A story about a summer garden and insects. Summer story - interesting ideas, plan and recommendations. Excerpts from the novel "Rudin"

Summer stories for junior schoolchildren and older preschoolers. Stories about summer, about the beauty of trees in summer period, about the beauty of summer flowers. Stories about the beauty of wild and meadow flowers.

Forest voice.

I wander not far from home in a birch forest. Everything around seems to be swimming, splashing in golden waves of heat and light. Birch branches are streaming above me. The leaves on them seem to be emerald green, then completely golden. And below, under the birch trees, light bluish shadows also run and stream like waves on the grass. And bright bunnies, like reflections of the sun in the water, run one after another on the grass, along the path.

The sun is in the sky and on the ground ... And it makes you feel so good, so fun that you want to run away somewhere into the distance, to where the trunks of young birches sparkle with their dazzling whiteness.

And suddenly from this sunny distance I heard a familiar forest voice: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

Cuckoo! I've heard it many times before, but I've never seen it even in a picture. What is she like? For some reason, she seemed plump, big-headed, like an owl. But maybe she's not like that at all? I'll run - I'll have a look.

Alas, it turned out to be not at all easy. I - to her voice. And she will be silent, and then again: “Ku-ku, ku-ku!”, But in a completely different place.

How can you see her? I stopped thinking. Or maybe she's playing hide and seek with me? She is hiding, and I am looking. But let's play the other way around: now I'll hide, and you look.

I climbed into the hazel bush and also cuckoo once, twice. The cuckoo fell silent. Maybe looking for me? I sit in silence and I myself, even my heart is pounding with excitement. And suddenly, somewhere nearby: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

I am silent: look better, do not shout to the whole forest.

And she is already very close: "Ku-ku, ku-ku!"

I look: a bird is flying through the clearing, its tail is long, it is gray itself, only the breast is in dark speckles. Probably a hawk. Such in our yard hunts for sparrows. He flew up to a nearby tree, sat down on a twig, bent down and as he shouted: "Cuckoo, cuckoo!"

Cuckoo! Just like that! It means that it is not like an owl, but like a hawk.

I’ll like to cuck her out of the bush in response! With fright, she almost fell off the tree, immediately darted down from the knot, darted somewhere into the forest thicket, only I saw her.

But I don't need to see her anymore. So I figured it out forest riddle, and besides, he himself spoke to the bird for the first time in its native language.

So the ringing forest voice of the cuckoo revealed to me the first secret of the forest. And since then, for half a century now, I wander in winter and summer along the deaf, untouched paths and discover more and more secrets. And there is no end to these winding paths, and there is no end to the secrets of native nature.

Carnation. Author: A.S. Onegov

Summer came, lit up, lit up with the lights of the most different colors... But the real summer holiday has not yet arrived: we have not yet met the main festive flower of summer - the carnation ...

Probably, everyone knows the red carnation with which many holidays are celebrated. But this is a garden flower. It is grown in flower beds or in special greenhouses - greenhouses. The carnations that grow in the field, in the meadow, are smaller and more modest. But even without their beautiful red and dark pink flowers-lights, there is no real summer holiday. And only when carnations bloom in the field, in the meadow, they believe that summer has come completely.

A carnation glows with red merry lights, and a variety of butterflies fly towards the flowers one after the other. But you usually will not see other insects near these flowers. The fact is that sweet juice, nectar, is hidden by carnation flowers at the bottom of a long tube, like in a deep well. And only butterflies with their long proboscis can get this juice from there.

Although our field and meadow carnations of lush garden flowers are more modest, the aroma from them is so strong that you involuntarily stop and you will enjoy this smell of blooming summer for a long time.

Short stories for children about summer, nature and animals in summer.

"My Russia"

Since this summer, I have forever and with all my heart attached to Central Russia. I do not know of a country with such an enormous lyrical power and such touchingly picturesque - with all its sadness, calmness and spaciousness - as the middle zone of Russia. The amount of this love is difficult to measure. Everyone knows this for himself. You love every blade of grass drooping from dew or warmed by the sun, every cup of water from a summer well, every tree above the lake, trembling leaves in calm, every crow of a rooster, every cloud floating in the pale and high sky. And if I sometimes want to live up to one hundred and twenty years, as my grandfather Nechipor predicted, it is only because one life is not enough to experience to the end all the charm and all the healing power of our Central Urals nature.

"On the field in summer"

Fun on the field, at ease on the wide! Until the blue strip of the distant forest, multicolored cornfields seem to run along the hills. The golden rye is agitated; she breathes in the air of strength. Young oats turn blue; blooming buckwheat with red stalks turns white, with white-pink honey flowers. Farther from the road were curly peas, and behind them was a pale green strip of flax with bluish eyes. On the other side of the road, fields turn black under the flowing steam.

The lark flutters over the rye, and the sharp-winged eagle looks vigilantly from above: he also sees a loud quail in dense rye, he also sees a field mouse as it hurries into its hole with a grain that has fallen from a ripe ear. Hundreds of invisible grasshoppers are churning everywhere.

"Morning rays"

The red sun swam up to the sky and began to send out its golden rays everywhere - to wake up the earth.

The first ray flew and hit the lark. The lark fluttered, fluttered out of the nest, rose high, high and sang its silver song: “Oh, how good it is in the fresh morning air! How good! How free! "

The second ray hit the bunny. The bunny twitched his ears and hopped merrily across the dewy meadow: he ran to get himself some juicy grass for breakfast.

The third beam hit the chicken coop. The rooster flapped its wings and began to sing: ku-ka-re-ku! The chickens flew off the nest, cackled, and began to rake up litter and look for worms. The fourth ray hit the hive. A bee crawled out of its wax cell, sat down on the window, spread its wings and - zoom-zoom-zoom! - flew to collect honey from fragrant flowers.

The fifth ray hit the nursery, on the bed of the little bummer: it cuts him right in the eyes, and he turned on the other side and fell asleep again.

"Summer evening"

In the distant and pale depths of the sky, stars had just appeared; in the west it was still crimson - there the sky seemed clearer and clearer; the semicircle of the moon glittered gold through the black mesh of weeping birch. Other trees either stood as grim giants, with a thousand gaps, like eyes, or merged into solid gloomy masses. Not a single leaf moved; the upper branches of lilacs and acacias seemed to be listening to something and stretched out in the warm air. The house was darkening up close; long shadows were painted on it in patches of reddish light. The evening was meek and quiet; but a restrained, passionate sigh was fancied in this silence.

"The forest is noisy"

Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich

The forest is making noise….

There was always a noise in this forest - even, prolonged, like an echo of a distant ringing, calm and dim, like a quiet song without words, like a vague memory of the past. There was always a noise in it, because it was an old, dense forest, which had not yet been touched by the saw and ax of a forest dealer. Tall, century-old pines with mighty red trunks stood like a gloomy army, tightly closed at the top with green tops. It was quiet downstairs, it smelled of tar; through the canopy of pine needles, with which the soil was strewn, bright ferns made their way, luxuriantly spread out in a fanciful fringe and stood motionless, not moving a leaf. In the damp corners, tall stalks of green grasses stretched; white porridge bent over with heavy heads, as if in a quiet languor. And above, endlessly and without interruption, the forest noise was drawn like the dim sighs of an old pine forest.

"What kind of dew can be on the grass"

When on a sunny morning, in summer, you go into the forest, then in the fields, in the grass, diamonds are visible. All these diamonds shine and shimmer in the sun in different colors - yellow, red and blue.

When you come closer and see what it is, you will see that it is dewdrops gathered in the triangular leaves of the grass and glistening in the sun. A leaf of this grass is shaggy and fluffy inside, like velvet.

And the drops roll on the leaf and do not wet it.

When you inadvertently rip off a leaf with a dewdrop, the droplet will roll down like a ball of light, and you will not see how it slips past the stem. Sometimes, you rip such a cup, slowly bring it to your mouth and drink a dewdrop, and this dewdrop seems tastier than any drink.

"Summer Thunderstorms"

Summer thunderstorms pass over the ground and fall below the horizon. Lightning strikes the ground with a direct blow, then blaze on black clouds.

A rainbow sparkles over the damp distance. Thunder rolls, rumbles, grumbles, rumbles, shakes the ground.

"Flowers"

Innocent blue-eyed forget-me-nots peeped out of the mint thickets in large clumps near the water. And then, behind the hanging loops of blackberries, a wild mountain ash with tight yellow inflorescences bloomed along the slope. Tall red clover mingled with mouse peas and bedstraws, and a gigantic thistle rose above this crowded community of flowers. He stood firmly up to his waist in the grass and looked like a knight in armor with steel spikes on his elbows and knee pads.

The heated air above the flowers "melted", swayed, and from almost every cup protruded the striped belly of a bumblebee, bee or wasp. Like white and lemon leaves, butterflies always flew obliquely.

And further away, the hawthorn and wild rose rose like a high wall. Their branches were so intertwined that it seemed as if fiery rosehip flowers and white hawthorn flowers smelling of almonds somehow miraculously blossomed on the same bush.

The rose hip stood with its large flowers turned towards the sun, elegant, completely festive, covered with many sharp buds. Its flowering coincided with the most on short nights- our Russian, slightly northern nights, when the nightingales thunder in the dew all night long, the greenish dawn does not leave the horizon and in the darkest time of the night it is so bright that the mountain tops of the clouds are clearly visible in the sky.

"Summer has begun"

In the distance, a thump thumped - dark heavy clouds were creeping into the village. They crept slowly, swirling menacingly and expanding imperiously to the very horizon.

The village became dark and dumb. Even the brute was quiet in anticipation. And suddenly a deafening roar shook the earth.

Throughout the village, doors and gates slammed. People ran out into the street, put tubs under the streams and in the pouring rain happily echoed with each other. Barefoot children ran through the puddles like foals, the short northern summer began.

Stories about summer nature, stories about insects, stories about flowers summer .

In a living room

The newborn beetle crawled too much, flew and fumbled, celebrating the first day of its life. By evening he was so tired that he could not move his legs or antennae.

He lay in the middle yellow flower... The flower was not a cup, but a flat cake and was all made of narrow petals, soft, soft! He smelled of honey. And he was still warm: the sun had heated him so much.

And it was already sinking over the hillock. And the sky, which was blue, as if forget-me-nots were blooming on it, only forget-me-nots, turned red, as if poppies were blossoming there.

The newborn beetle was looking at this huge fiery sky, and he suddenly became afraid. Here he is so small, small, but lies in plain sight. To hide somewhere in a dark crack! But he was so tired that he could not move his legs or antennae.

The first star lit up in the sky. The newborn beetle perked up. He wanted to take off. Take off straight there and circle around this sparkling star. But she was so far away!

Suddenly he felt the flower moving under him. The beetle gripped him tighter with its paws.

"Maybe he, the flower, wanted to take off?" - thought the beetle. Then he saw that yellow walls were growing around, from all sides. And they get higher and higher.

And the sky is narrower and narrower. Only the star still sparkles. And now it has become smaller. It flashed and went out. And it became dark, very dark and cramped.

"How did this flower suddenly become a crack?" - thought the newborn beetle, falling asleep.

On the second morning of its life, the beetle woke up at the bottom of the dark sack. I tried to climb the soft wall. But he did not succeed. The paws slid and fell between the smooth, narrow leaves. And he again fell to the bottom of the bag. And again I tried to climb up. And he fell again.

Soon he was completely exhausted. Sitting sadly at the bottom of a closed flower. And I thought that he would never see the sun again.

Suddenly he felt the flower move. And immediately above the light burst. Broke through a crack that wasn't there before. And now it was getting wider and wider. And the yellow walls suddenly fell silently. Here the flower has become a cake again!

And then the beetle saw the sun! It rose behind the forest. And when its beam fell on the beetle, the beetle immediately got stronger and cheered up.

- I'm flying! He shouted to the sun. He spread his wings on the edge of the flower. And he flew without knowing where.

N. Pavlova

Let there be a Nightingale and a Beetle

The Nightingale sang in the garden. His song was beautiful. He knew that people loved his song and therefore looked with pride at the blooming garden, at the bright blue sky, at the little Girl who was sitting in the garden and listening to his song.

And next to the Nightingale was flying a large horned Beetle. He flew and hummed. The Nightingale interrupted his song and said with annoyance to the Beetle:

- Stop your buzzing. You won't let me sing. Nobody needs your buzzing, and in general, it would be better if you, Beetle, were not there at all.

The beetle answered with dignity:

- No, Nightingale, without me, Beetle, the world is also impossible, as well as without you, Nightingale.

- That's wisdom! - Nightingale laughed. - So people need you too? Let's ask the Girl, she will tell who people need and who is not needed.

The Nightingale and the Beetle flew to the Girl, they ask:

- Tell me, Girl, who should be left in the world - the Nightingale or the Beetle?

- Let there be both the Nightingale and the Beetle, - answered the Girl. - And after thinking, she added: - How is it possible without the Beetle?

V. Sukhomlinsky

Butterfly and mosquito

One day a butterfly flew to the roof of a barnyard and sat on a perch there. Then I saw her mosquito, it lurked here, in the crack of the fence. I saw and got angry.

A mosquito flew up to a butterfly, sat down next to it and said:

- Why did you come here? This courtyard is my domain!

But the butterfly was not taken aback:

- So after all, I did not fly into the yard, we are on the roof.

- Not food! I'll break your neck! The mosquito shouted. And the butterfly laughed in response:

- If only there is enough strength ...

- I'll show you! I will pierce your skin with my sting and suck all the blood.

- I do not believe you! The butterfly said on purpose to anger the mosquito.

- Well, prove it ...

And the mosquito flew to the calf, which was tethered nearby. He sat down in his ear and launched the sting.

And then the calf began to scratch with its hind leg and crushed the mosquito, which did not have time to free its sting from the thick fur.

Kazakh fairy tale

Ant measure

Many centuries ago a sage lived in this world. He knew the language of birds, animals and all other creatures.

Once that sage set off on the road. Halfway there he made a halt to give the horse a rest. A man sits and sees that an ant is dragging a grain. He took the ant and placed it in his palm.

- Tell me, ant, where are you carrying this grain? He asks.

“Into the nest,” the ant answered him.

- Why do you need it?

- I'll leave it in reserve, - says the ant.

- And you have a lot of grain? - the sage got interested.

The ant told the man that he was working all summer, preparing for winter, and therefore he met her without fear.

The sage looked at the ant from all sides, was surprised:

- Why is your head so big?

- I speak little and think a lot.

- Why are you so thin in the belt?

- I don't overeat.

- How many grains do you eat in a year?

- One grain

"Are you content with that?"

- If I ate more, what would other ants eat? There should be a measure in everything.

The sage liked the intelligence and sagacity of the ant, and he decided to test it. He put one grain in a box and put an ant in it. The box was placed in a dry, protected place.

- I'll be back in a year. You are provided with food for a year, lie down and do not worry about anything, ”he said to the ant.

The sage wanted to make sure that the ant was able to dispose of the food supply left to him.

Exactly one year later, he returned to the ant. Found the boxes left in a secluded place. I opened it to see if the ant was alive. The ant was safe and sound. A half-grain lay next to him. The sage was amazed.

“Hey, ant,” he said to his captive. - You said that you eat one grain in a year. Why did you leave half a grain? Why do you shore it?

The ant answered like this:

- You're right, I said that I eat one grain in a year. But you left me locked in a box. I couldn't get out. If you had forgotten about your promise to return in a year and free me, then I would have remained in my dungeon for a long time. If I had eaten whole grain, I would have doomed myself to starvation. I thought about it and tempered my appetite.

The sage was amazed at the ant's patience and moderation, his ability to be content with little. He regretted that he had committed violence - he caused suffering to an intelligent and worthy being.

“I did a bad thing, forgive me,” he said to the ant and let him go.

Since then, the sage taught people moderation and patience.

Kazakh fairy tale

Ant

One ant, leaving its anthill, began to make friends with bees, beetles and other living creatures, of which there were a great many in the district.

Once, going out in search of food, the ant found a grain on the road. Grunting, puffing, but the grain could not budge. The ant rushed to ask for help from its winged friends. The first he came across a bee, she flew from flower to flower, collecting nectar.

- A bee, and a bee, I found a grain, but I can't raise it alone, help, please, - the ant asks her.

- Can't you see that I'm not sitting around too! - said the bee and flew away.

The ant had no choice but to move on. He came across a beetle.

- Beetle, but beetle! - he began and, having told about his find, began to ask for help.

"Do I really need to quit my job for you?" - the beetle got angry and, buzzing, flew away.

Having lost hope in friends, the sad ant wandered back and soon stumbled upon its anthill. Seeing how sad he was, the ants asked him:

- What are you sad about?

A lone ant answered them:

- It turns out that I myself am to blame for my orphanhood!

The ants calmed him down, picked up and carried the seed. Then our ant joined them.

- No wonder they say: "An old friend is better than two new ones," said one wise ant then.

Kazakh fairy tale

Where is her home?

The butterfly sat on the flower and the flower bent down. The butterfly swung with the flower to the left, then to the right. The butterfly sways on the flower, as if on a swing. Long, thin, curved proboscis, she then lowers into the flower, then takes it out.

Ten stamens are lined up in a circle. Pollen from the stamens falls on the butterfly from all sides, and this makes the butterfly's head, belly, and legs turn yellow.

There are different flowers. The butterfly loves flowers with petals open in all directions to sit on the flower and see what is happening around. And there are flowers that have porches and a roof. You sit on the porch, you have to put your head under the roof, and the wings remain outside. The bee is good: it is small - everything fits under the roof. It is not visible from the outside, only you can hear the flower buzzing.

Sometimes tiny fidgety thrips crawl between the petals. There are so many of them that wherever the butterfly's proboscis drops, it stumbles upon them everywhere. And you can't get away from these thrips, because in the flower they are full-fledged owners - here is their home. Where is the butterfly's house?

Hot. V sunbeam midges swarm. A whole cloud of midges. The butterfly does not go around them. She flies straight into the cloud. Cuts right through it. And behind the butterfly there is already a whole train of midges. The midges fly after the butterfly, trying to catch up with it, but in vain. Butterflies fly faster than midges.

Having flown over a wide road, the butterfly finds itself over a narrow path that goes into the bushes. There's a shadow here. It's not that hot in here. A butterfly flies over the path between the bushes. Closer and closer the bushes over the path are closing in. And lower and lower the butterfly has to fly. Here the branches at the top have already completely closed and closed the sky. And suddenly the butterfly from its full swing stumbles upon some kind of thin sticky barrier. Her wings beat convulsively against the spider's web. The web becomes shiny, sparkling from the scales that fall from the butterfly's wings. And the wings become completely transparent, like glass.

Over the butterfly in the right corner, a huge spider-cross... He is waiting. Waiting for the butterfly to get completely confused. But the butterfly suddenly frees its wings from the cobweb and hangs on its two hind legs. One more dash - and she flies into the air. Its hind legs remain on the web.

Polyana. There are many yellow flowers in the meadow. Butterflies fly over the flowers. There are many of them too. They sit on one flower and then on another. Sitting on a flower, butterflies untwist their proboscis, which are coiled during flight. Unwind and dipped into a flower. Butterflies drink nectar and carry pollen from flower to flower. There are many flowers in the meadow. They all opened their petals, they all stretched out their stamens, everyone is waiting for butterflies.

Spruce, pine, birch. No, none of this is right. And here is the field. And on the field - cabbage. Large, tight, cracked with juice. A man would pick such a head of cabbage and take it to the children. But the butterfly does not like this head of cabbage for her children. It is not sweet enough for butterfly children, not juicy enough. A butterfly flies from one head of cabbage to another, tastes the cabbage with its front legs. The butterfly's forelegs sense taste. And they do not just feel, but feel in the most subtle way. The taste of a butterfly is two hundred, three hundred times stronger than that of a person. A butterfly will fly over the field for a long time, for a long time it will choose cabbage, the sweetest, most delicious. And when he chooses, he sits on the lower green leaf and lays yellow, large, ribbed eggs.

The wind whispered through the trees. The leaves are green, and the rustle is soft, barely audible. But on the branch there are two dry leaves. As dry as paper. But they are so small and, in addition, torn. So you won't make the same noise here. These are not leaves. These are the dried wings of a dead butterfly.

The butterfly died right on the branch, clinging to it with its paws. So she is tight and sits. Dead. A strong wind tore at a branch and plucked a butterfly. Butterfly in the air again! She flies again! Only now there are winged seeds in the air next to her. These seeds have wings as lifeless as those of a dead butterfly.

The butterfly was not at home. Home for her was every hollow, every convenient twig, every silk blade of grass, every fragrant flower. And why does this butterfly need a home if it lives only sixteen days. And if you need to know the world in sixteen days.

According to N. Romanova

How Heaven was going to visit Earth

The sky never came to visit the Earth, but he so wanted it. From above it looked at the seas, rivers, fields, meadows, forests, people: he liked all this very much. The sky noticed that people looked at him quite often, but did not know if they liked it.

Heaven began to smarten up to please the Earth and its inhabitants. Sewn myself blue dress, decorated with lace from the Clouds, instead of a crown, put on a solar hoop, instead of a belt, girded with a seven-colored Rainbow.

- Oh, what a beautiful sky today! - people admired, - so they would look, without stopping. I wish I could turn into birds and fly in such a sky!

The Sky was delighted, began to try even more. It sewed a black velvet dress for itself, scattered silvery Stars on the skirt, pinned the yellow-eyed Moon on its chest, and put it on its head clear month... The quiet rivers, night birds, fireflies turned on their lights to get a better look at the sky. The Night Sky was regal, solemn. The stars in the darkness twinkled and beckoned to them, the yellow Moon winked with one eye, illuminating the lunar path on the river, and the Moon, the son of the Moon, danced with pride for Heaven.

Morning has come, and Heaven has a new dress again! The sunrise illuminated the snow-white clouds in pink. The sun rose higher and higher, and the sky became more and more beautiful. All plants, animals and people who woke up with the Sun rejoiced.

- Take us to you, Sky! - they asked, - we love you! Always stay the same beautiful!

Birds and insects rushed up to admire the Sky above. People ascended to Heaven on airplanes, helicopters, hang gliders and balloons. They so wanted to touch the sky with their hands, to touch his pink dress!

But then black clouds began to gather. They smeared mud all over the beautiful dress of Heaven. It was very upset.

“Everyone will turn their backs on me now! - thought the Sky, - something needs to be done urgently.

The sky took out a huge electric lightning needle and threw it into the cloud to disperse it. The cloud, frightened, screamed so loudly that Thunder heard it and answered it with a menacing prophet. From fright, the Cloud began to cry, it was melting before our eyes, and very soon the dirty dress of Heaven became clean again, but already blue.

The sky made all the inhabitants of the Earth fall in love with itself. Finally, it came to visit the Earth, but it was only possible on the horizon.

E. Alyabyeva

Medicinal plants of July

In ancient songs about the heavy share, wormwood is often mentioned. This is understandable, because you cannot find herbs bitter than it. No wonder there is a saying: "Bitter, like wormwood."

Bitter wormwood is one of the oldest medicinal plants... It is widely used in folk medicine. Wormwood tincture is a good remedy for improving digestion, forcing worms out of the human body.

In meadows and forest edges, common yarrow is often found. Look at its leaf, and you will immediately understand where this plant name came from. Each leaf is meticulously cut into small slices, and each slice also has openwork edges.

Yarrow is one of the oldest medicinal plants. People have long noticed this herb, which was useful in the treatment of wounds, bleeding, gastrointestinal diseases, to increase appetite.

Yarrow may be of interest to vegetable growers and gardeners: a decoction and infusion of it is used against sucking pests instead of some pesticides.

Yarrow relieves cultivated plants from various pests (aphids, suckers, thrips, and spider mites).

Yarrow is harvested in July, at the time of flowering and dried herbaceous plant, only without roots. Decoctions and infusions are prepared from dry plants.

Go out on a sunny lawn in the summer, and you will surely meet the cheerful, golden flowers of St. John's wort. Popular wisdom says about this healing plant: "Just as you cannot bake bread without flour, you cannot cure a person without St. John's wort." And they also call St. John's wort grass from ninety-nine diseases.

Scientists from St. John's wort received a wonderful drug (imanin), with which they heal wounds, ulcers, burns, helps the drug and plants, saving them from pests (tobacco mosaic that affects tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, tobacco).

The infusion, tincture and extract of St. John's wort have astringent and antimicrobial properties. Pharmacy tincture of St. John's wort is an excellent tool for strengthening the gums, eliminating bad breath.

The stems, leaves and flowers of St. John's wort are also used to obtain a plant dye for dyeing fabrics.

All parts of the plant contain tannins, which are used to tan the leather, giving it density and elasticity.

B. Alexandrov

How Sasha was burnt by nettles

The guys went out for a walk. They scattered around the yard. And it's warm and sunny in the yard! Sasha saw at the fence green grass and called everyone:

- Look what grass has grown!

And Vera Ivanovna says:

- Do not touch, this is nettles: you will burn yourself.

Sasha did not obey: is grass a stove? Does it burn?

He grabbed the nettles and how he screamed:

Oh, it hurts!

Sasha's hand turned red, white blisters went down it. Vera Ivanovna had to console him. The good thing is that the blisters from the nettles go away quickly.

Summer Stories for Intermediate Children school age... Stories about the summer of Sergei Aksakov and Konstantin Ushinsky.

Sergey Aksakov

EARLY SUMMER

Spring has passed. The nightingale finished his last songs, and other songbirds almost all stopped singing. Only the bluethroat was still mimicking and distorting the voices and cries of all birds, and even that soon had to be silent. Some larks, hanging somewhere in the sky, invisible to human eyes, scattered their melodic trills from a height, enlivening the sleepy silence of a sultry, silent summer. Yes, the vociferous spring has passed, the time of carefree fun, songs, love! The "summer turns" have passed, that is, June 12; the sun turned to winter, and summer to heat, as the Russian people say; the time has come for birds, too, a time of business, a time of vigilant worries, incessant fears, instinctive self-forgetfulness, self-sacrifice, a time of parental love. The children of the songbirds were bred, you need to feed them, then teach them to fly and every minute to protect them from dangerous enemies, from birds of prey and animals. There are no more songs, but there is a cry; this is not a song, but speech: the father and mother are constantly calling out, calling, beckoning their stupid cubs, who answer them with a plaintive, monotonous squeak, open their hungry mouths. Such a change, which took place in some two weeks, during which I did not leave the city, greatly amazed and even saddened me ...

Konstantin Ushinsky

SUMMER

There are the longest days in early summer. For about twelve hours the sun does not descend from the sky, and the evening dawn has not yet had time to go out in the west, when a whitish strip is already shown in the east - a sign of the approaching morning. And the closer to the north, the longer summer days and shorter nights.

The sun rises high, high in summer, not like in winter: a little higher, and it would be directly overhead. Its almost vertical rays warm it greatly, and by noon they even burn it mercilessly. Now it is noon; the sun climbed high on the transparent blue vault of the sky. Only here and there, like light silver lines, cirrus clouds are visible - harbingers of constant good weather, or buckets, as the peasants say. The sun cannot go higher already, and from this point it will descend to the west. The point from which the sun begins to bend is called midday. Stand facing noon, and the side you are looking at will be south, to the left from where the sun rose is east, to the right where it slopes is west, and behind you is north, where the sun never comes.

At noon, not only is it impossible to look at the sun itself without a strong, burning pain in the eyes, but it is difficult even to look at the brilliant sky and earth, at everything that is illuminated by the sun. The sky, the fields, and the air are flooded with hot, bright light, and the eye involuntarily looks for greenery and coolness. It's too warm! Light steam is streaming over the resting fields (those that have not been sown this year). This is warm air, filled with vapors: flowing like water, it rises from the highly heated earth. That is why our clever peasants talk about such fields that they are resting under fallow. Nothing moves on the tree, and the leaves, as if tired by the heat, hung. The birds hid in the wilderness; livestock stops grazing and looks for coolness; a person, drenched in sweat and feeling severe exhaustion, leaves work: everything is waiting for the fever to subside. But this heat is necessary for bread, for hay, for trees.

However, a long drought is harmful to plants that love warmth, but also love moisture; it is hard for people too. That is why people rejoice when storm clouds come, thunder breaks out, lightning flashes and refreshing rain will water the thirsty earth. If only there was no rain with hail, which sometimes happens in the midst of the hottest summer: hail is destructive for ripening grain and shines a different field. The peasants fervently pray to God that there will be no hail.

Everything that spring began ends summer. The leaves grow to their full size, and, recently still transparent, the grove becomes an impenetrable dwelling place for thousands of birds. In the flooded meadows, the thick, tall grass waves like the sea. A whole world of insects moves and buzzes in it. The trees in the gardens have faded. A bright red cherry and a dark crimson plum are already flickering between the greenery; apples and pears are still green and are lurking between the leaves, but in the stillness they ripen and fill. One linden tree is still in bloom and fragrant. In its dense foliage, between its slightly whitening, but fragrant flowers, a slender, invisible chorus is heard. They work with the songs of thousands of cheerful bees on honey, fragrant linden flowers. Come closer to the singing tree: it even smells like honey!

Early flowers have already faded and are preparing seeds, others are still in full bloom. The rye has risen, chipped and is already beginning to turn yellow, stirring like the sea, under the pressure of a light wind. Buckwheat is in bloom, and the fields sown with it seem to be covered with a white veil with a pinkish tint; from them rushes the same pleasant honey smell with which the flowering linden lures bees.

And how many berries, mushrooms! Like red coral, juicy strawberries glow in the grass; transparent currant earrings hung on the bushes ... But is it possible to list everything that appears in the summer? One is maturing after another, one is catching up with the other.

Expansion for birds, beasts, and insects in summer! Already young birds squeak in their nests. But while their wings are still growing, caring parents scurry in the air with a cheerful cry, looking for food for their chicks. The little ones have long been sticking out their thin, still poorly fledged necks from the nest and, opening their noses, are waiting for handouts. And there is enough food for the birds: the one raises the grain dropped by the ear, the other itself pats the ripening branch of hemp or honors the juicy cherry; the third is chasing gnats, and they pound in heaps in the air. A sharp-sighted hawk, spreading its long wings wide, soars high in the air, vigilantly looking out for a chicken or some other young, inexperienced bird that has fought off its mother - he will envy and, like an arrow, he will launch at the poor thing; she cannot escape the greedy claws of a predatory, carnivorous bird. The old geese, proudly stretching out their long necks, giggle loudly and lead their little children into the water, fluffy, like spring lambs on willows, and yellow, like an egg yolk.

The shaggy, multi-colored caterpillar flutters on its many legs and gnaws at leaves and fruits. There are already a lot of colorful butterflies fluttering. The golden bee tirelessly works on linden, on buckwheat, on scented, sweet clover, on many different flowers, getting everywhere what it needs to make its cunning, fragrant combs. The incessant hum is in the apiaries (beekeepers). Soon the bees will become cramped in the hives, and they will begin to swarm: divide into new hardworking kingdoms, of which one will stay at home, and the other will fly to look for new housing somewhere in a hollow tree. But the beekeeper will intercept the swarm on the road and put it in a brand new hive that has been prepared for him long ago. Ant has already set up many new underground galleries; the thrifty squirrel mistress is already beginning to carry ripening nuts into her hollow. All the freedom, all the expanse!

A lot, a lot of work for the peasant in the summer! So he plowed the winter fields and prepared a soft cradle for grain for the fall. Before he had time to finish plowing, it’s time to mow. Mowers, in white shirts, with shiny and tinkling braids in their hands, go out into the meadows and amicably cut down the tall, already inseminated grass under the root. Sharp braids glisten in the sun and tinkle under the blows of a sand-filled paddle. The women also work together with a rake and dump the already dried hay into the heaps. Pleasant ringing of braids and friendly, sonorous songs rush everywhere from the meadows. Tall round haystacks are already being built.

The boys are lying in the hay and, pushing each other, burst into loud laughter; and a shaggy horse, all covered with hay, barely drags a heavy shock on a rope.

Before the haymaking had time to leave, the harvest began. Rye, the nurse of the Russian man, is ripe. The ear, which was heavy with many grains and turned yellow, bent heavily towards the ground; if you still leave it on the field, then the grain will begin to pour, and God's gift will be useless. Throwing scythes, taking sickles. It is fun to watch how, scattered over the field and bending down to the very ground, slender rows of reapers are cutting high rye under the root, putting it in beautiful, heavy sheaves. Two weeks of such work will pass, and in the field, where until recently high rye was agitated, cut straw will stick out everywhere. But on the compressed strip, tall, golden heaps of bread will become rows.

No sooner had the rye been removed than the time had come to tackle golden wheat, barley, oats; and there, you look, the buckwheat has already turned red and asks for braids. It's time to pull the flax: it completely lays down. So the hemp is ready; sparrows scurry over her in flocks, taking out the oily grain. It's time to dig both potatoes and apples have long been falling into the tall grass. Everything is ripening, everything is ripening, everything must be removed in time; even a long summer day is not enough!

People come back from work late in the evening. They are tired; but their cheerful, sonorous songs are heard loudly in the evening dawn. In the morning, together with the sun, the peasants will start working again; and the sun rises much early in the summer!

Why is the peasant so cheerful in summer, when he has so much work? And the job is not easy. It takes a big habit to miss the whole day with a heavy scythe, cutting off a good armful of grass each time, and with the habit, you still need a lot of diligence and patience. It is not easy to reap under the scorching rays of the sun, bending down to the very ground, drenched in sweat, panting with heat and fatigue. Look at the poor peasant woman as she wipes large drops of sweat from her flushed face with her dirty but honest hand. She even has no time to feed her child, although he walks right there on the field in his cradle hanging on three stakes stuck in the ground. The little sister of the screamer herself is still a child and has recently begun to walk, but she is not without work either: in a dirty, torn shirt she sits on her haunches by the cradle and tries to pump up her diverging little brother.

But why is the peasant cheerful in the summer, when he has so much work and his work is so difficult? Oh, there are many reasons for this! First, the peasant is not afraid of work: he grew up in labor. Secondly, he knows that summer work feeds him for a whole year and that he must use the bucket when God gives it; otherwise, you can be left without bread. Thirdly, the peasant feels that it is not his family alone that feeds on his labors, but the whole world: I, you, and all the dressed-up gentlemen, although some of them look at the peasant with contempt. Digging in the ground, he feeds everyone with his quiet, not brilliant work, as the roots of a tree feed proud peaks, dressed with green leaves.

In addition, you need to know when and what to do, how to combine a plow and a harrow, how to make hemp, for example, from hemp, from hemp to thread, and from thread to weave a canvas ... Oh, the peasant knows a lot, a lot and knows how to do he cannot be called an ignoramus, even if he could not read! It is much easier to learn to read and to learn many sciences than to learn everything a good and experienced peasant should know.

The peasant falls asleep sweetly after hard work, feeling that he has fulfilled his holy duty. And it’s not difficult for him to die: the cornfield he cultivated and the field he had sown remain for his children, whom he gave to drink, nurtured, accustomed to work and instead of himself put workers in front of people.

A + A-

Summer - K.D. Ushinsky

From the story "Summer" we learn about where the sun rises and sets, about the rain, about summer plants, mushrooms, berries, insects and, of course, about harvesting.

Summer read

There are the longest days in early summer. For about twelve hours the sun does not descend from the sky, and the evening dawn has not yet had time to go out in the west, when a whitish streak appears in the east - a sign of the approaching morning. And the closer to the north, the longer summer days and shorter nights.

The sun rises high, high in summer, not like in winter; a little higher, and it would be directly overhead. Its almost vertical rays warm it greatly, and by noon they even burn it mercilessly. Now it is noon; the sun climbed high on the transparent blue vault of the sky. Only here and there, like light silver lines, cirrus clouds are visible - harbingers of constant good weather, or buckets, as the peasants say. The sun cannot go higher already, and from this point it will descend to the west. The point from which the sun begins to bend is called midday. Stand facing noon, and the side you are looking at will be south, to the left from where the sun rose is east, to the right where it slopes is west, and behind you is north, where the sun never comes.

At noon, not only is it impossible to look at the sun itself without a strong, burning pain in the eyes, but it is difficult even to look at the brilliant sky and earth, at everything that is illuminated by the sun. The sky, the fields, and the air are flooded with hot, bright light, and the eye involuntarily looks for greenery and coolness. It's too warm! A light steam is streaming over the resting fields (those in which nothing has been sown this year). This is warm air, filled with vapors: flowing like water, it rises from the highly heated earth. That is why our clever peasants talk about such fields that they are resting under fallow. The tree does not move, and the leaves, as if tired by the heat, hung. The birds hid in the wilderness; livestock stops grazing and looks for coolness; a person, drenched in sweat and feeling severe exhaustion, leaves work: everything is waiting for the fever to subside. But these heat are needed for bread, for hay, for trees.

However, a long drought is harmful to plants that love warmth, but also love moisture; it is hard for people too. That is why people rejoice when storm clouds come, thunder breaks out, lightning flashes and refreshing rain will water the thirsty earth. If only there was no rain with hail, which sometimes happens in the midst of the hottest summer: hail is destructive for the ripening grain and shines a different field. The peasants fervently pray to God that there will be no hail.

Everything that spring began ends summer. The leaves grow to their full size, and, recently still transparent, the grove becomes an impenetrable dwelling place for thousands of birds. In the flooded meadows, the thick, tall grass waves like the sea. A whole world of insects moves and buzzes in it. The trees in the gardens have faded. A bright red cherry and a dark crimson plum are already flickering between the greenery; apples and pears are still green and lurking between the leaves, but ripen and pour in the stillness. One linden tree is still in bloom and fragrant. In its dense foliage, between its slightly whitening, but fragrant flowers, a slender, invisible chorus is heard. They work with the songs of thousands of cheerful bees on honey, fragrant linden flowers. Get closer to the singing tree: it even smells like honey!

Expansion for birds, beasts, and insects in summer! Already young birds squeak in their nests. But while their wings are still growing, caring parents scurry in the air with a cheerful cry, looking for food for their chicks. The little ones have long been sticking out their thin, still poorly fledged necks from the nest and, opening their noses, are waiting for handouts. And there is enough food for the birds: the one raises the grain dropped by the ear, the other itself pats the ripening branch of hemp or scorches a juicy cherry; the third is chasing gnats, and they pound in heaps in the air. A sharp-sighted hawk, spreading its long wings wide, soars high in the air, vigilantly looking out for a chicken or some other young, inexperienced bird that has fought off its mother - he envies and, like an arrow, he will launch at the poor thing: she cannot escape the greedy claws of the predatory, carnivorous bird. The old geese, proudly stretching out their long necks, cackle loudly and lead their little children out into the water, fluffy like spring lambs on willows, and yellow as egg yolk.

The shaggy, multi-colored caterpillar flutters on its many legs and gnaws at leaves and fruits. There are already a lot of colorful butterflies fluttering. The golden bee tirelessly works on linden, on buckwheat, on scented, sweet clover, on many different flowers, getting everywhere what she needs to make her cunning, fragrant combs. The incessant hum is in the apiaries (beekeepers). Soon the bees will become cramped in the hives, and they will begin to swarm: divide into new hardworking kingdoms, of which one will stay at home, and the other will fly to look for new housing somewhere in a hollow tree. But the beekeeper will intercept the swarm on the road and put it in a new hive that has been prepared for him long ago. Ant has already set up many new underground galleries; the thrifty squirrel mistress is already beginning to carry ripening nuts into her hollow. All the freedom, all the expanse!

A lot, a lot of work for the peasant in the summer! Here he plowed the winter fields [Winter fields are fields sown in autumn; grains winter under the snow.] and prepared a soft cradle for a grain of bread for the fall. Before he had time to finish plowing, it’s time to mow. Mowers, in white shirts, with shiny and tinkling braids in their hands, go out into the meadows and amicably cut down the tall, already inseminated grass under the root. Sharp braids glisten in the sun and tinkle under the blows of a sand-filled paddle. The women also work together with a rake and dump the already dried hay into the heaps. Pleasant ringing of braids and friendly, sonorous songs rush everywhere from the meadows. Tall round haystacks are already being built. The boys are lying in the hay and, pushing each other, burst into loud laughter; and the shaggy horse, covered with hay, barely drags a heavy shock on the rope.

Before the haymaking had left, the harvest began. Rye, the nurse of the Russian man, is ripe. The ear, heavy from the multitude of grains, turned yellow and bent heavily towards the ground; if you still leave it on the field, then the grain will begin to pour, and God's gift will be useless. Throwing scythes, taking sickles. It is fun to watch how, scattered over the field and bending down to the very ground, slender rows of reapers felled high rye at the root, put it in beautiful, heavy sheaves. Two weeks of such work will pass, and in the field, where until recently high rye was agitated, cut straw will stick out everywhere. But on the compressed strip, tall, golden heaps of bread will become rows.

Why is the peasant so cheerful in summer, when he has so much work? And the job is not easy. It takes a big habit to miss the whole day with a heavy scythe, cutting off a good armful of grass every time, and with the habit, you still need a lot of diligence and patience. It is not easy to reap under the scorching rays of the sun, bending down to the very ground, drenched in sweat, panting with heat and fatigue. Look at the poor peasant woman as she wipes large drops of sweat from her flushed face with her dirty but honest hand. She even has no time to feed her child, although he walks right there on the field in his cradle, hanging on three stakes stuck in the ground. The little sister of the screamer herself is still a child and has recently begun to walk, but she is not without work either: in a dirty, torn shirt, she sits on his haunches by the cradle and tries to pump up her diverging little brother.

A lot of diligence and patience is needed for peasant work, but a lot of knowledge and experience are also required. Try to press, and you will see that it takes a lot of skill. If someone takes a braid without habit, then he will not work out much with it. Sweeping away a good haystack is not easy either; you need to plow skillfully, and in order to sow well - exactly, not thicker and not less often than it should - not even every peasant will undertake this. In addition, you need to know when and what to do, how to handle the plow and the harrow [The plow, the harrow are ancient agricultural implements. A plow - for plowing, a harrow - for breaking up clods after plowing.], How to make hemp from hemp, from hemp to thread, and from thread to weave a canvas ... call him an ignoramus, even if he could not read! It is much easier to learn to read and to learn many sciences than to learn everything a good and experienced peasant should know.

The peasant falls asleep sweetly after hard work, feeling that he has fulfilled his holy duty. Yes, and it is not difficult for him to die: the field cultivated by him and the field still sown by him remain for his children, whom he gave to drink, nurtured, accustomed to work and instead of himself put workers in front of people.

Confirm rating

Rating: 4.7 / 5. Number of ratings: 21

Help to make the materials on the site better for the user!

Write down the reason for the low rating.

send

Thank you for your feedback!

Read 4023 times

A story about a summer garden and insects. Summer story - interesting ideas, plan and recommendations. Excerpts from the novel "Rudin"

Forest voice.

Carnation. Author: A.S. Onegov

In a living room

Let there be a Nightingale and a Beetle

Butterfly and mosquito

Ant measure

Ant

Where is her home?

How Heaven was going to visit Earth

Medicinal plants of July

How Sasha was burnt by nettles

Sergey Aksakov

EARLY SUMMER

Konstantin Ushinsky

SUMMER

Summer - K.D. Ushinsky

Summer read

Help to make the materials on the site better for the user!

Other stories by Ushinsky

Forest and stream - K.D. Ushinsky

How the shirt grew in the field - Ushinsky K.D.

Blind horse - Ushinsky K.D.

Swans - Tolstoy L.N.

Pig - Charushin E.I.

Before the first rain - V.A. Oseeva

The last

You need to know