The morning dawn, little by little, flares up soon. Test dictation by topic

Control dictations. 10 - 11 grades

Extraordinary days

Voropaev entered Bucharest with a wound that had not yet healed, received by him in the battle for Chisinau. The day was bright and perhaps a little windy. He flew into the city on a tank with scouts and then was left alone. As a matter of fact, he should have been in the hospital, but how can you lie down on the day you enter the blindingly white city, seething with excitement? He did not sit down until late at night, but still wandered the streets, entering into conversations, explaining something or simply hugging someone without words, and his Chisinau wound healed, as if cured by a magic potion.

And the next wound, accidentally received after Bucharest, although it was lighter than the previous one, it healed inexplicably long, almost to Sophia herself.

But when, leaning on a stick, he got off the staff bus to the square in the center of the Bulgarian capital and, not waiting to be hugged, he himself began to hug and kiss everyone who fell into his arms, something pinched in the wound, and she froze . At that time he could hardly stand on his feet, his head was spinning, and his fingers grew cold - he was so tired during the day, for he spoke for hours in the squares, in the barracks, and even from the pulpit of the church, where he was carried in his arms. He talked about Russia and the Slavs as if he was at least a thousand years old.

***

There was silence, all that could be heard was the snorting and chewing of the horses and the snoring of the sleeping ones. Somewhere a lapwing was crying, and occasionally there was a squeak of snipes, who flew in to see if the uninvited guests had left.

Yegorushka, out of breath from the heat, which was especially felt after eating, ran to the sedge and looked around the area from there. He saw the same thing that he had seen before noon: the plain, the hills, the sky, the purple distance. Only the hills stood closer, but there was no mill, which remained far behind. Having nothing to do, Yegorushka caught the violinist in the ravine, raised him in his fist to his ear and listened for a long time as he played his violin. When the music got tired, he chased after a crowd of yellow butterflies that flew to the sedge to drink, and did not notice himself how he found himself again near the britzka.

Suddenly, a soft hum was heard. The song, quiet, lingering and mournful, like a cry and barely audible, was heard now from the right, now from the left, now from above, now from under the ground, as if an invisible spirit was hovering over the steppe and singing. Yegorushka looked around and did not understand where this strange song came from. Later, when he listened, it began to seem to him that the grass was singing. In her song, half-dead, already dead, without words, but plaintively and sincerely, she convinced someone that she was not to blame for anything, that the sun burned her out in vain; she assured me that she passionately wanted to live, that she was still young and would be beautiful if it were not for the heat and the drought. There was no guilt, but she still asked someone for forgiveness and swore that she was unbearably hurt, sad and sorry for herself.(According to A.P. Chekhov) (241 words)

***

Often in autumn I would watch the falling leaves closely to catch that imperceptible split second when the leaf separates from the branch and begins to fall to the ground. I have read in old books about the sound of falling leaves, but I have never heard that sound. The rustle of leaves in the air seemed to me as unbelievable as stories about hearing the grass grow in spring.

I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the rattle of the city streets, could rest and catch the very clear and precise sounds of the autumn earth.

There are autumn nights, deafened and dumb, when calmness hangs over the black wooded edge.

It was such a night. The lantern illuminated the well, the old maple tree under the fence, and the wind-torn nasturtium bush.

I looked at the maple tree and saw how a red leaf carefully and slowly separated from the branch, shuddered, stopped for a moment in the air and began to fall obliquely at my feet, slightly rustling and swaying. For the first time I heard the rustle of a falling leaf - a vague sound, like a child's whisper.

Dangerous profession

In pursuit of interesting shots, photographers and cameramen often cross the line of reasonable risk.

Not dangerous, but almost impossible in nature, shooting wolves. It is dangerous to shoot lions, very dangerous - tigers. It is impossible to say in advance how the bear will behave - this strong and, contrary to the general idea, a very mobile beast. In the Caucasus, I broke a well-known rule: I climbed a mountain where a she-bear and cubs were grazing. The calculation was that, they say, autumn and the mother no longer protects her offspring so jealously. But I was wrong... At the click of a camera that captured two babies, a mother dozing somewhere nearby rushed towards me like a torpedo. I understood: in no case should you run away - the beast will rush after you. On the spot, the remaining man puzzled the bear: she suddenly braked sharply and, looking at me intently, rushed after the baby.

When shooting animals, you must, firstly, know their habits and, secondly, do not go on the rampage. All animals, with the possible exception of connecting rod bears, tend to avoid meeting people. Analyzing all the misfortunes, you see: the carelessness of man provoked the attack of the beast.

Telephoto lenses have long been invented to shoot animals without frightening them and without risking attack, most often forced. In addition, non-scared animals that do not mean your presence behave naturally. Most of the expressive shots were obtained by knowledge and patience, by understanding the distance, breaking which is unreasonable and even dangerous.

Path to the lake

The dawn is slowly getting brighter. Soon a ray of sun will touch the bare tops of the trees in autumn and gild the shining mirror of the lake. And nearby is a smaller lake, of a bizarre shape and color: the water in it is not blue, not green, not dark, but brownish. It is said that this specific shade is explained by the peculiarities of the composition of the local soil, the layer of which covers the lake bottom. Both of these lakes are united under the name of Borovoe Lakes, as the old-timers of these places dubbed them in ancient times. And to the southeast of the Borovoye Lakes, giant swamps stretch. These are also former lakes, overgrown for decades.

In this early hour of a wonderful golden autumn, we are moving towards a lake with an unpleasant name - Pogany Lake. We got up a long time ago, even before dawn, and began to equip ourselves for the journey. On the advice of the watchman who sheltered us, we took waterproof raincoats, hunting wading boots, prepared travel food so as not to waste time on kindling a fire, and set off.

For two hours we made our way to the lake, trying to find convenient approaches. At the cost of supernatural efforts, we overcame a thicket of some tenacious and thorny plant, then a half-rotted slum, and an island appeared ahead. Before reaching the wooded hillock, we fell into the thickets of lily of the valley, and its regular leaves, as if aligned by an unknown master who gave them a geometrically precise shape, crackled near our faces.

In these thickets for half an hour we indulged in peace. You raise your head, and above you the tops of pine trees rustle, resting on a pale blue sky, through which not heavy, but half-air, fidget clouds move in a summery way. After resting among the lilies of the valley, we again began to search mysterious lake. Located somewhere nearby, it was hidden from us by a thick overgrowth of grass.(247 words)

***

The supernatural efforts made by the hero to overcome various kinds of road obstacles were not in vain: the visit promised to be by no means without interest.

As soon as Chichikov, crouching down, stepped into the dark, wide passage, which had been added somehow, a cold breeze immediately blew over him, as from a cellar. From the passage he got into a room, also dark, with curtains drawn down, slightly illuminated by a light that did not descend from the ceiling, but ascended to the ceiling from under the wide crack at the bottom of the door. Throwing open this door, he finally found himself in the light and was overwhelmed by the disorder that presented itself. It seemed as if the floors were being washed in the house and all things were taken here and piled up at random. On one table there was even a broken chair and here - a clock with a stopped pendulum, to which the spider had already attached a bizarre web. Right there, leaning sideways against the wall, was a cupboard with antique silver, which had almost disappeared under a layer of dust, decanters and excellent Chinese porcelain, acquired God knows when. On the bureau, which had once been lined with a lovely mother-of-pearl mosaic, which had already fallen out in places and left only yellow grooves filled with glue, lay a great variety of all sorts of things: a pile of papers covered with small handwriting, covered with a greenish marble press with a handle in the shape of an egg at the top, some an old book bound in leather with a red edge, a lemon all shriveled up, no bigger than a hazelnut, a broken arm of a chair that had long since collapsed, a glass with some unattractive liquid and three flies, covered with a letter, a piece of a rag somewhere raised and two feathers, stained with ink. To top off the strange interior, several paintings were hung very closely and stupidly on the walls.

(According to N.V. Gogol)

***

I recall with inexplicable joy my childhood years in an old landowner's house in middle lane Russia.

Quiet, summer-like clear dawn. The first ray of sun through the loosely closed shutters gilds the tiled stove, freshly painted floors, freshly painted walls, hung with pictures on themes from children's fairy tales. What colors shimmering in the sun did not play here! Against a blue background, lilac princesses came to life, the pink prince took off his sword, hurrying to help his beloved, the trees shone blue in the winter hoarfrost, and spring lily of the valley bloomed nearby. And outside the window, a lovely summer day is gaining strength.

The dewy freshness of the early flowers of peonies, light and tender, bursts into the wide open old window.

The low house, hunched over, leaves, grows into the ground, and over it the late lilac is still blooming violently, as if in a hurry to cover its squalor with its white-purple luxury.

On the wooden narrow steps of the balcony, also rotten from time to time and swaying underfoot, we go down to swim to the river located near the house.

After swimming, we lie down to sunbathe near the thickets of coastal reeds. After a minute or two, touching a branch of a dense hazel growing on the right, closer to the sandy slope, a magpie scatters on a tree. What is she not talking about! A ringing chirping rushes towards her, and, growing, gradually, the many-voiced bird's hubbub fills the brightly colored summer garden.

After enjoying the swim, we return back. The glass door leading from the terrace is ajar. On the table in a simple earthenware pot is a bouquet of skillfully picked, just plucked, not yet blossoming flowers, and next to it, on a snow-white linen napkin, is a plate of honey, over which bright golden working bees curl with an even buzz.

How easy it is to breathe in the early morning! How long do you remember this feeling of happiness that you experience only in childhood!

Greatest shrine

Through the care of a dear friend, I received from Russia a small box of Karelian birch, filled with earth. I belong to people who love things, are not ashamed of feelings and are not afraid of crooked smiles. In youth, this is forgivable and understandable: in youth we want to be self-confident, reasonable and cruel - rarely respond to offense, control our face, restrain our heart from trembling. But the burden of years wins, and strict restraint of feelings no longer seems to be the best and most important thing. Now I am the way I am, I am ready and able to kneel before a box of Russian soil and say out loud, without fear of other people's ears: "I love you, the land that gave birth to me, and I recognize you as my greatest shrine."

And no skeptical philosophy, no intelligent cosmopolitanism will make me ashamed of my sensitivity, because love guides me, and it is not subject to reason and calculation.

The earth in the box dried up and turned into lumps of brown dust. I pour it carefully and carefully so as not to scatter it on the table in vain, and I think that of all the things of a person, the earth has always been both the most beloved and close.

For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.

(According to M.A. Osorgin)

Rose

Early in the morning, as soon as dawn broke, I returned to familiar places along untrodden paths. In the distance, obscure and foggy, I already imagined a picture of my native village. Hurriedly stepping on the uncut grass, I imagined how I would approach my house, rickety from antiquity, but still friendly and expensive. I wanted to quickly see the familiar street from childhood, the old well, our front garden with jasmine and rose bushes.

Immersed in my memories, I imperceptibly approached the outskirts and, surprised, stopped at the beginning of the street. At the very edge of the village stood a dilapidated house, not changed at all since I left here. All these years, for many years, wherever fate threw me, no matter how far I was from these places, I always invariably carried in my heart the image of my home, as a memory of happiness and spring ...

Our house! He, as before, is surrounded by greenery. True, the vegetation here has become more. In the center of the front garden, a large rose bush has grown, on which a delicate rose has blossomed. The flower garden is neglected, weeds are intertwined on the flowerbeds and paths that have grown into the ground, which have not been cleared by anyone and have not been sprinkled with sand for a long time. The wooden lattice, far from new, was completely peeled off, dried out and fell apart.

Nettles occupied a whole corner of the flower garden, as if they served as a backdrop for a delicate pale pink flower. But next to the nettle was a rose, and nothing else.

The rose blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the morning dew left a few tears on them, in which the sun played. Rose was crying. But everything around was so beautiful, so clean and clear on this spring morning ...

***

Behind the big house was an old garden, already wild, drowned out by weeds and bushes. I walked along the terrace, still strong and beautiful; through the glass door one could see a room with a parquet floor, probably a living room; an old piano, and engravings on the walls in wide mahogany frames - and nothing more. Only peonies and poppies survived from the former flower beds, which raised their white and bright red heads from the grass; young maples and elms, already plucked by cows, grew along the paths, stretching out, interfering with each other. It was dense, and the garden seemed impassable, but this was only near the house, where there were still poplars, pines and old lindens of the same age that had survived from the former alleys, and further behind them the garden was cleared for haymaking, and there was no longer soaring, the cobwebs did not climb into the mouth and eyes, the breeze blew; the farther inland, the more spacious, and cherries, plums, sprawling apple trees and pears were already growing in the open, so tall that it was not even believed that they were pears. This part of the garden was rented by our city merchants, and it was guarded from thieves and starlings by a foolish peasant who lived in a hut.

The garden, more and more thinned, turning into a real meadow, descended to the river, overgrown with green reeds and willows; near the mill dam there was a pool, deep and fishy, a small mill with a thatched roof roared angrily, frogs croaked furiously. On the water, smooth as a mirror, circles occasionally went round, and river lilies trembled, disturbed by cheerful fish. A quiet blue stretch beckoned to itself, promising coolness and peace.

Zoryanka

It happens that in the forest near some golden-red pine a knot will fall out of a white pine body. A year or two will pass, and a dawn will look at this hole - a small bird of exactly the same color as the bark of a pine tree. This bird will drag feathers, hay, fluff, twigs into an empty knot, build a warm nest for itself, jump onto a twig and sing. And so the bird begins spring.

After some time, or even right here, after the bird, a hunter comes and stops by a tree in anticipation of the evening dawn.

But now the song thrush, from some height on the hill, was the first to see the signs of dawn, whistled its signal. The dawn bird responded to him, flew out of the nest and, jumping from twig to twig, higher and higher, from there, from above, she also saw the dawn and answered the signal of the song thrush with her signal. The hunter, of course, heard the signal of the thrush and saw how the golden robin flew out, he even noticed that the golden robin, a small bird, opened its beak, but he simply did not hear what she peeped: the voice of the small bird did not reach the ground.

The birds were already praising the dawn above, but the man below could not see the dawn. The time has come - the dawn rose over the forest, the hunter saw: high on a knot, a bird will open its beak, then close it. It is the dawn sings, the dawn praises the dawn, but the song is not heard. The hunter still understands in his own way that the bird praises the dawn, and why he doesn’t hear songs is because she sings to praise the dawn, and not to be famous herself before people.

And so we believe that as soon as a person begins to praise the dawn, and not to be famous for the dawn himself, the spring of the person himself begins. All our real amateur hunters, from the smallest and simplest person to the largest, breathe only in order to glorify spring. And how many good people there is in the world, and none of them knows anything good about themselves, and everyone will get used to him so much that no one even guesses about him, how good he is, that he exists in the world for the sole purpose of glorifying the dawn and starting his own spring man.

***

The dawn was breaking, it was getting fresh, and it was time for me to get ready for the road. Passing through dense reed thickets, making my way through a thicket of inclined willows, I went to the bank of the river and quickly found my flat-bottomed boat. Before leaving, I checked the contents of my canvas bag. Everything was in place: a can of pork stew, smoked and stewed fish, a loaf of black bread, condensed milk, a skein of strong twine and many other things needed on the road.

Having driven away from the shore, I let go of the oars, and the boat quietly drifted downstream. Three hours later, around the turn of the river, the gilded domes of the church appeared clearly visible against the background of lead clouds near the horizon, but, according to my calculations, it was still not close to the city.

After walking a few steps along the cobbled street, I decided to mend my boots, or chaebots, which had been wet for a long time. The shoemaker was a dashing man of gypsy appearance. There was something extraordinarily attractive in the precise movements of his muscular arms.

Satisfying my hunger in the nearest cafe, where I had beetroot soup, liver with stewed potatoes and borzh, I went to wander around the city. My attention was drawn to the boardwalk stage, where multi-colored flags fluttered. The juggler has already finished his speech and bowed. He was replaced by a freckled dancer with reddish bangs and a yellow silk fan in her hands. After dancing some kind of tap-dance, she gave way to a clown in a star-shaped leotard. But the poor fellow was devoid of talent and not at all funny with his antics and jumps.

Having bypassed almost the entire town in half an hour, I settled down for the night on the banks of the river, hiding in an old waterproof raincoat.

Control dictation for grade 11 - September

Path to the lake

The dawn is slowly getting brighter. Soon a ray of sun will touch the bare tops of the trees in autumn and gild the shining mirror of the lake. And nearby is a smaller lake, of a bizarre shape and color: the water in it is not blue, not green, not dark, but brownish. They say that this specific shade is explained by the peculiarities of the composition of the local soil, the layer of which covers the lake bottom. Both of these lakes are united under the name of Borovoe Lakes, as the old-timers of these places dubbed them in ancient times. And to the southeast of the Borovoye Lakes, giant swamps stretch. These are also former lakes, overgrown for decades.

In these thickets for half an hour we indulged in peace. You raise your head, and above you the tops of pine trees rustle, resting on a pale blue sky, through which not heavy, but half-air, fidget clouds move in a summery way. Having rested among the lilies of the valley, we again began to look for the mysterious lake. Located somewhere nearby, it was hidden from us by a thick overgrowth of grass.

(247 words)

grammar task

Find a one-part sentence in the last paragraph, determine its type.
Find in the dictation 3 phrases with a subordinating connection, agreement, 3 - with a control connection, 3 - with an adjoining connection.

On the topic: methodological developments, presentations and notes

Control dictations for grade 6 according to the program of V.V. Babaitseva.

Final and for intermediate control dictations on all topics of the section "Morphology. Parts of speech. Spelling", studied in grade 6 ....

Grade 11

Dictation number 1.

Taimyr spring.

On a clear windy day, inhaling the smells of the awakened earth, we wander through the thawed patches of the tundra and observe a lot of curious phenomena. The combination of the high sky with the cold wind is unusual. Every now and then a partridge runs out from under the feet, falling to the ground; breaks off and immediately, like a shot, a tiny little knick-knack falls to the ground. Trying to lead the uninvited visitor away from its nest, the little sandpiper begins to tumble at its very feet. At the base of the stone placer, a voracious arctic fox, covered with shreds of faded wool, makes its way. Having caught up with the fragments of stones, the arctic fox makes a well-calculated jump and presses down the mouse that has jumped out with its paws. Farther on, a stoat, holding a silver fish in its teeth, gallops towards the heaped boulders.

Near slowly melting glaciers, plants will soon begin to revive and bloom. The first to bloom is a rose, which develops and fights for life even under a transparent cover of ice.

1. Perform a syntactic analysis of the sentence.

2. Make a derivational analysis of words.

Dictation number 2 with grammar tasks.

Path to the lake.

The dawn is slowly getting brighter. Soon a ray of sun will touch the bare tops of the trees in autumn and will gild the shining mirror of the lake.

In this early hour of a wonderful golden autumn, we are moving towards a lake with an unpleasant name - Pogany Lake. We got up a long time ago, even before dawn, and began to equip ourselves for the journey. On the advice of the watchman who sheltered us, we took waterproof raincoats, hunting bog boots, prepared travel food so as not to waste time on kindling a fire, and set off.

For two hours we made our way to the lake, trying to find convenient approaches. At the cost of supernatural effort, we overcame a thicket of some tenacious and thorny plant, then a half-rotted slum, and an island appeared ahead. Before reaching the wooded hillock, we fell into the thickets of lily of the valley, and its regular leaves, as if aligned by an unknown master who gave them a geometrically precise shape, rustled near our faces.

In these thickets for half an hour we indulged in peace. You raise your head, and above you the tops of pine trees rustle, retracting into a pale blue sky, through which not heavy, but half-air, fidget clouds move in a summery way. Having rested among the lilies of the valley, we again began to look for the mysterious lake. Located somewhere nearby, it was hidden from us by a thick growth of tall grass.

Specify the type of subordination
a) morning dawn
b) We are moving to the lake
c) flares up a little

Write out words with alternating vowels in the root

Find one-part sentences.

Control dictations in the Russian language grades 10 - 11

Extraordinary days

And the next wound, accidentally received after Bucharest, although it was lighter than the previous one, it healed inexplicably long, almost to Sophia herself.

I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the rattle of the city streets, could rest and catch the very clear and precise sounds of the autumn earth.

There are autumn nights, deafened and dumb, when calmness hangs over the black wooded edge.

It was such a night. The lantern illuminated the well, the old maple tree under the fence, and the wind-torn nasturtium bush.

Dangerous profession

In pursuit of interesting shots, photographers and cameramen often cross the line of reasonable risk.

Not dangerous, but almost impossible in nature, shooting wolves. It is dangerous to shoot lions, very dangerous - tigers. It is impossible to say in advance how the bear will behave - this strong and, contrary to the general idea, a very mobile beast. In the Caucasus, I broke a well-known rule: I climbed a mountain where a she-bear and cubs were grazing. The calculation was that, they say, autumn and the mother no longer protects her offspring so jealously. But I was wrong... At the click of a camera that captured two babies, the mother, dozing somewhere nearby, rushed towards me like a torpedo. I understood: in no case should you run away - the beast will rush after you. On the spot, the remaining man puzzled the bear: she suddenly braked sharply and, looking at me intently, rushed after the baby.

Path to the lake

In these thickets for half an hour we indulged in peace. You raise your head, and above you the tops of pine trees rustle, resting on a pale blue sky, through which not heavy, but half-air, fidget clouds move in a summery way. Having rested among the lilies of the valley, we again began to look for the mysterious lake. Located somewhere nearby, it was hidden from us by a thick overgrowth of grass. (247 words)

The supernatural efforts made by the hero to overcome various kinds of road obstacles were not in vain: the visit promised to be by no means without interest.

(According to N.V. Gogol)

I recall with inexplicable joy my childhood years in an old landowner's house in central Russia.

The dewy freshness of the early flowers of peonies, light and tender, bursts into the wide open old window.

The low house, hunched over, leaves, grows into the ground, and over it the late lilac is still blooming violently, as if in a hurry to cover its squalor with its white-purple luxury.

On the wooden narrow steps of the balcony, also rotten from time to time and swaying underfoot, we go down to swim to the river located near the house.

How easy it is to breathe in the early morning! How long do you remember this feeling of happiness that you experience only in childhood!

Greatest shrine

And no skeptical philosophy, no intelligent cosmopolitanism will make me ashamed of my sensitivity, because love guides me, and it is not subject to reason and calculation.

For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.

(According to M.A. Osorgin)

Rose

Nettles occupied a whole corner of the flower garden, as if they served as a backdrop for a delicate pale pink flower. But next to the nettle was a rose, and nothing else.

Zoryanka

After some time, or even right here, after the bird, a hunter comes and stops by a tree in anticipation of the evening dawn.

And so we believe that as soon as a person begins to praise the dawn, and not to be famous for the dawn himself, the spring of the person himself begins. All our real amateur hunters, from the smallest and simplest person to the largest, breathe only in order to glorify spring. And how many such good people there are in the world, and none of them know anything good about themselves, and everyone will get used to him so much that no one even guesses about him, how good he is, that he exists in the world for that only. praise the dawn and begin your spring of man.

Having bypassed almost the entire town in half an hour, I settled down for the night on the banks of the river, hiding in an old waterproof raincoat.

Attention 10th grade students!

The form of the exam for the winter session of the 2013/2014 academic year is a dictation and level B assignments.

The dictation is based on open texts. The algorithm for preparing for this form of the exam is as follows.

Read the first text, highlight difficult cases of writing words.
Write them down on a piece of paper and learn them.
Write these words down from memory or have someone dictate them.
Check what is written. In case of errors, write out correctly those words in which errors were made, learn and again write down from memory or from dictation. Achieve error-free writing.
Read the text again, explaining to yourself and graphically highlighting the conditions for punctuation marks.
Write a text under dictation, check with the original.
Repeat this algorithm with each subsequent text.
Level B assignments can be found in any USE preparation book and on the FIPI website. Having solved a few, you will prepare for the exam in this part.

Open texts of dictations

Path to the lake

The dawn is slowly getting brighter. Soon a ray of sun will touch the bare tops of the trees in autumn and gild the shining mirror of the lake. And nearby is a smaller lake, of a bizarre shape and color: the water in it is not blue, not green, not dark, but brownish. They say that this specific shade is explained by the peculiarities of the composition of the local soil, the layer of which covers the lake bottom. Both of these lakes are united under the name of Borovoe Lakes, as the old-timers of these places dubbed them in ancient times. And to the southeast of the Borovoye Lakes, giant swamps stretch. These are also former lakes, overgrown for decades.

For two hours we made our way to the lake, trying to find convenient approaches. At the cost of supernatural efforts, we overcame a thicket of some tenacious and thorny plant, then a half-rotted slum, and an island appeared ahead. Before reaching the wooded mound, we fell into the thickets of lily of the valley, and its regular leaves, as if aligned by an unknown master, crackled against our faces. (189 words)

In these thickets for half an hour we indulged in peace. You raise your head, and above you the tops of pines rustle, resting on a pale blue sky, through which half-air, fidget clouds move like in summer. Having rested among the lilies of the valley, we again began to look for the mysterious lake. (226 words)

I recall with inexplicable joy my childhood years in an old landowner's house in central Russia. Quiet, summer-like clear dawn. The first ray of sun through the loosely closed shutters gilds the tiled stove, freshly painted floors, freshly painted walls, hung with pictures on themes from children's fairy tales. What colors shimmering in the sun did not play here! Against a blue background, lilac princesses came to life, the pink prince took off his sword, hurrying to help his beloved, the trees shone blue in the winter hoarfrost, and spring lily of the valley bloomed nearby. And outside the window, a lovely summer day is gaining strength. The dewy freshness of the early flowers of peonies, light and tender, bursts into the wide open old window.

The low house, hunched over, leaves, grows into the ground, and over it the late lilac is still blooming violently, as if in a hurry to cover its squalor with its white-purple luxury.

On the wooden narrow steps of the balcony, also rotten from time to time and swaying underfoot, we go down to swim to the river located near the house.

How easy it is to breathe in the early morning! How long do you remember this feeling of happiness that you experience only in childhood! (198 words)

Nettles occupied a whole corner of the flower garden, as if they served as a backdrop for a delicate pale pink flower. But next to the nettle was a rose, and nothing else. (204 words)

old garden

Behind the big house was an old garden, already wild, drowned out by weeds and bushes. I walked along the terrace, still strong and beautiful; through the glass door one could see a room with a parquet floor, probably a living room; an old piano, and engravings on the walls in wide mahogany frames - and nothing more. Only peonies and poppies survived from the former flower beds, which raised their white and bright red heads from the grass; along the paths, stretching out, interfering with each other, grew young maples and elms, already plucked by cows. It was dense, and the garden seemed impenetrable, but it was only near the house, where there were still poplars, pines and old lindens of the same age that had survived from the former alleys, and further behind them the garden was cleared for haymaking, and there was no longer soaring, cobwebs did not climb into mouth and eyes, a breeze blew; the farther inland, the more spacious, and cherries, plums, sprawling apple trees and pears were already growing in the open, so tall that it was not even believed that they were pears. This part of the garden was rented by our city merchants, and it was guarded from thieves and starlings by a foolish peasant who lived in a hut.

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