Literary and musical composition "the man on whom the house rests." I can't find Yu's work

I leaned towards the bucket and took a sip. The boy also took a sip. So we drank delicious well water together, as if we were arguing who could outdrink who.

The boy started to make me angry. I would gladly drink the whole bucket so as not to see him. I couldn’t drink anymore - my teeth were already throbbing from the cold - I swung my hand and poured water on the road. And he hit a chicken, which clucked displeasedly and ran away. I poured out the water, but the double remained. And when I walked through the village, he kept making himself known.

I suddenly felt that for a long time I did not remember many events of my former life. The people with whom I once lived next to have moved far into space, and their outlines have been erased. A failure has formed. An emptiness that made me feel uneasy. Now this uncut man with an abrasion on his forehead has brought the distant time closer. I saw my childhood in many details.

I remembered the cracks in the logs above my bed, the hay rack on the bench, the curtains nailed with wallpaper nails, the stove damper with a loose handle, the horned grips. I heard the creaking of the floorboards - each has its own special sound: the old cracked boards were the keys of some mysterious instrument. I really smelled the smell of baked milk - a sticky, sweet and sour smell that suddenly flowed out of the oven and crowded out all other smells from the house.

I saw my mother. At the well, with steamed buckets. In the straw rays of the sun.

My grandfather, Alexey Ivanovich Filin, was from White Lake. As a twelve-year-old boy, he came to St. Petersburg and never returned to the village. Life was difficult. Worked a lot. After the revolution he became a Hero of Labor. City life did not kill his rural roots. Sometimes he spoke sadly about the milky water of White Lake, about bees, about horses, about how homemade beer was brewed in a large vat in the village. Sometimes, when drunk, grandfather sang his village laconic songs.

Every summer my mother and I went to the village.

A city man rarely meets the earth. The earth is hidden from his eyes by stone slabs and hardened lava asphalt. She rests in the depths, black, brown, red, silver. She held her breath and hid. A city person does not know what the earth smells like, how it breathes at different times of the year, how it suffers from thirst, how it produces bread. He does not feel that his whole life, his well-being depends on the land. But he worries about the dry summer and is not happy about the heavy snowfall. And sometimes he is afraid of the earth, as if it were a vague, unfamiliar element. And then the necessary, natural feeling of filial love for the earth subsides in the soul.

In the village, my mother and I walked barefoot. It was quite difficult at first. But gradually natural soles formed on my feet, and my feet stopped feeling small pricks. These soles served me well - they didn’t wear out, they didn’t wear out. True, they often had to be doused with iodine. And before going to bed, wash it.

My mother accustomed me to the earth, just as a bird accustoms its chick to the sky, and a polar bear accustoms its cub to the sea. Before my eyes, the black earth became green, then a light blue spread, then bronze shimmered - this is how flax is born. Mom and I pulled flax. Mom deftly twisted the rope and knitted short sheaves. She had a white scarf on her head, like the village ones.

Sometimes I was assigned to herd the cow Lyska. Then we had to get up very early. And I was angry with Lyska because she didn’t let me sleep, walking on the cold grass, sulking at her. I even wanted to hit her with a rod... She walked slowly, with the dignity of a cow, and the homemade tin bell rattled dully on her neck.

Then, in the role, I walked away. I approached the cow and pressed myself against her warm, breathing side - warmed myself. Sometimes I talked to Lyska. He told her whole stories. Lyska did not interrupt me, she knew how to listen carefully and silently nodded her head.

Her head is heavy and large. And the eyes, large wet eyes, were saddened by something. Lyska quietly approached me and poked my cheek with her pink nose. Her breathing was loud and warm. She treated me patronizingly, like a calf.

At times I felt surges of love for our cow. Then I went with her far into the field where clover and peas grew. He found a deep gulley, descended the steep slope and plucked tasty green shoots for her. I made a “smoke”: I lit dry rot in a tin can and waved it near Lyska so that horse flies and hornets would not overpower it. Lyska became a sacred animal, and I became a servant with a censer. Then Lysk had to be sold. When she was taken away from the yard, she cried. I understood everything. I felt grief. And then I promised myself that when I grow up and earn money, I will buy Lyska back. I promised this to Lyska.

The uncut man with a bruise on his forehead, looking at me from the bucket, reminded me of this unfulfilled promise. He mocked me and silently, unforgivingly reproached me for deceiving Lyska. He promised to buy it back and didn't.

In general, my awkward double reminded me of many things.

I once asked my mother:

Is my heart glowing?

“Well, how can it glow,” my mother objected.

I saw a glowing heart in the forge. The forge stood on the edge of the village. The smell of coal smoke reeked from her, and she shook from the ringing intermittent blows. I heard the leather bellows breathing wheezingly and how their breath in the forge awakened the fire in the coals with a slight whistle.

The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. The flame of the forge reflected on his wet chest. The blacksmith swung his hammer, tilted his body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And every time the reflection of the flame shuddered. I decided it showed the heart. It burns inside and shines through your chest.

I showed my mother the glowing heart.

Do you see? - I said in a whisper.

Why does it glow?

Mom thought and said quietly:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

“It will be,” said my mother.

I immediately got to work. I carried firewood, turned hay, and even volunteered to go fetch water. And every time, after finishing the job, he asked:

Is it glowing?

And mom nodded her head.

1 part

The forge stood on the edge of the village. It gave off a bitter smoke, like a samovar, and the earth shook from the ringing intermittent blows of a heavy hammer. I cautiously looked inside the forge and heard the leather bellows wheezing and the fire awakening in the forge with a slight whistle. The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. And the flame of the forge was reflected on the wet chest. The blacksmith swung the hammer, tilted the body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And every time the reflection on the chest trembled. And I decided that it was the blacksmith’s heart that was glowing. It burns inside and shines through your chest.

I showed my mother the glowing heart and asked:

Do you see the heart?

“I see,” my mother responded.

Why does it glow?
Mom thought and answered:

From work.

“And if I work, will my heart glow?” I suddenly asked.

Use 1 color to show your attitude to the part you read. Discuss in a group and find similarities.

FRONT DISCUSSION

WHY DID YOU CHOOSE THIS COLOR, EXPLAIN WITH AN EXAMPLE FROM THE TEXT?

My parents were hard workers. I remember how they got ready for work in the morning. They hurriedly drank tea. They looked at their watches, afraid of being late. It seemed to me then that they were rushing to catch a train or had matters of national importance awaiting them. Maybe they are in a hurry to build dams, invent new machines? But their work was very ordinary: this is what I concluded from the conversation between my parents.

WRITE OUT 1 SENTENCE OR PHRASE that reflects the main thing in this part.

FRONT DISCUSSION

One day my dad took me to work with him, to the seaport. I saw ocean ships, cranes with long necks like giraffes, double-decker logging trucks. The port smelled of the sea and fresh boards. Next to the huge ships and cranes, my dad seemed small and quiet to me. But when I realized that it was by his will that huge bundles of logs and boards easily flew above the ground and disappeared into the deep holds of the ship, he began to seem huge to me. Okay, beautiful work resembled a performance. It became clear why dad was in such a hurry to get to work, why he and mom loved work so much.

Having made this discovery, I was very surprised. After all, I used to think that the most beautiful thing was to do nothing. Over time, I asked myself the question: “What can’t a person live without?” “No air. Without water. Without bread,” I answered myself.

But it turned out that a person cannot live without work.

Write down a sentence that reflects the main thing - “What can’t a person live without?”

Discuss in groups, note the similarities. Choose the most successful answer and who will answer the speaker?

How many == Do you have any match(s)

FRONT DISCUSSION

Work. What a wonderful word this is! Work. Work. Don't be afraid of difficulties. It is no coincidence that in many words of our language “labor” is the root.

But “labor” is not only the root of many words. Labor is the root of all our life.

(don't pay attention to the assignments)

Read the recorded conversation and determine its topic. How many people are in the conversation? What is dialogue? How does each line of dialogue stand out in writing?

Guys, you sometimes ask why I didn’t give an excellent mark for the oral answer. How do you think you should answer to get an A? - Tatyana Ivanovna addressed the class.

Vanya was the first to answer, as always:

I think, first of all, you need to listen to the teacher and answer his question. If they ask for a definition, then you need to say it verbatim, as in the textbook, and give examples. If you are given a task to explain the spelling of words, then you need to refer to the rule.

And when they ask for a rule, they must not only say it, but also immediately give examples. “So it becomes clear to both yourself and the teacher that you understand what we are talking about,” Anya added.

You guys didn’t say how to answer in order for the grade to be excellent,” Tatyana Ivanovna noted.

Anya immediately understood what the teacher was talking about:

I think you need to answer clearly and confidently.

Yes, you’re right, all this is important to get an A for the oral answer,” Tatyana Ivanovna agreed.

Tell me, Tatyana Ivanovna, is this dialogue of ours a text? - Vanya became interested.

All our remarks relate to the same topic and are related to each other. And of course, this is a text,” Tatyana Ivanovna answered.

53. Read the polylogue that arose at the parent meeting. What is its theme and main idea? Prove that this is text.

teacher After the greeting, she took the floor first: “I would like to discuss an important issue with you.” Gorky wrote that proving to a person the importance of knowledge is the same as convincing him of the usefulness of vision. However, our children have to prove it. How would you convince them that they need knowledge?

Joined the conversation Maria Viktorovna:

Knowledge gives freedom. If we know a lot, then we are free to choose a profession and friends; we consciously choose our path.

And I believe that knowledge helps develop thinking. If training is needed to develop muscles, then knowledge is also needed to develop thinking,” Ivan Dmitrievich confidently supported the conversation.

A person who has knowledge sees the world as more diverse and multifaceted. With each new knowledge, some unknown part of the world begins to come to life, breathe, becomes understandable, close.

It seems to me - summed it up teacher, - that the school gives knowledge about the world as a holistic picture. Each person can bring something good, useful, and beautiful into this picture with his life. This is what I would like to convey to our children.

54. Select a dialogue from the text, copy it, add punctuation marks. Read it role-by-role, expressively. How would you title the text?

The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. The flame of the forge reflected on his wet chest. The blacksmith swung his hammer, tilted his body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And every time the reflection of the flame shuddered. I decided it showed the heart. It burns inside and shines through your chest.

I showed my mother the glowing heart.

Do you see? I said in a whisper.

Why does it glow? Mom thought and said quietly: From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

Mom said it will.

(Yu. Yakovlev)

Compare the picture and text. Tell us about the blacksmith who is shown in the picture, taking into account the content of the text,

55. Read an excerpt from R. Rozhdestvensky’s poem “Spring Monologue.” Why do you think the poet named the poem that way?

Everything spring:
hints and actions
thoughtless steps along the pavement.
Everything spring:
boulevards and colds,
wind,
smelling like yesterday's grass.
I believe that there is a smile
in this wind.
I believe in kindness and strength
draft.<...>
And I don't believe it
only in blue snow.

I saw a glowing heart in the forge. The forge stood on the edge of the village. The smell of coal smoke reeked from her, and she shook from the ringing intermittent blows. I heard the leather bellows breathing wheezingly and how their breath in the forge awakened the fire in the coals with a slight whistle.

The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. The flame of the forge reflected on his wet chest. The blacksmith swung his hammer, tilted his body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And every time the reflection of the flame shuddered. I decided it showed the heart. It burns inside and shines through your chest.

I showed my mother the glowing heart.

Do you see? - I said in a whisper.

Why does it glow?

Mom thought and said quietly:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

“It will be,” said my mother.

I immediately got to work. I carried firewood, turned hay, and even volunteered to go fetch water. And every time, after finishing the job, he asked:

Is it glowing?

And mom nodded her head.

And the uncut double with an abrasion on his forehead reminded me of how he found a shell fragment on the ground and showed it to my mother:

Look what a stone!

“It’s not a stone,” my mother answered. - This is a shell fragment.

Did the shell crash?

It exploded into many pieces.

To kill.

I threw the fragment on the ground and glanced at it warily.

“Don’t be afraid,” my mother said, “he won’t kill anyone.” He himself is dead.

How do you know? - I asked my mother.

I was a sister of mercy.

I looked at my mother as if she were a stranger. I couldn’t understand what the sister of mercy had to do with my mother.

At that distant moment, neither she nor I could even imagine that ten years later I would be lying on the ground in an overcoat, wearing a helmet, with a rifle pressed to my side, and such stones with sharp edges would fly at me. Not dead, but alive. Not for life, but for death.

The land truly opened up to me during the war. I dug up so much earth during the war! I dug trenches, trenches, dugouts, communication passages, graves... I dug the earth and lived in the earth. I learned the saving quality of the earth: under heavy fire, I pressed myself against it in the hope that death would pass me by. This was my mother’s land, my native land, and she kept me with maternal fidelity.

I saw the earth as close as I had ever seen before. I approached her like an ant. It stuck to my clothes, to my soles, to the shovel - I was all magnetized, and it was iron. The earth was my refuge, my bed, and my table; it thundered and sank into silence. They lived on earth, died, and less often were born.

Once, only once, the earth did not save me.

I woke up in a cart, on the hay. I felt no pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. The lips, head, and chest were thirsty. Everything that was alive in me wanted to drink. It was the thirst of a burning house. I was burning with thirst.

And suddenly I thought that the only person who could tackle me was my mother. A forgotten childhood feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. She will quench thirst, take away pain, calm, save. And I started calling her.

I knew that she would respond and come. And she appeared. And immediately the roar ceased, and cold, life-giving water poured out to extinguish the fire: it flowed over the lips, down the chin, down the collar. Mom supported my head, carefully, afraid of causing pain. She gave me water from a cold ladle and took death away from me.

I felt the familiar touch of a hand and heard a familiar voice:

Son! Son, dear...

I couldn't open my eyes. But I saw my mother. I recognized her hand, her voice. I came to life from her mercy. My lips parted and I whispered: