Who wrote starlings. Alexander Kuprin - starlings

Kuprin Alexander Ivanovich

Starlings

Source: Kuprin A.I. Collected works in 3 volumes. T. 3. - M.: GIHL, 1954. - 575 p. pp. 285 - 291. OCR Kupin A. V. It was mid-March. Spring this year turned out to be smooth and friendly. Occasionally there were heavy but short rains. We have already driven on wheels on roads covered with thick mud. The snow still lay in drifts in deep forests and in shady ravines, but in the fields it settled, became loose and dark, and from under it, in some places, black, greasy soil steaming in the sun appeared in large bald patches. The birch buds are swollen. The lambs on the willows turned from white to yellow, fluffy and huge. The willow blossomed. The bees flew out of the hives for the first bribe. The first snowdrops timidly appeared in the forest clearings. We were looking forward to seeing old friends fly into our garden again - starlings, these cute, cheerful, sociable birds, the first migratory guests, the joyful messengers of spring. They need to fly many hundreds of miles from their winter camps, from the south of Europe, from Asia Minor, from the northern regions of Africa. Others will have to travel more than three thousand miles. Many will fly over the seas: Mediterranean or Black. There are so many adventures and dangers along the way: rains, storms, dense fogs, hail clouds, , shots from greedy hunters. How much incredible effort a small creature weighing about twenty to twenty-five spools must use for such a flight. Really, the shooters who destroy the bird during the difficult journey, when, obeying the mighty call of nature, it strives to the place where it first hatched from the egg and saw sunlight and greenery, have no heart. Despite their recent fatigue, they certainly could not sit still for a minute. Every now and then they pushed each other, falling up and down, circling, flying away and returning again. Only old, experienced, wise starlings sat in important solitude and sedately cleaned their feathers with their beaks. The entire sidewalk along the house turned white, and if a careless pedestrian happened to gape, then trouble threatened his coat and hat. predator birds this sparrow, and everywhere he is the same - in the north of Norway and on the Azores: nimble, rogue, thief, bully, brawler, gossip and the most impudent one. He will spend the whole winter hunched up under a fence or in the depths of a dense spruce, eating what he finds on the road, and when spring comes, he climbs into someone else’s nest, which is closer to home - a birdhouse or a swallow. And they will kick him out, as if nothing had happened... He flutters, jumps, sparkles with his little eyes and shouts to the whole universe: “Alive, alive, alive! Alive, alive, alive!” Please tell me what good news for the world! Having settled in the nest, the starling begins to carry all kinds of construction nonsense there: moss, cotton wool, feathers, fluff, rags, straw, dry blades of grass. He makes the nest very deep, so that a cat does not crawl in with its paw or a raven sticks its long predatory beak through it. They cannot penetrate further: the entrance hole is quite small, no more than five centimeters in diameter. The air warmed up a little, and the starlings had already settled on high branches and began their concert. I don’t know, really, whether the starling has his own motives, but you will hear enough of anything alien in his song. There are pieces of nightingale trills, and the sharp meow of an oriole, and the sweet voice of a robin, in the musical babbling of a warbler, and the thin whistle of a titmouse, and among these melodies such sounds are suddenly heard that, sitting alone, you can’t help but laugh: a hen cackles on a tree , the sharpener's knife will hiss, the door will creak, the children's military trumpet will blow. And, having made this unexpected musical retreat, the starling, as if nothing had happened, continues his cheerful, sweet, humorous song without a break. One of my acquaintances is a starling (and only one, because I always heard it in Amazing bird certain place ) amazingly faithfully imitated the stork. I just imagined this venerable white black-tailed bird, standing on one leg on the edge of its round nest, on the roof of a Little Russian hut, and beating out a ringing beat with its long red beak. Other starlings did not know how to do this thing.- entertain the female in the mornings and evenings with her singing during the entire incubation period, which lasts about two weeks. And, I must say, during this period he no longer mocks or teases anyone. Now his song is gentle, simple and extremely melodic. Maybe this is the real, only, starling song? By the beginning of June, the chicks had already hatched. The starling chick is a true monster, which consists entirely of the head, while the head is only made up of a huge, yellow-edged, unusually voracious mouth. The most troublesome time has come for caring parents. No matter how much you feed the little ones, they are always hungry. And then there is the constant fear of cats and jackdaws; It’s scary to be far from the birdhouse. in forests, in winter fields, near distant swamps. There they gather in small flocks and learn to fly for a long time, preparing for the autumn migration. Soon the young people will face their first, great exam, from which some will not come out alive. Occasionally, however, starlings return for a moment to their abandoned father's homes. They will fly in, circle in the air, sit on a branch near the birdhouses, frivolously whistle some newly picked up motif and fly away, sparkling with their light wings.

But the first cold weather has already set in. It's time to go. By some mysterious order of mighty nature, unknown to us, the leader gives a sign one morning, and the air cavalry, squadron after squadron, soars into the air and rapidly rushes south. Goodbye, dear starlings! Come in the spring. The nests are waiting for you...

It was mid-March. Spring this year turned out to be smooth and friendly.

Occasionally there were heavy but short rains. We have already driven on wheels on roads covered with thick mud. The snow still lay in drifts in the deep forests and in the shady ravines, but in the fields it settled, became loose and dark, and from under it, in some places, black, greasy soil steaming in the sun appeared in large bald patches. The birch buds are swollen. The lambs on the willows turned from white to yellow, fluffy and huge. The willow blossomed. The bees flew out of the hives for the first bribe. The first snowdrops timidly appeared in the forest clearings.

Animals have a lot of their own wisdom, incomprehensible to people. Birds are especially sensitive to weather changes and predict them long ago, but it often happens that migratory wanderers in the middle of a vast sea are suddenly overtaken by a sudden hurricane, often with snow. It is far from the shores, the strength is weakened by the long flight... Then the entire flock dies, with the exception of a small part of the strongest. Happiness for the birds if they encounter a sea vessel in these terrible moments. In a whole cloud they descend on the deck, on the wheelhouse, on the rigging, on the sides, as if entrusting their little life to a person in danger. And stern sailors will never offend them, will not offend their reverent gullibility. A beautiful sea legend even says that inevitable misfortune threatens the ship on which the bird that asked for shelter was killed.

Coastal lighthouses can sometimes be disastrous. Lighthouse keepers sometimes find in the mornings, after foggy nights, hundreds and even thousands of bird corpses in the galleries surrounding the lantern and on the ground around the building. Exhausted by the flight, heavy from the sea moisture, the birds, having reached the shore in the evening, unconsciously rush to where they are deceptively attracted by light and warmth, and in their fast flight they smash their chests against thick glass, iron and stone.

But an experienced, old leader will always save his flock from this misfortune by taking a different direction in advance. Birds also hit telegraph wires if for some reason they fly low, especially at night and in fog.

Having made a dangerous crossing across the sea plain, starlings rest all day and always in a certain, favorite place from year to year. I once saw one such place in Odessa in the spring. This is a house on the corner of Preobrazhenskaya Street and Cathedral Square, opposite the cathedral garden. This house was then completely black and seemed to be all stirring from the great multitude of starlings that settled everywhere: on the roof, on the balconies, cornices, window sills, trim, window visors and on the moldings. And the sagging telegraph and telephone wires were closely strung with them, like large black rosaries. There was so much deafening screaming, squeaking, whistling, chattering, chirping and all sorts of bustle, chatter and quarrel.

Despite their recent fatigue, they certainly could not sit still for a minute. Every now and then they pushed each other, falling up and down, circling, flying away and returning again. Only old, experienced, wise starlings sat in important solitude and sedately cleaned their feathers with their beaks. The entire sidewalk along the house turned white, and if a careless pedestrian happened to gape, then trouble threatened his coat and hat.

Starlings make their flights very quickly, sometimes making up to eighty miles per hour. They will fly to a familiar place early in the evening, feed themselves, take a short nap at night, in the morning - before dawn - have a light breakfast and set off again, with two or three stops in the middle of the day. So, we waited for the starlings. We fixed old birdhouses that had become warped from the winter winds and hung new ones. Three years ago we had only two of them, last year five, and now twelve. It was a little annoying that the sparrows imagined that this courtesy was being done for them, and immediately, at the first warmth, the birdhouses took over. This sparrow is an amazing bird, and everywhere it is the same - in the north of Norway and on the Azores: nimble, rogue, thief, bully, brawler, gossip and the most impudent one. He will spend the whole winter hunched up under a fence or in the depths of a dense spruce, eating what he finds on the road, and as soon as spring comes he climbs into someone else’s nest, which is closer to home - a birdhouse or a swallow. And they will kick him out, as if nothing had happened... He flutters, jumps, sparkles with his little eyes and shouts to the whole universe: “Alive, alive, alive! Alive, alive, alive! Please tell me what good news for the world!

Finally, on the nineteenth, in the evening (it was still light), someone shouted: “Look - starlings!” Indeed, they sat high on the branches of poplars and, after the sparrows, seemed unusually large and too black. We began to count them: one, two... five... ten... fifteen... And next to the neighbors, among the transparent spring-like trees, these dark motionless lumps easily swayed on flexible branches. That evening there was no noise or fuss among the starlings.

Usually, starlings sit in twos high above the birdhouses and, apparently, chatter carelessly about something among themselves, while they themselves gaze downwards with one eye, sideways. It's scary and difficult for the sparrow. No, no - he sticks his sharp, cunning nose out of the round hole - and back. Finally, hunger, frivolity, and perhaps timidity make themselves felt. “I’m flying, he thinks, for a minute and right away. Maybe I'll outwit you. Maybe they won’t notice.” And as soon as it has time to fly away a fathom, the starling drops like a stone and is already at home. And now the sparrow’s temporary economy has come to an end. Starlings guard the nest one by one: one sits while the other flies on business. Sparrows would never think of such a trick: a windy, empty, frivolous bird. And so, out of chagrin, great battles begin between the sparrows, during which fluff and feathers fly into the air. And the starlings sit high in the trees and even tease: “Hey, black-headed one. You won’t be able to overcome that yellow-chested one forever and ever.” - "How? To me? Yes, I’ll take him now!” - “Come on, come on...” And there will be a dump. However, in the spring all the animals and birds and even the boys fight much more than in the winter.

Having settled in the nest, the starling begins to carry all kinds of construction nonsense there: moss, cotton wool, feathers, fluff, rags, straw, dry blades of grass.

He makes the nest very deep, so that a cat does not crawl in with its paw or a raven sticks its long predatory beak through it. They cannot penetrate further: the entrance hole is quite small, no more than five centimeters in diameter.

And then soon the ground dried up and the fragrant birch buds blossomed.

Fields are plowed, vegetable gardens are dug up and loosened. How many different worms, caterpillars, slugs, bugs and larvae crawl into the light! What an expanse!

In the spring, a starling never looks for its food, either in the air in flight, like swallows, or on a tree, like a nuthatch or woodpecker. Its food is on the ground and in the ground. And do you know how many insects it destroys during the summer, if you count it by weight? A thousand times its own weight! But he spends his entire day in continuous movement.

It is interesting to watch when he, walking between the beds or along the path, hunts for his prey. His gait is very fast and slightly clumsy, with a sway from side to side. Suddenly he stops, turns to one side, then to the other, bows his head first to the left, then to the right. It will quickly bite and run on. And again, and again... Its black back casts a metallic green or purple color in the sun, its chest is speckled with brown. And during this business there is so much business, fuss and funny in him that you look at him for a long time and involuntarily smile.

It is best to observe the starling early in the morning, before sunrise, and for this you need to get up early. However, an old clever saying says: “He who gets up early doesn’t lose.” If you sit quietly in the morning, every day, without sudden movements somewhere in the garden or vegetable garden, then the starlings will soon get used to you and will come very close. Try throwing worms or bread crumbs to the bird, first from afar, then decreasing the distance. You will achieve the fact that after a while the starling will take food from your hands and sit on your shoulder. And when he arrives next year, he will very soon resume and conclude his former friendship with you. Just don't betray his trust. The only difference between both of you is that he is small and you are big. A bird is a very smart, observant creature; she is extremely remembering and grateful for any kindness.

And the real song of the starling should be listened to only in the early morning, when the first pink light of dawn colors the trees and with them the birdhouses, which are always located with an opening to the east. The air warmed up a little, and the starlings had already settled on high branches and began their concert. I don’t know, really, whether the starling has his own motives, but you will hear enough of anything alien in his song. There are pieces of nightingale trills, and the sharp meow of an oriole, and the sweet voice of a robin, and the musical babbling of a warbler, and the thin whistling of a titmouse, and among these melodies such sounds are suddenly heard that, sitting alone, you can’t help but laugh: a hen cackles on a tree , the sharpener's knife will hiss, the door will creak, the children's military trumpet will blow. And, having made this unexpected musical retreat, the starling, as if nothing had happened, without a break, continues his cheerful, sweet, humorous song. One starling I knew (and only one, because I always heard it in a certain place) amazingly faithfully imitated a stork. I just imagined this venerable white black-tailed bird, when it stands on one leg on the edge of its round nest, on the roof of a Little Russian hut, and beats out a ringing shot with its long red beak. Other starlings did not know how to do this thing.

In mid-May, the mother starling lays four to five small, bluish, glossy eggs and sits on them. Now the father starling has a new duty - to entertain the female in the mornings and evenings with his singing throughout the incubation period, which lasts about two weeks. And, I must say, during this period he no longer mocks or teases anyone. Now his song is gentle, simple and extremely melodic.

By the beginning of June, the chicks had already hatched. The starling chick is a true monster, which consists entirely of the head, but the head only consists of a huge, yellow-edged, unusually voracious mouth. The most troublesome time has come for caring parents. No matter how much you feed the little ones, they are always hungry. And then there’s the constant fear of cats and jackdaws; It’s scary to be far from the birdhouse.

But starlings are good companions. As soon as jackdaws or crows get into the habit of circling around the nest, a watchman is immediately appointed, the starling on duty sits on the top of the tallest tree and, whistling quietly, vigilantly looks in all directions. As soon as the predators appear close, the watchman gives a signal, and the entire starling tribe flocks to protect the younger generation. I once saw how all the starlings who were visiting me chased three jackdaws at least a mile away. What a vicious persecution this was! The starlings soared easily and quickly over the jackdaws, fell on them from a height, scattered to the sides, closed again and, catching up with the jackdaws, climbed up again for a new blow.

The jackdaws seemed cowardly, clumsy, rude and helpless in their heavy flight, and the starlings were like some kind of sparkling, transparent spindles flashing in the air.

But it’s already the end of July. One day you go out into the garden and listen. No starlings. You didn’t even notice how the little ones grew up and how they learned to fly.

Now they have left their native homes and are leading a new life in the forests, in winter fields, near distant swamps. There they gather in small flocks and learn to fly for a long time, preparing for the autumn migration. Soon the young people will face their first, great exam, from which some will not come out alive. Occasionally, however, starlings return for a moment to their abandoned father's homes.

They will fly in, circle in the air, sit on a branch near the birdhouses, frivolously whistle some newly picked up motif and fly away, sparkling with their light wings.

But the first cold weather has already set in. It's time to go. At the behest of mighty nature, the leader gives a sign one morning, and the air cavalry, squadron after squadron, soars into the air and rapidly rushes south. Goodbye, dear starlings! Come in the spring. The nests are waiting for you...

On Saturday, mother washed the floor and covered it with clean striped rugs. She also took some fine sand, put it on a wet rag and rubbed the copper samovar for a long time, then moved the bed together with Pavluna to a new place, closer to the window.

“Lie down, Pavlunya, lie down, my dear,” she tucked a warm blanket under Pavlunya’s sides and soon went to work on the collective farm.

Pavluna wanted to look at the samovar, how it glowed, but the samovar stood in the closet, and Pavluna could not get up. All winter Pavluni’s legs hurt, and he lay in bed all the time. “Probably,” Pavlunya thinks, “probably now there is light in the closet from the samovar, but how will you know? If you open the door, the light from the hut immediately floods into the closet, but if you don’t open it, you can’t see whether it’s dark or light in the closet. It’s probably light, because the samovar is very shiny after its mother cleaned it.” Pavluna also wants to see her felt boots. But there was nothing to dream about this either, because, firstly, it was impossible to get out of bed, and secondly, the felt boots were locked in the closet, along with my father’s new jacket. Pavlunya remembers how his father bought him felt boots and brought him home. But Pavlunya was already sick and didn’t go to school, and his felt boots were also wasted all winter.

Thinking about all this, Pavlunya almost forgot that the bed had been moved closer to the window. He turned his head and immediately saw the blue sky. There was also a large transparent icicle hanging there: it was frozen on the cornice and looked like a bayonet. Pavluna saw how a drop of golden water accumulated on its sharp tip, accumulated, accumulated, became heavier than itself and flew down. Pavluna felt happy. The snow in the garden was white, white, the sky above was as blue as the cover of a notebook that had just been issued and on which not a single letter had yet been written, let alone a name.

Further beyond the garden, under the mountain, there was a river. It was still all covered with snow, there was not a single thawed patch of snow on the roofs, in the beds, and in the meadow either. Pavlunya saw how the stalk of last year's burdock sticking out of the snow was shaking from the wind, and guessed that it was still cold outside, although it was dripping from the fences.

“There’s a lot of snow,” Pavlunya thinks, “so much snow won’t melt soon. On our roof alone, there are probably twelve pounds, or maybe more.” At this point, Pavlunya remembered how last spring his father was throwing snow off the roof. With a wooden shovel he cut huge blocks. Such a block first moved quietly, and then noisily crawled along the roof and - bang! When there was only one such block left on the roof, the father threw down the shovel, and he sat astride the last block and rode off the roof. Pavlunya saw his father plop into the snow almost up to his neck. Then he and his father laughed for a long time, and Pavlunya firmly decided that next winter he would remove the snow himself and also ride on the last boulder. But now it was clear that this matter would not come true. If Pavlunya recovers when it warms up, then either the snow will have melted, or her mother still won’t let her go outside. No wonder the paramedic Ivan Yakovlevich said that you need to warm your feet and sit warm all the time. He also talked about taking Pavlunya to the regional hospital, but wherever! Father and mother already have no time, and they need a lot of money to travel.

With such thoughts, Pavlunya dozed off and did not hear the gate slamming from the street. The father entered the hut and placed some round thing under the bed by the door.

- Dad, what did you bring? – asked Pavlunya.

“Lie down, lie down, it’s an oil filter,” said the father, took off his shiny sweatshirt and began to wash himself from the washstand. - This, brother, you know, is like a sieve, the oil passes through it and is cleared of all impurities.

- Why is there an impurity in the oil?

- Well, brother, anything can happen.

- Oh, folder, folder.

Pavlunya wanted to say something else, but did not say it, but touched his father’s hard fingers. They smelled like tractors and snow.

“Everything happens, brother Pavlun,” the father repeated, “there are impurities in any liquid.”

Pavluna sighed, and his father messed around on his head, right in the place where Pavluna’s hair converged and curled into a funnel below the top of his head.

Soon the mother came and they began to have dinner.

Pavlunya did not count how many days passed. One day, looking outside, he saw that in one place in the garden beds the snow had melted and as a result the ground there had turned black. On the river, under the mountain, something also turned black in two places. A day later, the thawed patches in the beds became even larger, the dark places on the river merged into one place, and the mother put out one winter frame. There was more space in the hut and the smell of something fresh. My father came home from work, washed himself as always, and after dinner, when it got dark, he lit a large ten-line lamp.

– What do you think, Pavlunya, should we start today or wait a little longer?

- Come on, dad, let's start!

- Well, okay, just don’t get up, but look from the bed, Ivan Yakovlevich didn’t tell you to get up.

- He didn’t order everything, he didn’t order...

The father brought a wide board, an ax, a hacksaw with a plane and a chisel with a hammer to the hut. First, he planed the board white on both sides, then he outlined it with a pencil and sawed it along the lines. The result was four oblong boards, one small square and one longer than all. Just at this time the samovar boiled. The mother ordered the knocker to be finished and began putting cups and saucers out of the closet. The father folded the planed planks and assembled the instrument.

“We’ll have to put it off until tomorrow, Pavlunya!” Come on, brother, sleep for now.

Pavlunya began to sleep, he pulled the blanket so as to cover his ear, because you will never sleep if your ear sticks out in the wild.

That night Pavlunya slept sounder and happier. He could hardly wait until his father came home from work again and washed himself. Without waiting for dinner, the father got down to business again. Pavlunya saw how he drew a circle on one board with a chemical pencil and began to hollow it out. Well, well, the hammer knocked twice, and each time the father broke out a piece of wood. So-so! Finally, the hole in the board was hollowed out, the father cleaned its edges with a knife and began to knock together a birdhouse. He used the last square plank for the bottom, and the longest for the roof.

- We, Pavlunya, will make one slope.

- For one.

My father nailed down the roof and attached a small board right under the hole so that the starlings would have a place to sit.

“It hurts, dad, there’s not enough space on this board.” A starling will fall from the top.

- Do you think so? Maybe not enough. Well, we'll come up with something else.

And the father went outside and returned with a large bird cherry branch in his hands.

- Wow, Pavlunya. Let's pin it.

Pavlunya, of course, agreed:

- You, dad, are great, you came up with a great idea, dad!

...The birdhouse turned out good. Very good indeed. He smelled of resin and bird cherry branches, there were no cracks: they even checked the light. Father immediately went to the garden. Pavlunya saw how he found the longest pole and nailed a birdhouse with a branch to it. Just opposite Pavluna's window, on the other side of the beds, there was the frame of an old potato pit. The father used the butt of an ax to chisel the ice at an angle of the log house, stuck one end of the pole there and began to effortlessly lift the pole and place it on his butt. The birdhouse with the branch swayed so high that Pavlunya also only shook his head. He watched with alarm as his father carefully turned the pole so that the birdhouse became a porch facing south. Then my father tightly screwed the pole with wire to the corner of the hole and then drove in three long nails for security. Pavlunya looked at the new birdhouse with his mouth open.

The birdhouse swayed in the blue sky, and the sky behind it was endless, clear and, probably, warm, because the golden water from the sun was drumming very happily from the roof. At this time, Pavluni felt dizzy, and out of weakness, he put his head on the pillow. It must have been real spring outside.

Several more days passed and there were no starlings. The entire river was already clearly visible under the snow, soaked through with water, the beds under the window were already completely exposed, and the snow had darkened. In the meadow where there was a hill with thistles, a thawed patch also appeared, and last year’s gray remnant came into view. Father was now very rarely at home. For a whole week he had been repairing his S-80 tractor and his mother was sending him pies in a basket. Pavlunya missed his father and sometimes said to himself: “Eh, folder, folder.”

Pavlunya still did not get out of bed. At night he slept, and during the day he read an ABC book or looked out the window. There were no other books, it’s a pity that this winter was in vain. And the guys are probably building a mill on the stream now. The mill, of course, is not real, but it spun quickly and worked until the water on the stream completely disappeared.

Actually, Pavluna is sad. He fell asleep in the evening and dreamed of summer. He allegedly ate sweet gigli and himself, on his own feet, ran to the river to catch silets. Silhouettes are such small pikes. They always stand in shallow places and, apparently, bask in the sun. Pavlunya picked a long blade of grass, made a snare out of it and began to sift the snare. Then suddenly Polina became an ordinary willow branch, and instead of a slipper, a duck swam on the water and quacked: quack-quack, quack-quack. From this Pavlunya woke up. It wasn’t a duck, it was just morning, and my mother was chipping a birch splinter with a big knife. Pavlunya no longer went to sleep, but began to watch his mother light the stove.

“Look who’s arrived,” she said to Pavluna when dawn broke. Pavlunya looked out the window and was stunned. Starlings were jumping in the garden beds and in the thawed meadow. Pavlunya began to count them, but kept losing count. The starlings were black with an inky tint, sharp-nosed and cheerful. They were looking for something in last year's grass. Suddenly one of them took off and, quickly moving its wings, sat down on a birdhouse. Pavlunya froze. The starling held a blade of grass in his nose.

- Look, look, he climbed there, mom, he climbed! - Pavlunya shouted in a thin, weak voice. - Wow! There he is!

All day Pavlunya looked at the starlings, and all day they were looking for something in the meadow, every now and then they took off and jumped, and two of them one by one disappeared into the black circle of the birdhouse.

At lunchtime, the mother came and put up another frame, just opposite Pavluna’s bed. Now it became even better to look, and Pavlunya heard starling voices. Two starlings who had settled in the birdhouse flew into the meadow without a break, and Pavlunya could not keep track of them, because other starlings were also flying into the meadow. “Where will the rest live? - he thought. “After all, there’s only one birdhouse.”

True, in the village there is also a birdhouse on Gurikhina bird cherry, but that birdhouse is old, and it’s cold in it, and Pavlunya is on own experience knew what a cold was.

Now Pavlunya woke up every morning with his mother and looked at the starlings all the time. He could never wake up before them: they were always at work - they were such starlings. Soon they stopped carrying dry blades of grass, and flew with something else, probably worms. The snow had almost all melted, the sun was shining well, the river under the mountain overflowed so much that the water came right up to the baths.

Pavlunya looked out the window in the morning. Now there was more than one starling flying. It flies to the meadow, sits on a bird cherry branch or on the roof of a birdhouse and flutters its wings as much as it can. Then he will calm down, turn his nose up and let out such a whistle that you will fall in love. Why, Pavlunya, even the elderly Gurikha, who walks past the birdhouse every day to fetch water, even after such a whistle she stops.

Today Pavluna wanted to go outside even more. Gurikha with buckets had long since walked back and forth, the sun turned from behind the barn and looked right into the windows. By the way the water rippled in the puddle between the beds, Pavlunya realized that although it was sunny outside, it was windy. The birdhouse swayed in the wind. The starlings were doing their usual business. Pavlunya turned on the other side and, resting his chin on his palm, looked out for his starling. The birdhouse was probably sitting in the birdhouse, and the owner flew off somewhere. “Where could he have flown? Maybe to the barnyard? Just so Pavlunya thought, when suddenly he felt that he was completely cold: from the strong wind the birdhouse swayed, the pole bent and, together with the birdhouse, fell to the ground.

- Mother! - Pavlunya shouted and rushed around the bed. Pavlunya did not remember how he ended up on the floor. Barely moving his feet, he began to look for something to put on. As luck would have it, there was nothing. Finally, he found his father’s old wire rods behind the stove, put them on, his mother’s Cossack hat put them on, and the hat had been hanging on a nail for about an hour since the fall.

Hobbling and smearing his tears with his sleeve, he got out of the threshold and barely opened the gate to the garden. He was enveloped by a cold spring wind, and his head began to spin again. Splashing through the water right in the wire rods, Pavlunya finally went around the barn. The wire rods were wet, my legs didn’t obey me. Then the birdhouse saw Pavlun. He lay on the beds with the window down, the bird cherry branch nailed to him broke, and Gurikha the cat was creeping up to the birdhouse from behind the barn.

- Go away, fool! - Pavlunya shouted to the cat beside himself, then began to cry, grabbed a stone from the garden bed and threw it at the cat. The stone did not reach the cat, but the cat indifferently sniffed the air with its mustachioed muzzle and slowly walked back. The starlings were not nearby, and Pavlunya, trembling his shoulders and seeing nothing, hobbled closer. He felt that something bad had happened, that it was all over. Trembling from grief and cold, the boy stuck his thin, emaciated hand into the hole in the birdhouse. There was no one there: on his wet fingers he saw fragments of the heavenly, speckled, thin shell of starling eggs...

Pavlunya didn’t remember anything else, the sky with the clouds overturned somewhere and floated, something irreparable and terrible fell on Pavlunya, and before his eyes the heavenly transparency of tiny starling eggs kept turning blue...

Pavlunya woke up in his father’s arms. The boy saw his father's tanned neck and cried even harder.

“Well, what are you doing, brother, well, Pavlunya,” said the father, “she will lay eggs yet, don’t cry.” And we’ll put up the birdhouse again and make it stronger.

Father carried Pavluna through the beds. Pavlunya listened to him, but could not calm down, and his shoulders trembled.

-...You see, if I were at home, I would secure the pole, but here, you see, we need to sow, plow... Well, don’t cry, don’t cry, Pavlunya, you, brother, know it yourself... Now she’ll fly in again and lay new eggs... and you and I, as soon as the sowing passes and it’s warmer, we’ll go to the regional doctor... Well, stop it, brother...

Pavlunya pressed her wet face to her father’s stubbled cheek.

“Dad,” he said, swallowing tears, “will she lay eggs again?”

- Well, of course, he’ll put on new ones. Now I’ll put you down and put up the birdhouse again. Starlings, that's how they are, will definitely lay new eggs. And in the summer we will definitely go to the doctor and buy you new shoes.

They laid the peacock on the stove; he had a fever. Father put up the birdhouse again. But the birdhouse stood alone, the starlings did not fly. They flew somewhere very far away, maybe across the river, and will probably arrive only tomorrow.

It was mid-March. Spring this year turned out to be smooth and friendly. Occasionally there were heavy but short rains. We have already driven on wheels on roads covered with thick mud. The snow still lay in drifts in deep forests and in shady ravines, but in the fields it settled, became loose and dark, and from under it, in some places, black, greasy soil steaming in the sun appeared in large bald patches. The birch buds are swollen. The lambs on the willows turned from white to yellow, fluffy and huge. The willow blossomed. The bees flew out of the hives for the first bribe. The first snowdrops timidly appeared in the forest clearings.

We were looking forward to seeing old friends fly into our garden again - starlings, these cute, cheerful, sociable birds, the first migratory guests, the joyful messengers of spring. They need to fly many hundreds of miles from their winter camps, from the south of Europe, from Asia Minor, from the northern regions of Africa. Others will have to travel more than three thousand miles. Many will fly over the seas: Mediterranean or Black. There are so many adventures and dangers along the way: rains, storms, dense fogs, hail clouds, birds of prey, shots from greedy hunters. How much incredible effort must a small creature weighing about twenty to twenty-five spools have to use for such a flight? Truly, the shooters who destroy the bird during the difficult journey, when, obeying the mighty call of nature, it strives to the place where it first hatched from the egg and saw sunlight and greenery, have no heart.

Animals have a lot of their own wisdom, incomprehensible to people. Birds are especially sensitive to weather changes and predict them long ago, but it often happens that migratory wanderers in the middle of a vast sea are suddenly overtaken by a sudden hurricane, often with snow. The coast is far away, the strength is weakened by the long flight... Then the entire flock dies, with the exception of a small part of the strongest. Happiness for the birds if they encounter a sea vessel in these terrible moments. In a whole cloud they descend on the deck, on the wheelhouse, on the rigging, on the sides, as if entrusting their little lives in danger to the eternal enemy - man. And stern sailors will never offend them, will not offend their reverent gullibility. A beautiful sea legend even says that inevitable misfortune threatens the ship on which the bird that asked for shelter was killed.

Having made a dangerous crossing across the sea plain, starlings rest all day and always in a certain, favorite place from year to year. I once saw one such place in Odessa, in the spring. This is a house on the corner of Preobrazhenskaya Street and Cathedral Square, opposite the cathedral garden. This house was then completely black and seemed to be all stirring from the great multitude of starlings that settled everywhere: on the roof, on the balconies, cornices, window sills, trim, window visors and on the moldings. And the sagging telegraph and telephone wires were closely strung with them, like large black rosaries. My God, there was so much deafening screaming, squeaking, whistling, chattering, chirping and all sorts of bustle, chatter and quarrel. Despite their recent fatigue, they certainly could not sit still for a minute. Every now and then they pushed each other, falling up and down, circling, flying away and returning again. Only old, experienced, wise starlings sat in important solitude and sedately cleaned their feathers with their beaks. The entire sidewalk along the house turned white, and if a careless pedestrian happened to gape, then trouble threatened his coat and hat. Starlings make their flights very quickly, sometimes making up to eighty miles per hour. They will fly to a familiar place early in the evening, feed themselves, take a short nap at night, in the morning - before dawn - a light breakfast, and again set off, with two or three stops in the middle of the day.

So, we waited for the starlings. We fixed old birdhouses that had become warped from the winter winds and hung new ones. Three years ago we had only two of them, last year five, and now twelve. It was a little annoying that the sparrows imagined that this courtesy was being done for them, and immediately, at the first warmth, the birdhouses took over. This sparrow is an amazing bird, and everywhere it is the same - in the north of Norway and on the Azores: nimble, rogue, thief, bully, brawler, gossip and the most impudent one. He will spend the whole winter hunched under a fence or in the depths of a dense spruce, eating what he finds on the road, and just in spring he climbs into someone else’s nest, which is closer to home - into a starling or swallow. And when they kick him out, he’s as if nothing had happened... He fusses, jumps, his eyes sparkle and shouts to the whole universe:

“Alive, alive, alive! Alive, alive, alive! Please tell me what good news for the world!

Finally, on the nineteenth, in the evening (it was still light), someone shouted: “Look - starlings!”

Indeed, they sat high on the branches of poplars and, after the sparrows, seemed unusually large and too black. We began to count them: one, two, five, ten, fifteen... And next to the neighbors, among the transparent spring-like trees, these dark motionless lumps easily swayed on flexible branches. That evening there was no noise or fuss among the starlings. This is what always happens when you return home after a long, difficult journey. On the road you fuss, hurry, worry, but when you arrive, you’re suddenly all softened from the same fatigue: you sit and don’t want to move.

For two days the starlings seemed to be gaining strength and kept visiting and inspecting last year’s familiar places. And then the eviction of sparrows began. I did not notice any particularly violent clashes between starlings and sparrows. Usually, starlings sit in twos high above the birdhouses and, apparently, chatter carelessly about something among themselves, while they themselves gaze downwards with one eye, sideways. It's scary and difficult for the sparrow. No, no - he sticks his sharp, cunning nose out of the round hole - and back. Finally, hunger, frivolity, and perhaps timidity make themselves felt. “I’m flying off,” he thinks, “for a minute and right back.” Maybe I'll outwit you. Maybe they won’t notice.” And as soon as it has time to fly away a fathom, the starling drops like a stone and is already at home. And now the sparrow’s temporary economy has come to an end. Starlings guard the nest in turns: one sits while the other flies on business. Sparrows would never think of such a trick: they are a flighty, empty, frivolous bird. And so, out of chagrin, great battles begin between the sparrows, during which fluff and feathers fly into the air.

And the starlings sit high in the trees and even tease: “Hey, black-headed one. You won’t be able to overcome that yellow-chested one forever and ever.” - "How? To me? Yes, I’ll take him now!” - “Come on, come on...” And there will be a dump. However, in the spring all the animals and birds and even the boys fight much more than in the winter. Having settled in the nest, the starling begins to carry all kinds of construction nonsense there: moss, cotton wool, feathers, fluff, rags, straw, dry blades of grass. He makes the nest very deep, so that a cat does not crawl in with its paw or a raven sticks its long predatory beak through it. They cannot penetrate further: the entrance hole is quite small, no more than five centimeters in diameter. And then soon the ground dried up and the fragrant birch buds blossomed. Fields are plowed, vegetable gardens are dug up and loosened. How many different worms, caterpillars, slugs, bugs and larvae crawl into the light of day! What an expanse! In the spring, a starling never looks for its food, either in the air in flight, like swallows, or on a tree, like a nuthatch or woodpecker. Its food is on the ground and in the ground. And do you know how many insects it destroys during the summer, if you count it by weight? A thousand times its own weight! But he spends his entire day in continuous movement.

It is interesting to watch when he, walking between the beds or along the path, hunts for his prey. His gait is very fast and slightly clumsy, with a sway from side to side. Suddenly he stops, turns to one side, then to the other, bows his head first to the left, then to the right. It will quickly bite and run on. And again, and again... His black back shimmers in the sun with a metallic green or purple color, his chest is speckled with brown, and during this business there is so much in him of something businesslike, fussy and funny that you look at him for a long time and involuntarily smile.

It is best to observe the starling early in the morning, before sunrise, and for this you need to get up early. However, an old clever saying says: “He who gets up early doesn’t lose.” If you sit quietly in the morning, every day, without sudden movements somewhere in the garden or vegetable garden, then the starlings will soon get used to you and will come very close. Try throwing worms or bread crumbs to the bird, first from afar, then decreasing the distance. You will achieve the fact that after a while the starling will take food from your hands and sit on your shoulder. And when he arrives next year, he will very soon resume and conclude his former friendship with you. Just don't betray his trust. The only difference between both of you is that he is small and you are big. The bird is a very smart, observant creature: it is extremely memorable and grateful for all kindness.

And the real song of the starling should be listened to only in the early morning, when the first pink light of dawn colors the trees and with them the birdhouses, which are always located with an opening to the east. The air warmed up a little, and the starlings had already scattered on high branches and began their concert. I don’t know, really, whether the starling has his own motives, but you will hear enough of anything alien in his song. There are pieces of nightingale trills, and the sharp meow of an oriole, and the sweet voice of a robin, and the musical babbling of a warbler, and the thin whistle of a titmouse, and among these melodies such sounds are suddenly heard that, sitting alone, you can’t help but laugh: a hen cackles on a tree , the sharpener's knife will hiss, the door will creak, the children's military trumpet will blow. And, having made this unexpected musical retreat, the starling, as if nothing had happened, without a break, continues his cheerful, sweet, humorous song. One starling I knew (and only one, because I always heard it in a certain place) amazingly faithfully imitated a stork. I just imagined this venerable white black-tailed bird, when it stands on one leg on the edge of its round nest, on the roof of a Little Russian hut, and beats out a ringing shot with its long red beak. Other starlings did not know how to do this thing.

By the beginning of June, the chicks had already hatched. The starling chick is a true monster, which consists entirely of the head, while the head is only made up of a huge, yellow-edged, unusually voracious mouth. The most troublesome time has come for caring parents. No matter how much you feed the little ones, they are always hungry. And then there is the constant fear of cats and jackdaws; It’s scary to be far from the birdhouse.

But starlings are good companions. As soon as jackdaws or crows get into the habit of circling around the nest, a watchman is immediately appointed. The starling on duty sits on the top of the tallest tree and, whistling quietly, vigilantly looks in all directions. As soon as the predators appear close, the watchman gives a signal, and the entire starling tribe flocks to protect the younger generation. I once saw how all the starlings who were visiting me chased three jackdaws at least a mile away. What a vicious persecution this was! The starlings soared easily and quickly over the jackdaws, fell on them from a height, scattered to the sides, closed again and, catching up with the jackdaws, climbed up again for a new blow. The jackdaws seemed cowardly, clumsy, rude and helpless in their difficult summer, and the starlings were like some sparkling, transparent spindles flashing in the air. But it’s already the end of July. One day you go out into the garden and listen. No starlings. You didn’t even notice how the little ones grew up and how they learned to fly. Now they have left their native homes and are leading a new life in the forests, in winter fields, near distant swamps. There they gather in small flocks and learn to fly for a long time, preparing for the autumn migration. Soon the young people will face their first, great exam, from which some will not come out alive. Occasionally, however, starlings return for a moment to their abandoned father's homes. They will fly in, circle in the air, sit on a branch near the birdhouses, frivolously whistle some newly picked up motif and fly away, sparkling with their light wings.

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Alexander Kuprin
Starlings

Animals have a lot of their own wisdom, incomprehensible to people. Birds are especially sensitive to weather changes and predict them long ago, but it often happens that migratory wanderers in the middle of a vast sea are suddenly overtaken by a sudden hurricane, often with snow. The coast is far away, the strength is weakened by the long flight... Then the entire flock dies, with the exception of a small part of the strongest. Happiness for the birds if they encounter a sea vessel in these terrible moments. In a whole cloud they descend on the deck, on the wheelhouse, on the rigging, on the sides, as if entrusting their little lives in danger to the eternal enemy - man. And stern sailors will never offend them, will not offend their reverent gullibility. A beautiful sea legend even says that inevitable misfortune threatens the ship on which the bird that asked for shelter was killed.

So, we waited for the starlings. We fixed old birdhouses that had become warped from the winter winds and hung new ones. Three years ago we had only two of them, last year five, and now twelve. It was a little annoying that the sparrows imagined that this courtesy was being done for them, and immediately, at the first warmth, the birdhouses took over. This sparrow is an amazing bird, and everywhere it is the same - in the north of Norway and on the Azores: nimble, rogue, thief, bully, brawler, gossip and the most impudent one. He will spend the whole winter hunched under a bush or in the depths of a dense spruce, eating what he finds on the road, and when spring comes, he climbs into someone else’s nest, which is closer to home - a birdhouse or a swallow. And they will kick him out, as if nothing had happened... He flutters, jumps, sparkles with his eyes and shouts to the whole universe: “Alive, alive, alive! Alive, alive, alive! Please tell me what good news for the world!

Finally, on the nineteenth, in the evening (it was still light), someone shouted: “Look - starlings!”

Indeed, they sat high on the branches of poplars and, after the sparrows, seemed unusually large and too black. We began to count them: one, two, five, ten, fifteen... And next to the neighbors, among the transparent spring-like trees, these dark motionless lumps easily swayed on flexible branches. That evening there was no noise or fuss among the starlings. This is what always happens when you return home after a long, difficult journey. On the road, you fuss, rush, worry, but when you arrive, you’re suddenly all softened from the same tiredness: you’re sitting and don’t want to move.

For two days the starlings seemed to be gaining strength and kept visiting and inspecting last year’s familiar places. And then the eviction of sparrows began. I did not notice any particularly violent clashes between starlings and sparrows. Starlings usually sit high above the birdhouses for two days and, apparently, carelessly chatter among themselves about something, while they themselves gaze downwards with one eye, sideways. It's scary and difficult for the sparrow. No, no - he sticks his sharp, cunning nose out of the round hole - and back. Finally, hunger, frivolity, and perhaps timidity make themselves felt. “I’m flying off,” he thinks, “for a minute and right back.” Maybe I'll outwit you. Maybe they won’t notice.” And as soon as it has time to fly away a fathom, the starling drops like a stone and is already at home. And now the sparrow’s temporary economy has come to an end. Starlings guard the nest in turns: one sits and the other flies on business. Sparrows would never think of such a trick: they are a flighty, empty, frivolous bird. And so, out of chagrin, great battles begin between the sparrows, during which fluff and feathers fly into the air. And the starlings sit high in the trees and even tease: “Hey, black-headed one. You won’t be able to overcome that yellow-chested one forever and ever.” - "How? To me? Yes, I’ll take him now!” - “Come on, come on...” And there will be a dump. However, in the spring all the animals and birds and even the boys fight much more than in the winter.

Having settled in the nest, the starling begins to carry all kinds of construction nonsense there: moss, cotton wool, feathers, fluff, rags, straw, dry blades of grass. He makes the nest very deep, so that a cat does not crawl in with its paw or a raven sticks its long predatory beak through it. They cannot penetrate further: the entrance hole is quite small, no more than five centimeters in diameter.

And then soon the ground dried up and the fragrant birch buds blossomed. Fields are plowed, vegetable gardens are dug up and loosened. How many different worms, caterpillars, slugs, bugs and larvae crawl into the light of day! What an expanse! In the spring, a starling never looks for its food, either in the air in flight, like swallows, or on a tree, like a nuthatch or woodpecker. Its food is on the ground and in the ground. And do you know how many insects it destroys during the summer, if you count it by weight? A thousand times its own weight! But he spends his entire day in continuous movement.

It is interesting to watch when he, walking between the beds or along the path, hunts for his prey. His gait is very fast and slightly clumsy, with a sway from side to side. Suddenly he stops, turns to one side, then to the other, bows his head first to the left, then to the right. It will quickly bite and run on. And again, and again... Its black back shimmers in the sun with a metallic green or purple color, its chest is speckled with brown. And during this business there is so much business, fuss and funny in him that you look at him for a long time and involuntarily smile.

It is best to observe the starling early in the morning, before sunrise, and for this you need to get up early. However, an old clever saying says: “He who gets up early doesn’t lose.” If you sit quietly in the morning, every day, without sudden movements somewhere in the garden or vegetable garden, then the starlings will soon get used to you and will come very close. Try throwing worms or bread crumbs to the bird, first from afar, then decreasing the distance. You will achieve the fact that after a while the starling will take food from your hands and sit on your shoulder. And when he arrives next year, he will very soon resume and conclude his former friendship with you. Just don't betray his trust. The only difference between both of you is that he is small and you are big. The bird is a very smart, observant creature: it is extremely memorable and grateful for all kindness.

And the real song of the starling should be listened to only in the early morning, when the first pink light of dawn colors the trees and with them the birdhouses, which are always located with an opening to the east. The air warmed up a little, and the starlings had already scattered on high branches and began their concert. I don’t know, really, whether the starling has his own motives, but you will hear enough of anything alien in his song. There are pieces of nightingale trills, and the sharp meow of an oriole, and the sweet voice of a robin, and the musical babbling of a warbler, and the thin whistle of a titmouse, and among these melodies such sounds are suddenly heard that, sitting alone, you can’t help but laugh: a hen cackles on a tree , the sharpener's knife will hiss, the door will creak, the children's military trumpet will blow. And, having made this unexpected musical retreat, the starling, as if nothing had happened, without a break, continues his cheerful, sweet, humorous song. One starling I knew (and only one, because I always heard it in a certain place) amazingly faithfully imitated a stork. I just imagined this venerable white black-tailed bird, when it stands on one leg on the edge of its round nest, on the roof of a Little Russian hut, and beats out a ringing shot with its long red beak. Other starlings did not know how to do this thing.

In mid-May, the mother starling lays four or five small, bluish, glossy eggs and sits on them. Now the father starling has a new duty - to entertain the female in the mornings and evenings with his singing throughout the incubation period, which lasts about two weeks. And, I must say, during this period he no longer mocks or teases anyone. Now his song is gentle, simple and extremely melodic. Maybe this is the real, only starling song?

But it’s already the end of July. One day you go out into the garden and listen. No starlings. You didn’t even notice how the little ones grew up and how they learned to fly. Now they have left their native homes and are leading a new life in the forests, in winter fields, near distant swamps. There they gather in small flocks and learn to fly for a long time, preparing for the autumn migration. Soon the young people will face their first, great exam, from which some will not come out alive. Occasionally, however, starlings return for a moment to their abandoned father's homes. They will fly in, circle in the air, sit on a branch near the birdhouses, frivolously whistle some newly picked up motif and fly away, sparkling with their light wings.

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