Read online “Native Land. Works of Russian writers about the Motherland. The image of the motherland in the works of Russian classics

This is my homeland, my native land, my fatherland,

- and there is nothing hotter in life,

deeper and more sacred feelings,

than love for you...

A.N. Tolstoy

“The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” - the greatest patriotic poem of Ancient Rus' .

Illustrations for “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” by V.A. Favorsky. From woodcuts.
The pinnacle of lyricism is recognized as “The Lament of Yaroslavna,” the wife of the captured Igor: “I will fly like a cuckoo along the Danube, I will wet my silk sleeve in the Kayala River, I will wipe the prince’s bloody wounds on his mighty body.” Yaroslavna turns with a plaintive lament to the forces of nature - the Wind, the Dnieper, the Sun, reproaching them for the misfortune that befell her husband and imploring them to help him.

Homeland in the life and work of N.M. Karamzin

“...We must nurture love for the fatherland and a feeling for the people... It seems to me that I see how people’s pride and love of fame are increasing in Russia with new generations!.. And those cold people who do not believe the strong influence of the graceful on the education of souls and laugh at the romantic patriotism, is it worthy of an answer? These words belong to N. Karamzin, and they appeared in the journal “Bulletin of Europe” founded by him. This is how the birth of Karamzin the writer happened, about whom Belinsky would later say: “Karamzin began new era Russian literature". The homeland occupied a special place in Karamzin’s life and work. Each writer revealed the theme of his homeland using the example of different images: his native land, familiar landscapes, and Karamzin used the example of the history of his country, and his main work is “History of the Russian State”

“The History of the Russian State” is an epic creation that tells the story of the life of a country that has passed through a difficult and glorious path. The undoubted hero of this work is Russian national character, taken in development, formation, in all its endless originality, combining features that seem incompatible at first glance. Many people later wrote about Russia, but the world had not yet seen its true history before Karamzin’s work, translated into the most important languages. From 1804 to 1826, over 20 years that Karamzin devoted to the “History of the Russian State,” the writer decided for himself the question of whether he should write about his ancestors with the impartiality of a researcher studying ciliates: “I know, we need the impartiality of a historian: sorry, I don’t always could hide his love for the Fatherland..."

The article “On Love for the Fatherland and National Pride,” written in 1802, was the most complete expression of Karamzin’s views. It is the fruit of long thought, a confession of the philosophy of happiness. Dividing love for the fatherland into physical, moral and political, Karamzin eloquently shows their characteristics and properties. A person, Karamzin claims, loves the place of his birth and upbringing - this affection is common to everyone, “a matter of nature and should be called physical”
Nowadays, it is especially clear that without Karamzin, without his “History of the Russian State,” not only Zhukovsky, Ryleev’s “Dumas,” Odoevsky’s ballads, but also Dostoevsky, L.N. Tolstoy, A.N. Tolstoy would have been impossible.

A.S. Pushkin - historian, philosopher, politician, man and patriot.

Pushkin embodied world harmony in his poetic word, and although he, a passionate poet, had so much immediate life and curiosity about it that he could have given himself to life selflessly. And that is why Pushkin is the most precious thing that Russia has, the dearest and closest to each of us; and that is why, as one researcher of Russian literature noted, it is difficult for us to talk about him calmly, without enthusiasm.

Pushkin was more than a poet. He was a historian, philosopher, politician, a Man, and, of course, an ardent patriot of his homeland, representing the era.

The image of Peter I - the “lord of fate” - is integral to Russia.

Pushkin saw in the image of Peter I an exemplary ruler of the Russian state. He speaks of the glorious reign of Peter, calling him “the master of fate”, who raised “Russia on its hind legs” and opened a “window to Europe”.

The Motherland as an object of love, pride, poetic understanding of its fate in the works of M.Yu. Lermontov.

There, behind the joys comes reproach.

There is a man groaning from slavery and chains!

Friend! This is the land... my homeland.

In Lermontov’s lyrical works, the Motherland is an object of love, a poetic understanding of its fate and its future. For him, this concept has a broad, rich and multifaceted content. Lermontov's poems are almost always an internal, intense monologue, a sincere confession, questions asked to oneself and answers to them.

Already in early works Lermontov can be found in his thoughts about the future of Russia. One of these thoughts is the poem “Prediction”. The sixteen-year-old poet, who hated tyranny, political oppression and the Nicholas reaction, which came after the defeat of the revolutionary action of the best part of the Russian nobility, predicts the inevitable death of the autocracy: “... the crown of the kings will fall.”

Homeland is the theme of Lermontov’s lyrics, which developed throughout the poet’s entire work.

But I love - why, I don’t know
Its steppes are coldly silent,
Her boundless forests sway,
The floods of its rivers are like seas. \

Undoubtedly, Lermontov became a national poet. Some of his poems were set to music and became songs and romances, such as “I go out alone on the road...” In less than 27 years of his life, the poet created so much that he forever glorified Russian literature and continued the work of the great Russian poet Pushkin, becoming on par with him. Lermontov's view of Russia, his critical love for his homeland turned out to be close to the next generations of Russian writers, influenced the work of such poets as A. Blok, Nekrasov, and especially the work of Ivan Bunin.

Searching for an answer to the question “To be or not to be Russia?” in the works of I.A. Bunin.

It is difficult to imagine next to Bunin any of the writers of the 20th century who caused equally opposite assessments. The “eternal religious conscience” of Russia and the chronicler of the “memorable failures” of the revolution - these are the extreme poles between which there are a great many other judgments. According to the first of these points of view, Bunin only occasionally succumbed to the “deceptive existence”, the haze “ historical Russia", and during periods of highest creative insights, he "tuned all the strings of his soul" to the chorale "in God's harmony and order, which was Russia."

Homeland in the life and work of Igor Severyanin

“The days of party discord are bleak for us among brutal people”

It so happened that in 1918, during the years civil war the poet found himself in a zone occupied by Germany. He ends up in Estonia, which then, as we know, becomes independent. And from that time, almost until the beginning of the Great Patriotic War, that is, until his death he lives in a foreign land. It was abroad, in separation from native land Writers such as Kuprin, Bryusov, Balmont and many others created their works about Russia, and Igor Severyanin’s longing for his homeland also left its mark on the poet’s work.

Northerner creates a series of poems dedicated to Russian writers, in which he says how important their work is for Russian literature, for Russia. Here are poems about Gogol, Fet, Sologub, Gumilyov. Without false modesty, Igor Severyanin devotes his poems to himself. They are called “Igor Severyanin”. Let's not forget that back in 1918 he was called the “King of Poets.”

It is also worth noting that many of Severyanin’s poems contain irony. Irony for himself, for his time, for people and for everything that surrounds him. But there was never any anger or hatred in his poems towards those who did not understand him, who mocked his self-praise. The poet himself called himself an ironist, making it clear to the reader that this was his style, the style of the author hiding behind his hero with an ironic grin.

The image of Russia - a country of enormous power and energy - in the works of Alexander Blok.

Wide, multicolor, full of life and movement, the picture of his native land “in tear-stained and ancient beauty” is formed in Blok’s poems. Vast Russian distances, endless roads, deep rivers, scanty clay of washed-out cliffs and flaming rowan trees, violent blizzards and snowstorms, bloody sunsets; burning villages, mad troikas, gray huts, alarming cries of swans, factory chimneys and whistles, the fire of war and mass graves. This is what Russia was like for the Bloc.

Homeland in the life and work of Sergei Yesenin.

Native land! The fields are like saints,

Groves in icon rims,

I would like to get lost

In your hundred-bellied greens.

So in Yesenin’s songs about the homeland there is no -

no yes and they slip

thoughtful and sad notes,

like a light cloud of sadness on

cloudless - its blue sky

youthful lyrics.

The poet did not spare colors to make it brighter

convey wealth and beauty

native nature. Image

Yesenin's relationship with nature is complemented by another feature: love for all living things: animals, birds, domestic animals. In poetry they are endowed with almost human feelings.

Results of the evolution of the theme of the Motherland in the lyrics of Sergei Yesenin

Thus, born and growing from landscape miniatures and song stylizations, the theme of the Motherland absorbs Russian landscapes and songs, and poetic world Sergei Yesenin, these three concepts: Russia, nature and the “song word” - merge into one. Admiration for the beauty of the native land, a depiction of the difficult life of the people, the dream of a “peasant paradise”, rejection of urban civilization and the desire to comprehend “Soviet Rus'”, a feeling of unity with every inhabitant of the planet and the “love for the native land” remaining in the heart - this is the evolution of the theme of the native land in the lyrics of Sergei Yesenin.

“The topic of Russia... I consciously devote my life to this topic...” - words from Blok’s famous letter, which were not just a declarative statement. They acquired a programmatic meaning and were confirmed by all the poet’s work and the life he lived.

This immortal theme, theme deep feeling love for the Motherland, hard-won faith in Russia, faith in Russia’s ability to change - while preserving its original nature - was inherited and renewed by the great writers XIX-XX centuries and has become one of the most important topics in Russian literature.

Mind Russia Not understand , Arshin general Not measure : U her special become - IN Russia Can only believe .

They love homeland Not for That , What she great , A for That , What its own .

But I love you , homeland meek ! A for What - unravel Not Can . Vesela yours joy short WITH loud song in the spring on meadow .

The most the best purpose There is protect yours fatherland .

Two feelings wonderful close us - IN them gains heart food : Love To to my native ashes , Love To fatherly coffins .

Russia - Sphinx . Rejoicing And grieving , AND pouring himself black blood , She looks , looks , looks V you , AND With hatred , And With love !..

Stories for primary schoolchildren about the Motherland, about their native land. Stories that instill in children love and respect for their native land. Stories by Ivan Bunin, Evgeny Permyak, Konstantin Paustovsky.

Ivan Bunin. Mowers

We walked along the high road, and they mowed a young birch forest nearby - and sang.

It was a long time ago, it was an infinitely long time ago, because the life that we all lived at that time will not return forever.

They mowed and sang, and the entire birch forest, which had not yet lost its density and freshness, still full of flowers and smells, responded loudly to them.

All around us were fields, the wilderness of central, primordial Russia. It was late afternoon on a June day... The old high road, overgrown with bushes, cut by dead ruts, traces of the ancient life of our fathers and grandfathers, stretched out before us into the endless Russian distance. The sun was leaning to the west, began to set in beautiful light clouds, softening the blue behind the distant hills of the fields and casting great light pillars towards the sunset, where the sky was already golden, as they are painted in church paintings. A flock of sheep was gray in front, an old shepherd with a shepherd sat on the boundary, winding a whip... It seemed that there was no, and there never was, neither time nor its division into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - country . And they walked and sang among its eternal field silence, simplicity and primitiveness with some kind of epic freedom and selflessness. And the birch forest accepted and picked up their song as freely and freely as they sang.

They were “distant”, from Ryazan. A small artel of them passed through our Oryol places, helping our hayfields and moving to the lower ranks, to earn money during the working season in the steppes, even more fertile than ours. And they were carefree, friendly, as people are on a long and long journey, on vacation from all family and economic ties, they were “eager to work,” unconsciously rejoicing in its beauty and efficiency. They were somehow older and more solid than ours - in custom, in behavior, in language - neat and beautiful clothes, their soft leather shoe covers, white well-tied footwear, clean trousers and shirts with red, red collars and the same gussets.

A week ago they were mowing in the forest nearest to us, and I saw, riding on horseback, how they went to work, having had noon: they drank from wooden jugs spring water, - for so long, so sweetly, as only animals and good, healthy Russian farm laborers drink, - then they crossed themselves and cheerfully ran to the place with white, shiny, razor-haired braids on their shoulders, as they ran they entered into a row, all their braids let go at once, widely, playfully, and they went, they went in a free, even sequence. And on the way back I saw their dinner. They sat in a fresh clearing near an extinguished fire, using spoons to drag pieces of something pink out of cast iron.

I said:

- Bread and salt, hello.

They answered cordially:

- Good health, you are welcome!

The clearing descended to the ravine, revealing the still bright west behind the green trees. And suddenly, looking closer, I saw with horror that what they were eating were fly agaric mushrooms, terrible with their dope. And they just laughed:

- It’s okay, they’re sweet, pure chicken!

Now they sang: “Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend!”- moved through the birch forest, thoughtlessly depriving it of thick grasses and flowers, and sang without noticing it. And we stood and listened to them, feeling that we would never forget this early evening hour and would never understand, and most importantly, not fully express what the wonderful charm of their song was.

Its charm was in the responses, in the sonority of the birch forest. Its beauty was that it was in no way on its own: it was connected with everything that we and they, these Ryazan mowers, saw and felt. The beauty was in that unconscious, but blood relationship that was between them and us - and between them, us and this grain-bearing field that surrounded us, this field air that they and we breathed since childhood, this late afternoon, these clouds in the already pinkish west, with this snowy, young forest, full of waist-deep honey herbs, countless wild flowers and berries, which they constantly picked and ate, and this big road, its spaciousness and reserved distance. The beauty was that we were all children of our homeland and were all together and we all felt good, calm and loving without a clear understanding of our feelings, because we don’t need them, we shouldn’t understand them when they exist. And there was also a charm (already completely unrecognized by us then) that this homeland, this common home of ours was Russia, and that only her soul could sing the way the mowers sang in this birch forest responding to their every breath.

The beauty was that it was as if there was no singing at all, but just sighs, the rise of a young, healthy, melodious chest. One breast sang, as songs were once sung only in Russia and with that spontaneity, with that incomparable lightness, naturalness that was characteristic of the song only to the Russian. It was felt that the man was so fresh, strong, so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents and so full of song that he only needed to sigh lightly for the whole forest to respond to that kind and affectionate, and sometimes daring and powerful sonority with which these sighs filled him .

They moved, without the slightest effort, throwing scythes around them, exposing clearings in wide semicircles in front of them, mowing, knocking out the area of stumps and bushes and sighing without the slightest effort, each in their own way, but in general expressing one thing, doing on a whim something unified, completely integral , extraordinarily beautiful. And beautiful with a very special, purely Russian beauty were those feelings that they told with their sighs and half-words along with the responding distance, the depth of the forest.

Of course, they “said goodbye, parted” with their “darling side”, and with their happiness, and with hopes, and with the one with whom this happiness was united:

Forgive me, goodbye, dear friend,

And, darling, oh, goodbye, little side! —

they each sighed differently, with varying degrees of sadness and love, but with the same carefree, hopeless reproach.

Forgive me, goodbye, my dear, unfaithful one,

Has my heart become blacker than dirt for you? —

they said, complaining and yearning in different ways, differently striking at the words, and suddenly everyone at once merged in a completely consonant feeling of almost delight in the face of their death, youthful audacity in the face of fate and some kind of extraordinary, all-forgiving generosity - as if they were shaking their heads and throwing it at the whole forest:

If you don’t love, aren’t nice, God be with you,

If you find something better, you’ll forget! —

and all over the forest it responded to the friendly strength, freedom and chesty sonority of their voices, froze and again, loudly thundering, picked up:

Oh, if you find something better, you’ll forget,

If you find something worse, you will regret it!

What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy despite all its seemingly hopelessness? The fact is that man still did not believe, and could not believe, due to his strength and innocence, in this hopelessness. “Oh, yes, all the paths are closed to me, young man!” - he said, sweetly mourning himself. But those who really have no way or road anywhere do not cry sweetly and do not sing of their sorrows. “Forgive me, goodbye, my dear side!” - the man said - and knew that, after all, there was no real separation for him from her, from his homeland, that, no matter where his fate took him, his native sky would still be above him, and around him - the boundless native Rus', disastrous for him, spoiled, except for its freedom, space and fabulous wealth. “The red sun set behind the dark forests, ah, all the birds fell silent, everyone sat down in their places!” My happiness has ended, he sighed, the dark night with its wilderness surrounds me - and yet I felt: he is so close in blood to this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and full of magical powers that everywhere he has shelter, lodging for the night, there is someone’s intercession, someone’s kind care, someone’s voice whispering: “Don’t worry, the morning is wiser than the evening, nothing is impossible for me, sleep well, child!” “And from all sorts of troubles, according to his faith, birds and forest animals, beautiful and wise princesses, and even Baba Yaga herself, who pitied him “because of his youth,” helped him out. There were flying carpets for him, invisible hats, milk rivers flowed, semi-precious treasures were hidden, for all mortal spells there were the keys of eternally living water, he knew prayers and spells, miraculous, again according to his faith, he flew away from prisons, casting himself as a clear falcon , having hit the damp Mother Earth, dense jungles, black swamps, flying sands defended him from dashing neighbors and enemies - and the merciful God forgave him for all the daring whistles, sharp, hot knives...

There was one more thing, I say, in this song - this is what both we and they, these Ryazan men, knew well in the depths of our souls, that we were infinitely happy in those days, now infinitely distant - and irrevocable. For everything has its time - the fairy tale has passed for us too: our ancient intercessors abandoned us, prowling animals fled, prophetic birds scattered, self-assembled tablecloths folded, prayers and spells were desecrated, Mother Cheese-Earth dried up, life-giving springs dried up - and the end came , the limit of God's forgiveness.

Evgeny Permyak. A fairy tale about our native Urals

There is more than enough nonsense in this fairy tale. In forgotten dark times, someone’s idle tongue gave birth to this tale and sent it around the world. Her life was so-so. Malomalskoye. In some places she hid, in some places she lived up to our age and got into my ears.

Don't let this fairy tale go to waste! Somewhere, for someone, maybe it will do. If it takes root, let it live. No - my business is my side. What I bought for is what I sell for.

Listen.

As soon as our land hardened, as the land separated from the seas, it was populated by all sorts of animals and birds, and from the depths of the earth, from the steppes of the Caspian region, a golden Snake snake crawled out. With crystal scales, with a semi-precious tint, a fiery interior, ore bones, copper veining...

He decided to gird the earth with himself. I conceived and crawled from the Caspian midday steppes to the cold midnight seas.

He crawled for more than a thousand miles as if on a string, and then began to wobble.

Apparently it was in the fall. The whole night found him. No way! Like in a cellar. Zarya doesn't even study.

The runner wagged. He turned from the Usa River to the Ob and headed for Yamal. Cold! After all, he came out of hot, hellish places. I went to the left. And he walked several hundred miles and saw the Varangian ridges. Apparently the snake didn't like them. And he decided to fly straight through the ice of the cold seas.

He waved, but no matter how thick the ice is, can it withstand such a colossus? I couldn't stand it. Cracked. Donkey.

Then the Serpent sank to the bottom of the sea. What does he care about the immense thickness! It crawls along the seabed with its belly, and the ridge rises above the sea. This one won't drown. It's just cold.

No matter how hot the fiery blood of the Snake-Snake is, no matter how boiling everything around is, the sea is still not a tub of water. You won't heat it up.

The runner began to cool down. From the head. Well, if you get a cold in your head, that’s the end of your body. He began to grow numb, and soon became completely petrified.

The fiery blood in him became oil. Meat - in ores. The ribs are like stones. The vertebrae and ridges became rocks. Scales - with gems. And everything else - everything that exists in the depths of the earth. From salts to diamonds. From gray granite to patterned jaspers and marbles.

Years have passed, centuries have passed. The petrified giant was overgrown with lush spruce forest, pine expanse, cedar joy, larch beauty.

And now it will not occur to anyone that the mountains were once a living snake-snake.

And the years went by and went by. People settled on the slopes of the mountains. The snake was called the Stone Belt. After all, he girded our land, although not all of it. That’s why they gave him a formal name, a sonorous one - Ural.

I can’t say where this word came from. That's just what everyone calls him now. Even though a short word, but it has absorbed a lot, like Rus'...

Konstantin Paustovsky. Collection of miracles

Everyone, even the most serious person, not to mention, of course, the boys, has his own secret and slightly funny dream. I had the same dream - to definitely get to Borovoe Lake.

From the village where I lived that summer, the lake was only twenty kilometers away. Everyone tried to dissuade me from going - the road was boring, and the lake was like a lake, with only forests, dry swamps and lingonberries all around. The picture is famous!

- Why are you rushing there, to this lake! - the garden watchman Semyon was angry. -What didn’t you see? What a fussy, grasping people, oh my God! You see, he needs to touch everything with his own hand, look out with his own eye! What will you look for there? One pond. And nothing more!

- Were you there?

- Why did he surrender to me, this lake! I don't have anything else to do, or what? This is where they sit, all my business! - Semyon tapped his brown neck with his fist. - On the hill!

But I still went to the lake. Two village boys, Lyonka and Vanya, tagged along with me.

Before we had time to leave the outskirts, the complete hostility of the characters of Lyonka and Vanya was immediately revealed. Lyonka calculated everything he saw around him into rubles.

“Look,” he told me in his booming voice, “the gander is coming.” How long do you think he can handle?

- How do I know!

“It’s probably worth a hundred rubles,” Lyonka said dreamily and immediately asked: “But how much will this pine tree last?” Two hundred rubles? Or for all three hundred?

- Accountant! - Vanya remarked contemptuously and sniffed. “He himself has brains worth a dime, but he puts a price on everything.” My eyes would not look at him.

After that, Lyonka and Vanya stopped, and I heard a well-known conversation - a harbinger of a fight. It consisted, as is customary, only of questions and exclamations.

- Whose brains are they worth for a dime? My?

- Probably not mine!

- Look!

- See for yourself!

- Don't grab it! The cap was not sewn for you!

- Oh, I wish I could push you in my own way!

- Don’t scare me! Don't poke me in the nose! The fight was short but decisive.

Lyonka picked up his cap, spat and went, offended, back to the village. I began to shame Vanya.

- Of course! - said Vanya, embarrassed. - I fought in the heat of the moment. Everyone is fighting with him, with Lyonka. He's kind of boring! Give him free rein, he puts prices on everything, like in a general store. For every spikelet. And he will certainly clear the entire forest and chop it down for firewood. And what I’m most afraid of in the world is when the forest is cleared. I'm so afraid of passion!

- Why is this?

— Oxygen from forests. The forests will be cut down, the oxygen will become liquid and smelly. And the earth will no longer be able to attract him, to keep him close to him. Where will he fly? — Vanya pointed to the fresh morning sky. - The person will have nothing to breathe. The forester explained it to me.

We climbed the slope and entered an oak copse. Immediately red ants began to eat us. They stuck to my legs and fell from the branches by the collar. Dozens of ant roads, covered with sand, stretched between oaks and junipers. Sometimes such a road passed, as if through a tunnel, under the gnarled roots of an oak tree and rose again to the surface. Ant traffic on these roads was continuous. The ants fled in one direction empty, and returned with goods - white grains, dry beetle legs, dead wasps and a furry caterpillar.

- Bustle! - said Vanya. - Like in Moscow. An old man comes to this forest from Moscow to collect ant eggs. Every year. They take it away in bags. This is the best bird food. And they are good for fishing. You need a tiny little hook!

Behind an oak copse, on the edge of a loose sandy road, there stood a lopsided cross with a black tin icon. Red ladybugs with white speckles were crawling along the cross.

A quiet wind blew in my face from the oat fields. The oats rustled, bent, and a gray wave ran over them.

Beyond the oat field we passed through the village of Polkovo. I have long noticed that almost all of the regiment’s peasants differ from the surrounding residents in their tall stature.

- Stately people in Polkovo! - our Zaborievskys said with envy. - Grenadiers! Drummers!

In Polkovo we went to rest in the hut of Vasily Lyalin, a tall, handsome old man with a piebald beard. Gray tufts stuck out in disarray in his black shaggy hair.

When we entered Lyalin’s hut, he shouted:

- Keep your heads down! Heads! Everyone is smashing my forehead against the lintel! The people in Polkov are painfully tall, but they are slow-witted - they build huts according to their short stature.

While talking with Lyalin, I finally learned why the regimental peasants were so tall.

- Story! - said Lyalin. - Do you think we went so high in vain? Even the little bug doesn’t live in vain. It also has its purpose.

Vanya laughed.

- Wait until you laugh! - Lyalin remarked sternly. “I’m not yet learned enough to laugh.” You listen. Was there such a foolish tsar in Russia - Emperor Paul? Or wasn't it?

“It was,” said Vanya. - We taught.

- Was and floated away. And he did such a lot of things that we still have hiccups to this day. The gentleman was fierce. The soldier at the parade squinted his eyes in the wrong direction - he now gets excited and begins to thunder: “To Siberia! To hard labor! Three hundred ramrods!” This is what the king was like! Well, what happened was that the grenadier regiment did not please him. He shouts: “March in the indicated direction for a thousand miles!” Let's go! And after a thousand miles, stop for an eternal rest!” And he points in the direction with his finger. Well, the regiment, of course, turned and walked. What are you going to do? We walked and walked for three months and reached this place. The forest all around is impassable. One wild. They stopped and began cutting down huts, crushing clay, laying stoves, and digging wells. They built a village and called it Polkovo, as a sign that a whole regiment built it and lived in it. Then, of course, liberation came, and the soldiers took root in this area, and, almost, everyone stayed here. The area, as you can see, is fertile. There were those soldiers - grenadiers and giants - our ancestors. Our growth comes from them. If you don’t believe it, go to the city, to the museum. They will show you the papers there. Everything is spelled out in them. And just think, if only they could walk two more miles and come out to the river, they would stop there. But no, they didn’t dare disobey the order, they just stopped. People are still surprised. “Why are you guys from the regiment, they say, running into the forest? Didn't you have a place by the river? They say they are scary, big guys, but apparently they don’t have enough guesses in their heads.” Well, you explain to them how it happened, then they agree. “They say you can’t fight against an order! This is a fact!

Vasily Lyalin volunteered to take us to the forest and show us the path to Borovoe Lake. First we passed through a sandy field overgrown with immortelle and wormwood. Then thickets of young pines ran out to meet us. pine forest greeted us after the hot fields with silence and coolness. High in the slanting rays of the sun, blue jays fluttered as if on fire. Clear puddles stood on the overgrown road, and clouds floated through these blue puddles. It smelled of strawberries and heated tree stumps. Drops of either dew or yesterday’s rain glistened on the leaves of the hazel tree. Cones fell loudly.

- Great forest! - Lyalin sighed. “The wind will blow, and these pines will hum like bells.”

Then the pines gave way to birches, and water sparkled behind them.

- Borovoe? - I asked.

- No. It’s still a walk and a walk to get to Borovoye. This is Larino Lake. Let's go, look into the water, take a look.

The water in Larino Lake was deep and clear to the very bottom. Only near the shore she shuddered a little - there, from under the moss, a spring flowed into the lake. At the bottom lay several dark large trunks. They sparkled with a weak and dark fire when the sun reached them.

“Black oak,” said Lyalin. — Stained, centuries-old. We pulled one out, but it’s difficult to work with. Breaks saws. But if you make a thing - a rolling pin or, say, a rocker - it will last forever! Heavy wood, sinks in water.

The sun shone in the dark water. Beneath it lay ancient oak trees, as if cast from black steel. And butterflies flew over the water, reflected in it with yellow and purple petals.

Lyalin led us onto a remote road.

“Step straight,” he showed, “until you run into mosslands, a dry swamp.” And along the moss there will be a path all the way to the lake. Just be careful, there are a lot of sticks there.

He said goodbye and left. Vanya and I walked along the forest road. The forest became higher, more mysterious and darker. Streams of golden resin froze on the pine trees.

At first, the ruts that had long ago been overgrown with grass were still visible, but then they disappeared, and the pink heather covered the entire road with a dry, cheerful carpet.

The road led us to a low cliff. Beneath it lay mosshars—thick birch and aspen forests heated to the roots. The trees grew from deep moss. Small ones were scattered here and there on the moss. yellow flowers and there were dry branches with white lichen lying around.

A narrow path led through the mshars. She avoided high hummocks.

At the end of the path, the water glowed black and blue—Borovoe Lake.

We walked carefully along the mshars. Pegs, sharp as spears, stuck out from under the moss - the remains of birch and aspen trunks. Lingonberry thickets have begun. One cheek of each berry - the one turned to the south - was completely red, and the other was just beginning to turn pink.

A heavy capercaillie jumped out from behind a hummock and ran into the small forest, breaking dry wood.

We went out to the lake. The grass stood waist-high along its banks. Water splashed in the roots of old trees. A wild duckling jumped out from under the roots and ran across the water with a desperate squeak.

The water in Borovoye was black and clean. Islands of white lilies bloomed on the water and smelled sweetly. The fish struck and the lilies swayed.

- What a blessing! - said Vanya. - Let's live here until our crackers run out.

I agreed.

We stayed at the lake for two days.

We saw sunsets and twilight and a tangle of plants appearing before us in the light of the fire. We heard screams wild geese and the sounds of night rain. He walked for a short time, about an hour, and quietly rang across the lake, as if he was stretching thin, cobweb-like, trembling strings between the black sky and water.

That's all I wanted to tell you.

But since then I will not believe anyone that there are boring places on our earth that do not provide any food for the eye, the ear, the imagination, or human thought.

Only in this way, by exploring some piece of our country, can you understand how good it is and how our hearts are attached to its every path, spring, and even to the timid squeaking of a forest bird.

KABARDINO-BALKARIAN REPUBLIC

DISTRICT METHODOLOGICAL SEMINAR

on topic:

"New approaches to lessons literary reading

V elementary school according to the textbook by V.A. Lazareva"

Primary school teacher

Tsepa Natalya Mikhailovna

Subject: The image of the Russian land and the Russian people in the work

Yu. I. Koval “Clean Dor” (excerpt from the work)

"Water with closed eyes"

Goals:

continue observing the work about the Motherland;
identifying ways to create an artistic epic;
work on the image of the Motherland in the prose of Yu. I. Koval;
develop thinking, attention, creativity and oral speech students.

Equipment: textbook by V.A. Lazareva “Literary reading, grade 4”;

illustrations for the work; exhibition of children's drawings; workbooks; colored pencils.

Lesson plan.

I. Organizational moment:

– The sun is shining over Russia,

And the rains rustle over it.

In the whole world, in the whole world

There is no country closer to her!
Teacher- Why are there no native countries in the whole world?

students(Russia is our Motherland, the country in which we live. This is our home, which is impossible not to love).

Teacher- Today we will continue our unusual journey through home country in which we all live. And your knowledge will help us with this.

Motherland! Everyone knows this word from childhood.

Why is it so dear to a person that he cannot exchange it for other lands, where life is better, more satisfying, richer?

Teacher- Remember the words of poems and songs that talk about this.

(the student recites the poem by heart using music).

I see wonderful freedom,

I see fields and fields -

This is Russian expanse,

This is my homeland.

I see mountains and valleys

I see rivers and seas -

These are Russian paintings

This is my homeland.

I hear the lark singing

I hear the trill of a nightingale -

This is the Russian side,

This is my homeland.

Teacher- We talk about the Motherland every day, in every lesson.

Guys, what does the word “Motherland” mean to you?

students(Homeland is fields, forests, meadows, trees, sky, clouds, etc.)
Teacher- As our wonderful writer Konstantin Paustovsky said:

On the board:

“A person cannot live without his homeland,

You can't live without a heart"

II. Updating knowledge

Teacher- Let's remember what passage from the work we read in the last lesson?

students(“Clean Dor”)

What is “Clean Dor”?

students(this is a village)

Teacher-What is “Dor”?

students(everything around the village is the road, it’s a field, but not just a field, but in the middle of a forest. There used to be a forest, but then the trees were cut down, the stumps were pulled out, and it turned out to be a forest)

students(Yuri Iosifovich Koval)

The teacher shows a portrait of the writer

Yuri Iosifovich Koval was born on February 9, 1938 in Moscow. Studied at Faculty of Philology Moscow State Pedagogical Institute. During his studies, Koval became seriously interested in art songs, as well as the art of frescoes, mosaics, sculpture, drawing and painting (he received a second diploma as an art teacher. Koval’s first publications appeared in the institute newspaper.
After graduating from the institute, Koval worked as a teacher of Russian language and literature, history, and drawing in a rural school in Tataria. He himself composed poetic texts for dictations.
Gradually, Koval begins to become more and more professional as an artist and writer. The magazines “Murzilka”, “Pioneer”, “Smena”, “Ogonyok” publish his poems and stories for children. One of his favorite genres was prose miniatures telling about animals, natural phenomena and villagers; many of them are included in the book.

Teacher- Today we will continue to work on the works of Yu.I. Let us imagine Koval as Russia and the Russian people are imagined by a modern writer. Let's get acquainted with a new excerpt from the work, called “Water with Closed Eyes.”
The student tells short biography author

III. Perception of new material.

Teacher– Read the title of our work.

What do you think the work says without reading the text?

1. Page 134 (reads to teach and children who read well)

IV. Vocabulary and lexical work.
Teacher- How do you understand the combination of words found in the text:
The day unfolded - (a clear sunny day began)

The clouds were moving - (clouds were floating in the sky)

Dry spruce manes - (spruce branches with unshed needles)

Yazy-fish were spawning in the stream (fish were swimming)

V. Conversation on content
Teacher- What time of year appeared before your eyes?

students(autumn)

students(the main thing was happening in the sky. There the clouds moved, their sunny sides rubbed against each other, and a light rustling was heard on the ground).

students(that he accidentally appeared in the cloudy autumn)

Teacher- Why did he want to continue the day?

students (because it was approaching cold winter and wanted to enjoy the last sunny autumn day).

students(he ran out into clearings littered with fallen leaves, got out of the swamps onto dry spruce manes. The author understood that he had to hurry, otherwise it would all be over).

Teacher - Where did he run?

students(to the edge of the forest, where a spring stream flows from under the hill).
Teacher-Who did he meet at the stream?

students (he met Nyurka)

Teacher-Who is Nyurka?

Teacher- What was Nyurka doing by the stream?

students(she was sitting on a spread out sweatshirt, and her briefcase was lying on the grass next to her. In her hand, Nyurka was holding an old tin mug, which always hung on a birch tree by the stream and drinking water).

students (dialogue).

Teacher- What is dialogue?

(dialogue is a conversation between two or more people)

Teacher- Who participates in this conversation?

students (Nyurka and the author himself).

Physical education (with music)

We will all stand together now,

We'll rest at the rest stop...

Turn right, turn left!

Hands up and hands to the side,

And jump and jump on the spot!

And now we’re skipping.

Well done you guys!

VI. Reading a work by role
Page 135 – children read by role
Teacher- Pay attention to the speech of the heroes?

student and (the speech creates the image of the hero himself.)
Teacher-But why did the author name the excerpt from the work “Water with Closed Eyes”?
- Were our assumptions about the title of the work confirmed?
students(yes, because our heroine received consolation while enjoying the extraordinary water).
VII. Selective reading

students(the water from the stream smelled of sweet underwater grass and alder root, autumn wind and crumbly sand, I felt in it the voice of forest lakes and swamps, long rains, summer thunderstorms)
Teacher- What words does the author find to convey his feelings?

students(I took another sip and smelled the very close winter - the time when water closes the eyes).
VIII. Working with proverbs.

Teacher- Our people love their Motherland very much. There are many proverbs and sayings about the Motherland.

Teacher-Let's remember some of them.

(children offer those proverbs that they know)

Teacher- try to connect the parts of the proverbs that you see on the board:
A homeland more beautiful than the sun is more valuable than gold

Motherland, know how to stand up for her

There is no more beautiful country in the world than our Motherland

Don’t spare your strength or your life for your Motherland

A man without a homeland is like a nightingale without a song.
IX. Drawing the plot.

Teacher- Guys, try to use colored pencils to depict your favorite plot from the work described in the author’s words
X. Final word teachers.

Teacher- Well done, guys! You not only understood an excerpt from the work, but also felt how the author expresses his attitude towards nature, towards the Motherland.
XI. Homework

pp. 134-138 draw up a plan for the work.

Basic approaches to literary reading lessons

in fourth grade.
The main feature of the literary reading course in the fourth grade is that children learned while reading literary text imagine the pictures drawn by the author, respond emotionally to the experiences of the heroes of the work, evaluate their actions, understand the author’s thought, see the author’s attitude towards what is depicted, comprehend the role of the hero’s speech and internal monologues in revealing his character. The children also learned to find author’s descriptions in the text, highlight landscapes, determining on a practical level its simplest functions in a work, distinguish the author from the narrator

The leading concepts that formed the core of the pedagogical concept of literary reading are summarized in the textbook for the 4th grade. These are: FAMILY, RELATIVES (FATHER, MOTHER), CHILD IN THE FAMILY (SON, DAUGHTER), PEOPLE, HOMELAND.

Students' moral ideas are formed in the process of reading highly works of art and our constant conversations with children about love and fidelity, about family and home, about care and responsibility, about humanity and inhumanity.

This school year, a grown-up child, essentially a younger teenager, using the example of heroes literary works We show how a person, even a small one, copes with problems that arise, where and from whom he draws strength, and what the belief in the victory of good is based on.

In the textbook for 4th grade there is a chapter that talks about the war, about the heroes of the Patriotic War of 1812 and the Great Patriotic War of 1941 - 1945. For our current children, these times are already almost equidistant and difficult to imagine, which is why we talk so seriously and, as it may seem, ruthlessly with students about the war in the language of the best works of art, since there are fewer and fewer people left who could tell their grandchildren about that as it was.

This year, students’ previously acquired knowledge of how to create the image of the hero of a work is both generalized and expanded by understanding the role of the hero’s speech and internal monologues in revealing his character. Children learn to isolate author's descriptions in the text, highlight landscapes, defining at a practical level its simplest functions in a work, distinguish the author from the narrator, etc. Work on ways to revive, animate nature and the objective world ends this year with the introduction of the concept of “personification.” Instead of the concept " main idea“The concept of “idea of a work” is introduced, and in the process of work, children themselves guess about the internal connection between the name of the work and its idea. By observing the construction features of K. G. Paustovsky’s story “Hare’s Paws,” students, without introducing a term, gain an initial understanding of the elements of the composition of a work of art.

The program works of this year of study make it possible to lay the foundations for the formation of children’s ideas about fantasy, philosophical parables, lyric epic texts, and the style of the author, which will be the basis for the study of such literature in the future, in secondary and high school. At the end of the fourth year of study, students master the following terms: personification, abstract, story, idea, fantasy.

Understanding of such concepts as patriotism, humanity, self-sacrifice, debt and responsibility, self-education. Students understand the complex relationships between people, realize the possibility of grief and suffering, meanness and betrayal in a person’s life, and think about ways to overcome misfortunes and troubles.

The texts selected for reading allow you to complete work in the main areas of primary literary education.

“Where does the Motherland begin?” was the song in an old Soviet film about the war, sung unusually soulfully and expressively by Mark Bernes.

Indeed, every person’s sense of homeland is connected to something of his own, special, individual.

For some, this is connected with the song - free-spirited, at the same time daring and sad. For some, this is the impression of the vast Russian expanse, giving rise to an impulse of will and a feeling of vague melancholy. For some, this is a deeply heartfelt feeling of tenderness and care associated with a small patch of vast Russian land, with which it is connected by threads of kinship: here you were born, here you still walk “through the years, like following footsteps.”

In the presented list, each of the books will “play” for you a wide variety of notes from this rich score called “my homeland.”

Different lands, different corners of Russia, different destinies will pass before you, giving rise to that same “Chuko-Gek” feeling that “you must live honestly, work hard and take good care of this land,” our common Motherland.

1. Motherland: historical popular science magazine

2017. - № 12. 12+

“Rodina” is a monthly Russian, since 1989 Soviet and since 1992 Russian historical illustrated magazine. Established by the Administration of the President of Russia and the Government of Russia, published with the support Federal agency Russia on press and mass communications.

The modern magazine "Rodina" positions itself as a successor to the traditions of the magazine of the same name, founded in 1879 in the capital Russian Empire St. Petersburg. Published until 1917. Publication then resumed in 1989. Published monthly since January 1989 in Moscow.

Main topic December issue: what the word “Motherland” became in the history of our Fatherland. It came to us from the depths of centuries, but from frequent use it did not fade or become crushed. Read on the pages of the magazine about the Rodina airplane, the Rodina village, the Mother Rodina tank, the fishing collective farm Za Rodina, the Rodina mine in the Donbass...

Of great interest to readers will be a selection of materials about those whom our Fatherland lost during the years of the revolutionary Exodus, and who became famous in emigration overseas: Vladimir Zvorykin became the father of American television; Vasily Leontyev was an outstanding economist, Igor Sikorsky distinguished himself in the aircraft industry, Alexander Ponyatov invented the video recorder... The magazine will also tell you who was the prototype of the legendary Anka the machine gunner in the film “Chapaev”.

Motherland - One!

2. Our Fatherland: Stories and Novels

Publisher: Drofa-Plus, 2008. 12+

The large school anthology includes interesting, educational stories and tales of Soviet and modern writers, reflecting almost all periods of Russian history - from the formation of our Fatherland and the reign of the first Russian princes to the Great Patriotic War.

The book recreates a complete and living picture of the heroic past of Russia - significant battles, glorious victories of Russian commanders, reforms of statesmen, exploits of ordinary Russian people, discoveries of the first explorers.

3. Fatherland: stories, excerpts from stories, novels

Publisher: Children's Literature, 1985. 12+

The title of the book, in the words “Fatherly Land,” combines the two principles of all things - paternal and maternal. Mother earth, we say, mother is the nurse, mother is the raw earth. At the same time, we imagine not something abstract, but precisely the earth on which we walk, on which the houses in which we live stand, on which bread grows.

Collection of Russian stories Soviet writers about the native land, about love for it, about peasant labor - about everything that is called the Motherland. To cultivate this love, the desire to be useful to the Fatherland - these are the thoughts and feelings that are expressed in the works of Astafiev, Shukshin, Troepolsky, Abramov, Prishvin and other writers.

4. Sladkov N. From north to south

Publisher: Detgiz, 2013. 6+

The book “From North to South” reveals a huge world with its endless forests and fields, sultry deserts, high mountains, green taiga and cold northern tundra. And man’s younger brothers live everywhere - animals and birds, big and very tiny, and they all need his careful attention and protection.

“Our country is huge. There's enough room for everyone. Both for us and for the beast.” These are the words of Svyatoslav Sakharnov, a nature writer.

We have one homeland!

5. Where does the Motherland begin: poems by Russian poets

Publisher: ROSMEN, 2008. 6+

Home side, Motherland, Fatherland... When you say these words, a light of love and warmth flashes in your heart. After all, this is how we call what is especially dear to us: the land where we were born and where we spent our childhood, our parents’ home, the country in which we live. And the memories that we keep all our lives come to life in our memory: the warmth of our mother’s hands, the taste of our grandmother’s pie, the forest across the river, daisies by the porch. That is why in the soul of every person lives his own understanding, close only to him, of what the MOTHERLAND is.

After reading the wonderful poems collected in this book, you will find out what the best poets of Russia wrote about their feelings for the Fatherland, how they expressed their love for it and concern for its fate: M. Lermontov, A. Fet, E. Baratynsky, V. Zhukovsky , N. Rubtsov, K. Simonov and many others.

6. Where does the Motherland begin: poems by Soviet poets

Publisher: Drofa-Plus, 2008. 6+

Love for the Motherland arises in the heart in different ways. But it is impossible without attentive and careful attitude to its history and culture. This book is a look at Soviet era through the prism of heroic romanticism.

Poems and songs by famous poets and magnificent illustrations subtly and accurately convey the spirit of an era in which there were wars and hardships, the optimism of youth and the joy of friendly work, idealism and faith in a bright future.

The book includes poems by Soviet poets M. Matusovsky, A. Tvardovsky, M. Isakovsky, V. Lebedev-Kumach and others. And they all glorify the strength of man, the joy of friendly work and a sense of pride in one’s Fatherland.

7. My quiet homeland: poems by Russian poets of the twentieth century

Publisher: Astrel, AST, 2004. 12+

Your image " quiet homeland” was carried through life by poets Ivan Bunin and Valery Bryusov, Alexander Blok and Andrei Bely, Maximilian Voloshin and Velimir Khlebnikov, Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva and many others.

Light lyrical poems of poets silver age organically merged with the sad poems of the poets of Yesenin’s circle and with the works that appeared during the Great Patriotic War.

From these immortal verses a heartfelt hymn to our Motherland was created.

8. Teploukhov K. N. Travels around the Urals: Stories

Publisher: Stone Belt, 2017. 12+

In the publishing house "Stone Belt" of the State historical museum In the Southern Urals, a book of travel essays by Konstantin Teploukhov “Travels in the Urals” was published.

The collection contains three essays: “Along the Chusovaya River”, “Along the Northern Urals” (Kushva, Verkhoturye, rafting on the Lozva and Vishera rivers, Cherdyn), “In the Marble Factory”. They are full of invaluable observations that will be useful to modern lovers of travel and rafting along these forests and rivers, written in excellent literary language (the author can easily be compared with such travel writers as Ivan Goncharov with his “Frigate “Pallada” or Vladimir Arsenyev with “ Dersu Uzala"). Many wonderful observations about the life and customs of the Ural hinterland (including the life of the indigenous people northern Urals- Votyakov) and special Teploukhov humor, which helps to overcome all the difficulties of a difficult and sometimes unsafe journey: “... an endless swamp, so black that the swamp of the “Hound of Baskerville” by S. Holmes is a heavenly place...”.

“Travels in the Urals” is the fourth book by Konstantin Teploukhov, which was published in the 21st century (the three previous ones were “Chelyabinsk Chronicles”, “Memoirs: 1899-1934” and “Konstantin Teploukhov. An amazing biography of an excise official and man in his memoirs, stories and photographs. 1897-1924") and, I hope, not the last. The current publication was made by decision of the methodological council of the State Historical Museum of the Southern Urals.

9. Vostokov S. Rowan sun

Publisher: Samokat, 2013. 0+

Our land is mysterious. No matter how crowded it is, some village will still remain somewhere near Moscow itself. And it has everything: houses with vegetable gardens, apple trees in the garden, stoves with pipes, wells with buckets. And various oddities and quiet miracles, without which the village cannot exist. And all this is the Motherland, our Motherland.

The collection of stories “Rowan Sun” continues the best traditions of Russian prose for children. Stanislav Vostokov's lyrical stories and Maria Vorontsova's illustrations are filled with love for nature and people, which is part of the Motherland.

10. Popov V. We are all not handsome

Publisher: Samokat, 2012. 12+

Valery Popov talks about his hero (a schoolboy, then a student and, finally, a young engineer) cheerfully, but the concerns of this hero are very real: relationships with classmates, first love, the search for a vocation. And all against the background of streets, avenues and alleys, squares and boulevards, courtyards and houses hometown Leningrad (St. Petersburg).

Easily, without tediousness and moralizing, Popov shows how important it is to be human, to feel and love life, without looking at others - simple, uncomplicated truths are skillfully woven into the narrative and seasoned with St. Petersburg flavor. We are all not handsome, it’s true, but it’s even more interesting to live this way. Can you imagine if everyone around you was perfect? Boring, and that's all. The book turned out to be very subtle and adult. After all, we were all once children and we all became adults.

Stories for children about the Motherland, about the native land, about the native land. Stories for reading at school, for family reading. Stories by Mikhail Prishvin, Konstantin Ushinsky, Ivan Shmelev, Ivan Turgenev.

Mikhail Prishvin

My homeland (From childhood memories)

My mother got up early, before the sun. One day I also got up before the sun to set a snare for quails at dawn. Mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in a clay pot and always covered with a ruddy foam on top, and under this foam it was incredibly tasty, and it made the tea wonderful.

This treat decided my life in good side: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning getting up that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then in the city I got up early, and now I always write early, when I’m all animal and flora awakens and also begins to work in its own way.

And often, often I think: what if we rose with the sun for our work! How much health, joy, life and happiness would come to people then!

After tea I went hunting for quails, starlings, nightingales, grasshoppers, turtle doves, and butterflies. I didn’t have a gun then, and even now a gun is not necessary in my hunting.

My hunt was then and now - in finds. It was necessary to find something in nature that I had not yet seen, and perhaps no one had ever encountered this in their life...

My farm was large, there were countless paths.

My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is a storehouse of the sun with great treasures of life. Not only do these treasures need to be protected, they must be opened and shown.

Needed for fish clean water- We will protect our reservoirs.

There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, and mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, and mountains.

For fish - water, for birds - air, for animals - forest, steppe, mountains.

But a person needs a homeland. And protecting nature means protecting the homeland.