There was still that early spring when one could guess the approach of heat only by barely noticeable signs - by the fog on the streets of Moscow, by the drops of this fog flowing from the black branches of recently planted lindens, and by the loose wind. Snow settles from it and becomes spongy. But this last sign, perhaps, does not apply to Moscow. Snow in Moscow by the end of March remains only in some yards, and on warm asphalt it has long been gone. Winter in Moscow is collected by conveyor machines on dump trucks and taken out of the city without a trace.
The incident I want to tell you about happened in trolley bus number five.
Muscovites, as you know, in trolleybuses and buses talk little, and read more. And in that trolleybus number five, which departed from the stop on Teatralny Proyezd, there was also the usual mood. But suddenly the conductor shouted:
Wait! What is it?
It’s a rook,” said a girl of about eight in fright.
Rook sat, warmed up, under the coat on the girl's chest, and only for a minute stuck his nose out from under the coat. But this was enough for the vigilant conductor to notice a bird in the trolleybus that was forbidden for transportation.
If you can’t take him, then I’ll get down, ”the girl said and blushed.
What are you, daughter! - exclaimed the conductor, stopped giving tickets and squeezed her way to the girl. - Sit down, don't worry. Oh what a good bird! What's this? Is it a rook?
The rook grew bolder and looked out. The conductor gently stroked his chiseled head with her finger and laughed.
Don't be afraid, he doesn't bite, - said the girl and beamed all over. He is very serious but kind.
What kind of rook is it, - said the old man with a cardboard folder, - when it is a starling.
And you, citizen, if you do not know the appearance of birds, do not say so, - answered old man in the shape of a railroad.
Where do we know about birds in Moscow, - the old woman in the headscarf sighed. - We don't care about a rook, a starling, a sparrow or a swift.
Passengers began to get up and crowd around the girl. Everyone tried to stroke the rook. The rook let himself be stroked, but looked at everyone contemptuously and arrogantly.
Through the crowd, a stout, stern general struggled his way back from the exit door.
Where are you going, comrade general, - noticed a thin young man without a cap, - against the current?
And I'm going to the rook, young man, - the general answered and repeated in an impressive voice: - To the rook!
The general squeezed his way to the girl, took the rook from her, held it in his palm, as if weighing it, returned it to the girl and said:
Where are you taking him?
To the zoo. I will release it there.
We have a real feathered kingdom on the Seima River, - the young lieutenant suddenly said and respectfully looked at the general. The rook, of course, is a smart and independent bird, but it has no voice. And we have nightingales. Nightingales of the world. In the spring, our region sings at night.
Have you heard of Professor Manteuffel? asked the lieutenant general.
That's right, I heard, Comrade General!
He knows every bird habit. And he can explain. Well, as for all sorts of knees, whistles, chimes, trills, chokhs and all other bird music, there is no other connoisseur and lover in the Soviet Union. Just a magical old man!
Are you going here? a young woman with laughing eyes asked the general. - Or are you staying?
I’ll get off at the next stop,” the general replied, not in the least embarrassed by the young woman’s question. - Just think, the importance of walking two blocks back. I, you know, witnessed an amazing story. Near Leningrad during the war. It was in the spring. Starlings have flown in and are curling up, screaming over their birdhouses. And birdhouses, as a sin, in an empty lane between us and the Nazis. So they opened fire on the starlings from machine guns. You see, they were disturbed by the cry of starlings. Nervous youngsters got caught. Then our hearts could not stand it. "Ah well!" And our fighters opened such fire on the Fritz that they instantly calmed down.
They stood up, then, for the starlings, ”said the conductor. - That's what I thought as soon as you started talking, Comrade General.
But how! After all, the starling has been accompanying the Russian people since ancient times.
Now, - the conductor answered displeasedly. She still stood beside the girl and stroked the rook on the head. “People don’t have hearts!”
And you be quiet, citizen, - the old woman said to the disgruntled passenger.
Spring means soon, - the railroad worker sighed. - Cherry will bloom. And the birds will fly over Russia, carry their songs.
Well, it's time for me to leave, - said the general. - Goodbye, comrades!
Everyone said goodbye to the general. He went out, smiling at something, and so, smiling, and walked down the street to the long-missing stop.
And the passengers talked for a long time about the rook - a harbinger of spring, about Savrasov's painting "The Rooks Have Arrived", about the fact that Moscow is gradually turning into a garden where every bird will be free, and soon the whole city will ring from morning to night from bird singing.
How amazing it is for us, - said the old man with a cardboard folder. - The government cares about the welfare of the people, and from this good, you see, something will fall even to the songbirds.
This is how it should turn out, - the thin young man without a cap replied with conviction.
Truly so! said the old woman in the headscarf. - I know it myself.
But here another story begins, which I will tell sometime later.
It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.
The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it.
We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly.
But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.
The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof.
The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All days, from dawn to dusk, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets.
To get to the shore of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their corollas swung over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust.
We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the red cat's new tramp antics.
But, finally, the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.
We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue.
An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves.
Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lenka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house.
Lenka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground.
The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat bit into the head of a fish. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lenka pulled the line. The cat resisted desperately, but Lenka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the tasty fish.
A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole.
Lyonka grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.
The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.
Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:
"What are we to do with him?"
- Rip out! - I said.
“It won’t help,” Lenka said. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.
The cat waited with closed eyes.
We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream.
The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed, glancing at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes.
After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head.
Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.
From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing.
The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act.
The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates.
The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the hens and, with a short triumphant cry, jumped onto the table.
The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.
Ahead rushed, hiccuping, an ankle-legged rooster-fool, nicknamed "The Gorlach".
The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball.
After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water over him and he walked away.
Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and hustle.
The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers.
We renamed him from Thief to Policeman.
Although Reuben claimed that this was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the policemen would not be offended by us for this.
Rook in a trolleybus
There was still that early spring when one could guess the approach of heat only by barely noticeable signs - by the fog on the streets of Moscow, by the drops of this fog flowing from the black branches of recently planted lindens, and by the loose wind. Snow settles from it and becomes spongy. But this last sign, perhaps, does not apply to Moscow. Snow in Moscow by the end of March remains only in some yards, and on warm asphalt it has long been gone. Winter in Moscow is collected by conveyor machines on dump trucks and taken out of the city without a trace.
The incident I want to tell you about happened in trolley bus number five.
Muscovites, as you know, in trolleybuses and buses talk little, and read more. And in that trolleybus number five, which departed from the stop on Teatralny Proyezd, there was also the usual mood. But suddenly the conductor shouted:
- Wait! What is it?
“It’s a rook,” said a girl of about eight in fright.
Rook sat, warmed up, under the coat on the girl's chest, and only for a minute stuck his nose out from under the coat. But this was enough for the vigilant conductor to notice a bird in the trolleybus that was forbidden for transportation.
“If you can’t take him, then I’ll get down,” said the girl and blushed.
- What are you, daughter! - the conductor exclaimed, stopped giving tickets and squeezed her way to the girl. - Sit down, don't worry. Oh what a good bird! What's this? Is it a rook?
The rook grew bolder and looked out. The conductor gently stroked his chiseled head with her finger and laughed.
“Don’t be afraid, he doesn’t bite,” the girl said, and she beamed all over. He is very serious but kind.
- What kind of rook is it, - said the old man with a cardboard folder, - when it is a starling.
“And you, citizen, if you don’t know the appearance of birds, don’t say so,” answered an elderly man in the uniform of a railway worker.
“Where can we know about birds in Moscow,” the old woman in the headscarf sighed. - We don’t care about a rook, a starling, a sparrow or a swift.
Passengers began to get up and crowd around the girl. Everyone tried to stroke the rook. The rook let himself be stroked, but looked at everyone contemptuously and arrogantly.
Through the crowd, a stout, stern general struggled his way back from the exit door.
“Where are you going, Comrade General,” remarked a thin young man without a cap, “against the current?”
- And I'm going to the rook, young man, - the general answered and repeated in an impressive voice: - To the rook!
The general squeezed his way to the girl, took the rook from her, held it in his palm, as if weighing it, returned it to the girl and said:
- Where are you taking him?
- To the zoo. I will release it there.
“We have a real feathered kingdom on the Seimas River,” the young lieutenant suddenly said and respectfully looked at the general. The rook, of course, is a smart and independent bird, but it has no voice. And we have nightingales. Nightingales of the world. In the spring, our region sings at night.
Have you heard of Professor Manteuffel? asked the lieutenant general.
“That’s right, I heard it, Comrade General!”
- He knows every bird habit. And he can explain. Well, as for all sorts of knees, whistles, chimes, trills, chokhs and all other bird music, there is no other connoisseur and lover in the Soviet Union. Just a magical old man!
- Are you going here? a young woman with laughing eyes asked the general. Or are you staying?
Come on, come on, come on, come on, - the poet said again, but now without any gloating.
So… The fact is that this wonderful tree can grow well here in the Soviet Union. In the Crimea, in the Nikitsky garden, there are several young sequoias. Young, but in general decent giants. Twice as tall as the tallest pine.
Why don't you plant redwood forests? - strictly asked Nastya's father.
That's just the point, - answered Dubov, - that the sequoia is a degenerate tree. It is dying. This is a remnant of the past. Sequoia in America has already lost the ability to reproduce. Those trees that are there are the last ones. There will be no new ones.
What a pity for us, for all Russia! - said the famous satirical poet.
Could you think of something smarter? the lyric poet asked him with icy politeness.
Hush you! Nastya's father shouted at them. - Don't interfere!
Yes ... So, the point is, - said Dubov and was embarrassed. He found himself repeating that helpless phrase, "That's the point," for the third or fourth time. - The fact is that I just had to work for several years to get viable seeds from the sequoia. Now here I am resting among you in the most legitimate way, because I have successfully completed this work. The first sections of sequoia have already been planted near Moscow. True, they are still low. But through...
Seven thousand years, - prompted the satirical poet.
You know what, don't be vulgar! - the lyric poet said angrily to him again, but the satirist was not at all offended.
Well, not in seven thousand years, but much earlier, we will have sequoia forests that are absolutely fabulous in beauty and power. Do not forget that we are also working on accelerating the growth of trees.
Everyone fell silent, as if considering Dubov's story.
This is the real fairy tale! Nastya suddenly said.
She was sitting in the corner at the piano, and no one had noticed her until this exclamation.
Then the author of the fairy tale committed a heroic and correct, according to Nastya, act. He stood up, in front of everyone solemnly tore up his manuscript and threw it into the burning fireplace. After that, he went up to Dubov, shook his hand warmly, and left the drawing room as calmly as if nothing had happened. And for some reason everyone thought that now he would probably write a real, magical, luminous, like stars on a winter night, and an interesting fairy tale.
In the evening Dubov went to Vertushinka. Nastya caught up with him on the way. Snow began to fall, completely quiet, sheer, large and as if reminiscent of something in the air.
Do you like this kind of snow, Andrey Ivanovich? - asked Nastya.
Yes, Dubov answered. - But most of all I love youth, such as yours.
And I love Lermontov most of all, ”Nastya said unexpectedly, realized that she must have said something completely different from what should be said in such cases, and was so embarrassed that tears came to her eyes.
Through these tears, the snow seemed to her really fabulous. It even seemed to her that from each fluffy snow crystal, small, completely white flowers, similar to roses, bloomed one after another from each fluffy snow crystal.
spring waters
[text missing]
tributary grass
I picked a large bouquet of these flowers. When I shook it, ripe seeds rumbled in the flowers.
The flowers were unfamiliar, like bells. But with bluebells, the calyx always leans towards the ground, and with these unknown flowers, the dry calyxes stood, stretched upwards.
On the field road I came across two village girls. They must have come from afar. Dusty shoes tied with ribbons hung over their shoulders. They were talking about something, laughing, but when they saw me, they immediately fell silent, hastily straightened their blond hair under their handkerchiefs and angrily pursed their lips.
For some reason, it is always a shame when such tanned, gray-eyed and funny girls, when they see you, immediately put on severity. And it’s even more offensive when, having missed them, you hear restrained laughter behind your back.
I was already ready to be offended, but, having caught up with me, the girls stopped, and both immediately smiled at me so shyly and easily that I was even taken aback. What could be better than this unexpected girlish smile on a deaf field road, when a moist, gentle gleam suddenly appears in the blue depths of the eyes and you stand, surprised, as if in front of you all at once bloomed with all its shining flowers, all in splashes and fragrant charms, a honeysuckle or hawthorn bush ?
Thank you, the girls told me.
For the fact that you met us with these flowers.
The girls suddenly rushed to run, but on the run they looked back several times and, laughing, affectionately shouted the same words to me:
Thank you! Thank you!
I decided that the girls had fun and were joking with me. But in this little case, on the field road, there was still something mysterious, amazing, which I could not understand.
On the outskirts of the village I met a hurried, clean old woman. She was dragging a smoky goat on a rope. Seeing me, the old woman stopped, clasped her hands, released the goat and sang:
Oh honey! And how wonderful it is that I met you on the way. I don't know how to thank you.
What do you thank me for, grandma? I asked.
Look feigned, - the old woman answered and slyly shook her head. - It's like you don't know! I can't tell you, I can't. You go your own way and take your time so that you meet more people.
Only in the village the riddle was finally cleared up. The chairman of the village council, Ivan Karpovich, revealed it to me - a strict and businesslike man, but who had a penchant for local history and historical research, as he put it, "on the scale of his district."
It was you who found a rare flower, he told me. - It's called "plum grass". There is such a belief - but I don’t know if it’s worth exposing it? - as if this flower brings girls happy love, and for the elderly - a calm old age. And in general - happiness. Ivan Karpovich laughed:
So you came across me with the "supply grass". Perhaps I will be lucky in my work.
In a clearing near the forest edge, I saw blue flowers. They hugged each other. Their thickets looked like small lakes with thick blue water.
Rook in a trolleybus
There was still that early spring when one could guess the approach of heat only by barely noticeable signs - by the fog on the streets of Moscow, by the drops of this fog flowing from the black branches of recently planted lindens, and by the loose wind. Snow settles from it and becomes spongy. But this last sign, perhaps, does not apply to Moscow. Snow in Moscow by the end of March remains only in some yards, and on warm asphalt it has long been gone. Winter in Moscow is collected by conveyor machines on dump trucks and taken out of the city without a trace.
The incident I want to tell you about happened in trolley bus number five.
Muscovites, as you know, in trolleybuses and buses talk little, and read more. And in that trolleybus number five, which departed from the stop on Teatralny Proyezd, there was also the usual mood. But suddenly the conductor shouted:
Wait! What is it?
It’s a rook,” said a girl of about eight in fright.
Rook sat, warmed up, under the coat on the girl's chest, and only for a minute stuck his nose out from under the coat. But this was enough for the vigilant conductor to notice a bird in the trolleybus that was forbidden for transportation.
If you can’t take him, then I’ll get down, ”the girl said and blushed.
What are you, daughter! - exclaimed the conductor, stopped giving tickets and squeezed her way to the girl. - Sit down, don't worry. Oh what a good bird! What's this? Is it a rook?
It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.
The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it.
We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly.
But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.
The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof.
The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All days, from dawn to dusk, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets.
To get to the shore of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their corollas swung over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust.
We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the red cat's new tramp antics.
But, finally, the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.
We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue.
An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves.
Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lenka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house.
Lenka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground.
The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat grabbed a fish's head with its teeth. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lenka pulled the line. The cat resisted desperately, but Lenka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the delicious fish.
A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole.
Lyonka grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.
The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.
Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:
What are we to do with it?
Rip out! - I said.
It won't help, - said Lenka. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.
The cat waited with closed eyes.
We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream.
The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed, glancing at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes.
After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head.
Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.
From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing.
The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act.
The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates.
The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the hens and, with a short triumphant cry, jumped onto the table.
The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.
Ahead rushed, hiccuping, an ankle-legged rooster-fool, nicknamed "The Gorlach".
The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball.
After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water over him and he walked away.
Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and hustle.
The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers.
We renamed him from Thief to Policeman.
Although Reuben claimed that this was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the policemen would not be offended by us for this.
Rook in a trolleybus
There was still that early spring when one could guess the approach of heat only by barely noticeable signs - by the fog on the streets of Moscow, by the drops of this fog flowing from the black branches of recently planted lindens, and by the loose wind. Snow settles from it and becomes spongy. But this last sign, perhaps, does not apply to Moscow. Snow in Moscow by the end of March remains only in some yards, and on warm asphalt it has long been gone. Winter in Moscow is collected by conveyor machines on dump trucks and taken out of the city without a trace.
The incident I want to tell you about happened in trolley bus number five.
Muscovites, as you know, in trolleybuses and buses talk little, and read more. And in that trolleybus number five, which departed from the stop on Teatralny Proyezd, there was also the usual mood. But suddenly the conductor shouted:
Wait! What is it?
It’s a rook,” said a girl of about eight in fright.
Rook sat, warmed up, under the coat on the girl's chest, and only for a minute stuck his nose out from under the coat. But this was enough for the vigilant conductor to notice a bird in the trolleybus that was forbidden for transportation.
If you can’t take him, then I’ll get down, ”the girl said and blushed.
What are you, daughter! - exclaimed the conductor, stopped giving tickets and squeezed her way to the girl. - Sit down, don't worry. Oh what a good bird! What's this? Is it a rook?
The rook grew bolder and looked out. The conductor gently stroked his chiseled head with her finger and laughed.
Don't be afraid, he doesn't bite, - said the girl and beamed all over. He is very serious but kind.
What kind of rook is it, - said the old man with a cardboard folder, - when it is a starling.
And you, citizen, if you don’t know the appearance of birds, don’t say so, ”answered an elderly man in the uniform of a railway worker.
Where do we know about birds in Moscow, - the old woman in the headscarf sighed. - We don't care about a rook, a starling, a sparrow or a swift.
Passengers began to get up and crowd around the girl. Everyone tried to stroke the rook. The rook let himself be stroked, but looked at everyone contemptuously and arrogantly.
Through the crowd, a stout, stern general struggled his way back from the exit door.
Where are you going, comrade general, - noticed a thin young man without a cap, - against the current?
And I'm going to the rook, young man, - the general answered and repeated in an impressive voice: - To the rook!
The general squeezed his way to the girl, took the rook from her, held it in his palm, as if weighing it, returned it to the girl and said:
Where are you taking him?
To the zoo. I will release it there.
We have a real feathered kingdom on the Seima River, - the young lieutenant suddenly said and respectfully looked at the general. The rook, of course, is a smart and independent bird, but it has no voice. And we have nightingales. Nightingales of the world. In the spring, our region sings at night.
Have you heard of Professor Manteuffel? asked the lieutenant general.
That's right, I heard, Comrade General!
He knows every bird habit. And he can explain. Well, as for all sorts of knees, whistles, chimes, trills, chokhs and all other bird music, there is no other connoisseur and lover in the Soviet Union. Just a magical old man!
Are you going here? a young woman with laughing eyes asked the general. - Or are you staying?
...There was still that early spring, when one could guess the approach of heat only by barely noticeable signs - by the fog on the streets of Moscow, by the drops of this fog flowing from the black branches of recently planted lindens, and by the loose wind. Snow settles from it and becomes spongy. But this last sign, perhaps, does not apply to Moscow. Snow in Moscow by the end of March remains only in some yards, and on warm asphalt it has long been gone. Winter in Moscow is collected by conveyor machines on dump trucks and taken out of the city without a trace.
The incident I want to tell you about happened in trolley bus number five.
Muscovites, as you know, in trolleybuses and buses talk little, and read more. And in that trolleybus number five, which departed from the stop on Teatralny Proyezd, there was also the usual mood. But suddenly the conductor shouted:
Wait! What is it?
It’s a rook,” said a girl of about eight in fright.
Rook sat, warmed up, under the coat on the girl's chest, and only for a minute stuck his nose out from under the coat. But this was enough for the vigilant conductor to notice a bird in the trolleybus that was forbidden for transportation.
If you can’t take him, then I’ll get down, ”the girl said and blushed.
What are you, daughter! - exclaimed the conductor, stopped giving tickets and squeezed her way to the girl. - Sit down, don't worry. Oh what a good bird! What's this? Is it a rook?
The rook grew bolder and looked out. The conductor gently stroked his chiseled head with her finger and laughed.
Don't be afraid, he doesn't bite, - said the girl and beamed all over. He is very serious but kind...
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