Victor Astafiev. Kapalukha - Astafiev Viktor Petrovich We were approaching the Alpine Ural meadows test

home Help me find an argument for essay 15.3 on the topic “Devotion”. We were approaching the Alpine , where the collective farm cattle were driven for summer grazing. Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled. A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and we too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood. In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating. The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries. There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed. I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings. - Nest! Nest! - the guys shouted. I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere. - Yes, here you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing. I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot. - Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled. - For what? - Yes, yes! - What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her! Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was from fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat. “But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly in order to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who approached. - It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. Everything, everything, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and must have been embarrassed by these Ural meadows tender words

uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: “Come on, let’s go catch up with the herd!” And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze. Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later. And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

We were approaching the alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were being driven for summer grazing.

Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled.

A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and we too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.

In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.

I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings.

I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

Yes, there you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.

What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her!

Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was from fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.

“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly, so as to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who came up.

It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. That’s it, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words spoken for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let’s go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

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uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: “Come on, let’s go catch up with the herd!” And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze. Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later. And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

We were approaching the alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were being driven for summer grazing.

Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled.

A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and we too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.

In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.

I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings.

I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

Yes, there you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.

What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her!

Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was from fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.

“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly, so as to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who came up.

It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. That’s it, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words spoken for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let’s go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

Victor Astafiev

KAPALUHA

uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: “Come on, let’s go catch up with the herd!” And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze. Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later. And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

We were approaching the alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were being driven for summer grazing.

Taiga has thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and northern cold. Only here and there, among the sparse spruce, fir and larches, the timid leaves of birch and aspen moved, and between the trees, ferns twisted like snails unfurled.

A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. The bulls and calves, and we too, walked slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.

In one place, a small hillock protruded into the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved blueberries that were blooming. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

The blueberry is tasty when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.

I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running in circles along it with outstretched wings.

I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

Yes, there you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear - I almost stepped on a nest. No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.

What will happen to the kapalukha? Look at her!

Kapalukha rushed to the side. Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. She tried and could not take off. Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often fluttering. It was from fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.

“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly, so as to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who came up.

It's like our mother. She gives everything to us. That’s it, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words spoken for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let’s go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. Kapalukha sat on a branch, stretching her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew down from the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

Her eyes began to become covered with a dark film. But she was all on guard, all tense. The kapalukha's heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will hatch in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

(1) We were approaching the Alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were being driven for summer grazing.

(2) In one place, a small mound appeared in the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved, flowering blueberries.

(3) There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. (4) The calves ran with their tails in the air, and the children who were driving the cattle with us screamed.

(5) I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters more often call it a capalukha) running around it with its wings outstretched.

(6) - Nest! (7) Nest! - the guys shouted. (8) I began to look around, feeling the blueberry hillock with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

(9) - Yes, there you go! - the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

(10) I looked, and my heart trembled - I almost stepped on the nest. (11) No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. (12) Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. (13) In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. (14) There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. (15) The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs.

(16) I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

(17) - Let's take it! - the boy standing next to me exhaled.

(18) - Why?

(19) - Yes so!

(20) - What will happen to the kapalukha? (21) Look at her!

(22) Kapalukha rushed to the side. (23) Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. (24) She sat on the nest with her wings spread, covered her future children, and kept them warm. (25) That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. (26) She tried and could not take off. (27) Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. (28) And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck, and the skin on her bare, puffy chest often trembled. (29) It was the bird’s heart that beat out of fear, anger and fearlessness.

(30) “But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly in order to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who approached.

(31) - This is like our mother. (32) She gives everything to us. (33) Everything, everything, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these gentle words spoken for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: (34) - Well, let’s go catch up with the herd !

(35) And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. (Z6) Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching her neck after us. (37) But her eyes no longer followed us. (38) They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew off the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

(39) Her eyes began to be covered with a sleepy film. (40) But she was all on guard, all tense. (41) The kapalukha’s heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will appear in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

(42) And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, incomprehensible bird words about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life.

(According to V. Astafiev)

Viktor Petrovich Astafiev (1924-2001) - Russian Soviet writer. The most important themes of Astafiev’s work are military and rural. One of his first works was school essay, then turned by the writer into the story “Vasyutkino Lake”. The author's first stories were published in the magazine "Smena". The stories " Last bow", "Tsar Fish", novels "Until Next Spring", "The Snow is Melting", "Cursed and Killed".