Inconspicuous. Soloukhin Vladimir Alekseevich

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At some distance there are high trestles for sawing logs into planks. Two sawers: one, standing above on the trestle, the other below, working with a large longitudinal saw, and we watch how large teeth, fidgeting back and forth along the wood, each time capture an inconspicuous piece of distance. But after all, the entire long log will be sawn sooner or later, and even more than once and not a single log. No wonder there are tall, lush piles of sawdust near the goat.

Sawers are hallways. We do not have our own sawers in the village and in the surrounding villages. This specialty is not often encountered, as, say, the specialty of a blacksmith. Preserved, well, perhaps, the formula according to which the sawers, taking work, dressed up about the grubs. Their condition was as follows: cabbage soup with welding, porridge with an increase, lump - without refusal, and after dinner two hours of rest. They wore their saws wrapped in rags.

Uncle Kuzma, the hallway saw-cutter, a bearded, broad-breasted man, sitting on sawdust and rolling a cigarette from a newspaper, said:

- I cut a grove along the gravel of this forest, really, I'm not lying - a grove! Now, if my armpits were made of iron, or some other material, maybe copper, or maybe cast iron, would have been frayed long ago, really, I’m not lying, they would have been frayed! And yours, look, are still holding on, and most importantly, they don’t creak ...

It seemed that these people were of extraordinary, interesting professions: sawers, roofers, or there: "Re-e-sh-o-o-o-you fix!", Or: "Coals, coals, who coals?" samovars tinkering! ", or:" Ste-e-kla insert, smear with putty! "; it seemed that all these people came from distant, incomprehensible places, and did not live somewhere in the same villages as ours.

When the sieves or glaziers sang their song "res-sho-o-you mend!", It was impossible to make out a single word: either about sieves, or about glass in question... But the fact is that each of them has its own melody of exclamation, and by this melody you will never confuse one with the other.

They all walked along the village from an incomprehensible distance and went into an incomprehensible distance. Once a boy, collecting alms, spent the night in our hut. At night we ran out into the courtyard at the same time, and while we were doing the job, a certain intimacy arose. I asked:

- Where are you from?

- From under the Spas-Klepikov, - the boy answered melodiously, not in our, Vladimir, way.

But for me there was one thing, that Spas-Klepiki, that China. Once, after all, a Chinese man walked along the village, and everyone ran out, in spite of the rain, to watch how he walked, striving for some one visible goal to him and therefore not looking around, not paying attention to us, who were staring at him with curiosity, whether with compassion.

- Where is he going? I asked my mother.

- To my place, to China.

- Where is his China?

- Dale-e-ko ... Perhaps he will not reach death.

For a long time I felt sorry for a Chinese man with a yellow face, dressed in blue pants, wandering in the fine rain through a Russian village that he did not know.

Now I know that Spas-Klepiki is not so far away Ryazan region, and that the boy was a close fellow countryman of the lyric Russian poet Sergei Yesenin, and that now there is no need to go from Spas-Klepikov to the villages, collect pieces of bread. Even if there was a crop failure in the Ryazan region, it would still not have become a tragedy for tens of thousands of people. The collective farm has a district committee, the district committee has a region, and the region has a huge socialist state. The government has done everything to eliminate accidents from our lives.

The expanses of plowed virgin lands, Altai, Kazakh, Orenburg, Kuban, Ukrainian, Central Russian bread: a loaf to a loaf, an elevator to an elevator, an echelon to an echelon ... , or maybe he went to the city and works at a factory, or maybe he graduated from some institute ...

I also know now that the Chinese has finally reached his great China ...

... Up to whips, to tops, to slingshots, to burning sticks, to shovels, to climbing gardens or bird nests, we went through a strange but vivid hobby. Probably, it is akin to that hobby of a seventy-year-old venerable professor who collects labels from matchboxes, or that Moscow pioneer who hunts for an Australian brand, or that little boy who trades a badge for a badge from a foreigner who has come to look at Moscow and Russia.

I say akin, but it doesn't mean the same thing. It would never have occurred to us to collect something like that, and if it had occurred to us, our possibilities would have been very limited. But we passionately, intoxicated, obsessively, competing, showing off to each other, collected shards.

In the black and loose earth, dug up for cucumbers or cabbage, suddenly a little white thing flashes, and here you can't resist picking out with a stick and not to see what it is. You clean the little white thing from the ground, rub it on your pants, and suddenly the find will light up with a clear blue or delicate pink flower. It does not matter that not the whole flower fit on a coin-sized shard, but only a thin stem and half of the cup survived here, the more work for the imagination. What shards did not come across! Either a narrow golden strip flickers from under the black earth and, meeting the sun, will sparkle and even prick the eye with a tiny bunny, then deep purple, then clear blue, then lettuce greens, then dark cherry paint.

Not that our imagination reproduced a cup, plate or saucer once broken by one shard, but it was for us like all the same from another world. The shards with their allusion, with their, well, downright understatement were more beautiful and more interesting for us than the whole dishes in the closet. The shards from a freshly broken cup lying on the floor were of no value to us compared to the shard that emerged from the ground or from the manure.

We found most of the interesting shards in the former priest’s garden, and, presumably, the dishes in the priest’s glass cabinet were different from those on the peasant's plank shelf, which was drawn up by a chintz curtain. This is also why the fragments of another world seemed to us blooming with gold and blue enamel shards.

The most expensive shard belonged to Valka Grubov. It showed a lilac bird sitting on a golden branch and green leaves all around.

The shards played the role of money. What you want could be bought from a comrade for good shards, and, conversely, you could sell some trinket for them, except perhaps a penknife. It was a currency, reliably backed by all the gold reserves of children's imagination, children's spontaneity and childhood in general. We could either lay out the shards on a plank near the embankment, that is, we organized something like exhibitions, then we collected and hid them in canvas bags, shaking over the bags like the last curmudgeons, then in a mysterious, sweet impulse of self-denial, we presented the best shard to a neighbor's girl, and that girl should understand now that neither expensive perfume nor gold earrings with pebbles could then be compared with these first gifts.

The last thing I remember about the shards is a terrible catastrophe, inflation, which shook our childish "state." In the priest's garden, we dug and suddenly discovered where there was once a garbage dump, at a depth of half a meter, such strata of shards, such reserves and placers accumulated over many years, that the course of each shard separately after this fatal find fell almost to zero, and I already I don’t remember that he could get better. The shards were scattered everywhere, and it became uninteresting to play in them.

Nevertheless, I remember with gratitude that truly precious time when a shard with a golden border was precious to me, as if it were real gold.

* * *

It is so clean (there is little different movement, which means there is little dust in the village) that on a holiday, whether sober or tipsy, men and boys lie at ease on the lawns in front of their houses, right in white shirts. Does anyone carelessly crawl or drag along, well, then there will be a mark on the clothes, and that is not a trace of dirt, but a green one, because during dragging they peeled off the skin from the delicate grass, it was she who whitewashed the weekend outfit.

On weekdays at lunchtime you can now and then see people sleeping on the lawns: why languish in stuffiness and fly! And here the breeze blows, and the chill in the shadow of the cart - grace!

This grass blooms and renews itself all summer, but it blooms with such small white flowers that you cannot see them, and therefore, when you look along the village, even bright greenery caresses the eye.

The day came when, in front of each house, large heaps of golden, fragrant straw brought from the threshing barn were dumped from the cart on the bright greenery of small dense grass in front of each house. Either the joyful excitement of adults was transmitted to us (after all, the first fresh straw means the first threshed sheaf, the first bread of the new harvest), or in itself it was interesting for us, but the feeling of a holiday marked by the fact that golden straw is being felled on the bright green grass.

She was not immediately taken out into the yard, but until the evening she lay in front of the house and, therefore, until the evening she was at our complete disposal. Just thrown from the cart, not caking, it was loose and pliable. She was full of the bread spirit of the field. But who knows, maybe this is how the sun should smell?

The game was always the same. We made long, intricate burrows in the straw that led to the middle of the shock. In the middle there was a spacious extension, where it was possible to make room for four or five people; well, we were very little! After the midday heat of July, it's so nice to bury yourself in the cool, dark middle of the straw!

Then, towards evening, they covered the yard with fresh straw and spread it in the barn; thus, the cattle, namely the cow-cow and several sheep, also had a feast. And in front of the house there were only rare golden straws entangled in the green grass. Here the chickens walked, looking for a spikelet with ripe grain that had not thrashed somewhere.

This was the first, indirect, meeting of us, children, with such an important, such great work as harvesting and threshing bread.

The second, also indirect, meeting consisted in the fact that not all the straw was brought through the thresher, but several heavy, dense, tightly tied with straw belts and therefore slender sheaves appeared. They were thrashed by the simplest whipping of them against wooden trestles. The sheaves were soaked in water for some time, letting them float into the pond, and then they untied them and twisted something like thick ropes, namely belts, from long, unbroken straw, in order to knit new and new sheaves with them.

You take two strands of straw, make their ears to ears, you clamp one end under your arm, the other end you begin to twist, braid; then you clamp the finished end under your arm and quickly deal with the rest. The belt is ready in a minute. Adults encouraged toddlers to twist the belts. It's okay that the belts then spread out and the sheaves tied by such belts probably crumbled, rustling with ears of corn: let them get used to it, the adults thought, all life is ahead, all your life you will have to knit belts. To tell them then that not only their children, but they themselves will forget in ten years that there were once girdles and that even an ordinary sickle would be impossible to find in the village, of course, adults would not believe such a fantasy. Leaving for harvest, the women carried away along a huge bundle of straw belts.

From the sheaves on a rye, or on a wheat field, they put sacrum. A sheaf was put on the stubble, on it with a cross, ears on top of each other, four more sheaves. Thanks to the first sheaf laid, these four sheaves lay somewhat sloping, like a hut, which is very important: in the rain, the water will roll over the straw, and not soak the grain of the ears, bread core. On four sheaves they put four more, then four more, and so five layers. There are twenty-one sheaves in each sacrum, and there is no need to count. If you put five sacrains on a cart, that means one hundred and five sheaves, and in a round one - a hundred.

The fields lined with rump were the most indispensable and, I must say, beautiful part of the countryside landscape during the summer harvest season. Looking at such a field, one could immediately say whether the harvest this year was good or bad, because with a good harvest, the sacrum stood densely, often, abundantly, and if they scattered through the stubble on the radish, where the sacrum is, then it was rare, it was rye.

When hay is put on the cart, a stronger, more adult person stands with a pitchfork on the ground and feeds the hay from the heap to the cart. And whether a teenager, a woman, a girl, standing on a cart, lays hay as needed: a layer on the right corner, a layer on the left corner, a layer in the middle for communication - but when the sheaves are carried, the adult himself stands on the cart, for laying the sheaves - a special matter. Sheaves slide over each other, and if something is slightly wrong, then the whole cart can creep or topple along the road. In addition, slopes and ravines come across on the way. If you drop a cart of hay - there is no big trouble, pack it again and go. From the sheaves during such an accident, grain is poured out and threshed. And without this, how many times it is necessary to shift the sheaf from place to place: from the ground to the sacrum, from the sacrum to the cart, from the cart to the cloak or shed, from the shed or from the cloak to the thresher.

It was much more scary for us kids to ride on sheaves than on a cart with hay. There you will make a hole for yourself - and sit. And here you slide, slide, slide from the middle to the edge of the cart, and the cart sways on the ruts and seems so tall that you fall and you will hurt yourself to death. But one day the sky and a nearby spruce forest suddenly swayed, and now, not having time to figure out what was happening, I found myself on a formless heap of sheaves, and the sheaves were already lying on the ground, and not on the cart.

- Eh, honest mother! - only and said the father.

It happened that, noticing how the cart was crawling to the side, the peasant would support him with his shoulder, and so he would support him all the way to the village - and, you see, he would be able to drive him to the place. Only the veins on the neck near the collarbones and on the forehead will swell more than usual, and a dusty shirt, burnt out in the sun, will stick to the body.

The very first work in threshing, to which we, turning from children into adolescents, were allowed (like adults, the brigadier dressed up in the evening), was the work of driving horses. In front of the threshing barn was the so-called drive: huge cast-iron gears and three logs extending from the gears in different directions and slightly upward. A wooden shield, most often an old collar, was placed over the gears, and horses were harnessed to the drive at the ends of the logs. To prevent the horses from getting dizzy from endless walking in circles, they wore square leather blinders over their eyes.

The driver with a long whip sat on the collar and, lashing in turns and urging each horse in turn, sat on the collar all day. There was still no driver who could not get hoarse in a day, so he then had to talk in a whisper. Probably, every collective farm had its own regular driver. We usually put Petyak on this job, for his throat was healthier than anyone else's.

- But, Grafchik! Look it up! What is there! Palm tree, come on! Pull, Rogue! We fell asleep completely! - all that was heard was the whole village during the threshing.

But I am unable to convey the full flavor of the driver's speech, and especially Petyak, for he managed to add a dozen or two words, not quite ordinary, to every ordinary and, so to speak, useful word. How useful they were, that is, how much they acted on horses more than any other word, is, of course, difficult to say.

When Petyak was already completely hoarse, they put us boys as drivers. From afar, it seemed tempting to get into such a position: just think - ride a drive all day! But the horses obeyed badly, from the barn every now and then the driver shouted, urging not the horses, but the driver, the throat began to ache. In addition, he was thirsty all the time - constant screaming, heat and dust from the thresher - so by the end of the day, having shouted for sixteen or seventeen hours, he was glad to get rid of this tempting position. The next day, the brigadier dressed up someone else without asking, knowing that even one day the driver was fed up.

Among the most transparent, dustless surroundings, the threshing barn was always surrounded by a cloud of dust slightly glowing in the sun. The closer to the thresher itself, the more dust and thicker it is. Some women tied their mouths with a handkerchief, leaving only their eyes: one cannot live without eyes near the thresher.

The center of everything was the collective farm driver Andrei Pavlovich. The only stutterer in the village, he was also the only driver. Three people were handing sheaves to him on a plank table, polished with sheaves to incredible smoothness. Sheaves from hand to hand were passed along the table, and one person or even two cut the belts at the sheaves with sickles.

Without taking his eyes off the rumbling mouth of the thresher, with an economical, beautiful movement, Andrei Pavlovich took the sheaf and instantly and somehow imperceptibly liquefied it, thinned it on a board inclined to the drum. The drum hummed insatiably and eerily. It was impossible to distinguish between iron, straw-bleached strips, and even more so the frequent crooked teeth on these strips. A kind of gray transparency - a bunch of wind - was seen where the drum was supposed to be. For this, it was necessary to drive the horses so that the drum spun evenly, and not in jerks. And it depended on the driver to constantly poke the sheaves into the drum in uniform portions. Here the drum is spinning idle, howling on a higher and higher note, and suddenly a dry crackle, a sort of well-fed crunch, and from the opposite end of the thresher a shapeless heap of straw falls out, only now it was a slender, even sheaf. This straw is hoisted onto the pitchfork, passed to each other, shaking at the same time so that the grain will spill out of it, if it remains there, and so, passing from the pitchfork to the pitchfork, it is transported along the entire shed to the gate and further to the cart. This is how she ends up on the green lawn in front of the collective farmer's house.

On the way the straw moves through the barn, and mainly under the belly of the thresher, grain mixed with chaff is accumulated. From time to time it is raked out and pushed aside with a rake to the wall, where everything grows and grows a mountain of grain, called a heap.

Andrei Pavlovich stands calmly at the thresher. He himself leaned back a little (he shoots grain from a thresher with the hardness of a lead shot), but his eyes always look only at the drum.

An amazingly joyful feeling envelopes when the threshing will enter into a rhythm and all fifteen people engaged in threshing will become as if one, and time flies imperceptibly, only sheaves flicker, only straw crunches evenly in the thresher. I liked to stand on cutting sheaves in front of Andrei Pavlovich and, in order to work hotter, cut one, and not with someone else. In addition, I came up with the idea of breaking off the sickle almost halfway, and this short stub of the sickle was very merciless in the work. You enter a rhythm, or, better to say, a rut of work - and you cut and cut with the same economical movement tight straw belts, and, although you barely have time to do this work, a young body, warmed up muscles want, ask the car to spin even faster, so that the sheaves flickered even more often, so that all the work went on even more amicably.

- D-come on, d-come on! Shouts Andrei Pavlovich, and the driver behind the thick log wall of the barn hears these shouts. Or sometimes the handler of the sheaves hesitates, and Andrei Pavlovich's hands, reaching out for the sheaf, slide over the smooth boards of the table. Perplexedly, as if not understanding what the matter was, he would then look at the handler.

- D-come on, w-what are you t-there still ... M-youth!

And then suddenly, having passed the sheaf, he will hold the other sheaves pressing on him with his left hand and command a drawn-out command:

- S-wait! Collateral!

A well-functioning kind of conveyor: these sheaf feeders, these straw walkers, these heap cutters, these straw carriers - fifteen or twenty people in all - all this stops at once, and the universal silence instantly floods the tiny dusty island of hum, crackling and roar with a bluish half-day wave.

The pledge is not the time of rest, but, on the contrary, the period of work. And if Andrei Pavlovich shouted "bail", it means that the bail has run out and now there is a break.

The threshers come out of the barn into the wild, make out, clearing their throat, drinking water, eating sour, unripe apples, and settling in the chill. The men roll up straight, thick cigarettes from fresh samosad, the smoke of which smells pungently and strongly of a burnt hoof. The horses are given oats by hanging sackcloth bags on the horse's muzzles. Under the roof of the barn, on the sheaves (the barn is filled to the brim with sheaves), no, no, and you will hear a girl's screeching and giggling. Probably, Mityushka Baklanikhin climbed up to the resting girls and now he tickles one of them.

There is only a pledge at threshing, and at other jobs - whether haystacks are thrown, hay is harvested, potatoes are dug - a smoke break and there is a smoke break, but there is no deposit. In general, all the collective farm summer work in our village was carried out in three stages. The first packing - from four in the morning to eight (from eight to nine breakfast), the second packing - from nine to one in the afternoon (from one to four lunch); the third season - from four to ten in the evening, that is, until it gets dark.

The length of a smoke break at threshing also depended on the driver, on Andrei Pavlovich. Neither the foreman nor the chairman himself ever interfered in his affairs. There were such smoke breaks that you lie and lie in the chill, you see, the saliva will pour out on the palm put under the cheek, and the sweet mist will have time to spread throughout the body. But then an imperious call will be heard: "D-come on!" - after which the driver will start shouting vigorously; the light drum with curved light teeth will spin again.

Valka Grubov once looked-looked from above, from the sheaves, into the wind-blown throat of the thresher and suddenly said:

- And what if there was a piece of iron to stick, a kingpin or a horseshoe, eh? .. That would be interesting! Hide it deeper in some sheaf ...

We immediately forgot what Valka Grubov was talking about. But two days later, in the midst of the threshing, suddenly there was a loud blow, similar to a shot, and someone began to hammer with hammers from the inside on the casing of the thresher, trying to break free, destroy, break the walls of their prison. At the same time there was a grinding, screeching, something flew with a whistle from the thresher, people fell to the ground, and Andrei Pavlovich shouted in a voice that was not his own:

When the drive stopped, and then the heavy, strongly spinning flywheel, and then the drum emerged from a gray, indistinct transparency, everyone ran to the thresher. Andrei Pavlovich stood pale (a pallor appeared on his face through the black dust), right hand dropped like a whip. It ended not with five of his usual fingers, yellow from makhorka, but with a kind of red washcloth, from which blood trickled down onto the glossy trampledness of the earthen floor. It's a good thing that sharp teeth hit it casually!

Andrei Pavlovich must have seen, nevertheless, how something flashed in the sheaf, and wanted to grab it in time, but it was an involuntary movement, not controlled by the mind ...

At the drum, many strips were bent, many teeth were knocked out. The horseshoe itself was also distorted and crumpled. The threshing stopped for a long time.

... And once, I don't remember in which year, the collective farm was given an order: not to carry sheaves to the threshing barn, to put clothes on the fields. A "fold" will arrive, that is, a complex machine, and it will thresh everything by itself. When the time came, the tractor really brought a long tall structure with many large and small wheels and belts connecting these wheels. The whole village came to see the curiosity.

The machinist (not Andrei Pavlovich, although his arm healed, and the other, a stranger, the Emtesovsky machinist) placed the people, told who what to do. The tractor rattled, all the wheels spun, the belts ran, and the "complex" rattled and started working. Two people with pitchforks barely had time to throw wheat into its insatiable mouth, and there was no need to chop up the heap, or shake the straw, or blow, but only substitute and tie the sacks. What the little red thresher of our village would have sufficed for a week was swallowed up in a single day.

And now even "difficult" is not visible in the fields around the village. Neither these sickles, nor belts of straw, nor sacrum, nor twenty-one sheaves in the rump, nor these sheaves laying on the cart, nor these drives, rotated by horses .... Combines simply go out to the fields (there are five of them in our collective farm) and in a few days they do everything that was called unthinkable, but somewhere in the depths of Russia, in the depths of the people, the word "strada" was born.

Near other sheds, and to this day, half-tightened by the earth, one can see large gears. The boys of today don't even know what these gears were for, and how they drove the horses, and how it all happened. Although the time has passed not a century, not two, but some twenty years.

As for the kind of traditional golden straw that appeared in front of the house on the green lawn, in which you could make holes and play there, so what is in it, in this straw ?!

… Although there are only thirty-six houses in our village, or, better to say, farms, before the war, sixty or even seventy mowers went out into the collective-farm meadows. Our village and meadows are not extensive. Everything is on a scale here: a small village, a small river, small mows along its banks.

The grass, too, was born who knows what. By spring, bright red sorrel leaves were the first to emerge from the ground. After a day or two, they grew up and turned green. Here we ran out into the meadows to graze on pasture.

In the summer, the sorrel was driven into the stalk, into those same "columns" with a pink panicle, which can also be torn and eaten if they have not had time to get old and stiff, so you chew and chew, and it accumulates in your mouth like a green washcloth. The young column is juicy and tender, it breaks easily anywhere.

However, it must be said that, despite the natural desire in childhood to eat everything that comes under the arm or under the foot, we ate very few different herbs. Then, as an adult, I read Verzilin's book about the edibility of wild plants, and it turned out that we were running barefoot all over different salads, drinks, and almost even butter cakes. In any case, we did not know that from the rhizome of an ordinary bitter burdock one can bake bread or even eat it, this rhizome, instead of carrots, we did not know.

After sorrel and columns, the most popular among us was "soldier's food". The bright yellow flowers, similar to a dandelion, but on a high branchy stem, were visible from afar and greatly facilitated our task of finding "soldier's food." When plucked from the stem, thick sweet milk ran abundantly, almost sprinkled.

Some kind of large umbrella plant, either a carrot or an angelica, grew abundantly where the meadows were entangled in the coastal river bush, where, after the meadow sun, it immediately became dark and humid. From the thick stem, it was necessary to rip off the thick, tough skin, which was peeled off very easily. The soft, peeled center was juicy, sweet and fragrant.

Recently, I talked about all these herbs with my wife, who grew up in the Oryol village. Either the village was poorer than ours, or even higher there was a culture for the development of wild-growing, but my wife opened up such horizons in front of me that I even regretted that we did not know anything of this in childhood. It was not possible to establish the names of most of the plants. So, for example, she persistently talked about some cakes, rather tasteless, but which were nevertheless devoured as if by handfuls, as well as about some nuns caught out of the water during the spring flood. The stalks of the coltsfoot, this early snowdrop, as well as the young, tender stalks of caraway seeds, I tried, on her advice, but, probably, even then, as a child, I would not have liked them: they smelled very sugary. Dandelion tubes with peeled skin are still unpleasantly bitter, and young linden leaves, on the contrary, are bland.

But what turned out to be really tasty and what you can really regret that you did not know then, as a child, is sverbiga. Bitter, spicy, giving off a little horseradish, and now we liked it so much that we ate it in a bunch. My wife is remembering my childhood, and I'm kind of making up for lost time.

The adults did not really allow us to overeat with greens: The thrill was this: "Look, you will eat various rubbish, worms will start in your stomach!" But now I think that our pasture was, especially in the period of spring and early summer, a spontaneous source, from where at least some vitamins came to our growing children's organisms.

By mid-June, meadows were flourishing and flourishing. Delicate pink terry hats, blue bells, clear yellow swimsuits (we called them azure color), crimson stars of carnations, and purple, and purple, and brown, and even just white flowers.

Above the brightly blooming, outgrowing them, various spikelets and panicles rise, which makes it seem from a distance as if flowering meadows are covered with a light lilac fog. In calmness, every spikelet, every panicle, every wild grain, if you click on it with your finger or if a grasshopper, bee, bumblebee or butterfly touches it, they are immediately enveloped in a small yellowish cloud - free grasses bloom.

A heavy bumblebee will fly away from the flower at sunset, and the flower will sway with relief once, and twice, and three, but the light drops of dew make it heavy, and, submissively giving in to their weight, he will doze motionless until morning, blissful in the dewy coolness.

Dew drops light up in the gentle, almost horizontal rays of the morning sun. If we say that in every drop it burns in the sun, it means nothing about the sparkling of the dewy morning. You can, of course, carefully write out how some drops flicker with deep green, others - purely bloody, others - dull glow from the inside, fourth - milky-blue, fifth - white, like milk, but translucent with a fiery spark. You can write how this multi-colored burning is combined with the blue, yellow, pink, lilac and whiteness of meadow flowers, and how meadow flowers, illuminated by the sun, throw their flower shadows, their blue or yellowness on the nearest droplets of crystal moisture and make them either blue or yellow. You can tell how dew accumulates in the folded in a gathering handful, slightly shaggy, rough leaves of grass and rests in them, light and cold, in huge rounded elastic drops so that you can even drink and feel the taste of dew, the taste of earthly life-giving freshness. You can write what a bright dark trail remains if you walk through a gray dew meadow, and how beautiful an ordinary horsetail showered with dew in the sun's rays, and much, much more. But it is impossible to convey in words the state of mind and body that embraces a person when he walks in a dewy flowering meadow in the early morning. Maybe even he does not pay attention to details such as blue or pink dew, or how even tinier, reflected chamomiles that have grown in the neighborhood are clearly visible in a tiny dewdrop, but the general condition in nature, the general mood is immediately communicated to a person , and now it is impossible to convey it.

Invisible, inconspicuous, elusive, imperceptible; emasculated, unimpressive, intangible, insensitive, insignificant, unremarkable, average, ordinary, imperceptible, simple, ordinary, inconspicuous, quieter than water, below the grass, ordinary, ... ... Synonym dictionary

INVISIBLE, inconspicuous, implicit, not conspicuous; invisible, invisible, inconspicuous, unnoticed; hidden. Dahl's Explanatory Dictionary. IN AND. Dahl. 1863 1866 ... Dahl's Explanatory Dictionary

DISCONTINUED, oh, oh; ten, tna. Such that it is difficult to see; inconspicuous, insignificant. An inconspicuous difference. N. person. | noun inconspicuousness, and, wives. Ozhegov's Explanatory Dictionary. S.I. Ozhegov, N.Yu. Shvedova. 1949 1992 ... Ozhegov's Explanatory Dictionary

Adj. 1. One that is difficult to notice, to see; inconspicuous. 2. transfer. Not outstanding, not different from others. Efremova's Explanatory Dictionary. T.F. Efremova. 2000 ... Modern explanatory dictionary Russian language Efremova

Inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous, ... ... Forms of words

Noticeable ... Dictionary of antonyms

inconspicuous- unacceptable; short form ten, tna ... Russian spelling dictionary

inconspicuous- cr.f. inapplicable / ten, inapplicable / tna, tno, tny; not applicable ... orthographic dictionary Russian language

inconspicuous- * unsuitable ... Together. Apart. Hyphened.

inconspicuous- Syn: inconspicuous, inconspicuous (book), elusive, imperceptible Ant: noticeable, noticeable ... Thesaurus of Russian business vocabulary

Books

A web of crime. Mister Reader's Mystery by Edgar Wallace. The inconspicuous Mr. Reader is not as famous as Poirot, but no less talented! Scotland Yard police admire his skill, and criminals are ready to do anything to destroy. One of them -…
Web of Crime The Mystery of Mr. Reader, Wallace E. The inconspicuous Mr. Reader is not as famous as Poirot, but no less talented! Scotland Yard police admire his skill, and criminals are ready to do anything to destroy. One of them -…

Georgy Dzhagarov was terribly delighted with the unexpected souvenir. And then I was told a small incident related to this terrible club, capable of killing a bear.
At the Vnukovo airfield, where our Bulgarian comrades were boarding the plane, one of the embassy workers noticed that Dzhagarov's coat was somehow unnaturally protruding on his chest and stomach. There was an impression that he was hiding something bulky there. But they usually hide contraband. The embassy employee asked what it was. Georgy was embarrassed, blushed, but did not want to unbutton his coat. They began to demand - Georgy became stubborn. In the end, of course, he had to give in, and the matter ended with a cheerful laugh and the greatest embarrassment of George. But in Sofia, when I went to visit George a few years later, the first thing that caught my eye was a juniper club cut down in our Samoilovsky forest, not far from the horse graveyard.

The forest, whose representative in the Sofia apartment of my friend is the juniper hook, is not so large, if you look at it now with a sober gaze. But since there is no greater nearby, and since even smaller forests grow here and there around Olepin, it is called Big.
- Where did you go for berries?
- In big.
- Where did the firewood come from?
- From Big forest, obviously.
By its nature, it may even be too mixed, because sometimes it is not bad if you come across places of pure pine, or pure birch, or, for example, a pure linden grove.
But no. At the foot of a mighty pine tree, an euonymus bush will surely grow, between rare spruces, an impassable nut will spread, confused, and where a clean and blue sky lined, lashed by a pink rain of tall thin-bore birches, bright from their youth, clean, slender, so dense that even a bird will not climb into the middle of the tent, they live in the glades of Christmas trees.
Along the gullies and ravines, there are such spruce trees that long beards of white moss hang down, weighing down the branches, and the trees, mossy with old age, stand like a gloomy wall, as if they came from a fairy tale. Between the branches, in the depths of the mysterious and shady, like in a cave, owls and eagle owls make nests for themselves, and, therefore, lighting up in the evenings, green "cat" eyes will shine from there.
And then suddenly a liquid, not having time to gain solidity in pursuit of the sun, a young mountain ash glows. Trees have been crowded out on all sides, and now he wants to fall, but he does not fall.
And then suddenly you will see: small green apples are scattered on the black forest ground. Raise your eyes, and here stands among the trees a wild, "inedible" apple tree. "Leshovka" - we call these apple trees, emphasizing that only a devil, that is, the owner of the forest, just right has sour, astringent fruits that twist his face and turn his eyes out of their sockets. But I suppose it also bloomed and tried to make everything as good as possible. Maybe she, like another mother, will not exchange her green fruit for some crumbly crimson aport.
A linden tree next to an aspen, a pine tree near a bird cherry, a maple in the middle of a hazel tree ... And in the dark green denseness of Christmas trees, no, no, clear rosettes of rose hips will flare up. Growing up, the tree will strangle him in its thorny embrace, die under a gloomy, cold canopy, but as long as there is an opportunity to bloom, he blooms, and even bees, out of nowhere, fly to him on blooming days.
The painting of the forest in those spring days when different visual means are confused and coexist side by side: as you can see, nature does not care about keeping everything in one genre and style, she knows very well that everything she does in the spring, everything will be fine, you cannot tear yourself away from everything eye.
Deciduous trees - aspen, alder, birch - are still bare, their trunks and branches on the canvas of a calm warm day are sketched this way and that - with coal and a soft pencil. So it can be seen that the coal crumbled and broke off, but the artist was in ecstasy, he threw away the unusable pencils, grabbed new ones and wrote, wrote, wrote.
Every stump is carefully written out: how the bark is wrapped in a tube on it, and how the dust pours out of it in a yellow trickle, and how last year's honey fungus has dried and wrinkled on it; then suddenly the forest appears vaguely and vaguely through the warm haze - some hints, one mood that possessed the artist at the moment when he worked.
Right on the charcoal drawing, among all the gray and black, the artist was not afraid to hit with an oil brush, and a bush of wolf bast showered with pink flowers burst into flames.
The darkness of the spruce needles is painted with thick, heavy oil, but a birch tree grows in front of the spruce trees, and now she has sprinkled this "oil" with tender, bright, sunny watercolors of fresh, just unfolded leaves. Needless to say, how much "air" is in this picture, it is not even a dignity here, but something that cannot but be.
There are no snakes in our forest. We set off fearlessly, equipped with clay pots, to which the mothers had attached comfortable rope holders; carry the jar like a bucket on a hook.
One comes across a treeless hillside surrounded by a dark square of fir trees. You do not feel not so much a breeze, but also no movement of air. Resin vapors, dry and hot, settled near the spruce stumps, streaming, hovering over the clearing like unplaced melted sugar in a glass of hot tea.
Berries grow around each tree stump. So we call strawberries, and all other berries are called by their names: lingonberry so lingonberry, drupe so bony. The berries in open glades near red-hot stumps are medium-sized, seemingly shriveled, but very sweet.
In a young felling, where you cannot understand what is higher - luscious grass or aspen shoots, - in the shady, damp coolness, berries ripen, the size of a thimble, full of their strawberry moisture, soft, tender, with little white specks where they held onto the mother's branch. You put handful by handful in the jar. At first, the jar fills up soon, but as soon as it reaches the widest place, it will freeze: you throw it, throw it, but there is no thrown. The most important thing is to fill the wide bubble of the jar. The neck is narrow and easier to handle.
If a girl of our age follows us, we can only wonder how quickly her business is progressing, as if she has not two hands, but ten. Well, and it's true that it's not a man's business to pick berries. It bored us faster than the jar had time to fill. I don’t remember that any of us ever brought "with the edges", let alone the fact that "haystack". But even the one that you bring, poured onto a white plate, is capable of spreading its aroma so that all corners of the hut will be filled with it. Immediately put the strawberries in a cup, pour in milk and eat with soft bread.
You will go to bed at night, just doze off, and a sprig of strawberries with five large berries will clearly stand in your eyes, peep out, sway in the green grass, and for a long time in your eyes berries, berries, berries ...
Yes, we got tired of picking berries faster, and we walked through the forest, looking more at the tops than at our feet. The forest is generous with entertainment: either a squirrel jumps from branch to branch, then a grouse flapping its wings deafeningly, a grouse bursts out of a nut bush, then we stop near an ant heap, which is higher than any of us. A long stem of grass, laid in a heap, is densely covered with large black ants. Then you shake them off, and lick the long stem, pulling it through your lips, regale yourself with the sharp, fragrant formic alcohol.
Once we wandered into a gully at the far end of the forest. Large strawberries grew along the slope. Carried away, we drifted far apart. Parting the branches of the bush to go further, I froze at the unexpected sight. On the steep slope of the gully, among the thick grass, a spacious, round area turned yellow, as if swept with a broom and sprinkled with clean sand. A dumpy stump hung over her, a hole blackened between its two horned roots. On the playground, fluffy yellowish-brown animals tumbled and played, like kittens anyway. The branch under my foot cracked, and the platform was instantly empty.
I remember that there was a slight hesitation in me, which originated in the latent depths: not to tell the boys about the wondrous find - but it's also hard not to boast! Five minutes later, we purposefully rushed out of the forest, and after another half an hour excitedly, vying with each other, we told the peasants.
The men, armed with axes, shovels and even some pitchforks, went to the gully. The neat hole and the platform in front of it were immediately disfigured. The whole day they dug, chopped down roots, shoveled the earth, plugging at first two emergency exits. They even tried to smoke the inhabitants of the burrow, lighting a fire. Finally they dug and saw five animals huddled together, frightened, grinning sharp little white teeth. They were put into a sack and taken to the village, not knowing whose cubs they were, although the peasants should have known who lived in such a well-equipped burrow.
The cubs were placed under baskets and boxes. At night near the village mother whined heart-rendingly. All the animals were rotten in captivity, their lush fur fell out and crawled out, and soon they died, and did not grow up until it would be clear that these are fox cubs - the future ruthless and main exterminators of field mice. They say that every fox (by the way, just like an owl) saves a ton of clean bread. The conversation about these foxes lasted for several years. Also, probably now many people remember this incident, besides me, who served as the main culprit in the forest stupid drama.

Men are generally very eager to hit and kill everything wild, forest, so to speak, gratuitous from nature. True, sometimes it is necessary. So, for example, I remember the epic of the extermination of a small bloodthirsty predator - a ferret. Now it is impossible to remember who saw the first, that the ferret went under the Penkov barn. You will always forget where the turmoil actually started. The whole village fled. It was a pure battle. The barn was surrounded by people armed with pitchforks, stakes and sticks. The other day the ferret strangled seven chickens from the Efimovs and nine chickens from the Zhiltsovs; it was useless for him to wait for indulgence.
- Does he have a hole under the water, in the pond? - Ivan Grybov expressed a thoughtful assumption.
- Or is he a water rat?
However, the mention of the pond was not in vain; now the fire engine has rolled in and, having lowered its sleeve into the pond, began to pump water. Yegor Mikhailovich Ryzhov, like an old fire hose, busily, seriously directed a stream of water under the barn. They waited for what would happen. At first, the ferret did not show itself. But the semblance of a flood, apparently, influenced his instinct, and now a long, curved, grinning animal jumped out from under the barn into the clearing. The men, instead of closing ranks and rallying, parted, letting the animal pass, and in three leaps the ferret was like that. However, the boys ran after him and saw that he crossed the fence, and then ran under the woodpile in front of Ivan Dmitrievich's house.
The woodpile was designed by a thrifty owner for many years. She stood multi-row, long and tall. The fire truck could no longer help here, the method of smoking also did not bring results. But then Vladimir Sergeevich Postnov came, solemnly limping, and when they turned to him for advice, he either advised or commanded:
- In general ... the woodpile needs to be disassembled.
The woodpile was dismantled by both women and children, and those men who did not participate directly in the armed cordon. Half an hour later, a small pile of firewood remained from the woodpile, and the ferret was not visible. Having lost heart, they thought that he either ran away, or the boys gave the wrong information, but Yurka Semionov moved the stick under the remaining wood, and an angry hiss was heard from there, and white scratches appeared on the end of the stick from the sharpest and seemingly poisonous teeth.
This time the men, taught by failure, decided not to scatter. Indeed, as soon as the ferret jumped out, it rushed about, jumped from side to side in a close environment, as Sergei Baklanikhin, having contrived, managed to lift him on a pitchfork, and the bloodthirsty predator was done away with.
It was assumed that the trochee had a nest in the Kunin shed, so in the evening they pricked up a chest there. The lid of an ordinary chest was slightly opened and a splinter-shaped spacer was placed under it. A piece of meat was tied to a splinter on a string and lowered into the chest. This means that if the ferret gets into the chest and tries to eat the meat, the speck will jump out and the chest will slam shut.
But I remember that Ivan Vasilyevich Kunin got a thieving smoky cat in the chest.

There were adults who took great pleasure in playing us boys against each other. It was called a fight "for the love".
Here we are with Vitka Gafonov - good friends. Only now we were making a ratchet or a slingshot together. The common work made us even more friendly, brought us closer together, and we walk happy with life and with each other - you can't spill water. But you have to go past the grown guys sitting on the aspen wood.
- Vovk! Well, wait a minute!
We stop.
- And you can't fill Vitka Gafonov! He is stronger than you!
- And why should he stuff? It's my pleasure.
- And he will fill you!
Further - more, and now we find ourselves in front of each other, and what kind of friendship is there! Although we are not yet fighting, we are slowly ripening for it. We are ready to fight, it's up to whoever touches.
- Come on, touch! ..
- No, you touch! ..
To touch means to touch the opponent or push him slightly. Moreover, if a simple touch does not cause a fight from one time (you need to touch it several times), then with a push you immediately cause a blow to the teeth or to the nose.
- No, you touch!
- No you!..
A clever person would intervene here, and again we would go peacefully about our business, but, as a sin, there is no one nearby.
I remember how disgusting the world became, how disgusting life seemed, how I wanted to avoid this absurdity, what a bliss it would be to find myself at home now for an interesting unfinished book, but you cannot leave, then you are completely a coward and the last person who was afraid of Vitka Gafonov.
- No, you touch! ..
- No you!..
Finally Vitka decides to touch it. My eyes are covered with a red mist, and I see nothing but white spot- Vitka's face, where I have to beat and beat with my fragile fists. Two minutes later, Vitka runs home with red snot, wailing at the whole village, or I run home, judging by the balance of forces.
Starting to read early, I tried to avoid such "lyubaki". This was taken for weakness, although I was taller and stronger than my peers. Considering weak, Borka Grubov began to covet to beat me. He was encouraged, and he looked for an opportunity for a long time. In turn, they began to tease me that I was afraid of Borka Grubov.
- I got cold feet, I got cold feet, oh you, I got scared, what really!
- I didn’t get scared, but I just don’t want to.
- You have to say something, so you say “I don’t want to,” but you yourself are afraid! Look, look how his lips are trembling: he is afraid!
- Nothing is trembling! Where is your Borka, let's get him here!
They immediately ran after Borka, and he appeared, full of warlike fervor. There was no need to touch on it: the atmosphere was tense. Before he had time to stand in front of me, I asked:
- Want?
- Want!
- To give?
- Well, give it!
- On!
Always in such a fight, I was covered with fog, I acted mechanically, but now I was cold and calm. Soon Borka's mouth and nose became bloodied. We were taken away. Borka cried and gritted his teeth in impotent anger and, despite the fact that he was being held back by two older brothers - Nikolai and Valka, - he kept rushing to me, exposing his broken face to blood.
- Well, give me more! Well, give me more!
In the hope of the desired revenge, the brothers let Borka go, he rushed to me, but was immediately knocked down and beaten. I don’t remember how many times this happened, until the brothers took away their belligerent little brother.

… If a house is being built in a village, then the construction site, so to speak, looks purely rustic: just yellow pine logs lie on the grass and yellow pine chips lie next to them. Frequent honey tears appear on the logs, to which the pants stick so firmly and so quickly, as soon as you sit down.
At some distance there are high trestles for sawing logs into planks. Two sawers: one, standing above on the trestle, the other below, working with a large longitudinal saw, and we watch how large teeth, fidgeting back and forth along the wood, each time capture an inconspicuous piece of distance. But after all, the entire long log will be sawn sooner or later, and even more than once and not a single log. No wonder there are tall, lush piles of sawdust near the goat.
Sawers are hallways. We do not have our own sawers in the village and in the surrounding villages. This specialty is not often encountered, as, say, the specialty of a blacksmith. Preserved, well, perhaps, the formula according to which the sawers, taking work, dressed up about the grubs. Their condition was as follows: cabbage soup with welding, porridge with an increase, lump - without refusal, and after dinner two hours of rest. They wore their saws wrapped in rags.
Uncle Kuzma, the hallway saw-cutter, a bearded, broad-breasted man, sitting on sawdust and rolling a cigarette from a newspaper, said:
- I cut a grove along the gravel of this forest, really, I'm not lying - a grove! Now, if my armpits were made of iron, or some other material, maybe copper, or maybe cast iron, would have been frayed long ago, really, I’m not lying, they would have been frayed! And yours, look, are still holding on, and most importantly, they don’t creak ...
It seemed that these people were of extraordinary, interesting professions: sawers, roofers, or there: "Re-e-sh-o-o-o-you fix!", Or: "Coals, coals, who coals?" samovars tinkering! ", or:" Ste-e-kla insert, smear with putty! "; it seemed that all these people came from distant, incomprehensible places, and did not live somewhere in the same villages as ours.
When the sieve makers or glaziers sang their song "res-sho-oh-you fix!" But the fact is that each of them has its own melody of exclamation, and by this melody you will never confuse one with the other.
They all walked along the village from an incomprehensible distance and went into an incomprehensible distance. Once a boy, collecting alms, spent the night in our hut. At night we ran out into the courtyard at the same time, and while we were doing the job, a certain intimacy arose. I asked:
- Where are you from?
- From under the Spas-Klepikov, - the boy answered melodiously, not in our, Vladimir, way.
But for me there was one thing, that Spas-Klepiki, that China. Once, after all, a Chinese man walked along the village, and everyone ran out, in spite of the rain, to watch how he walked, striving for some one visible goal to him and therefore not looking around, not paying attention to us, who were staring at him with curiosity, whether with compassion.
- Where is he going? I asked my mother.
- To my place, to China.
- Where is his China?
- Dale-e-ko ... Perhaps he will not reach death.
For a long time I felt sorry for a Chinese man with a yellow face, dressed in blue pants, wandering in the fine rain through a Russian village that he did not know.
Now I know that Spas-Klepiki is not so far away, in the Ryazan region, and that the boy was a close compatriot of the lyric Russian poet Sergei Yesenin, and that now there is no need to go from Spas-Klepiki to the villages and collect pieces of bread. Even if there was a crop failure in the Ryazan region, it would still not have become a tragedy for tens of thousands of people. The collective farm has a district committee, the district committee has a region, and the region has a huge socialist state. The government has done everything to eliminate accidents from our lives.
The expanses of plowed virgin lands, Altai, Kazakh, Orenburg, Kuban, Ukrainian, Central Russian bread: a loaf to a loaf, an elevator to an elevator, an echelon to an echelon ... , or maybe he went to the city and works at a factory, or maybe he graduated from some institute ...
I also know now that the Chinese has finally reached his great China ...
... Up to whips, to tops, to slingshots, to burning sticks, to shovels, to climbing gardens or bird nests, we went through a strange but vivid hobby. Probably, it is akin to that hobby of a seventy-year-old venerable professor who collects labels from matchboxes, or that Moscow pioneer who hunts for an Australian brand, or that little boy who trades a badge for a badge from a foreigner who has come to look at Moscow and Russia.
I say akin, but it doesn't mean the same thing. It would never have occurred to us to collect something like that, and if it had occurred to us, our possibilities would have been very limited. But we passionately, intoxicated, obsessively, competing, showing off to each other, collected shards.
In the black and loose earth, dug up for cucumbers or cabbage, suddenly a little white thing flashes, and here you can't resist picking out with a stick and not to see what it is. You clean the little white thing from the ground, rub it on your pants, and suddenly the find will light up with a clear blue or delicate pink flower. It does not matter that not the whole flower fit on a coin-sized shard, but only a thin stem and half of the cup survived here, the more work for the imagination. What shards did not come across! Either a narrow golden strip flickers from under the black earth and, meeting the sun, will sparkle and even prick the eye with a tiny bunny, then deep purple, then clear blue, then lettuce greens, then dark cherry paint.
Not that our imagination reproduced a cup, plate or saucer once broken by one shard, but it was for us like all the same from another world. The shards with their allusion, with their, well, downright understatement were more beautiful and more interesting for us than the whole dishes in the closet. The shards from a freshly broken cup lying on the floor were of no value to us compared to the shard that emerged from the ground or from the manure.
We found most of the interesting shards in the former priest’s garden, and, presumably, the dishes in the priest’s glass cabinet were different from those on the peasant's plank shelf, which was drawn up by a chintz curtain. This is also why the fragments of another world seemed to us blooming with gold and blue enamel shards.
The most expensive shard belonged to Valka Grubov. It showed a lilac bird sitting on a golden branch and green leaves all around.
The shards played the role of money. What you want could be bought from a comrade for good shards, and, conversely, you could sell some trinket for them, except perhaps a penknife. It was a currency, reliably backed by all the gold reserves of children's imagination, children's spontaneity and childhood in general. We could either lay out the shards on a plank near the embankment, that is, we organized something like exhibitions, then we collected and hid them in canvas bags, shaking over the bags like the last curmudgeons, then in a mysterious, sweet impulse of self-denial, we presented the best shard to a neighbor's girl, and that girl should understand now that neither expensive perfume nor gold earrings with pebbles could then be compared with these first gifts.
The last thing I remember about the shards is a terrible catastrophe, inflation, which shook our childish "state." In the priest's garden, we dug and suddenly discovered where there was once a garbage dump, at a depth of half a meter, such strata of shards, such reserves and placers accumulated over many years, that the course of each shard separately after this fatal find fell almost to zero, and I already I don’t remember that he could get better. The shards were scattered everywhere, and it became uninteresting to play in them.
Nevertheless, I remember with gratitude that truly precious time when a shard with a golden border was precious to me, as if it were real gold.

* * *

Our entire village is overgrown with fine, thick, silky grass, which is popularly called a murava. The summer earth is covered with this grass like a dense fur. Only on the paths near the houses, and even on the road along the village, and even on the paths from houses to wells, it is impossible for an ant to grow.
It is so clean (there is little different movement, which means there is little dust in the village) that on a holiday, whether sober or tipsy, men and boys lie at ease on the lawns in front of their houses, right in white shirts. Does anyone carelessly crawl or drag along, well, then there will be a mark on the clothes, and that is not a trace of dirt, but a green one, because during dragging they peeled off the skin from the delicate grass, it was she who whitewashed the weekend outfit.
On weekdays at lunchtime you can now and then see people sleeping on the lawns: why languish in stuffiness and fly! And here the breeze blows, and the chill in the shadow of the cart - grace!
This grass blooms and renews itself all summer, but it blooms with such small white flowers that you cannot see them, and therefore, when you look along the village, even bright greenery caresses the eye.
The day came when, in front of each house, large heaps of golden, fragrant straw brought from the threshing barn were dumped from the cart on the bright greenery of small dense grass in front of each house. Either the joyful excitement of adults was transmitted to us (after all, the first fresh straw means the first threshed sheaf, the first bread of the new harvest), or in itself it was interesting for us, but the feeling of a holiday marked by the fact that golden straw is being felled on the bright green grass.