CONTROL DICTION ON THE TOPIC "SPELLING"

The morning was festive, hot; joyfully, vying with each other, the bells rang over the Donets, over the green mountains, carried away to where, in the clear air, a white church on a mountain pass was striving towards the sky. The talker hummed over the river, and more and more people arrived on the longboat along it to the monastery, the festive Little Russian outfits were more and more colorful. I hired a boat, and a young khokhlushka easily and quickly drove her against the current through the clear water of the Donets, in the shade of the coastal greenery. And the girl's face, and the sun, and the shadows, and the fast river - everything was so charming on that lovely morning ... mountain. The climb was difficult. The foot sank deep into the moss, windbreak and soft rotten foliage, the vipers now and then quickly and elastically slipped out from under the feet. The heat, full of heavy resinous aroma, stood motionless under the canopies of pines. But what a distance opened under me, how beautiful the valley was from this height, the dark velvet of its forests, how the floods of the Donets sparkled in the sunshine, what hot life breathed all around! That must have been the wild joyful beat of the heart of some warrior of the Igor regiments when, jumping out on a hoarse horse to this height, he hung over the cliff, among the mighty thicket of pines running down! And at dusk I was already walking again in the steppe. The wind gently blew in my face from the silent mounds. And, resting on them, all alone among flat endless fields, I again thought about the old days, about people resting in steppe graves under the vague rustle of gray-haired feather grass ... (246 words) (I. Bunin)

Grammar task:

Option 1

1. Perform a phonetic analysis of the word joyfully (first sentence).

2. Perform a morphemic and word-formation analysis of the word trezvonili (the first sentence of the first paragraph).

Option 2

1. Perform a phonetic analysis of the word climb (first sentence of the third paragraph).

2. Perform a morphemic and derivational analysis of the word motionless (third sentence of the third paragraph).

3. Make a punctuation analysis of the sentence (at the choice of the teacher).

CONTROL DICTION ON THE TOPIC "INDEPENDENT PARTS OF SPEECH"

A flock of sheep spent the night by the wide steppe road, called the Great Way. She was guarded by two shepherds. One, an old man of about eighty, toothless, with a trembling face, was lying on his stomach by the very road, resting his elbows on the dusty plantain leaves; the other, a young lad, with thick black eyebrows and beardless, dressed in linen, from which cheap bags are sewn, lay on his back, with his hands under his head, and looked up at the sky, where the Milky Way stretched just above his face and the stars slumbered. The shepherds were not alone. A sazhen from them, in the twilight that covered the road, a saddled horse was darkening, and next to it, leaning on the saddle, stood a man in big boots and a short chumark, apparently the master's rider. Judging by his figure, straight and motionless, by his manners, by his treatment of shepherds, a horse, he was a serious, reasonable man who knew his own worth; even in the darkness, traces of a military bearing and that majestic-condescending expression, which is acquired from frequent treatment of gentlemen and managers, were noticeable in him.

The sheep were asleep. Against the gray background of the dawn, which had already begun to cover the eastern part of the sky, the silhouettes of sleepless sheep were visible; they stood and lowered their heads, thinking about something. Their thoughts, long, viscous, caused only by ideas of the wide steppe and the sky, of days and nights, probably amazed and oppressed them to the point of insensibility, and they, now standing as if rooted to the spot, did not notice either the presence of a stranger or the restlessness of dogs.

In the sleepy, frozen air there was a monotonous noise, without which the steppe summer night is indispensable; Grasshoppers chirped continuously, quails sang, and a mile away from the flock, in a ravine in which a stream flowed and willows grew, young nightingales whistled lazily. The rider stopped to ask the shepherd for a light for his pipe. He silently lit a cigarette and smoked the whole pipe, then, without saying a word, he leaned on his saddle and thought. (281 words) (A. Chekhov)

Grammar task:

Option 1

1. Make a morphological analysis of one noun and one numeral from the sentences of the first paragraph.

2. Graphically indicate the spelling of nominal parts of speech in the sentences of the first paragraph.

Option 2

1. Make a morphological analysis of one adjective and one pronoun from the sentences of the second paragraph.

2. Graphically indicate the spelling of nominal parts of speech in the sentences of the second paragraph.

FINAL CONTROL DICTION

The beauty of autumn

(1) There was a bright farewell day at the end of October on the canvas. (2) The white sun stood low, shone through between the trunks of distant birches, which seemed black on the slope against the sun. (3) The wind blew and exposed the abandoned monastery garden. (4) A blue, quite summer sky with summer clouds shone over the waving treetops, over a destroyed stone wall, illuminated from the side. (5) A lone apple that fell into the grass lay near the wall, barely visible through the leaves that stuck around it.

(6) Yes, he was completely alone in the vicinity of that monastery, and it was then a sunny, dry, spacious day. (7) There was a thick noise, shimmering with gold of the remaining foliage, old maples, a crimson blizzard chalked along the overgrown paths of the garden. (8) Everything was transparent, fresh, farewell. (9) Why farewell? (10) Why, after fifty years, especially on the bright, dry, sonorous days of autumn, he could not escape the feeling that what happened to millions of people would soon happen to him, just like him, who walked along the paths near other walls? (11) Perhaps beauty is realized only at the fatal and timid moment of its inception and before its inevitable disappearance, withering, on the verge of an end and a beginning, on the edge of an abyss?

(12) There is nothing short-lived beauty, but how unbearably terrible it is that in every birth of the beautiful there is its end, its death. (13) The day dies in the evening, youth - in old age, love - in cooling and indifference. (According to Y. Bondarev.) (196 words.)

I option

IN 1. In one or two sentences, state the main idea of ​​the text.

IN 2. What part of speech is the word beautiful (12th sentence)? What part of speech in another context can it still be?

IN 3. Among sentences 6-11 find a compound sentence. Enter his number.

AT 4. From sentence 12 write out all the pronouns.

AT 5. From sentences 6-11 write out a word with an alternating unstressed vowel in the root.

AT 6. From sentences 1−4 write out a separate definition.

AT 7. Indicate the way the word slope is formed (sentence 2).

AT 8. Write out a phrase (sentence 2) built on the basis of adjacency.

AT 9. Write down the grammatical foundations of the sentence 2.

II option

IN 1. How else could the text be titled? Write down 2 of your headings to the text.

IN 2. What part of speech is the word against (2nd sentence)? What part of speech in another context can it still be?

IN 3. Among sentences 6-11 find an unassociated complex sentence. Enter his number.

AT 4. From sentence 10 write out all the pronouns.

AT 5. From sentences 12–13, write out a word with an alternating unstressed vowel in the root.

AT 6. From sentences 5−10 write out a separate definition.

AT 7. Indicate the way the word is formed from the side (sentence 4).

AT 8. Write out a phrase (sentence 3) built on the basis of control.

AT 9. Write down the grammatical foundations of sentence 13.

Chekhov Anton Pavlovich

A.P. CHEKHOV

A flock of sheep spent the night by the wide steppe road, called the Great Way. She was guarded by two shepherds. One, an old man of about eighty, toothless, with a trembling face, was lying on his stomach by the very road, resting his elbows on the dusty plantain leaves; the other, a young lad, with thick black eyebrows and beardless, dressed in linen, from which cheap bags are sewn, lay on his back, with his hands under his head, and looked up at the sky, where the Milky Way stretched just above his face and the stars slumbered.

The shepherds were not alone. A sazhen from them, in the twilight that covered the road, a saddled horse was darkening, and next to it, leaning on the saddle, stood a man in big boots and a short cloak, by all appearances a gentleman's rider. Judging by his figure, straight and motionless, by his manners, by his treatment of shepherds, a horse, he was a serious, reasonable man who knew his own worth; even in the darkness, traces of a military bearing and that majestic-condescending expression, which is acquired from frequent treatment of gentlemen and managers, were noticeable in him.

The sheep were asleep. Against the gray background of the dawn, which was already beginning to cover the eastern part of the sky, the silhouettes of sleepless sheep were visible here and there; they stood and lowered their heads, thinking about something. Their thoughts, long, viscous, caused only by ideas of the wide steppe and the sky, of days and nights, probably amazed and oppressed them to the point of insensibility, and they, now standing as if rooted to the spot, did not notice either the presence of a stranger or the restlessness of dogs.

In the sleepy, frozen air there was a monotonous noise, without which the steppe summer night is indispensable; Grasshoppers chirped continuously, quails sang, and a mile away from the flock, in a ravine in which a stream flowed and willows grew, young nightingales whistled lazily.

The rider stopped to ask the shepherds for a light for his pipe. He silently lit a cigarette and smoked the whole pipe, then, without saying a word, he leaned on his saddle and thought. The young shepherd took no notice of him; he continued to lie and look at the sky, while the old man looked at the rider for a long time and asked:

No way Pantelei from Makarov economy?

I'm the best, - answered the rider.

That's what I see. I did not know - to be rich. Where does God bring it from?

From the Kovylev area.

Farther. Are you giving away a plot of land for savings?

Miscellaneous. And under skokchin, and for rent, and under bakchi. I actually went to the mill.

A large old shepherd dog of a dirty white color, shaggy, with tufts of hair near the eyes and nose, trying to appear indifferent to the presence of strangers, calmly walked around the horse three times and suddenly, unexpectedly, with a vicious, senile wheezing, rushed from behind at the guard, the rest of the dogs could not stand it and jumped up from their seats.

Shit, damn it! shouted the old man, rising on his elbow. - Oh, so that you burst, demonic creature!

When the dogs calmed down, the old man resumed his former posture and said in a calm voice:

And in Kovyly, on the very day of Ascension, Yefim Zhmenya died. Do not be told by the night, it is a sin to guess such people, there was a filthy old man. Probably heard.

No, I didn't.

Yefim Zhmenya, Styopka the blacksmith's uncle. The whole neighborhood knows him. Oh, and the damned old man! I have known him for sixty years, since the time when Tsar Alexander, who drove the Frenchman, was taken from Taganrog on carts to Moscow. Together we went to meet the dead tsar, and then the big path did not go to Bakhmut, but from Yesaulovka to Gorodishche, and where Kovyli is now, there were piper's nests - every step, the piper's nest. Then I also noticed that Zhmenya had ruined his soul and the evil spirits in him. I notice there: if a man of peasant rank is more and more silent, is engaged in old woman's affairs and strives to live alone, then there is little good here, and Efimka used to be silent and silent from his youth, but he looks askance at you, he always seems to pout and puff up like a beer in front of a trigger. So that he goes to church, or walks on the street with the guys, or to a tavern - he didn’t have such a fashion, but more and more he sits alone or whispers with old women. He was young, and he was hired as a beekeeper and as a beekeeper. It used to happen that good people would come to him for bakchi, and his watermelons and melons would whistle. Once, too, I caught a pike in front of people, and she ho-ho-ho-ho! laughed...

It happens, - said Panteley.

The young shepherd turned on his side and intently, raising his black eyebrows, looked at the old man.

Have you heard how watermelons whistle? - he asked.

I didn’t hear, God have mercy, - the old man sighed, - but people said. It's not enough to be wise... If the evil spirit wants it, it will start to whistle in the stone. Before the will, we had three days and three nights of skelya buzzing. I heard it myself. And the pike laughed, because Zhmenya instead of the pike of the demon.

The old man remembered something. He quickly rose to his knees and, shrugging as if from cold, nervously thrusting his hands into his sleeves, babbled into his nose, in a womanish patter:

Save us, Lord, and have mercy! I once walked along the bank to Novopavlovka. The storm was gathering, and it was such a storm that the queen of heaven, mother save ... I hasten with all my might, I look, and along the path, between the thorn bushes - the thorn was then in bloom - a white ox is coming. I think: whose is this ox? Why did the hard one bring him here? He goes, waving his tail and mu-u-u! Only, this is it, brothers, I catch up with him, I come close, look! - and this is not an ox, but Zhmenya. Holy, holy, holy! I made the sign of the cross, and he looks at me and mutters, bulging cataracts. I was scared, passion! Let's go beside him, I'm afraid to say a word to him - thunder rumbles, lightning slashes the sky, willows bend to the very water - suddenly, brothers, God punish me so that I die without repentance, a hare runs across the path ... Runs, stops and says in a human way: "Great, guys!" Go damn! - the old man shouted at the shaggy dog, which again walked around the horse. - Oh, so that you die!

It happens, - said the rider, still leaning on the saddle and not moving; he said this in a soundless, muffled voice, in which people speak when they are deep in thought.

It happens,” he repeated thoughtfully and with conviction.

Oh, the old man was a bitch! - continued the old man not so hotly. About five years after his will, they flogged him with peace in the office, so that, therefore, to prove his anger, he took it and sent a throat disease on all Kovyli. Then the people died out without counting, apparently, invisibly, as if in cholera ...

How did he get sick? asked the young shepherd after some silence.

It is known how. There is no need for a big mind, there would be a hunt. I stained people with viper fat. And this is such a remedy that not only from fat, but even from the spirit, people are dying.

That's right, agreed Pantelei.

The guys wanted to kill him then, but the old people did not let him. It was impossible to kill him; he knew the place where the treasures are. And besides him, not a single soul knew. The treasures here are spoken, so you will find and not see, but he did. It used to be that he was walking along the bank or in the forest, and under the bushes and skeletons there were lights, lights, lights ... The lights were as if from sulfur. I saw it myself. Everyone was so expecting that Zhmenya would show people the place or dig it himself, but he - it is said that the dog itself does not eat and does not give to others - and died: he did not dig himself, nor did he show people.

The rider lit his pipe and for a moment lit up his large mustache and sharp, stern, respectable nose. Small circles of light jumped from his hands to the cap, ran over the saddle along the horse's back and disappeared into the mane near the ears.

There are many treasures in these places,” he said.

There must be treasures.

What can I say, - the old man sighed. - You can see everything that is, only, brother, there is no one to dig them. No one knows the real places, but at the present time, read, all the treasures are spoken. To find and see him, you need to have such a talisman, and without a talisman, you can’t do anything, soaring. Zhmenya had talismans, but something from him, from the bald devil, you beg? He kept them so that no one would get them.

The young shepherd crawled up a couple of steps towards the old man and, propping his head on his fists, fixed him with an immovable gaze. An infantile expression of fear and curiosity shone in his dark eyes and, as it seemed in the twilight, stretched and flattened the large features of his young, rough face. He listened intently.

And it is written in the scriptures that there are many treasures here, - the old man continued. This is what to say... and there is nothing to say. In Ivanovka, they showed a label to one Novopavlovsk old soldier, so in that label it is printed about the place, and even how many pounds of gold, and in what dishes; For a long time, the treasure would have been taken out on this label, but only the treasure is charmed, you won’t approach.

Why, grandfather, do not rise up? - asked the young.

There must be a reason, the soldier did not say. Spellbound ... A talisman is needed.

Dedicated to Ya. P. Polonsky
A flock of sheep spent the night by the wide steppe road, called the Great Way. She was guarded by two shepherds. One, an old man of about eighty, toothless, with a trembling face, was lying on his stomach by the very road, resting his elbows on the dusty plantain leaves; the other, a young lad, with thick black eyebrows and beardless, dressed in linen, from which cheap bags are sewn, lay on his back, with his hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky, where the Milky Way stretched just above his face and the stars slumbered. The shepherds were not alone. A sazhen from them, in the twilight that covered the road, a saddled horse was darkening, and beside it, leaning on the saddle, stood a man in big boots and a short cloak, by all appearances, a gentleman's rider. Judging by his figure, straight and motionless, by his manners, by his treatment of shepherds, a horse, he was a serious, reasonable man who knew his own worth; even in the darkness, traces of military bearing and that majestic-condescending expression, which is acquired from frequent treatment of gentlemen and managers, were noticeable in him. The sheep were asleep. Against the gray background of the dawn, which was already beginning to cover the eastern part of the sky, the silhouettes of sleeping sheep were visible here and there; they stood and lowered their heads, thinking about something. Their thoughts, long, viscous, caused only by ideas of the wide steppe and the sky, of days and nights, probably amazed and oppressed them to the point of insensibility, and they, now standing as if rooted to the spot, did not notice either the presence of a stranger or the restlessness of dogs. In the sleepy, frozen air there was a monotonous noise, without which the steppe summer night is indispensable; Grasshoppers chirped incessantly, quails sang, and a mile away from the flock in a ravine in which a stream flowed and willows grew, young nightingales whistled lazily. The rider stopped to ask the shepherds for a light for his pipe. He silently lit a cigarette and smoked the whole pipe, then, without saying a word, he leaned back and fell into thought. The young shepherd took no notice of him; he continued to lie and look at the sky, while the old man looked at the rider for a long time and asked: - No way Pantelei from Makarov economy? "I'm the best," answered the rider. - That's what I see. I did not know - to be rich. Where does God bring it from? - From the Kovylevsky section. — Farther. Are you giving away a plot of land for savings? - Miscellaneous. And under skokchin, and for rent, and under bakchi. I actually went to the mill. A large old shepherd dog of a dirty white color, shaggy, with tufts of hair near the eyes and nose, trying to appear indifferent to the presence of strangers, calmly walked around the horse three times and suddenly, unexpectedly, with a vicious, senile wheezing, rushed from behind at the guard, the rest of the dogs could not stand it and jumped up from their seats. "Push, damn it!" shouted the old man, rising on his elbow. “Ah, so that you burst, demonic creature!” When the dogs calmed down, the old man resumed his former posture and said in a calm voice: - And in Kovyly, on Ascension Day, Yefim Zhmenya died. Do not be told by the night, it is a sin to guess such people, there was a filthy old man. Have you heard? — No, I haven't. - Yefim Zhmenya, Styopka the blacksmith's uncle. The whole neighborhood knows him. Oh, and the damned old man! I have known him for sixty years, since the time when Tsar Alexander, who drove the Frenchman, was taken from Taganrog on carts to Moscow. Together we went to meet the dead tsar, and then the big path did not go to Bakhmut, but from Esaulovka to Gorodishche, and where Kovyli is now, there were buggers' nests - every step, the nest of buggers. Then I also noticed that Zhmenya had ruined his soul and the evil spirits in him. This is how I notice: if a man of peasant rank is more and more silent, is engaged in old woman's affairs and strives to live alone, then there is little good here, and Yefimka used to be silent and silent from his youth, but he looks askance at you, he always seems to pout and puff up like a beer in front of a trigger. For him to go to church, or to go for a walk with the guys, or to a tavern - he did not have such a fashion, but more and more he sits alone or whispers with old women. He was young, and he was hired as a beekeeper and as a beekeeper. It used to happen that good people would come to him for bakchi, and his watermelons and melons would whistle. Once I also caught a pike in front of people, and she - ho-ho-ho-ho! laughed... "It happens," said Panteley. The young shepherd turned on his side and intently, raising his black eyebrows, looked at the old man. — Have you heard how watermelons whistle? - he asked. “I didn’t hear it, God bless you,” the old man sighed, “but people said. It's not enough to be wise... If the evil spirit wants it, it will start to whistle in the stone. Before the will, we had three days and three nights of skelya buzzing. I heard it myself. And the pike laughed, because instead of the pike, Zhmen caught the demon. The old man remembered something. He quickly rose to his knees and, shrugging as if from cold, nervously thrusting his hands into his sleeves, babbled into his nose, in a womanish patter: Save us, Lord, and have mercy! I once walked along the bank to Novopavlovka. The storm was gathering, and it was such a storm that the queen of heaven, mother save ... I hurry with all my might, I look, and along the path, between the thorn bushes - the thorn was then in bloom - a white ox is coming. I think: whose is this ox? Why did the hard one bring him here? He goes, waving his tail and mu-u-u! Only, this is it, brothers, I catch up with him, I come close, look! - and this is not an ox, but Zhmenya. Holy, holy, holy! I made the sign of the cross, and he looks at me and mutters, bulging cataracts. I was scared, passion! Come along, I'm afraid to say a word to him - thunder rumbles, lightning slashes the sky, willows bend to the very water - suddenly, brothers, God punish me so that I die without repentance, a hare runs across the path ... Runs, stops and says in a human way: "Great, guys!" Go damn! the old man shouted at the shaggy dog, which again walked around the horse. - Oh, so that you die! “It happens,” said the rider, still leaning on the saddle and not moving; he said this in a soundless, muffled voice, in which people speak when they are deep in thought. “It happens,” he repeated thoughtfully and with conviction. - Oh, the old man was a bitch! the old man went on, not so ardently. “About five years after his will, they flogged him with peace in the office, so he, in order to prove his anger, took it and sent a throat disease on all Kovyli. Then the people died out without counting, apparently, invisibly, as if in cholera ... How did he get sick? asked the young shepherd after some silence. - It is known how. There is no need for a big mind, there would be a hunt. I stained people with viper fat. And this is such a remedy that not only from fat, but even from the spirit, people are dying. "That's right," agreed Panteley. - Then the guys wanted to kill him, but the old people did not let him. It was impossible to kill him: he knew the places where there were treasures. And besides him, not a single soul knew. The treasures here are spoken, so you will find and not see, but he did. It used to be that he was walking along the bank or in the forest, and under the bushes and skeletons there were lights, lights, lights ... The lights were as if from sulfur. I saw it myself. Everyone was waiting so much that Zhmenya would show people the place or dig it himself, but he - it is said that the dog itself does not eat and does not give to others - and so he died: he did not dig himself, nor did he show people. The rider lit his pipe and for a moment lit up his large mustache and sharp, stern, respectable nose. Small circles of light jumped from his hands to the cap, ran over the saddle along the horse's back and disappeared into the mane near the ears. “There are many treasures in these places,” he said. And, slowly inhaling, he looked around him, fixed his gaze on the whitening east, and added: — There must be treasures. “What can I say,” the old man sighed. - You can see everything that is there, only, brother, there is no one to dig them. No one knows the real places, but at the present time, read, all the treasures are spoken. To find and see him, you need to have such a talisman, and without a talisman, you can’t do anything, soaring. Zhmenya had talismans, but something from him, from the bald devil, you beg? He kept them so that no one would get them. The young shepherd crawled up a couple of steps towards the old man and, propping his head on his fists, fixed him with an immovable gaze. An infantile expression of fear and curiosity shone in his dark eyes and, as it seemed in the twilight, stretched and flattened the large features of his young, rough face. He listened intently. “And it is written in the scriptures that there are many treasures here,” the old man continued. - That's what to say ... and there is nothing to say. In Ivanovka, they showed a label to one Novopavlovsk old soldier, so in that label it is printed about the place, and even how many pounds of gold, and in what dishes; For a long time, the treasure would have been taken out on this label, but only the treasure is charmed, you won’t approach. “Why don’t you step up, grandfather?” the young man asked. - There must be a reason, the soldier did not say. Spellbound ... A talisman is needed. The old man spoke with enthusiasm, as if pouring out his soul to the passerby. He was nasal from the habit of talking a lot and quickly, stammered and, feeling such a lack of his speech, tried to brighten it up with gesticulations of his head, arms and skinny shoulders; with every movement, his linen shirt wrinkled into folds, crawled to his shoulders and exposed his back, black from sunburn and old age. He tugged at her, and she immediately climbed again. Finally, the old man, as if he had been put out of patience by a disobedient shirt, jumped up and spoke bitterly: - There is happiness, but what's the use of it if it is buried in the ground? So the good is wasted for nothing, without any benefit, like chaff or sheep's droppings! But there is a lot of happiness, so much, a guy, that it would be enough for the whole district, but not a single soul sees it! People will wait until the pans dig it or the treasury will take it away. The gentlemen have already begun to dig mounds ... They smelled it! Take their envy of peasant happiness! The treasury is also on its mind. It is written in the law that if a peasant finds a treasure, then to present it to the authorities. Well, wait - you can't wait! There is kvass, but not about you! The old man laughed contemptuously and sat down on the ground. The guard listened attentively and agreed, but from the expression of his figure and from his silence it was clear that everything that the old man told him was not new to him, that he had changed his mind long ago and knew much more than what the old man knew. “In my lifetime, I confess, I have sought happiness ten times,” said the old man, scratching himself embarrassedly. - I searched in real places, yes, I know, I got everything on the charmed treasures. And my father searched, and my brother searched - they did not find a jester, and they died without happiness. To my brother, Ilya, the kingdom of heaven to him, one monk discovered that in Taganrog, in the fortress, in one place under three stones, there is a treasure and that this treasure was charmed, and at that time - it was, I remember, in the thirty-eighth year - in An Armenian woman lived in Matveev Kurgan, sold talismans. Ilya bought a talisman, took two guys with him and went to Taganrog. Only, brother, he comes to a place in the fortress, and at the very place a soldier with a gun is standing ... In the quiet air, scattering across the steppe, a sound swept through. Something in the distance gasped menacingly, hit a stone and ran across the steppe, uttering: “Tah! tah! tah! tah!" When the sound died away, the old man looked inquiringly at the indifferent, motionless Panteley. - It was in the mines that the tub broke, - said the young man, thinking. It was already light. The Milky Way grew pale and gradually melted like snow, losing its shape. The sky became gloomy and cloudy when you couldn't make out whether it was clear or covered entirely with clouds, and only from a clear, glossy strip in the east and from some surviving stars you could understand what was the matter. The first morning breeze without a rustle, carefully stirring the milkweed and the brown stalks of last year's weeds, ran along the road. The rider woke up from his thoughts and shook his head. With both hands he shook the saddle, touched the girth, and, as if not daring to mount the horse, again stopped in thought. “Yes,” he said, “the elbow is close, but you won’t bite ... There is happiness, but there is no mind to look for it.” And he turned to face the shepherds. His stern face was sad and mocking, like that of a disappointed man. “Yes, you will die without seeing happiness for what it is ...” he said with a pause, raising his left foot to the stirrup. - Who is younger, maybe they will wait, but it’s time for us to think about quitting. Stroking his long, dewy moustache, he sat heavily on the horse and, with an air as if he had forgotten something or left something unsaid, screwed up his eyes at the distance. In the bluish distance, where the last visible hill merged with the fog, nothing moved: the guard and burial mounds, which rose here and there above the horizon and the boundless steppe, looked stern and dead; centuries and complete indifference to man were felt in their stillness and soundlessness; Another thousand years will pass, billions of people will die, and they will still stand as they stood, not at all sorry for the dead, not interested in the living, and not a single soul will know why they are standing and what secret of the steppe they are hiding under them. The awakened rooks, silently and alone, flew over the ground. Neither in the lazy flight of these long-lived birds, nor in the morning, which repeats itself neatly every day, nor in the boundlessness of the steppe - there was no sense in anything. The rider smiled and said: - What a vastness, Lord have mercy! Go find happiness! Here,” he continued, lowering his voice and making his face serious, “two treasures are probably buried here. The gentlemen do not know about them, but the old peasants, especially the soldiers, know exactly about them. Here, somewhere on this ridge (the guard pointed to the side with a whip), sometime during it, the robbers attacked a caravan with gold; This gold was brought from St. Petersburg to Emperor Peter, who was then building a fleet in Voronezh. The robbers beat the drivers, and buried the gold, but then they did not find it. Our Don Cossacks buried another treasure. In the twelfth year, they robbed the Frenchman of all good things, silver and gold, apparently invisibly. When they turned back to their home, they heard on the way that the authorities wanted to take away all their gold and silver from them. Why should the authorities give away the good in vain, they, well done, took it and buried it, so that at least the children would get it, but where they buried it is unknown. “I heard about these treasures,” the old man muttered sullenly. "Yes," Panteley thought again. - So... There was silence. The rider looked thoughtfully into the distance, grinned, and touched the reins with the same expression, as if he had forgotten something or left something unsaid. The horse walked reluctantly. Having traveled a hundred paces, Pantelei shook his head resolutely, roused himself from his thoughts, and, whipping his horse, galloped at a trot. The shepherds were left alone. “This is Pantelei from the Makarov economy,” said the old man. - He gets a hundred and fifty a year, on the master's grub. Educated person... The awakened sheep - there were about three thousand of them - reluctantly, having nothing to do, set to work on the low, half-trodden grass. The sun had not yet risen, but all the barrows and the distant, cloud-like Saur-Mogila with a pointed top were already visible. If you climb this Grave, then from it you can see the plain, as flat and boundless as the sky, you can see the manor estates, the farms of the Germans and Molokans, the villages, and the far-sighted Kalmyk will even see the city and the trains of the railways. Only from here it is clear that in this world, apart from the silent steppe and centuries-old barrows, there is another life that does not care about buried happiness and sheepish thoughts. The old man groped for his "herlyga" beside him, a long stick with a hook on the upper end, and got up. He was silent and thought. The young man's expression of fear and curiosity had not yet left his face. He was impressed by what he heard and looked forward to new stories. “Grandfather,” he asked, getting up and taking his herliga, “what did your brother, Ilya, do with the soldier?” The old man did not hear the question. He looked absently at the young man and answered, shaking his lips: - And I, Sanka, keep thinking about that label that they showed the soldier in Ivanovka. I didn’t tell Panteley, God bless him, but the label indicates such a place that even a woman will find. Do you know what place? In the Rich Balochka, in that place, you know, where the beam, like a goose foot, diverges into three beams; so in the middle. "Well, are you going to dig?" I'll try my luck... - Grandfather, what will you do with the treasure when you find it? — I something? the old man chuckled. "Hm!.. If only I could find it, otherwise... I would show Kuzka's mother to everyone... Hm!.. I know what to do..." And the old man could not answer what he would do with the treasure if he found it. This question presented itself to him this morning, probably for the first time in his whole life, and judging by the expression on his face, frivolous and indifferent, did not seem to him important and worthy of reflection. Another bewilderment swirled in Sanka's head: why are only old people looking for treasures and why did earthly happiness surrender to people who can die of old age every day? But Sanka did not know how to pour this bewilderment into a question, but the old man would hardly have found what to answer him. Surrounded by a slight haze, a huge crimson sun appeared. Wide streaks of light, still cold, bathing in the dewy grass, stretching and with a cheerful look, as if trying to show that they were not tired of it, began to lie on the ground. Silvery wormwood, blue flowers of a pig's cibulka, yellow colza, cornflowers - all this joyfully dazzled, taking the light of the sun for its own smile. The old man and Sanka parted and stood at the edges of the flock. Both stood like pillars, not moving, looking at the ground and thinking. The first was not let go by thoughts of happiness, while the second thought about what was said at night; he was not interested in happiness itself, which he did not need and incomprehensible, but in the fantastic and fabulous nature of human happiness. A hundred sheep shuddered and, in some incomprehensible horror, as if on a signal, rushed away from the flock. And Sanka, as if the thoughts of sheep, long and viscous, for a moment communicated to him, in the same incomprehensible, animal horror, rushed to the side, but immediately came to his senses and shouted: - Ty, said! Have gone mad, there is no death on you! And when the sun, promising a long, invincible heat, began to bake the earth, all living things that moved and made sounds at night fell into a half-sleep. The old man and Sanka with their herligs stood at the opposite edges of the flock, stood motionless, like fakirs at prayer, and thought with concentration. They no longer noticed each other, and each of them lived his own life. The sheep also thought...
School tour of the Literature Olympiad

5th grade

Which of the heroes of fairy tales A.S. Pushkin died from

greed

poisoning

admiration

breaking a promise

Here is a coded message addressed to you as good life advice. Engage in deciphering and read the fabulous lesson of A.S. Pushkin.

“_ _a_ _a _ wait_, _a in _e_ _a_e_!

O_ _ ym _o_o_ _ a _ _ _ o_ "

In what national myths and legends is the Sun a deity? Why?

Which of the literary or fairy-tale characters owns the following items? Name the character, work and author.

broken trough

wonderful pot of bells

talking miraculous mirror

sharp sparkling knife and fur clutch

dead cat

slippers

saber and satchel

Before you is the poem "Books in Red Binding" by the Russian poet of the XX century Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva. Try to explain what the author of these lines is experiencing, why childhood is called "golden times", paradise? What role do books play in this? Why are literary heroes called friends? What works are these characters from and who is their author?

Let's play burim - write a poem using the given rhymes. We admit that the rhymes are taken from a poem by the Russian poet M.Yu. Lermontov.

Crazy - noisy

Granite - covered

Born - rush

Hero - peace

Marina Tsvetaeva

^ RED BOUND BOOKS

From the paradise of children's life
You send me a farewell greeting,
Unchanged Friends
In a worn, red binding.
A little easy lesson learned
I run immediately to you, it happened,
- It's too late! - Mom, ten lines! ... -
But, fortunately, my mother forgot.
Lights flicker on the chandeliers...
It's good to read a book at home!
Under Grieg, Schumann and Cui
I learned the fate of Tom.
It's getting dark, the air is fresh...
Tom is happy with Becky full of faith.
Here with the torch is Injun Joe
Wandering in the twilight of the cave...
Cemetery... The prophetic cry of an owl....
(I'm scared!) Here it flies through the bumps
Adopted prim widow,
Like Diogenes living in a barrel.
Lighter than the sun is the throne room,
Above the slender boy is a crown...
Suddenly - a beggar! God! He said:
"Allow me, I am the heir to the throne!"
Gone into the darkness, who arose in it.
Britain's sad fate...
- Oh, why among the red books
Wouldn't you like to fall asleep behind the lamp again?
Oh golden times
Where the look is bolder and the heart is purer!
About golden names:
Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, The Prince and the Pauper!

6th grade

Name the works in the title of which children or their names are mentioned, do not forget to indicate the authors.

What Russian poet is referred to in this description?

He was the son of a landowner and a captive Turkish woman, a friend of the great Russian poet and tutor of the Tsarevich; became a famous poet, telling in a poem about the events of the Patriotic War of 1812, he loved everything mysterious and romantic, which he wrote about in his poems and ballads.

In what year was the poem written by A.S. Pushkin, lines from which are given below? Justify your answer and explain what the Lyceum has become for the poet.

^ It's time for everything: for the twenty-fifth time

We celebrate the cherished day of the Lyceum.

Give one line from different poems in which the words sky (heaven), sun, Russia (Rus) are used.

What impression does Nikolai Gumilyov's poem "On the polar and southern seas..." make on you? What is the image of the captains? What are their life goals and how are they willing to pay to achieve them? With the help of what details does the image of the era of the times of geographical discoveries appear? How is the main conflict reflected in the poem and who is fighting with whom? What is the symbol of the sea, and what gives rise to the mood of energy and movement in the text?

Write a poem using the following rhymes:

loud - child

born - aspires

noisy - brilliant

breath - legends

Nikolay Gumilyov

On the polar seas and in the south,

Along the bends of the green swells,

Between basalt rocks and pearl

The sails of the ships rustle.

The swift-wings are led by captains,

Discoverers of new lands

Who is not afraid of hurricanes

Who tasted maelstroms and stranded,

Whose is not the dust of lost charters, -

The chest is soaked with the salt of the sea,

Who is the needle on the torn map

Marks his audacious path.

And, having ascended the trembling bridge,

Remembers the abandoned port

Shaking off the blows of the cane

Shreds of foam from high boots,

Or, discovering a riot on board,

From behind the belt tears a gun,

So gold is pouring from lace,

With pinkish Brabant cuffs.

Let the sea rage and lash

The crests of the waves rose into the sky, -

Not one trembles before a thunderstorm,

None will turn the sails.

Are these hands given to cowards,

That sharp, confident look

What can on enemy feluccas

Unexpectedly throw a frigate

Marked by a bullet, sharp iron

Chase giant whales

And take in the multi-star night

Protective light beacons?

The work of which Russian writer is referred to in the above excerpt from the book by Yuri Aikhenvald? Justify your answer by explaining what helped you find the writer's name.

He told us terrible tales about life ... therefore life itself is terrible, how terrible it seemed “the illuminated church at night with a dead body and without the soul of people” - a church, an uninhabited house, an empty square. And, perhaps, everything empty, which nature fears for good reason, frightens, and is it not terrifying in the world that funny people, ghosts, have a soul that is not filled with anything, a soul that is dead? From funny to scary - one step.

Name the work of A.S. Pushkin, in the final of which the following lines sound, and explain what Dikanka will become a symbol of in a cycle of stories by another Russian writer.

^ An ancient row blooms in Dikanka

Oak trees planted by friends;

They are about the forefathers of the executed

Until now, they say to their grandchildren.

Name the time and historical events described in the following works: “The Song of the Merchant Kalashnikov” by M.Yu. Lermontov, "Poltava" A.S. Pushkin, "Taras Bulba" by N.V. Gogol, "Spartacus" by R. Giovagnoli.

Who is featured in this description?

As a child, he witnessed the Pugachev uprising and almost died, as his father was an assistant to the commandant of the Yaik fortress; in life he was a bully and a fighter, a participant in many literary riots, a glutton and a lazy person, but a brilliantly educated person; gained fame in a genre known since antiquity, giving it a Russian national flavor; he was often referred to as "grandfather"; a monument was erected to him in the Summer Garden in St. Petersburg and on the Patriarch's Ponds in Moscow, surrounded by his heroes.

Reflect on the poem "The Reader" by 20th-century Russian poet Anna Akhmatova. Describe the characters of the poet and the reader. What role do stage images and ramps play? Why is the reader a treasure? How does the contact between the poet and the reader arise?

Compose 1-2 paradoxical stanzas, continuing the ballad of the French medieval poet Francois Villon:

^ I'm dying of thirst over the stream,

Laughing through tears and working hard playing

Wherever I go - everywhere is my home,

Foreign land is my native country.

Akhmatova A. A.

Reader

Shouldn't be very unhappy
And most importantly, hidden. Oh no! -
To be clear to the contemporary
The poet is all wide open.

And the ramp sticks out under your feet,
Everything is dead, empty, light,
Lime light cold flame
He was branded by a brow.

And every reader is like a mystery,
Like a treasure buried in the ground
Let the very last, random,
Silent all his life.

There is everything that nature hides,
Whenever she wants, from us.
There is someone mysteriously crying
At some appointed time.

And how much twilight of the night is there,
And shadows, and how much coolness.
There those unfamiliar eyes
Until the light they speak to me.

I'm being blamed for something.
And they agree with me...
So the confession flows silently.
Conversations the most blessed heat.

Our age on earth is fleeting
And the appointed circle is narrow.
And he is unchanging and eternal -
The poet's unknown friend.

8th grade

Work

Boris Godunov

Hadji Murat

Percival, or the Tale of the Grail

Genres: 1. Romantic poem; 2. Historical tragedy; 3. Historical story; 4. Knightly romance.

Write how the words sound in Church Slavonic: forehead, eye, cheek, life, word.

Explain the meaning and origin of the expressions: the gifts of the Danaans, “and the casket just opened”, “and the king is naked”, “and Vaska listens and eats”, “chicks of Petrov's nest”.

Who is described here?

Coming from a family of Irish artists, a marine surgeon, an athlete who is fond of boxing; who lost almost all his relatives during the First World War, in connection with which he became a champion of spiritualism, spending a quarter of a million pounds on it; inventor of body armor; the author of a series of detective stories with one main character (he is still written letters to the official address), the words of the epitaph are carved on his tombstone: "Faithful as steel, straight as a blade."

Give a comparative analysis of the poems by A.S. Pushkin and M.Yu. Lermontov with the same name "Prisoner".

Write an article "Epitet" for a literary dictionary. Don't forget to give examples.

^ A.S. Pushkin

I am sitting behind bars in a damp dungeon.
A young eagle bred in captivity,
My sad comrade, waving his wing,
Bloody food pecks under the window,

Pecks, and throws, and looks out the window,
It's like he thought the same thing with me.
He calls me with his eyes and his cry
And he wants to say: “Let's fly away!

We are free birds; it's time, brother, it's time!
There, where the mountain turns white behind the cloud,
There, where the sea edges turn blue,
There, where only the wind walks ... yes I! ... "

^ M.Yu. Lermontov

Open the dungeon for me
Give me the shine of the day
black eyed girl,
Black-maned horse.
I am young beauty
First kiss sweetly
Then I'll jump on a horse
In the steppe, like the wind, I will fly away.

But the prison window is high
The door is heavy with a lock;
Black eyed far away
In his magnificent chamber;
Good horse in a green field
Without a bridle, alone, at will
Jumping, cheerful and playful,
Tail spreading in the wind...

I am alone - there is no consolation:
The walls are bare all around
Dimly shining lamp beam
Dying fire;
Only heard: behind the doors
With sonorous steps
Walks in the silence of the night
Unanswered sentry.

9 - 11 grade

It is proposed to perform one of the options for the task.

Conduct a comparative analysis of the poems.

A. Akhmatova “Before spring there are such days ...”

M.I. Tsvetaeva "Blue hills near Moscow..."

A.S. Pushkin "In the depths of Siberian ores ..."

A. Blok “A sound is approaching. And, submissive to the aching sound ... "

N.M. Rubtsov "In the minutes of sad music ..."

Comprehensive analysis of the epic work.

A.A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky "Clock and Mirror"

A.P. Chekhov "Happiness"

V.V. Nabokov "Accident"

Write an article for a dictionary of literary terms.

The speech characteristic of the hero

Psychologism in literature

Context

Make a historical and cultural commentary on a fragment of the text of a work of art.

A.S. Griboyedov "Woe from Wit"

L.N. Tolstoy "War and Peace"

A.A. Akhmatova "Requiem"

^ Texts for the Olympiad

Comparative analysis

A.Akhmatova

N. G. Chulkova
Before spring there are days like this:
Meadow rests under dense snow,
The trees rustle merrily and dry,
And the warm wind is gentle and resilient.
And the body marvels at its lightness,
And you don't recognize your home
And the song that was tired before,
Like new, eat with excitement.
1915

^ M.I. Tsvetaeva

Blue hills near Moscow
In the air, a little warm - dust and tar.
I sleep all day, I laugh all day - I must
I'm recovering from winter.

I go home as quietly as possible:
Unwritten poems - no pity!
The clatter of wheels and roasted almonds
I love all the quatrains.

My head is empty,
Because the heart is too full!
My days are like little waves
At which I look from the bridge.

Someone's eyes are too tender
In the gentle air barely warmed...
I already get sick in the summer
Barely recovered from the winter.

Grade 10

^ A.S. Pushkin

In the depths of Siberian ores

Keep proud patience

Your mournful work will not be lost

And doom high aspiration.

Unfortunately faithful sister,

Hope in the dark dungeon

Wake up cheerfulness and fun,

The desired time will come:

Love and friendship up to you

They will reach through the gloomy gates,

Like in your hard labor holes

My free voice is coming.

Heavy chains will fall

The dungeons will collapse - and freedom

You will be gladly received at the entrance,

And the brothers will give you the sword.

^ F. I. Tyutchev

You have been corrupted by self-rule,

And his sword struck you, -

And in incorruptible impartiality

This verdict was confirmed by the Law.

The people, shunning treachery,

Swears your names -

And your memory is from posterity,

Like a corpse in the ground, buried.

O victim of reckless thought,

You hoped maybe

What will become scarce of your blood,

To melt the eternal pole!

Barely, smoking, she sparkled,

On the age-old mass of ice,

Iron winter died -

And there were no traces left.

1826, not earlier than August

Grade 11

^ Alexander Blok

The sound is coming. And, obedient to the aching sound,

The soul is young.

And in a dream I press your old hand to my lips,

Dreaming - again I'm a boy, and again a lover,

And the ravine, and weeds.

And in the weeds - prickly wild rose,

And evening mist.

Through flowers and leaves and thorny branches, I know

The old house looks into my heart,

The sky will look again, turning pink from edge to edge,

I will give my life and grief,

Even in a dream, your former sweet hand

Pressing to lips.

^ Nikolai Rubtsov

In moments of sad music

And the noise of impetuous birches,

And the first snow under the gray sky

Among the fading fields

And the path without the sun, the path without faith

Cranes driven by snow...

For a long time the soul is tired of wandering

In former love, in former hops,

It's high time to understand

That I love ghosts too much.

But all the same, in the dwellings of unsteady -

Try to stop them!

Calling to each other, violins cry

About yellow reach, about love.

And still under the sky low

I see clearly, to tears,

And the noise of impetuous birches.

As if the farewell hour is eternal,

It's like time doesn't matter...

In moments of sad music

Don't talk about anything.

^ Analysis of prose texts

Grade 9
1966>^ A. Bestuzhev-Marlinsky Clock and mirror
(Diary sheet)

Where do you order? - asked my Ivan, raising his triangular hat with his left hand, and wrapping the handle of a hired carriage with his right hand.

To General S.! I said absently.

Went to the Marine! he shouted to the cabby, running grabbingly to the back. The wheels roared, and while the frail carriage rushed forward, my thoughts flew to the past.

How many pleasant hours I spent with the general's wife S.!.. Dear daughter, intelligent company, entertaining conversation, friendly manners, beautiful daughter ... Oh, my God, yes, this is a repetition! - you have to start and conclude with her - she was the soul, and maybe the subject of all this! The breath of great light did not stifle her sincerity, court sequins sparkled only on her dress, but her wit had no need for them. Cheerful without compulsion, modest without affectation, majestic without pride, she attracted the heart with her eyes and enchanted the minds with her words. The most ordinary things she uttered took on a special life from a feeling or thought expressed by her face, from a hint in animated sounds of her voice. No one knew how to merge secular frivolity with heartfelt dreaminess better than she did, and, keeping the strict etiquette of fashionable decorum, to command fashion meanwhile - and excellent. Always surrounded by a swarm of mosquitoes - wits, dandies - moths and Spanish flies - the rich, she alone seemed not to notice any greetings, or sighs, or glances, or sighs with which she was showered. She reflected the arrows of parquet cupids with her fan - and the most well-aimed spilled out of the corset when undressing, along with extra pins. I will not say that vanity, that slander - the two elements of great light were alien to her - no! this is hardly possible for any woman and completely impossible for a lady of a better tone. What would take them home? what would they whisper about at balls, at congresses, at spectacles, if they would leave alone all the reputations, all the wrinkles of faces and folds of dresses, all the antics and attire of those present, and all the city news, invented from nothing to do and repeated from nothing to say? At least she was vain, more by example than by heart; at least, her mockery was dissolved by some kind of good nature: she wanted not to hurt the one about whom the word was spoken, but only to amuse the one to whom she was telling. Far from the Amazonian tone of many of her metropolitan peers, she patiently listened to the babble of kind, inexperienced, trusting newcomers - without turning them into ice cream with a destructive look or a word thrown from a height of contempt, and not a single clever word, not a single sharp remark was left without her reward. smiles - whoever said it.

I lay down my pen and coolly ask myself: is this not a madrigal composed by my heart? Am I in love? But what does this word mean? I have been in love so often that, it seems to me, I love only those with whom I have not fallen in love - consequently, I have not stopped loving. Not! this is not a heartfelt predilection: my feelings for her were more tender than affection - but quieter than love. I was annoyed, it happened when persistent idle talk prevented me from talking to her, but I was not jealous. I don’t know whether my circumstances or the fear of not getting full reciprocity kept me between heaven and earth - only I didn’t put on the colorful cap of admirers and, reluctantly, warmed myself, but did not burn with her beauty. Hours would fly by and speech would seethe in full swing when, throwing off the secular bonds of affectation along with taffeta flowers and magnificent regalia of boredom, she returned to her home circle, as if now from the shrouds of nature. How innocently intelligent, how genuinely sensitive she used to be then! I will never forget the last evening spent with her: four years of absence and a bivouac, robber life in the mountains of the Caucasus did not smooth out the memories of that: all this, like yesterday, is before my eyes.

They did not stand on ceremony with me - I was almost at home with them; and after dinner the mother went off to faire la cieste, to rest a little, so as not to yawn at the ball they were going to. We remained by the fire: her brother, a cavalryman, dozed off under the grateful influence of the English coals, and only now and then tinkled his spurs: evidently his thoughts were then dancing a mazurka. The older, married sister of Sophia was engaged in counting beads for purse patterns; on the other hand, the two of us spoke for four, and it was, of course, not about the tears of Andromache. The word touched on living pictures, and I said that many of our ladies win in them with silence and immobility, but what did we all lose in your silence, mademoiselle Sophie! True, you were the living thought of the painter; you animated, elevated it by your own expression and imagination; but one movement, one sound, would evoke a spark of delight, which still lurked in mute contemplation!

Even if I sneezed? - she asked slyly, objecting to my compliment. - Allons, M. Alexandre, I do not like noise, and from high to ridiculous one step. Come on, I'd rather show you my new work on velvet, my completely lifeless picture! Having said this, she fluttered forward; I offered my hand to my elder sister, who, half jokingly, half seriously, reprimanded Sofya that she was inviting a young man into her office without her mother, but, nevertheless, got up, and we happily made the Suvorov crossing.

What a pity that we have nothing to express the English word Awe. It is not fear, not awe, not amazement, but something that has something of all three in it. It was with such a feeling that I was permeable, crossing the threshold of the study of a lovely girl, struck not by what I saw there, but by what I guessed or imagined. Here, in the rays of the morning sun, the water refreshes her like a rose ... Here, in front of a mirror, she chooses from her fashionable armory (that is, wardrobe) the most deadly outfits for us; here she tries on a new hat, a new smile to her face, or experiences a casually picturesque position; here she repeats unintentional glances, sighs for romance, dreams after the ball ... and who is the lucky one whom she dreams of? With some feeling of sweet fear, I entered Sophia's room - as if in a sanctuary. A certain mystique, a certain risk, made it even more valuable. Everything seemed charming to me there: the clothes and their taste, the light and air! Bronze and crystal knick-knacks beckoned the eye with the beauty of work or aroused curiosity with the news of an invention. The milky cover of the lamp shed the radiance of the moon; flowers and perfumes were fragrant. On the candelabra hung a hat with a veil for walking along the Nevsky. On the writing table, between the brilliant albums, the dying Malek-Adel cast his last glance from under the English caricature. Walter Scott's half-cut novel was pawned as an invitation to the ball; a fake garland was thrown on the half-finished letter, and the fashion magazine, unfolded in the picture, overshadowed Schiller and Lamartine with its wings; a half-burnt sheet from Darlincourt, which served to light the cassette, concluded the picture - in a word, everything in a captivating disorder - it was an ode in the Anacreontic kind - or, better, the story of the heart and mind of a society girl. So I could follow her whims and inclinations - the struggle of frivolity with a thirst for knowledge, with the need for spiritual pursuits; the desire to shine, to please, and to conquer equally in appearance and intellect in a world so boring in its customs and so sweet in habit. Habit is second nature, everyone says. It seems to me that nature itself is the first habit ... no more, no less.

Sophia pulled off the coverlet from a small hoop, in which a white velvet strip was stretched, and on it, in bright shades, the knitting of fruits mixed with flowers was very skillfully depicted. I silently looked first at the work, then at Sophia, and again, and again, alternately; she glanced first at me, then in the mirror. “You are a real Aurora,” I said, “roses bloom under your fingers!” - “Is it poppies,” she objected, “I get up too late for the messengers of Phoebus. Moreover, to be a Petersburg dawn means to say goodbye to all your friends - who see the sunrise only in Vernet's picture! I assured her that she would turn the whole world into an early bird, put morning walks into fashion, and all lorgnets, all pipes would turn to the east, like the eyes of the faithful! She protested that she was asking about the flowers and not about herself. I said that it is impossible, looking at them, not to think of the best of them. She wanted to know if the work was good. I answered that in the absence of the artist she would have seemed charming, but with her art yields to nature and the colors seem lifeless, that peaches might envy the fluff of her cheeks, and a rose should take her blush. She said that I was affable (complimenteux) too socially. I said that I was too sincere for the light. She said that sometimes she doesn't understand me. I said that now I do not understand myself. She said - I'm sorry, she was silent - but I did not stop talking nonsense - and it's not surprising: the fragrant air of the ladies' offices is filled with their charms - their eyes are so charming, the divine dawn is so sticky! The heart melts, the tongue chatters - and all this is done, you don’t know how.

It was seven. "How they fall behind!" Sophia screamed. This exclamation proved her impatience to be at the ball, where she would find many admirers, outshine many rivals. I glanced at the clock, almost with a sigh - it was fixed at the top of a large dressing table. Strange combination! Is this a moral lesson? Is it a reminder of how precious time is, or an emblem of women's activities dedicated to the mirror? Is the pleasant divided from the useful, or is the useful a sacrifice to the pleasant? Probably, the master, who, for strangeness or by chance, combined these heterogeneous principles into one, did not fall into the mind of anything like that; Yes, and I myself thought about that, being already at home and alone.

Right, stop! - shouts Ivan ... The carriage stopped; the bell trembles on a spring, and my heart beats ... It's nothing! in the same way it beat at the door of each of my former friends. The joy of seeing them and at the same time the fear of seeing them cooled down or not as happy as one would like, the uncertainty of a meeting or reception - that's what excites the wanderer's chest. "Accepts!" - says the old porter, pushing his glasses up his nose, but before he could see and recognize me and be surprised that I had not been so long, - I'm already at the top of the stairs, I'm already in the living room. The general's wife, talking to her cousin, a respectable woman of advanced years, laid out grand solitaire. “Very glad.” After the usual inquiries about where and how I had been, what I had served, I called in about the health of my kind daughter. “Thank God, she is in her room,” they answered me, “and she will be pleased to see you; Wouldn't you like to take the trouble to enter her? I was surprised, but I did not force myself to repeat the invitations. “What would that mean? - I thought ... - only once, and then furtively, I was lucky to be in Sophia's room, no matter how short I was before in the house; and now they send me there without an escort! Have people or customs changed here?” - Sophia greeted me with a joyful exclamation, like an old friend, - and this time it would be a sin to doubt her sincerity: she was so alone, so lonely! She didn't look like her old self. Where did that freshness go? this transparent subtle blush, this rose of love, melting in the eyes? this tenderness of a lily neck, a proud chest? The same flowers, renewing, flaunt on her windows, but she withered! Is four years a century of beauty? No: I read a different story in languid lines, in Sophia's sad eyes! Not from one tense life of great light, not from insomnia and fatigue at frequent balls did she fade so quickly - moral grief joined this: a worm of longing quietly wore off her heart, and the rose fell off without surviving its spring. The wheel of fashion carried up other beauties, and the admirers of the old raced off in the wake of new meteors; the atmosphere of sighs that Sophia lived and breathed dissipated, and, to her annoyance, she had to see the success of others every day, absorb her own humiliation and, so to speak, decorate the trophies of her rivals. Too strict in choosing during dominion - to taste, and now she has not betrayed herself - out of pride. Her kinship and dowry were not so significant as to attract excellent (I do not say excellent) suitors-mathematicians; and people worthy of her heart and years left the bride of such a high flight, accustomed to a brilliant life, to a noble circle of acquaintances, which they could not, and perhaps would not want to maintain. Who knows: maybe love, secret or deceived, rejected or unrequited? .. And this heart, created in order to love, languished alone among people, in the midst of noise, unanswered! And this lovely girl, who would have graced society as a spouse, as a mother, has outlived hope at twenty-three, forgotten by the light to which she sacrificed herself. Oh light, light! How little you give for all that you take away! Brilliant - but your golden chains are heavy, and we burden them even more with ties. By multiplying pleasures, we multiply the pains of separation from them; we grow together with you, and the hand of fate, tearing us away, breaks the heart!

In Sophia's office, there was noticeable much more order: everything is in its place, everything is tidied up - now she has more leisure. She herself sat with her back to the mirror, which could no longer show her what she was, and in which she did not want to see herself what she had become. She was deepened in reading the history of the Dukes of Burgundy; proof that her studies have become more thorough - there is no silver lining. She seemed amiable to me as before, but in her wit there was less liveliness, in her epigrams more salt, not to say bile. She laughed - but this laughter already exposed the annoyance of the abandoned, and not the pleasure of triumphant beauty. The conversation was more playful than cheerful. She asked me to tell the truth about the Caucasus. “Pushkin lifted only the corner of the veil of this majestic picture,” she said, “but gentlemen, other poets made of this giant in an ice wreath and in a robe of storms - some kind of almond cake, through which lemonade streams flow! ..” I, as best I could , or rather, he tried to portray to her the terrifying beauties of the Caucasian nature and the wild customs of the highlanders - this hitherto living fragment of chivalry, extinguished in the whole world. Described the thirst for glory, created according to their model; their passion for independence and robbery; their incredible courage, worthy of a better time and a better goal. Our conversation was rather curious, even entertaining - but with all that, both of us would be more willing to exchange all these reasonable conversations for the hour when we chatted nonsense, bending over the painted flowers !!

By the way, Sophia congratulated me on getting rid of the passion for compliments. Hi is this or a reproach? I really did not say anything superfluous to her - the lie died away on my lips. Women, however, love the praise of their beauty even more when it has disappeared. In bloom they take them for a debt, in their bloom for a gift: these are our princes without principalities, counts without counties. Excellency is pleasant to them even without shining virtues, like a vow or remembrance.

Finally I glanced at the clock and got up to go into the living room. "Don't trust them: they're running!" Sophia said. So much in a few words!! How long ago, when the hope of triumph was ahead of its time, she said, looking in the mirror: "They are lagging behind!" Now, when the wings of joy have faded and the heart does not keep up with the time, now: "they are running." So, they run - and irrevocably! The combination of the mirror with the clock struck me more than ever: twice I saw the whole story of the beauty inscribed on them; I saw in them a living but useless lesson in vanity.

I came out sad. Random words "they're running!", "they're falling behind!" - made a strong impression on me, uttered being special, so unhappy, but so worthy of happiness. Time goes by with even steps - only we are in a hurry to live in youth and want to linger in it when it flies away, and therefore we grow old early without experience or become young later without charm. No one knows how to take advantage of his age or the chances of time, and everyone complains about the clock that it runs or lags behind. Oh Sophia, Sophia! It was not your name, but your fate that brought this impulse of wisdom to me: your watch and mirror are still before my eyes.

Grade 10

A.P. Chekhov

A flock spent the night by the wide steppe road, called the Great Way.

Sheep. She was guarded by two shepherds. One, an old man of about eighty, toothless, with

With a trembling face, he lay on his stomach by the very road, resting his elbows on the dusty

plantain leaves; the other is a young guy, with thick black eyebrows and

A beardless man, dressed in linen, from which cheap bags are sewn, lay on his back,

Putting his hands under his head, and looking up at the sky, where above his very face

The Milky Way stretched and the stars dozed.

The shepherds were not alone. A sazhen from them, in the dusk that covered

The saddled horse darkened, and beside it, leaning on the saddle, stood

A man in big boots and a short chumark, apparently

Lord's traveller. Judging by his figure, straight and motionless,

Manners, in dealing with shepherds, a horse, he was a serious man,

Reasonable and knowing his own worth; even in the dark were visible in it

Traces of military bearing and that majestically condescending expression, which

Acquired from frequent treatment of masters and managers.

The sheep were asleep. Against the gray background of the dawn, which was already beginning to cover the eastern

Part of the sky, here and there the silhouettes of sleepless sheep were visible; they stood and

Heads down, they thought about something. Their thoughts, long, viscous, called

Ideas only about the wide steppe and the sky, about days and nights, probably

They struck and oppressed them to insensibility, and they, now standing like

Rooted in, did not notice either the presence of a stranger, or anxiety

In the sleepy, frozen air there was a monotonous noise, without which

The steppe summer night is bypassing; grasshoppers chirped continuously, sang

A quail, but a mile away from the flock, in a beam in which a stream flowed and grew

Willows, young nightingales whistled lazily.

The rider stopped to ask the shepherds for a light for his pipe. He

Silently he lit a cigarette and smoked the whole pipe, then, without saying a word, he leaned on

About the saddle and thought. The young shepherd took no notice of him;

He continued to lie and look at the sky, while the old man looked

The traveler and asked:

No way Pantelei from Makarov economy?

I'm the best, - answered the rider.

That's what I see. I did not know - to be rich. Where does God bring it from?

From the Kovylev area.

Farther. Are you giving away a plot of land for savings?

Miscellaneous. And under skokchin, and for rent, and under bakchi. I'm actually on

The mill went.

Large old shepherd dog, off-white, shaggy, with tatters

Wool around the eyes and nose, trying to seem indifferent to the presence of strangers,

Three times she calmly walked around the horse and suddenly, unexpectedly, with an angry,

With an senile wheeze, she threw herself at the guard from behind, the rest of the dogs did not

They stood and jumped from their seats.

Shit, damn it! shouted the old man, rising on his elbow. - Oh, so that you

Fucked up, you filthy creature!

When the dogs calmed down, the old man resumed his former posture and said

And in Kovyly, on the very day of Ascension, Yefim Zhmenya died. Not by night

Let it be said, it is a sin to guess such people, there was a filthy old man. I suppose

No, I didn't.

Yefim Zhmenya, Styopka the blacksmith's uncle. The whole neighborhood knows him. uh yes and

Damned old man! I have known him for sixty years, ever since he was king

Alexander, who drove the Frenchman, was taken from Taganrog on carts to Moscow. We

Together they went to meet the dead king, and then the big path was not to Bakhmut

He walked, and from Esaulovka to Gorodishche, and where Kovyli is now, dudach's nests

There were - every step, the nest of a fool. Then I noticed that Zhmenya soul

He ruined his own and the evil spirit in him. I notice there: if which person

The peasant's rank is more and more silent, yes, he is engaged in old women's affairs

Strives to live alone, then there is little good here, and Efimka used to be from a young age

Everything is silent and silent, but he looks askance at you, he all seems to pout and

Puffing up like a beer in front of a trigger. So that he goes to church, or to the street with

Guys to walk, or to a tavern - was not