Vasyutkino Lake - Astafiev V.P.
You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.
The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka’s father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.
Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.
“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.
Arguing with grandpa is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.
The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.
Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.
Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.
- Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. “We won’t wander around anymore.” So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.
He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightened the bark sheets that had slid to the side on the roof. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferry and siege. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.
Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.
Once a day they checked the nets and paired nets - piers, which were placed far from the shore.
The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, and often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish in a half-kilometer net for one ton.
Vasyutka began to live a very boring life. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would begin soon, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.
In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.
Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, and sometimes fires a gun.
Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he collected pine cones.
The mother said displeasedly:
- You have to prepare for school, and you disappear in the forest.
-What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.
- “Hunting, hunting”! They need nuts, so let them go on their own. We got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.
The mother grumbles out of habit because she has no one else to grumble at.
When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little man, came out of the hut, his mother habitually sternly reminded:
“Don’t stray too far from your business, you’ll perish.” Did you take any bread with you?
- Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.
- Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.
You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest, take food, take matches.
Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.
Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a rough road. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud, and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.
Vasyutka, like any taiga dweller, developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning early on. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.
“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.
Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The fear of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.
- “Kra-kra”! - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.
The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, leisurely plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaky “kra!” rushed through the forest again.
Victor Astafiev - Vasyutkino Lake
Victor Astafiev
Vasyutkino Lake
You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.
The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka’s father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.
Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.
“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.
Arguing with grandpa is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.
The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.
Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.
Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.
- Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. “We won’t wander around anymore.” So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.
He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightened the bark sheets that had slid to the side on the roof. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferry and siege. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.
Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.
Once a day they checked the lines and paired nets - ferries, which were placed far from the shore.
The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, and often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish in a half-kilometer net for one ton.
Vasyutka began to live a very boring life. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would begin soon, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.
In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.
Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, and sometimes fires a gun.
Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he collected pine cones.
The mother said displeasedly:
- You have to prepare for school, and you disappear in the forest.
-What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.
- “Hunting, hunting”! They need nuts, so let them go on their own. We got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.
The mother grumbles out of habit, because she has no one else to grumble at.
When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little peasant, came out of the hut, his mother habitually sternly reminded:
“Don’t stray too far from your business, you’ll perish.” Did you take any bread with you?
- Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.
- Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.
You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest, take food, take matches.
Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.
Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a rough road. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud, and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.
Vasyutka, like any taiga dweller, developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning early on. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.
“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.
Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The fear of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.
- “Kra-kra”! - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.
The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, leisurely plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaky “kra!” rushed through the forest again.
- Ugh, damned witch! - Vasyutka swore and walked away.
Feet walked softly on the moss. There were cones scattered here and there, spoiled by nutcrackers. They resembled lumps of honeycombs. In some of the holes of the cones, nuts stuck out like bees. But there is no use in trying them. The nutcracker has an amazingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even remove empty nuts from the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:
- Oh, what a dirty trick you are!
Vasyutka scolded like that for the sake of respectability. He knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.
Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to a tree and climbed it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick pine needles, were hidden entire broods of resinous cones. He began to kick the spreading branches of the cedar with his feet. The cones just started falling down.
Vasyutka climbed down from the tree, collected them in a bag and, slowly, lit a cigarette. Puffing on a cigarette, he looked around the surrounding forest and took a fancy to another cedar.
“I’ll cover this one too,” he said. “It will probably be a little hard, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you.”
He carefully spat out the cigarette, pressed it down with his heel and walked away. Suddenly something clapped loudly in front of Vasyutka. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" - Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, waders, and partridges, but he had never shot a wood grouse.
The capercaillie flew across a mossy clearing, swerved between the trees and sat down on a dead tree. Try sneaking up!
The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that wood grouse are often taken with a dog. Hunters said that a capercaillie, sitting in a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes teases it. Meanwhile, the hunter quietly approaches from the rear and shoots.
Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for his mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. The capercaillie froze, watching this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face and tore his padded jacket, but did not notice anything. Before him in reality is a wood grouse!
