to Rospotrebnadzor to start the activities of an individual entrepreneur;
- Crazy heir to billions;