Mr. Skrebitsky works for children. Stories about native nature

Stories about animals for younger students. Stories about animals by George Skrebitsky. stories for extracurricular reading V primary school. Stories about a cunning squirrel, an accommodating hedgehog and a caring mother of a fox.

G. Skrebitsky. thief

Once we were given a young squirrel. She very soon became completely tame, ran around all the rooms, climbed on cabinets, whatnots, and so deftly - she would never drop anything, she would not break anything.

In my father's study, huge deer antlers were nailed over the sofa. The squirrel often climbed them: it used to climb onto the horn and sit on it, like on a tree knot.

She knew us guys well. As soon as you enter the room, the squirrel jumps from somewhere from the closet right onto your shoulder. This means - she asks for sugar or candy. I really liked sweets.

Sweets and sugar in our dining room, in the buffet, lay. They were never locked up, because we children did not take anything without asking.

But somehow mom calls us all to the dining room and shows an empty vase:

Who took the candy from here?

We look at each other and are silent - we do not know which of us did this. Mom shook her head and said nothing. And the next day, the sugar from the buffet disappeared and again no one confessed that he had taken it. At this point, my father got angry, said that now everything will be locked up, and he won’t give us sweets all week.

And the squirrel, along with us, was left without sweets. He used to jump up on his shoulder, rub his muzzle against his cheek, pull his teeth behind his ear - he asks for sugar. And where to get it?

Once after dinner I sat quietly on the sofa in the dining room and read. Suddenly I see: the squirrel jumped up on the table, grabbed a crust of bread in its teeth - and on the floor, and from there to the cabinet. A minute later, I look, I climbed onto the table again, grabbed the second crust - and again on the cabinet.

“Wait,” I think, “where is she carrying all the bread?” I set up a chair, looked at the closet. I see my mother's old hat is lying. I lifted it - here you go! There is nothing under it: sugar, and sweets, and bread, and various bones ...

I go straight to my father, I show: “That's who our thief is!”

The father laughed and said:

How could I not have thought of this before! After all, it is our squirrel that makes reserves for the winter. Now it's autumn, in the wild all the squirrels are storing food, and ours is not far behind, it is also stocking up.

After such an incident, they stopped locking sweets from us, only they attached a hook to the sideboard so that the squirrel could not climb there. But the squirrel did not calm down on this, everything continued to prepare supplies for the winter. If he finds a crust of bread, a nut or a bone, he will grab it, run away and hide it somewhere.

And then we went somehow to the forest for mushrooms. They came late in the evening tired, ate - and rather sleep. They left a purse with mushrooms on the window: it’s cool there, they won’t go bad until morning.

We get up in the morning - the whole basket is empty. Where did the mushrooms go? Suddenly, the father screams from the office, calling us. We ran to him, we look - all the deer antlers above the sofa are hung with mushrooms. And on the towel hook, and behind the mirror, and behind the picture - mushrooms everywhere. This squirrel tried hard early in the morning: she hung mushrooms for herself to dry for the winter.

In the forest, squirrels always dry mushrooms on branches in autumn. So ours hastened. It looks like it's winter.

The cold really came soon. The squirrel kept trying to get somewhere in a corner, where it would be warmer, but once it disappeared altogether. Searched, searched for her - nowhere. Probably ran into the garden, and from there into the forest.

We felt sorry for the squirrels, but nothing can be done.

They gathered to heat the stove, closed the air vent, laid firewood, set it on fire. Suddenly, something is being brought in the stove, it will rustle! We quickly opened the air vent, and from there a squirrel jumped out like a bullet - and right on the cabinet.

And the smoke from the stove pours into the room, it doesn’t go up the chimney. What's happened? The brother made a hook out of thick wire and put it through the vent into the pipe to see if there was anything there.

We look - he drags a tie from the pipe, his mother's glove, even found his grandmother's festive scarf there.

All this our squirrel dragged into the pipe for its nest. That's what it is! Although he lives in the house, he does not leave forest habits. Such, apparently, is their squirrel nature.

G. Skrebitsky. caring mother

Once the shepherds caught a fox cub and brought it to us. We put the animal in an empty barn.

The cub was still small, all gray, the muzzle was dark, and the tail was white at the end. The animal huddled in the far corner of the barn and looked around frightened. From fear, he did not even bite when we stroked him, but only pressed his ears and trembled all over.

Mom poured milk into a bowl for him and put it right next to him. But the frightened animal did not drink milk.

Then dad said that the fox should be left alone - let him look around, get used to the new place.

I really didn't want to leave, but dad locked the door and we went home. It was already evening, and soon everyone went to bed.

I woke up at night. I hear a puppy yelping and whining somewhere very close by. Where do you think he came from? Looked out the window. It was already light outside. From the window I could see the barn where the fox was. It turns out that he was whining like a puppy.

Right behind the barn, the forest began.

Suddenly I saw a fox jump out of the bushes, stop, listen, and stealthily run up to the barn. Immediately, the yelping in it stopped, and a joyful squeal was heard instead.

I slowly woke my mom and dad, and we all started looking out the window together.

The fox was running around the barn, trying to dig the ground under it. But there was a strong stone foundation, and the fox could not do anything. Soon she ran away into the bushes, and the fox cub again began to whine loudly and plaintively.

I wanted to watch the fox all night, but dad said that she would not come again, and ordered me to go to bed.

I woke up late and, having dressed, first of all I hurried to visit the little fox. What is it? .. On the threshold near the door lay a dead hare. I rather ran to my dad and brought him with me.

- That's the thing! - said dad, seeing the hare. - This means that the fox mother once again came to the fox cub and brought him food. She could not get inside, so she left it outside. What a caring mother!

All day I hovered around the barn, looked into the cracks, and twice went with my mother to feed the fox. And in the evening I couldn’t fall asleep in any way, I kept jumping out of bed and looking out the window to see if the fox had come.

Finally, my mother got angry and covered the window with a dark curtain.

But in the morning I got up like light and immediately ran to the barn. This time, it was no longer a hare lying on the threshold, but a strangled neighbor's chicken. It can be seen that the fox again came to visit the fox cub at night. She failed to catch prey in the forest for him, so she climbed into the neighbors' chicken coop, strangled the chicken and brought it to her cub.

Dad had to pay for the chicken, and besides, he got a lot from the neighbors.

“Take the fox away wherever you want,” they shouted, “otherwise the fox will transfer the whole bird with us!”

There was nothing to do, dad had to put the fox in a bag and take it back to the forest, to the fox holes.

Since then, the fox has not returned to the village.

G. Skrebitsky. fluff

A hedgehog lived in our house, it was tame. When he was stroked, he pressed the thorns to his back and became completely soft. That's why we called him Fluff.

If Fluffy was hungry, he would chase me like a dog. At the same time, the hedgehog puffed, snorted and bit my legs, demanding food.

In the summer I took Fluff with me for a walk in the garden. He ran along the paths, caught frogs, beetles, snails and ate them with appetite.

When winter came, I stopped taking Fluffy for walks and kept him at home. We now fed Fluff with milk, soup, and soaked bread. A hedgehog used to eat up, climb behind the stove, curl up in a ball and sleep. And in the evening he will come out and start running around the rooms. He runs all night, stomping his paws, disturbing everyone's sleep. So he lived in our house for more than half the winter and never went outside.

But here I was about to go sledding down the mountain, but there were no comrades in the yard. I decided to take Pushka with me. He took out a box, spread hay there and planted a hedgehog, and to keep him warm, he also covered it with hay on top. I put the box in the sled and ran to the pond, where we always rolled down the mountain.

I ran at full speed, imagining myself a horse, and carried Pushka in a sledge.

It was very good: the sun was shining, the frost pinched the ears and nose. On the other hand, the wind died down completely, so that the smoke from the village chimneys did not swirl, but rested in straight pillars against the sky.

I looked at these pillars, and it seemed to me that it was not smoke at all, but thick blue ropes descended from the sky and small toy houses were tied to them by pipes below.

I rolled my fill from the mountain, drove the sled with the hedgehog home.

I'm taking it - suddenly guys meet me: they run to the village to watch the dead wolf. The hunters had just brought him there.

I quickly put the sled in the barn and also rushed to the village after the guys. We stayed there until the evening. They watched how the skin was removed from the wolf, how it was straightened on a wooden horn.

I remembered Pushka only the next day. He was very scared that he had run away somewhere. I immediately rushed to the barn, to the sled. I look - my Fluffy lies, curled up, in a box and does not move. No matter how much I shook him or shook him, he did not even move. During the night, apparently, he completely froze and died.

I ran to the guys, told about my misfortune. They all mourned together, but there was nothing to be done, and decided to bury Fluff in the garden, bury it in the snow in the very box in which he died.

For a whole week we all grieved for poor Pushka. And then they gave me a live owl - they caught it in our barn. He was wild. We began to tame him and forgot about Pushka.

But now spring has come, but what a warm one! Once in the morning I went to the garden: it is especially nice there in the spring - the finches sing, the sun is shining, there are huge puddles all around, like lakes. I make my way carefully along the path so as not to scoop up dirt in my galoshes. Suddenly ahead, in a pile of last year's leaves, something was brought in. I stopped. Who is this animal? Which? A familiar muzzle appeared from under the dark leaves, and black eyes looked straight at me.

Not remembering myself, I rushed to the animal. A second later I was already holding Fluffy in my hands, and he was sniffing my fingers, snorting and poking my palm with a cold nose, demanding food.

Right there on the ground lay a thawed box of hay, in which Fluffy slept safely all winter. I picked up the box, put the hedgehog in it, and triumphantly brought it home.

Born July 20, 1903 in Moscow in the family of a doctor. He spent his childhood in the small town of Chern, Tula province. Since childhood, he was interested in two things: nature and literature. Born July 20, 1903 in Moscow in the family of a doctor. He spent his childhood in the small town of Chern, Tula province. Since childhood, he was interested in two things: nature and literature.

The surname Skrebitsky appeared in the boy only at the age of four, when he was adopted by Nadezhda Nikolaevna Skrebitskaya, and remained with the future writer, even when he had a stepfather. The adoptive father of the future writer was an avid hunter and fisherman, and he managed to convey his sincere love for nature and his hobbies to the boy. The surname Skrebitsky appeared in the boy only at the age of four, when he was adopted by Nadezhda Nikolaevna Skrebitskaya, and remained with the future writer, even when he had a stepfather. The adoptive father of the future writer was an avid hunter and fisherman, and he managed to convey his sincere love for nature and his hobbies to the boy.

In 1921, Skrebitsky graduated from the Chern school and went to study in Moscow, where he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of the Word. Then he enters the Forestry Institute. And all later life thinks to connect with the study of nature. In 1921, Skrebitsky graduated from the Chern school and went to study in Moscow, where he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of the Word. Then he enters the Forestry Institute. And he thinks to connect his whole future life with the study of nature.

The fact that the boy's mom and dad are not relatives is impossible to guess in his childhood memories. The family had love and care, understanding, common interests and activities - fishing and hunting, building a birdhouse, observing behavior unusual pets. Is there anything else needed for children's happiness? ..

Let them, my very young readers, learn about how interesting the life of any, even the most ordinary animals; let them try to carefully observe them, fall in love with them, and through them learn to understand and love all of our fabulously rich native nature.” Georgy Skrebitsky

Co-authorship with the writer Together with the writer Vera Chaplina, Georgy Skrebitsky writes short stories about nature in the magazine "Murzilka" and in the book of the first grader " Native speech”, creates scripts for the cartoons “Forest Travelers”, “In the Forest Thicket”. Together with the writer Vera Chaplina, Georgy Skrebitsky writes short stories about nature in the Murzilka magazine and in the first grader's book Native Speech, creates scripts for the cartoons Forest Travelers, In the Forest Thicket.

PORTRAIT OF THE WRITER PORTRAIT OF THE WRITER COVER OF THE BOOK "WITH A GUN AND WITHOUT A GUN" 4. JPG - COVER OF THE BOOK "FRIENDS OF MY CHILDHOOD" 5. JPG - COVER OF THE BOOK "FLUFF" 6. - COVER OF THE BOOK "FOOD VOICE" 7. JPG - COVER KA "STORIES AND TALES ABOUT ANIMALS AND NATURE» 8. KY0001. JPG - PICTURE 9 D0%BD%D0%B0-1. JPG - Portrait of V. Chaplin JPG - cover of the book “Spring” The cover of the book “Tales of the Square” PNG - cover of the book “Polya Family” Information about the writer Grave of the writer KY0001.jpghttp: // 0_%D0%A7%D0%B0%D0 D0 %BF%D0%BB%D0%B8%D0%BD%D0%B0-1. JPG - USED RESOURCES

Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky(July 20, 1903 - August 18, 1964) - a famous naturalist writer.
Georgy Skrebitsky was born in Moscow, in the family of a doctor. His childhood years were spent in the provincial town of Chern, Tula province, and childhood impressions of the dim nature of these places remained forever in the memory of the future writer.
In 1921, Skrebitsky graduated from the Chern school of the 2nd stage and went to study in Moscow, where in 1925 he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of the Word. Then he entered the Moscow Higher Forestry Engineering Institute, after which (1930) he worked at the All-Union Institute of Fur Farming, in the laboratory of zoopsychology of the Institute of Psychology at Moscow State University. Candidate of Biological Sciences (1937).
However, not the scientific career of a naturalist-researcher, but literary creativity becomes the main thing in the life of Georgy Skrebitsky from the end of the 1930s. In 1939, according to the script written by him, the popular science film "The Island of White Birds" was released, the material for which was a scientific expedition to the bird nests of the White Sea.
At the same time, the writer's own debut took place: the story "Ushan" was published. “This,” said Georgy Alekseevich later, “is like a crack through which I looked into the country of the past, the country of my childhood” (“Leaf Fall. Instead of a Preface”).
Already the first collections of Skrebitsky's "Coot and Cunning" (1944), "Hunter's Tales" (1948) put him among the best children's naturalist writers.
Since the late 1940s, the well-known animal writer Vera Chaplina has become a like-minded and literary co-author of Georgy Skrebitsky. In their joint work, they also turned to the smallest readers - they wrote very short educational stories about nature for them in the Murzilka magazine and in the book for first-graders "Native speech". But these simple and easy-to-read texts turned out to be technically very hard work for real writers and connoisseurs of nature, which Skrebitsky and Chaplin were in full measure. It was important for them, while achieving simplicity, not to stray into primitiveness. Special accuracy of the word was required, the rhythm of each phrase was verified in order to give the kids a figurative and at the same time true idea of ​​“How the squirrel hibernates” or how the cockchafer lives.
In collaboration with Skrebitsky and Chaplin, they create scripts for the cartoons Forest Travelers (1951) and In the Forest Thicket (1954). After a joint trip to Western Belarus, they publish a book of essays "In Belovezhskaya Pushcha" (1949).
In the 1950s, Skrebitsky continued to work on his new collections of short stories: In the Forest and on the River (1952), Our Reserves (1957). The result of the writer's work were two autobiographical novels "From the first thawed patches to the first thunderstorm" (1964) and "Chicks grow wings" (1966); the text of the last story remained unfinished - after the death of Georgy Skrebitsky, Vera Chaplina prepared it for publication.
Artworks
"Coot and Cunning" (1944)
"Hunter's Tales" (1948)
"Hunting trails" (Voenizdat, M., 1949)
"In the forest and on the river" (1952)
"Our Reserves" (1957)
"Leaf Fall" (Detgiz, 1960)
"From the first thawed patches to the first thunderstorm" (1964)
"Chicks Grow Wings" (1966)

Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky was born on July 20 (August 2), 1903 in Moscow. At the age of four, still a baby, he was adopted by Nadezhda Nikolaevna Skrebitskaya. Some time later, Nadezhda Nikolaevna marries a zemstvo doctor Alexei Mikhailovich Polilov, after which the whole family moves to live in the Tula province, in the small town of Chern. In the family where the boy grew up, they loved nature very much, and the adoptive father of the future writer was an avid hunter and fisherman, and he managed to pass on his hobbies to the boy. Sincere love for nature, which appeared and realized in childhood and youth, has become the benchmark of all life path Georgy Skrebitsky, giving an incomparable originality to his work. Georgy Skrebitsky often recalled that since childhood he was most interested in two things: natural history and fiction. And he managed to embody both of these professions, successfully combined with one another and gave us a wonderful naturalist writer.

In 1921, Georgy Alekseevich graduated from the Chern school of the 2nd stage and went to study in Moscow, where in 1925 he graduated from the literary department at the Institute of the Word. After that, he turned to his other passion and entered the Faculty of Game Science and Fur Breeding at the Higher Zootechnical Institute in order to thoroughly study the world of nature and animals close to him since childhood. After graduating from this institute, Georgy Skrebitsky became a researcher at the All-Union research institute animal husbandry and hunting. Here he worked for five years, and these years became an excellent scientific school for him, because every year in the summer he went on various expeditions and participated in the study of the natural life of animals.

Later, Georgy Alekseevich becomes a researcher in the laboratory of zoopsychology at the Institute of Psychology at Moscow State University. Here he became a candidate of biological sciences, and took the position of assistant professor at the Department of Animal Physiology at Moscow University. He traveled a lot on various expeditions, in which he observed the life of animals in their natural environment. During this time he wrote a lot scientific papers in zoology and zoopsychology. But in the memory of Georgy Alekseevich, memories of childhood, of the very first meetings with native nature, constantly surfaced. Scientific work constantly enriched knowledge about the nature and life of animals, and hunting trips often turned into truly adventure stories. Georgy Skrebitsky begins to write down his memoirs, addressing them to all those readers who are not indifferent to the nature around them.

Thus, the unification of two favorite professions in one person began, and Georgy Alekseevich realized his true calling - to be a singer of his native nature. Georgy Skrebitsky wrote his first story - "Ushan", about a leaf-falling hare - in 1939, after which he devoted himself completely to writing a variety of literary works dedicated to nature. His books have always enjoyed great popularity both in our country and in many other countries. foreign countries, being translated into many foreign languages- Bulgarian, German, Albanian, Hungarian, Slovak, Czech, Polish and others.

pinnacle creative talent Georgy Skrebitsky are considered to be two big books which he wrote in last years own life. This is a wonderful story about childhood "From the first thaw to the first thunderstorm" and a wonderful story about youth "Chicks grow wings." This autobiographical works, whose action takes place for the most part in Cherni in the decades before October Revolution and in the first years after the formation Soviet power. These books crown creative way Georgy Skrebitsky, they especially expressively revealed the bright features of his literary talent, which is directly related to a subtle understanding of the natural world and its most diverse inhabitants. Children's and youthful perceptions help especially accurately convey the story of a whole period of Russian life, which was marked by significant historical events. Georgy Skrebitsky's works are written with great warmth, they are unusually poetic and kind.

In the summer of 1964, Georgy Alekseevich felt unwell, and with an attack of acute pain in his heart, he was taken to the hospital.
Georgy Alekseevich Skrebitsky died on August 18, 1964, he died of a heart attack, was buried in Moscow at the Vagankovsky cemetery.

This publication includes stories about animals written for children by the famous naturalist writer G. A. Skrebitsky (1903–1964).

For younger age.

G. Skrebitsky
Hunter's Tales

Filyusha

Out of breath, village children ran into my room.

Uncle, who did we find! Oh, who did we find! They turn their eyes like that! .. - they all started clamoring at once, interrupting each other.

From the confused stories of the guys, I only understood that they found a den in the forest with some gray shaggy animals, probably with wolf cubs. I took a gun and, together with the children, went into the forest.

They led me to the very wilderness, to an old, swampy burned-out area.

Dark, half-rotted trunks of trees piled on top of one another all around. I had to crawl under them, then climb over solid barriers. The twisted roots stuck up like the tentacles of giant octopuses. In the pits below them blackened, thick as tar, swamp water.

A young green birch forest and various swamp grasses have grown densely between the decaying trees.

Where are we going? I asked my guides.

And over there on that mane. There, at the very edge ... - they started talking, pointing to a small mound overgrown with pine trees.

And what about the mother herself with them? they said. - Oh, and she will ask us - you won’t climb anymore.

I had little idea what kind of animals the children found, and therefore, I confess, I also approached the mysterious lair not without timidity. Maybe there are not wolves, but a lynx! With her, the conversation will be worse. The she-wolf is cowardly, in case of danger she will run away from the children, and the lynx, perhaps, can rush.

The kids let me go ahead, and they themselves huddled behind me.

There, there, you see, the pine tree is fallen down, under the roots like a hole. They are sitting there ... all gray, shaggy, their eyes are burning ... Terrible! ..

I cocked the trigger of my gun and began to cautiously approach the lair. Approaching ten steps, I whistled and prepared to shoot. But no one showed up from under the pine tree. I stepped closer and whistled again. Nobody again.

Is there anyone there? Maybe they all ran away?

I got close to the pine itself and looked under the roots.

I see two gray fluffy creatures huddling together. I took a closer look and almost cried out in surprise: in a hole under the roots were two gray shaggy owls. "Well, birds! But I almost mistook them for animals. Yes, what funny, big-eyed! I'll take one, I think, - one home, I'll take it to the city, to a school living corner. The guys will be delighted!"

I wrapped my hand in a handkerchief so that the owl would not hurt me, and with some difficulty pulled out from under the roots of a large, desperately resisting chick.

The guys surrounded me.

Well, it's scary! And look, look, look! And it doesn't even look like a bird!

The little owl was already almost as old as an owl, with a huge head and yellow cat eyes; all in brown-gray down, in some places feathers were already breaking through.

He looked around frightened, opened his mouth and hissed angrily.

We brought him home and put him in a spacious closet.

The caught owl very soon got used to me. When I entered the closet, he no longer huddled in a corner, but, on the contrary, clumsily ran towards me, opened his mouth and demanded food.

I fed him finely chopped raw meat which he ate with great greed. I named him Filyusha.

Filyusha felt great; it grew rapidly and was covered with feathers. Often, sitting on the floor, he began to flap his wings and bounce, trying to take off.

Once, when I entered the closet, I did not find the owl in its usual place - in the corner behind the box. I searched the whole closet - Filyusha was nowhere to be found. So he got away somehow.

I was very annoyed and sorry for the filinenka. “After all, he still doesn’t know how to fly, he won’t be able to feed himself, he’ll hide somewhere under a barn or under a house and die,” I thought.

Suddenly, someone moved over me. I look, and this is Filyusha: he is sitting on a shelf near the ceiling and looking at me.

I rejoiced, I told him:

There you are, robber, climbed! This means that the wings are stronger than steel; soon you will be able to fly.

After that, I pass once by a closet. Suddenly I hear - there is noise, some kind of fuss. I opened the door, I looked - Filyusha was sitting in the middle of the floor; all fluffed up, hisses at me, clicks with his beak.

I can't figure out what happened to him. I took a closer look: I see - and a huge rat sticks out from under the owl's paw.

"That's how interesting it is!" I thought.

Filyusha ate the rat, down to the last bone, and also ate the skin, then he flew up to his shelf, sat down there and dozed off. And in the morning I look - on the floor under the shelf lies a hard gray lump: it was Filyusha who spat out the rest.

Birds of prey always do this: they swallow their prey in whole pieces, with bones, with wool, with feathers. The meat in their stomach will be digested, and everything inedible will stick together into a hard lump. They will spit it out. Such lumps are called riddles.

Ever since Filyusha caught the rat, I stopped feeding him minced meat, and started shooting sparrows, jackdaws, and crows for him. I will bring and throw the dead bird on the floor. The filyusha will immediately fluff up all over, aim at the prey as if it were alive, then rush from the shelf, grab it with its claws and begin to tear it with its hooked beak. Eat - and back on the shelf.

One day, yard dogs strangled a hedgehog. I have long heard that eagle owls love hedgehog meat. I took a hedgehog, I carry Filyusha and I think: “How will he tear off the meat from the skin with needles from the hedgehog?

Filyusha only saw the hedgehog, rushed at him, clung to the prey with his claws and began to tear off large pieces of meat. Tears and swallows, right along with the skin, with thorns.

I froze - the needles are sharp, how can he not pierce his entire mouth and stomach with them? And Filyusha, at least that! He ate the whole meal.

The whole day I was restless - I was afraid that the eagle owl would get sick from such a "prickly dinner". Several times I went to visit him, but Filyusha was dozing peacefully on his shelf.

The next morning I found two pellets with hedgehog needles on the floor.

It has been about a month since I brought the eagle owl from the forest. Now he flew quite well around the closet.

Once I was sitting in the yard near the house. Suddenly I see - Filyusha flies out of the open passage. That's right, by accident the door to the closet was left open.

Before I could gasp, the owl was already sitting on the roof. Bright sunlight blinded him, he turned his huge head in surprise and did not dare to fly further.

I rushed to the attic stairs, but at that moment Filyusha flapped his huge soft wings and quietly flew across the yard to the birch grove.

I ran after him, not knowing what to do. "My gift to the guys flew away!"

Suddenly, a whole flock of rooks broke from the birches. With a loud croak they pounced on Filyusha. Wings and feathers flashed in the air. Everything mixed up and flew down.