The influence of fiction, folklore on the labor education of preschool children. Labor stories for children Labor stories for children

Everything is colder and colder. More and more nature froze. And so often with great labor(this was due to weather conditions) had to melt the stove. One day, Nikolai found a sluggish hedgehog preparing... story Vladimir said. - Yes, - Anatoly confirmed. - It's hard to believe that our father in the past was so clumsy and sloppy. You know, in the future I also want to become the same big man like our father is. Of course I'll try not to repeat it children's ...

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The whimsical tales of the "wonderful German" - The Nutcracker and the Lord of the Fleas (1822) - became standards children's classics, stunning children's imagination with bizarre plot moves and charming mysticism. An important role in the formation of an American (and then ... a brave sailor. In the essay Candle from the Holy Sepulcher, consisting of parable short stories about Jesus Christ, Selma Lagerlöf told about children's years of Jesus in the short stories The Baby of Bethlehem, Flight into Egypt, In Nazareth and In the Temple. The real world...

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One impulse. One - sweeping away everything in its path, but often leaving behind ruins - a throw to the goal. Fusion of brilliant technology and personal labor... Destructive power created through the ages. Labor, awareness of lone geniuses and the mentality of the Eastern peoples. Knowledge of force, movement and energy! And only some of the legendary masters - the most gifted in this area...

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He received cash from the procurement office - for the purchase of pigs from the population. In the morning, as agreed, at half past seven I called for Peter on the lawn, on which then labored and went to the office. He received the money and said to me: - "Let's bring me home, I'll have breakfast, otherwise I didn't have time ... the float never twitched." He tells me; - "And who told you that here now, something is being caught by the bait." told to him that he was visiting Peter on Friday, and he had a full trough of live hybrids, he said that here ...

The fact that study is the same kind of work that not only people work, but animals.

Children in the grove.

They must have been passing by a beautiful shady grove. It was hot and dusty on the road, but cool and cheerful in the grove.

— Do you know what? brother said to sister. “We still have time to go to school. The school is stuffy and boring now, but it must be a lot of fun in the grove. Listen to the birds chirping there! And the squirrel, how many squirrels jump on the branches! Shall we go there, sister?

The sister liked the brother's proposal. The children threw the alphabets into the grass, joined hands and hid among the green bushes, under the curly birch trees.

In the grove, for sure, it was fun and noisy. The birds fluttered incessantly, singing and shouting; squirrels jumped on the branches; insects scurried about in the grass.

First of all, the children saw the golden bug.

“Play with us,” the children said to the beetle.

“I would love to,” replied the beetle, “but I don’t have time: I have to get myself dinner.”

“Play with us,” the children said to the yellow furry bee.

- I have no time to play with you, - the bee answered, - I need to collect honey.

- Will you play with us? the children asked the ant.

But the ant had no time to listen to them: he dragged a straw three times his size and hurried to build his cunning dwelling.

The children turned to the squirrel, suggesting that she also play with them; but the squirrel waved its bushy tail and replied that it must stock up on nuts for the winter.

Dove said:

I am building a nest for my little children.

A gray bunny ran to the stream to wash its muzzle. white flower strawberries also had no time to deal with children. He took advantage of the fine weather and hurried to prepare his juicy, tasty berry by the deadline.

The children got bored because everyone was busy with their own business and no one wanted to play with them. They ran to the stream. Murmuring on the stones, the stream ran through the grove.

“You really don’t have anything to do, do you?” the children told him. - Come play with us!

- How! I have nothing to do? the stream murmured angrily. Oh, you lazy kids! Look at me: I work day and night and do not know a moment of rest. Am I not singing people and animals? Who, besides me, washes clothes, turns mill wheels, carries boats and puts out fires? Oh, I have so much work that my head is spinning! added the brook, and began to murmur over the stones.

The children became even more bored, and they thought that it would be better for them to go to school first, and then, on their way from school, go into the grove. But at that very time the boy noticed a tiny beautiful robin on a green branch. She seemed to be sitting very calmly, whistling a merry song out of nothing to do.

- Hey, you merry sing-along! the boy shouted to the robin. “You seem to have absolutely nothing to do; play with us.

- How, - the offended robin whistled, - I have nothing to do? Haven't I been catching midges all day to feed my little ones? I'm so tired I can't lift my wings; and now I lull my dear children with a song. What did you do today, little sloths? They didn’t go to school, they didn’t learn anything, they run around the grove, and even interfere with other people’s work. Better go where you were sent, and remember that it is only pleasant for him to rest and play, who has worked and done everything that he had to do.

The children felt ashamed: they went to school and although they came late, they studied diligently.

Pashkin treasure. Author: Anton Paraskevin

It was a long time ago, when a centuries-old forest stood on the site of our village. At that time the carpenter Avdey lived on a farm near the lake. They called him the great master in the district. He was a first hand carpenter. His whole life was measured by craft. How many golden pine logs he hewed, nursed, adjusted with an ax and put into a log house. If they were measured, it would be enough for many miles. And they called him great because he put his love into every tile, corner and resinous groove. The house came out bright, bright, and its troubles, misfortunes and dashing ruins bypassed it.

Avdey was a carpenter for a whole volost for all carpenters. He was no longer young - seventy had passed, however, both the eye and the hand kept the accuracy, as in his younger years. The master did not like idleness and idle talk, only one evil comes from them, but he could talk with an ax endlessly, read him all his life to every minute. An ax, he will understand everything, endure, forgive and show beauty to surprise. The villagers of Avdey often asked: where did he get such skill and wisdom. And he always answered: “The Lord is my helper, from Him I have everything: strength, understanding, patience and beauty. Any business without God is a futile work, an oversight, and it will not bring any benefit to anyone. The master regularly went to church, kept fasts, honored holy days and consecrated his carpentry tool in the temple every year.

Once a volost foreman calls him to him and says: “We decided to build a temple in a neighboring village, without a holy church our people become idle, prone to all kinds of indecency. The treasury gave us five hundred rubles for this holy cause. Need good masters to build a temple to glory. Many carpenters have already volunteered to create God's building, but only you can't do it without you. Will you go to the artel for the elder? Well, Avdey agreed. And the volost foreman advises: “Choose a plot in the state-owned forest and start felling the forest ahead of time, otherwise autumn is just around the corner, the roads will quickly turn sour.”

The master went to look for a plot and went out to the lake itself, and above it the pines of the ship rustled, sonorous, the bark on them with a golden hue, and not far away - a red spruce forest, a trunk in girth. He admired the timber, looked, and near the lake a gang of guys had fun. Sings, walks and dances. And they are led by Pashka, nicknamed Bell - a well-known reveler and joker in the district. His parents died, leaving him a farm with a household, so he let all the good stuff go to the tavern. Wherever you go, everywhere you hear about his revelry, that's why they called the guy the Bell. Avdey felt sorry for him, such a fine fellow disappears - tall, stately, handsome in face, and his hands are like hooks, for whatever he takes, all of them fall. Like a root-eversion in the forest - thick, powerful, but no one needs. Pashka walks in a satin shirt, plays the balalaika, sings ditties, and all his friends dance. Avdey thought. He thought, thought, tensed his mind and decided on an opportunity: "But a good artel worker can turn out from a guy, just God give me patience."

He approached the gang, Pashka called out:

- Well, brother, are we walking?

“Let’s take a walk, grandfather Avdey,” Pashka laughed and hit the strings even louder. And his friends are laughing, on the pavement they are knocking out shots with their boots.

Avdey grab the balalaika:

"Wait," he says, "there's something to be done."

What else is there to do on a holiday like this? Pasha laughs.

Avdey took him aside:

“The case,” he says, “is a lady's business. You, I see, are a hunter to a slaughter, so the lafa itself climbs into your hands.

- What kind of lafa? Pashka hardened his face.

And the master to him:

I have a big secret. My father, leaving for the war, hid the golden treasure in a pine hollow in this allotment. He did not return from the war, and that treasure remained in a living cache. Since then, many years have passed, the hollow is overgrown, but the treasure is untouched. If we dump this plot, we will definitely find it. Then take half. With that kind of money, you can walk until old age.

“Oh, you are a cunning old man,” Pashka sighed. - Isn't there a catch here? Every Fedot oppresses in his own way. You lived your life, didn’t grieve for the treasure, and now come to me with a secret?

- Yes, I forgot this pine tree, Pashka, I completely forgot, I thought it was in that one, but I didn’t find a hollow there, I thought it was in this one, and again I was mistaken. Before, I didn’t need a treasure when I was young and healthy, but now it’s just right for me. I kept it for a rainy day. I can't climb all the pine trees at my age. And you, Pashka, if you don’t want to cut down the forest, then I’ll find myself another helper. No worse than you. And you go, take a walk, today you had a pie as a guest, and tomorrow you will sip carrots. Money is not snow, but melts in a thin pocket.

Pashka thought and agreed.

- When do we start cutting? he asks.

- Yes, we’ll start in a few days, the deposit is not going well.

- And where will the fall go, grandfather Avdey, state-owned forest?

- And we will cut down the church from the dump in Zaozerye. Avdey grinned and pointed with his hand to a high hillock behind the pool.

And when the grain harvest subsided, the carpenter began to gather craftsmen. Gathered twelve people. All craftsmen are top-notch, craftsmen in their field. Avdey walks through the forest, looks at and listens to each pine tree, as if he were not in the plot, but at the bride's bride: each tree evaluates and remembers. One part of the artel workers fells the forest, and the other puts it on wheels and carries it to Zaozerye, in a word, his helpers are famous for it.

Master Pashka says:

- You, boy, do not rush, first you need to hew the logs, and then I will quickly find the treasure, not a single rotten thing will hide from me in the tree, and not just a hollow. Therefore, prepare, brother, the steelyard - to divide the gold.

And he himself taps on the trunks and counts the flight rings on the stumps.

The place for the church was chosen high, beautiful and bright, above the lakeside. And what a review around, as much as the soul rejoices. So the stream next to it runs to the reach, and every step, then a hollow with a chimney, they ring, like centuries-old harps, with a life-giving, unique melody. Avdey began to show Pashka how to hew logs. The sleeves are rolled up, the ax is raised neatly, easily, cheerfully, and the blows are placed prudently and tightly. Yellow shavings curl under the ax. “Here so lovingly and drive the cut, as if shearing a golden lamb, but a little to the side, so you hurt him, did you understand?” Pashka nods his head, obeys, but he himself asks everything about the treasure, not to put that log with the treasure in a log house. “You,” says grandfather Avdey, “tap out every arshin, but don’t make a mistake, otherwise all the work will go down the drain, because gold is not in a hurry to pray.”

Time passed. The temple grew before our eyes as a large, beautiful, sonorous frame, it was impossible to look away. But there was no treasure. “Don’t rush,” the master reassured the young man, “they just laid fifty logs, he won’t get away from us anywhere.” And Pashka had already begun to get used to carpentry work and to learn its marvelous secrets, not open to everyone. It seems the same forest, and each pine has its own character. One chip is soft, like a tow, and the other is completely different, and the ax sounds differently. And he hewed lovingly, carefully, as Avdey taught, as if shearing a golden lamb. And he asked about the treasure less often, and more and more about the carpenter's secrets. The ax in the hands of the young man became light and obedient, like a merry-shovel in the hands of the hostess, with which she kneads the dough.

Autumn has come unnoticed. She curtained the summer with a canopy of resilient winds, as they hang a furnace kut in a house with cloth in anticipation of guests. Cold winds began to crowd under the lake stretch, clouding his bluish-purple gaze. Avdey went to the city several times and brought either an ax made of Moscow steel or a long carpenter's gimlet with chisels. The work of the artel workers was progressing well, they had already completed the foundation of the temple, the middle tier and took up the upper sails. Pashka began to be respected even by first-class masters as a sharp-witted and diligent student. "The guy becomes a man, he will be good."

By the Intercession, the temple was completed. He stood on a hillock, sparkling with silver domes, and gladdened the heart. And inside was a feast for the eyes. Grandfather Avdey himself was surprised. Such a joy in the soul - not to express. To which Pashka was broken, and then he remarked: “When you enter it, it’s like a light lights up in your soul.” Artel workers began to dissolve the logs into bridges and pave the floor. And again Avdey teaches his student. “You,” he says, “don’t tear your belly, you won’t take it by force. Here an ant, for example, drags a load beyond its strength, but no one thanks him, and a bee carries honey bit by bit, but pleases both God and people. When the temple was paved, an altar was installed and a carved iconostasis was made with decoration according to church rules, he calls Pashka aside and says: “I found that log with a golden treasure, yes, my dear, I found it. And you helped me with this. But here's the thing, brother, it happened ... When I went to the city for an instrument, you put it in the wall, in that wall that is at noon. It is sixth from the bottom in a row, and the hollow from the corner is exactly four arshins. And he shows the young man that cherished tree and that place with a hollow. “Today,” he says, “a priest with a church choir is coming from the city, he will consecrate the temple and serve the first Liturgy, you must come.”

Pashka thought for a long time what to do. On the one hand, it is clear - the treasure is at his fingertips, come and take it, but only what a pity, having turned a resinous log with a chisel, to spoil such beauty! Yes, and let the work of the entire artel down the drain. And then how do you close the hole? “Yes, no matter how you close it, the mark will still remain - the mark of my self-interest for many years to come. And the artel workers will immediately notice, Avdey will tell them everything, and trust in me will disappear. But still, whatever happens later, gold is gold, it opens all doors, warms all hearts. Pashka took a wide chisel with a hammer, wrapped them in canvas and went to the temple for service. “When the Liturgy is over and everyone has dispersed, I will tell the church warden that I have not finished all the work, but I will be left alone - I will cut down the treasure from that log,” he decided.

There were many people in the temple. All are smartly dressed: women in satin shawls and new knits, men in weekend caftans and cowhide boots. It was warm from many burning candles and two stoves with chimneys led out through the upper windows. The good fellow stood in the right half of the porch, counted the sixth log from the bottom with his eyes, then measured four arshins from the corner and suddenly saw that in the counted place was the icon of the saint of God Nicholas the Wonderworker. But in the morning she wasn't there. It is true that the priest brought it from the city and hung it just in this place. Pashka was annoyed and began to wait. In a sparkling vestment, the priest led the service. He was assisted by a deacon in a long silver robe. “Let us pray to the Lord in peace,” the choir sang, so beautifully, spiritually and sublimely that Pashka listened and froze. It seemed to him that an unknown force was lifting him up, to the very domes, and his soul became so light and calm that for a moment he forgot about his intention.

Then he again remembered the treasure, looked at the icon of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker, on which sunlight fell from the window, and suddenly felt the stern, loving look of the saint. And everything was in him: spiritual firmness and affection, condemnation and forgiveness, and a revelation unknown to the young man until now. And the choir at that time sang the Cherubic Hymn. Pashka could not stand it, and tears rolled down from his eyes. He had never cried like that, even in early childhood, so frankly and purely.

Only once, when I saw my dead mother in a dream, did I feel something similar. Those were tears of repentance, the joy of light and life. At first, the young man seemed to be ashamed of them, but then, noticing that few people paid attention to him, sobbing, he went up to a wide candlestick, leaned over to a tin for candle ends and lowered his bundle into it - a hammer with a chisel.

And when the service ended and all the villagers kissed the holy cross and began to disperse, the church elder asked loudly: “Who forgot his instrument?” Pasha didn't answer. He went home and thought that today he had found his treasure, which was a thousand times more expensive than gold. He was invincible and inexhaustible. And let the gold lie. It's in a safe place. Maybe in a difficult time of the church it will come in handy.

They talk about the importance of choosing a worthy and necessary business in life, studying and working honestly and conscientiously.

Golden nail. Author: Evgeny Permyak

Without a father, Tisha grew up in poverty. No stake, no yard, no chicken. Only a wedge of paternal land remained. Tisha and her mother walked around the people. Toiled. And from nowhere they had no hope for any happiness. The mother and son completely dropped their hands:

- What to do? How to be? Where do you lay your head?

“He,” he says, “can do anything. Even happiness forges.

When the mother heard this, she rushed to the blacksmith:

- Zakhar, they say you can forge happiness for my ill-fated son.

And the blacksmith to her:

- What are you, a widow! Man is the blacksmith of his own happiness. Send your son to the forge. Maybe bored.

Tisha came to the forge. The blacksmith talked to him and said:

- Your happiness, boy, is in a golden nail. You forge a golden nail, and it will bring you happiness. You just help him.

- Uncle Zakhar, but I never forged!

“And I,” says the blacksmith, “was not born a blacksmith. Blow up the horn.

The blacksmith began to show how to inflate the forge, how to swing furs, how to add coals, how to soften iron with fire, how to take a forging with tongs. Things didn't work out right away for Tikhon. My hands hurt and my legs hurt. The back does not unbend in the evening. And he fell in love with the blacksmith for his father. Yes, and Tisha hit the blacksmith on the arm. The blacksmith had no son, only a daughter. Yes, and that such a loafer - it is better not to remember. How can she be a needlewoman without a mother? Well, it's not about her yet.

The time has come, Tisha has become a hammerer.

Once a blacksmith took an old king pin and said:

“Now let’s forge a happy golden nail out of it.”

Tisha forged this nail for a week, another, and every day the nail became more beautiful. On the third week the blacksmith says:

- Do not reforge, Tikhon! Happiness loves measure.

Tisha did not understand why the blacksmith was saying such words. He was not up to them. He liked the nail very much. Doesn't take his eyes off him. One thing is bitter - the golden nail died out. Cooled down. Darkened.

“Don’t worry, Tisha, it will turn golden,” says the blacksmith.

“And when will it turn gold, uncle Zakhar?”

“Then it will turn golden when you give him everything he asks for.”

“He doesn’t ask for anything, uncle blacksmith.

- And you, Tisha, think about it. Is the nail forged to lie around idle?

- Yes, uncle Zakhar. Need to drive a nail somewhere. Just what, uncle Zakhar, to drive him into? We have no stake, no yard, no gate, no tyna.

The blacksmith thought and thought, rubbed his forehead and said:

- And you drive him into a pole.

- Where can I get a pole?

- Cut it down in the forest and dig it into the ground.

“But I haven’t hacked in my life, and I don’t have an ax.

- So after all, you didn’t forge after all, but what a nail you forged. And you forge an ax. And cut down the tree.

The bellows snorted and breathed again, sparks flew. Not immediately, not on a whim, but three days later the guy forged an ax - and into the forest. Tisha took a fancy to a pine tree and, well, chop it. Before the poor fellow had even crossed the bark, the forester grabbed him:

- Why are you, thief-robber, cutting down the forest?

Tisha answered this in an amicable way, who he was, and where he came from, and why he needed a pine pole.

The forester sees that before him is not a thief, not a robber, but a widow's son, a blacksmith Zakhar's student.

- That's what, - he says, - if the blacksmith taught you how to forge a golden nail, and I will help you. Go to the forest, cut down a plot, you will get a post for your work.

There is nothing to do, Tisha went into the forest. One day he chopped, he chopped two, on the third day he cut down the plot. He received the pillar, he took it down to his father's land. And the earth is overgrown with weeds, wormwood, burdock. There was someone to work on it. Tisha dragged a pillar, but there is nothing to dig it in.

“But why should you grieve about the shovel!” his mother tells him. - You forged a nail, forged an ax - can't you bend a shovel?

A day has not passed, Tisha made a shovel. He dug a pillar deep, and began to drive in a happy nail. It's not much work to drive a nail. When you have your own ax, and the ax has such a butt that you can dance on it. Tisha drove in a nail and is waiting for it to turn gold. It waits for a day, it waits for two, and the nail not only does not turn gold, but begins to turn brown.

- Mommy, look, his rust is eating. It looks like he's asking for something else. I need to run to the blacksmith.

He ran to the blacksmith, told everything as it is, and he says to this:

- A nail cannot be driven in without work. Every nail must carry its service.

- And what, uncle Zakhar?

“Go to the people and see how nails serve them.

Tisha went through the village. He sees that with some nails they sew on the clew, with others, the thinnest, they grab the shrapnel on the roofs, on the third, on the largest, harness, they hang collars.

- Not otherwise, mommy, we need to hang a collar on our nail. Otherwise the rust will eat all my happiness.

Tisha said so and went to the saddler.

- Saddler, how to earn a collar?

- It's a tricky business. Work for me until haymaking, and from haymaking to snow. Here you will have a collar and a harness.

“All right,” says Tikhon and stayed with the saddler.

And the saddler was also from a blacksmith breed. He didn’t bother Tisha, but he didn’t let him sit idle either. Now he orders to cut the clamps, then chop the firewood, then plow the tithe. Not everything worked right away. It used to be difficult, but it was scary to step back from the clamp. A nail cannot be driven in idle. The time has come - the reckoning has come. Tikhon received the best collar and a full harness. He brought it all and hung it on a nail:

- Golden, my nail! Did everything for you.

And the nail, as if alive, frowned from under the hat, is silent and does not turn gold.

Tisha again to the blacksmith, and the blacksmith again his:

- A good yoke with a harness cannot hang on a nail in vain. There is a clamp for something.

- And for what?

- Try with people.

Tish did not torture people anymore, he thought. I thought hard about the horse. Thought and thought and thought.

Now he could chop, he also knew how to harness, well, let alone blacksmithing. “I’m not afraid of a golden nail,” Tikhon decided to himself, “I’m not afraid to stand with helpers.”

I said goodbye to my mother and went to earn a horse.

A year has not passed - Tikhon galloped on his horse to his native village.

The people do not fall in love:

- Oh, what a horse! And where does he get such happiness from?

And Tisha doesn’t look at anyone very much, turns to the post.

- Well, a nail, now you have a collar, a collar has a horse. Golden!

And the nail, as it was, is. Here Tikhon, although he was quiet, pounced on a nail:

“What are you, your rusty hat, mocking me!”

And at that time, a blacksmith happened at the pillar:

- Well, what can a dumb nail say to you, Tikhon? It doesn’t turn gold - it means that it asks for something else.

- And what?

- Is it conceivable that a post, a nail, a collar and a horse get wet in the rain!

Tisha began to cover the pillar with a roof. Covered, but the nail does not turn gold. “It can be seen that one roof is not enough for him,” Tisha decided to himself and began to cut down the walls. Now he could do anything.

How long, how short did Tisha cut the walls, but the nail was as it was, as it is.

- Will you ever gild? Tikhon shouted in his hearts.

- I'll gild. I'll definitely gild.

Tikhon's eyes widened. Until now, the nail was silent, but now it spoke! It can be seen that, in fact, he forged a nail that was not simple. And the fact that the blacksmith was lying on the roof at that time, Tikhon is unaware. He was still young, he had not yet learned how to crack fairy tales, like nuts, and choose the kernels from them. Swallowed with a shell.

“What else do you need, nail?”

To this, instead of a nail, Hush’s horse neighed the answer:

— Eee-hee-hee... How can I live without a plow!.. Eeee...

- Yes, you, Bulanko, do not laugh so plaintively. If I have already earned you, so it will be. I myself will plowshares and furrows.

He forged, hewed, adjusted the crossbars, but he does not go to look at the nail. Not before somehow it became. Another entered my head.

If a collar asked for a nail, a collar for a horse, a horse for a plow, one must think that the plow will ask for arable land.

Tikhon harnessed his horse to the plow. The horse neighs, the plow cuts the layer, the plowman sings songs.

The people poured out into the field, looking at Tisha. Mothers of girls-brides push themselves forward. Perhaps, which one will appeal. And Kuznetsov's daughter is right there, on arable land. So it follows him like a jackdaw in a furrow. Uncombed, unwashed.

- Quiet, marry me! I will help you.

Tikhon even shied away from these words. Sokha swerved to the side. The horse began to look around not in a good way, Kuznetsov's monster is frightened.

Are you out of your mind, scarecrow? Tikhon tells her. - Who needs you like that! Is it in the garden - to scare the raven. So I don't even have a garden.

And she:

“I’ll plant a garden for you, and then I’ll become a scarecrow myself, just to see you, Tishenka ...

Such words seemed absurd to him, and they fell to his heart: “Look, how you love! He agrees to be a scarecrow, just to see me.

He did not answer the blacksmith's daughter - he went to the blacksmith.

And the blacksmith has been waiting for him for a long time:

- Tikhon, what I want to tell you: envious people want to pull out your lucky nail and drive it into their wall.

- How is it, uncle Zakhar? What to do now? Not otherwise that it is necessary to guard.

“So, dear son, so,” the blacksmith assented. - Only how to guard? Rain in autumn. Snow in winter. The hut must be set up.

And Tikhon to him:

“I just thought, and you already said. I'm going to cut a hut. I have an ax, I have more than enough strength. I'm not afraid of anything.

The people poured out again. Again brides in a herd. And he cuts - only the earth trembles and the sun laughs. And the bright month had something to look at, to rejoice at. Tikhon took the nights too.

Autumn came. The widow squeezed the bread, Tikhon threshed it, and the horse brought it to the market. All utensils in new house dragged. And the nail does not turn gold. And my heart is sad.

“And why, why, dear son, is your heart sad?”

“I’m the only one, mommy, I jumped out ahead of the others. Druzhkov got ahead, left his comrades behind. He drove a nail into himself, hid happiness from them.

- What are you, Tisha? Everyone is a blacksmith to his own happiness. So Zakhar taught you?

“So it is,” the son replied. “Only Uncle Zakhar said that in the world even death is red, and alone happiness grows moldy. Everyone helped me: the blacksmith, the saddler, and the forester. And who am I?

So Tikhon said and went to his friends and comrades. To whom he will say the right word, to whom he will give good advice, and to whom he will help with his own hands. He covered the widow's roof. The old man did the sled. Lazy admonished. Yuntsov put to work.

Gold nail! I started from the hat - reached the middle. Happiness has looked into the new house with fun, human friendship has blossomed. The people will not praise Tikhon. It came to that - he, an unmarried man, began to be called after the priest, to call out to the world. And the nail burns more every day.

“Now,” says the blacksmith, “just get married—you won’t make a mistake.” There will be light in the hut without fire.

- And what kind of daughter would you recommend to him so that there would be no mistake?

- And who is equal?

“My Dunka,” says the blacksmith.

“Oh, you filthy swindler! the widow got up. - Is this kikimora his equal? Unwashed, unkempt, unaccustomed to business? Is she his equal? To him, poppy flower, golden hands, heroic shoulders, poured body? Yes, is that the case? Have you heard of an eagle marrying a jackdaw?

- And who, widow, made him an eagle?

- Like who? Nail!

- And who helped him to forge a nail? .. Who?

Then the widow remembered everything, and her conscience spoke. Conscience speaks, and maternal love gives its voice. It's a pity for her to marry such a clumsy son.

Pity in the left ear whispers to the widow: "Do not ruin your son, do not ruin." And the conscience in its right ear repeats: “Without the mother of Kuznetsov, the daughter grew up, she grew up as a slovenly sloven. He took pity on your son, how can you not take a liking to his daughter!

“Here you are, blacksmith,” says the widow. - With the first snow, Tisha will take his friends-comrades to work, to whom he hammered not two, not three dozen golden nails. Then let your Dunya come to me. Yes, tell her not to contradict me in anything.

The first snow fell. Tikhon took his friends and comrades to work - to gild nails. Dunka appeared to the widow.

“I heard, Dunyasha, that you want to please my son.

- So hunting, aunty, so hunting! - the dark-skinned Dunya bursts into tears and smears dirt over her face. - I would turn myself inside out, if only he would not drive me out of sight.

- Well, if so, we will try. After all, Dunyushka, like your father, I conjure when I have to.

The widow said this and gave Duna a spindle:

“It’s unsightly, Dunya, but it hides great power in itself. My grandfather somehow caught a Baba Yaga in the forest, he wanted to decide. And she paid him off with this spinner. Strong spindle.

“And what is his strength, aunty?” Dunya asks and squints at the spindle.

The widow responds to this:

- If you spin a thin and long thread with this spindle, then you can tie anyone you want with this thread to yourself.

Here Dunya cheered up - and grab the spindle:

- Come on, aunty, I'll spin.

- What you! Is it really possible to start yarn with such unwashed hands and with such uncombed hair? Run home, wash yourself, get dressed, evaporate in the bathhouse, and then you will spin.

Dunya ran home, washed, dressed, evaporated - and a beauty came to the widow.

Ludmila Kandaurova
"Work makes a man." Fairy tale for older children preschool age

Once upon a time there was one family: mom, dad and son Vanya.

The family was really friendly: parents doted on their son Vanechka, especially his mother, affectionately calling him "baby". Feelings of love for her son overwhelmed her mother so much that she did not even notice that her only "baby" turns into a little lazy.

And how could it be otherwise?

After all, the son is used to the fact that his mother did everything for him. itself: she took off Vanechka's shoes, undressed him, neatly putting things in the closet. And Vanya, meanwhile, importantly stretching his legs, chatted with his friends in the group, showing off new toys and regular sweets.

As time went on, my mother gradually realized the mistakes of her son's excessive guardianship. only son it was hard to comprehend.

Somehow, Vanya's best friend, Matvey, brought with him to Kindergarten new game "Garage" and did not play with Vanya only because he was not used to cleaning up toys after himself.

Events continued to develop.

And one day this happened. Vanechka came to the kindergarten with his mother, and they undressed as usual. Matvey noticed new toy from his friend and, without waiting for the boy to change clothes, asked Vanya for permission to play with her. Vanya refused his friend's request. In response to this, Vanechka heard a sarcastic mockery: “Oh, oh, little lyalechka, mom undresses him! Ha ha ha!" what was said other children picked up the phrase and began to tease the boy.

For the first time, Vanya realized that because of his own laziness, he could lose best friend and respect for other guys.

The next morning the boy came to the kindergarten with a clothes hanger in his hand. To the teacher's question "why did he bring a hanger", Vania answered: “Now I will do everything myself, and my clothes will never be wrinkled!” A little silence, boy added: “Svetlana Ivanovna, can I be on duty at the canteen today?”.

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One widow had a son. Yes, so handsome, even the neighbors could not stop looking at him. And there is nothing to say about the mother. He won't let him move his arms or legs. All by herself. He carries firewood, water, plows, reaps, mows, on the side he grabs a job - patent leather boots and a sonorous accordion earns his son. The mother's son grew up. Curls of forged gold curl. Scarlet lips laugh by themselves. Handsome. Groom. But the bride is not. None of them follow him. They turn away. What are miracles? And there are no miracles here. The matter is simple. A stranger's grass in the labor field, the son grew up. With hands - armless, with legs - legless. Neither mow hay nor cut firewood. Neither forge nor plow. No baskets to weave, no court of revenge, no cows to graze. He threw straw - he fell off the cart. I caught fish - I landed in the pond, they barely pulled it out. He carried firewood - his stomach hurt. Who would call such a friend? Round dances are not invited. Working as a partner is not accepted. They call me a mother's god, a varnished boot. Round neumelnik teased on the mound as a sit-in. They call it an empty flower. The little kids are laughing too. What is it like for him? The guy got bored, sobbed. So he sobbed - a brick oven and she sighed. The oak walls of the hut and those pityed. Paul creaked sadly. The ceiling frowned, blackened, thoughtful. Regret! And he pours tears into three streams, saying: - Why did you love me so much, mother? Why did you care for me, my dear, in idleness, nursed me in laziness, raised me in clumsiness? Where am I now with my hands white, curly, inept? Mother became cold, died. And there is nothing to answer. The son poured out the pure truth in her face with bitter tears. The mother understood that her blind love turned into filial misfortune. The son does not sleep at night - he does not know how to continue to live. Can't find a place during the day. Only there are no such tears in the world that do not cry out, such grief that does not open, such a thought that does not come to mind. No wonder they say that in a difficult hour the oven understands, the walls help, the ceiling judges, the floorboards creak with the mind. They creaked what he needed, consoled him. Tears dried up, good advice was given. The son put on his father's heavy boots, put on his work clothes and went around the world to make up for idle years - to grow anew. It was not easy for a tall lad to walk in the shepherds, at twenty-one to make acquaintance with an axe, to learn to beat a nail into a wall, his hands were white, dull, inept to tan in the wind. They only know the severe frost and the hot sun, with what labors the curly-haired son has come to the point. He returned home as a master. He married a weaver, also not one of the last craftswomen. Her old mother loved her like her own, especially when she gave birth to her grandchildren. Before that, they grew up handsome, even if you shoot it on a card and put it in a frame. Their grandmother loved them madly, she only nurtured them wisely. Not like a son. The pitiful old woman's heart used to bleed when the eldest grandson was going to cut firewood in the bitter cold. The heart of the old woman keeps repeating: "Do not let it, have pity, it will chill." And she: "Go, dear grandson-hero! Dubey in the wind. Argue with the frost. Support your father's labor glory with your work." At the granddaughter, it used to be that her eyes stick together, her little hands barely turn the spindle, and her grandmother: “Oh, what a thin spinner we have, it grows agile, but tireless, and stubbornly sleepy!” To pardon the girl, to kiss her deft hands on the finger, and the old woman is looking for a flaw in the yarn. Either the fineness in the thread is uneven, or the slack overcomes. He will point out the flaws and notice the good. Yes, not just like that, but with dear grandmother's caress, with a rare fiery word, the girl's soul will be illuminated and warmed. In vain, it happened, he would not caress his most beloved, smaller grandson. Complains about work. It's not a big job to serve a cup or bring a basket of coals to the samovar, but for a four-year-old, even this is measured for work. How can one not say about this at the table in front of the whole family: “The smaller one is growing up with us as a working person. Broom serves. Coals brings. And the one, red to the ears with joy, sits and shakes his mustache and thinks: "What else would you do to be in honor of your grandmother?" He is looking for a job, he comes up with a business. Grandmother raised her grandchildren as craftsmen, craftswomen. And their curls curl to their faces, and an expensive ribbon in a braid flaunts on merit, and patent leather boots burn on business. Labor ovary people. Craftsmen. To grandmother. Labor power has come to our state. Mother-grandmother did not live up to these bright days. Just didn't die. When the eldest grandson was rewarded for blast-furnace work, the horns asked him: - Who have you, curly, become a hero? Where do you get such a blast heat from? And he sighed a little, and answers: - From my grandmother. She nurtured me in work, raised me in work. From her and the fire in me. And the granddaughter-weaver sings along to her older brother: - And my thread does not break from her - the chintz laughs. She taught me how to spin threads. She wove solar weft (transverse threads of fabric) into my labor warp (longitudinal threads of fabric). And the youngest grandson - a grain grower - selected the most similar, wisest grandmother's words and deeply smelled them in people's memory with bright tales. Deeply smelled, so as not to be forgotten. Do not forget and tell others. They retold and lit an unquenchable labor flame in the living young souls.