Composition "the story of the native land." Essay-discussion about the nature of the native land for schoolchildren of different ages Write a story about your land

Elena Tokareva

Talovaya, Talovaya -

my motherland.

Here on a July morning

I appeared.

Everyone knows the aching feeling of longing for home. When, returning after another absence, with bated breath you approach your settlement, wherein born and raised. At night, this feeling becomes even deeper and sharper. Talova's lights are so beckoning, as if they say that everyone is glad to see you back.

The house in which childhood was spent is a powerful foundation, the foundation of all further human existence. What was presented to him in this small world will then affect and reflect on his fate. And it is not necessary to live in a palace, on the contrary, those guys and girls come out of simple village houses, made by joint efforts and their own labor, who in the future, having created a family, will put together the same strong house for themselves. I remember how during my childhood I changed - my house was also transformed. The chestnut planted at the gate grew, turning from a fragile sprout into a mighty branched tree. Life does not stand still. But it would be boring and monotonous without friends, neighbors, acquaintances surrounding me. Children's voices, laughter, noise fill our street. The kids go out walk: some boys ride bicycles, others try to grab more cherries from Uncle Vanya's front garden, girls go rollerblading, kids attack sandboxes; observant old women occupy their faithful post on the benches to keep abreast of all affairs.

I recognize my street from thousands, it is not greener and more beautiful. Huge crowns of sprawling willows save from the heat. Their branches hang down to the ground. If you get closer to the trunk, you will go unnoticed by passers-by. You can get comfortable and dream, think about something secret. The sweet aroma turns your head. The measured buzzing of insects, the cool breeze, the soft grass softly lull you to sleep. And now a quiet snore is heard. The voice of the mother, calling to the table, helps to wake up from sleep. Her gentle hands help me get out of my hiding place, the naughty hair on my head stirs. It would always be so - calmly and reliably.

But time moves inexorably forward, the time of growing up imperceptibly creeps up, when you longingly remember what is irretrievably gone. Everything goes on as usual, changes, transforms. It's hard to recognize in me that rosy-cheeked plump little boy who measured the puddles of his street with huge rubber boots. You don't recognize mine native village: neatly trimmed lawns, whitewashed trees, beautiful flower beds, playgrounds, improved recreation areas, asphalt roads, modern cars, houses under construction, cleanliness and order all around. Everywhere you can see the work of people - Talovites, who care about the prosperity of their small homeland.

If we all live together principle: "Who, if not me?", let's not shift our responsibility to others, then a lot will change in this world. It will become brighter and more beautiful. Nothing makes a person more unhappy than thinking about the lost past. Therefore, there is no need to regret what happened. We need to catch every moment of the present, making our contribution to the development and creation of the world given to us.

Over a tall sprawling willow

A flock of starlings circles in the spring.

Returning to native spaces,

Yearning for this land.

edge native you are forever loved

For me and for thousands of people.

Stay blooming beautiful

And the alluring brilliance of lights ...

Talovaya, Talovaya -

my motherland.

Here on a July morning

Preparation for an essay - a publicistic discourse about the native land

(methodological development of a lesson in the development of speech in the Russian language in grade 9)

Purpose: to create conditions for the formation

Linguistic competence through mastering the ability to apply linguistic knowledge in working with linguistic material;

Language competence through mastering the skills to read and understand the text of a journalistic style, analyze, edit it;

Communicative competence through mastering the skills to build oral and written statements.

Setting lesson goals

The teacher announces the date, the topic of the lesson.

The words of the Moldavian writer Ion Druta can serve as an epigraph to the lesson: “A small homeland is not only an eternal companion of our life. She is the support of our spirit, the meaning of our labors, the arbiter of our destinies ... "

Guys, let's think about what we should learn today while working in the lesson? What goals do you set for yourself?

So, today in the lesson we will recall the features of the journalistic style, the features of constructing the text of reasoning. We will improve the ability to systematize materials for writing, edit texts, find content and language errors and correct them.

Students write down the date, the topic of the lesson.

Listen to teachers

Prepare for writing.

Preparing to passing exam.

2.Updating knowledge.

Checking d / z

What is publicity?

What are the tasks and features of the journalistic style?

Where do we meet with works of journalistic style?

So, according to scientists, the journalistic style is characterized by the alternation of standard and expression, logical and figurative, evaluative and evidentiary, economy of language means, intelligibility, conciseness, consistency of presentation with great information content.

Publicism is a special type of literary works, which highlight and explain current issues of social and political life, and raise moral problems. The journalistic style combines the function of a message with the function of influence, i.e. opens up possibilities for evaluating what is said to influence the thoughts and feelings of readers.

Features of the journalistic style: the presence of interrogative, motivating and exclamatory sentences, appeals, repetitions, rhetorical questions, the use of words in a figurative sense, the combination of words of colloquial and book vocabulary in one context, etc.

Publicistic style is used in newspapers, magazine articles, radio and television broadcasts, speeches at meetings and rallies.

3. Studying new educational material

Working with texts, let's complete the first task (the texts of all tasks are projected onto the screen).

1. Read the texts expressively. What are the goals of the authors? Prove that the texts belong to the journalistic style. Find the means of the language with which the author tries to influence the reader (repetitions, a parallel way of connecting sentences, series of homogeneous members, etc.).

The work is done in pairs.

I. Homeland is everything. This is a feeling of happiness from the spectacle of our vast land, its forests, sea coasts, villages looking beyond the river. This is a feeling of happiness from the light sky, its winds, its people, from their work. From the whistles of locomotives. Rushing to its great cities, to factories, mines, mines ... (According to K. Paustovsky)

II. It's easier than ever to exclaim “My Russia! Motherland! I love you so much!" The most difficult thing is to live silently for Russia, to give her your work, your honor, to sacrifice to her, if necessary, an engagement ring, and all property, and life itself. Who measured the love of those who fell for her without rewards and without a trace, who endured both fires and torments for her, who simply plowed and cherished this land, and who, at the first call, stood up for her defense? So it was and so it will be...

Pupils read the texts expressively, give answers to the questions posed.

The main task of K.G. Paustovsky - a message about the greatness of the motherland; the function of the text is the impact on the reader; language means: rows of homogeneous members (in the second, third, fifth sentences); parallel method of linking sentences in the text; metaphor (villages looking beyond the river).

Working with texts, we have proved that they belong to the journalistic style.

And what communication skills will we need when working on an essay?

Right. And you need to start work by thinking about the topic. The theme of our essay is the native land. And how does the dictionary interpret the meaning of the words "motherland", "fatherland", "fatherland", "native"?

The ability to think about the topic and the main idea of ​​the essay, observation, selection of material.

The ability to build an essay in a certain compositional form.

The ability to improve writing.

Students find the meaning of words in explanatory dictionaries.

Motherland. 1. Fatherland, native country. 2. Place of birth, origin of someone, something, the occurrence of something.

Fatherland (high). The country where the person was born and to which he belongs.

Motherland (high). Fatherland, motherland.

Native. 1. Consisting in direct (blood) relationship, as well as in general in relationship. 2. Own by birth, by spirit, by habits. 3. Dear, dear.

When creating an essay, you need to remember the need to identify and disclose the main idea of ​​the topic.

Let's consider the second task. Read the statement of Academician D.S. Likhachev about his native land, about love for his native land. Let's formulate the main idea of ​​the text together, it can become the main one in your essay.

Love for one's native land, for one's native culture, for one's native village or city, for one's native speech begins small - with love for one's family, one's home, one's school.

Gradually expanding, this love for the native turns into love for one's country - for its history, its past and present, and then for all of humanity and human culture.

For human life, the environment created by the culture of his ancestors and himself is important. The preservation of the cultural environment is a task no less significant than the preservation of the natural environment. If nature is necessary for man for his biological life, then the cultural environment is just as necessary for his spiritual, moral life...

Streets, squares, canals, parks - remind, unobtrusively and unpersistently remind of the creations of the past, in which the talent and love of generations are invested, enter into a person, becoming a measure of beauty. He learns respect for his ancestors, a sense of duty to his descendants. And then the past and the future become inseparable for him, because each generation is, as it were, a link in time.

If a person does not like at least occasionally to look at old photographs of his parents, does not appreciate the memory of them left in the garden that they cultivated, in the things that belonged to them, then he does not love them. If a person does not like old streets, old houses, even inferior ones, that means. He has no love for his city. If a person is indifferent to the historical monuments of his country, he is, as a rule, indifferent to his country.

A person's love for his native land begins with small things - with love for his family, for his home, for his school.

The preservation of the cultural environment is important for the spiritual life of a person.

In addition to the theme and main idea of ​​the essay, it is necessary to remember the compositional harmony of the work.

Our task in the lesson is to prepare for writing an essay - reasoning. Let's remember how the argument is built.

Reasoning can also be constructed as a proof of the truth or, conversely, as a proof of the falsity of the thesis put forward by the author. Depending on this, we distinguish between reasoning - statements or reasoning - refutation.

The argument goes like this:

1. Thesis (the main idea put forward by the author, a statement about something or someone that needs to be proven).

2. Evidence (arguments, conclusions, examples).

3. Conclusion.

Physical education minute

We are a little tired, let's take a rest, switch our attention.

Raise your head up, turn your head to the right - to the left, forward - back. Do the same with closed eyes. Mentally count to ten.

Let's continue work.

Children relax and rest.

Let's consider the third task.

Arrange the paragraphs in their logical sequence, prove that this is a text - reasoning.

1. A small homeland is what gives us wings of inspiration for life.

2. In my opinion, a small homeland is the edge of our childhood. In other words, something that can embrace a boy's eye. And what a pure open soul longs to contain. Where for the first time this soul was surprised, delighted and rejoiced from the surging delight. And where for the first time she was upset, angry or experienced the first shock.

3. Here they write: a small homeland ... What is it? Where are its boundaries? Where and how far does it extend?

(According to E. Nosov)

Complete the task and answer:

The third part is the thesis, because The author asks questions that need to be answered.

The first part is the conclusion.

4. Consolidation of educational material

Reflection

Let's do some practical work. Read the phrases. Correct those that are not correct. Write down the phrases, making the necessary changes.

Do the work in a group.

Autobiography of life, a monument known to all, observation of changes, plans for the future, unpredictable consequences, reality, progress forward .

Read those phrases that you left unchanged.

Explain which phrases are perceived as redundant.

Summing up the lesson of preparing for an essay - a discussion about our native land, let's remember what goals we set for ourselves?

What were the difficulties?

What was the main thing in the lesson?

What was interesting?

Known to all, observation of changes, unpredictable consequences.

Autobiography - a description of your life; monument - monument; plan - a pre-planned system of events; real - really existing; to progress - to move forward on the path of progress.

Prepare for writing.

Learn to write essays - reasoning.

Preparing to passing exam.

Tell about your native land in such a way that it affects everyone ...

5. Homework

Write an essay - a discussion about your native land. Essay topics:

1. Where does the Motherland begin?

2. The streets of the village told me about this.

3. Journey around the native land.

4. Favorite corner of the native village.

5. About people with a capital letter.

Write down homework

Stories for younger schoolchildren about the Motherland, about the native land. Stories that educate children in love and respect for their native land. Stories by Ivan Bunin, Evgeny Permyak, Konstantin Paustovsky.

Ivan Bunin. Mowers

We walked along the high road, and they mowed in a young birch forest near it - and sang.

It was a long time ago, it was an infinitely long time ago, because the life that we all lived at that time will not return forever.

They mowed and sang, and the whole birch forest, which had not yet lost its density and freshness, still full of flowers and smells, loudly responded to them.

All around us were fields, the wilderness of central, primordial Russia. It was late afternoon on a June day... The old high road, overgrown with curly ants, carved with decayed ruts, traces of the old life of our fathers and grandfathers, went ahead of us into the endless Russian distance. The sun leaned to the west, began to set in beautiful light clouds, softening the blue behind the distant slopes of the fields and throwing great pillars of light towards sunset, where the sky was already golden, as they are written in church paintings. A herd of sheep was gray in front, an old shepherd with a shepherd was sitting on the boundary, winding a whip ... It seemed that there was no, and never was, neither time, nor its division into centuries, into years in this forgotten - or blessed - by God country . And they walked and sang among its eternal field silence, simplicity and primitiveness with some kind of epic freedom and selflessness. And the birch forest accepted and picked up their song as freely and freely as they sang.

They were "distant", Ryazan. They passed in a small artel through our Orel places, helping our hayfields and moving to the lower classes, to earn money during their working hours in the steppes, even more fertile than ours. And they were carefree, friendly, as people are on a long and long journey, on vacation from all family and economic ties, they were “willing to work”, unconsciously rejoicing in its beauty and arrogance. They were somehow older and more solid than ours - in custom, in habit, in language - neat and beautiful clothes, their soft leather shoe covers, white well-knitted onuchs, clean trousers and shirts with red, kumach collars and the same gussets.

A week ago they were mowing in the forest near us, and I saw, riding on horseback, how they came to work, after noon: they drank spring water from wooden jugs - so long, so sweetly, as only animals and good, healthy Russians drink laborers, - then they crossed themselves and cheerfully ran to the place with white, shiny, pointed like a razor braids on their shoulders, on the run they entered a row, the braids let everything go at once, widely, playfully, and went, went in a free, even succession. And on the way back, I saw their dinner. They were sitting in a fresh glade near an extinct fire, dragging pieces of something pink out of cast iron with spoons.

I said:

- Bread and salt, hello.

They kindly replied:

- Good health, welcome!

The glade descended to the ravine, revealing the still bright west behind the green trees. And suddenly, looking closer, I saw with horror that what they ate were fly agaric mushrooms, terrible with their dope. And they just laughed.

“Nothing, they are sweet, pure chicken!”

Now they sang: "Sorry, goodbye, dear friend!"- they moved through the birch forest, thoughtlessly depriving it of thick herbs and flowers, and sang without noticing it themselves. And we stood and listened to them, feeling that we would never forget this evening hour and never understand, and most importantly, never fully express what is such a wondrous charm of their song.

Its beauty was in the responses, in the sonority of the birch forest. Its charm was that it was by no means itself: it was connected with everything that we and they, these Ryazan mowers, saw and felt. The charm was in that unconscious, but consanguineous relationship that was between them and us - and between them, us and this grain-growing field that surrounded us, this field air that they and we breathed from childhood, this evening time, these clouds in the already pinking west, in this snowy, young forest full of honey grasses up to the waist, innumerable wild flowers and berries, which they constantly plucked and ate, and this high road, its expanse and reserved distance. The beauty was that we were all children of our homeland and were all together and we all felt good, calm and loving without a clear understanding of our feelings, because they are not necessary, should not be understood when they are. And there was also a charm (already completely unrecognized by us then) that this homeland, this common home of ours was Russia, and that only her soul could sing like the mowers sang in this birch forest that responded to their every breath.

The charm was that it was as if it were not singing, but only sighs, uplifts of a young, healthy, melodious chest. One breast sang, as songs were once sung only in Russia, and with that immediacy, with that incomparable ease, naturalness, which was peculiar only to the Russian in the song. It was felt that a person is so fresh, strong, so naive in ignorance of his strengths and talents and so full of song that he only needs to sigh lightly so that the whole forest responds to that kind and affectionate, and sometimes bold and powerful sonority that these sighs filled him with. .

They moved, throwing their scythes around them without the slightest effort, exposing clearings in front of them in wide semicircles, mowing, knocking out a circle of stumps and bushes and sighing without the slightest effort, each in his own way, but in general expressing one thing, making on a whim something unified, completely integral. , extraordinarily beautiful. And those feelings that they told with their sighs and half-words along with the echoing distance, the depth of the forest, were beautiful with a completely special, purely Russian beauty.

Of course, they “said goodbye, parted” with their “dear little side”, and with their happiness, and with hopes, and with the one with whom this happiness was united:

Forgive me, my dear friend,

And, darling, oh yes, goodbye, little side! —

they said, they each sighed differently, with this or that measure of sadness and love, but with the same carefree, hopeless reproach.

Forgive me, goodbye, my dear, unfaithful,

Is it for you that the heart has become blackened with mud! —

they said, complaining and yearning in different ways, emphasizing the words in different ways, and suddenly they all merged at once in a completely unanimous feeling of almost rapture before their death, youthful audacity before fate, and some kind of unusual, all-forgiving generosity - as if shaking their heads and threw it all over the forest:

If you do not love, not nice - God is with you,

If you find a better one, you will forget it! —

and throughout the forest it responded to the friendly strength, freedom and chest sonority of their voices, died away and again, loudly rattling, picked up:

Ah, if you find a better one, you will forget it,

If you find worse, you will regret it!

What else was the charm of this song, its inescapable joy with all its supposed hopelessness? In the fact that a person still did not believe, and indeed could not believe, in his strength and incompetence, in this hopelessness. “Oh, yes, all the ways for me, well done, are ordered!” he said, mourning himself sweetly. But they do not weep sweetly and do not sing their sorrows, for whom indeed there is neither way nor road anywhere. “Forgive me, farewell, dear little side!” - the man said - and he knew that he still had no real separation from her, from his homeland, that wherever his fate threw him, his native sky would be above him, and around him - boundless native Russia, disastrous for him, spoiled, except for their freedom, spaciousness and fabulous wealth. “The red sun set behind the dark forests, oh, all the birds fell silent, everyone sat down in their places!” My happiness has set in, he sighed, the dark night with its wilderness surrounds me, and yet I felt: he is so close by blood with this wilderness, alive for him, virgin and full of magical powers, that everywhere he has a shelter, an overnight stay, there is someone's intercession, someone's kind concern, someone's voice whispering: "Don't grieve, the morning is wiser than the evening, nothing is impossible for me, sleep well, child!" - And from all sorts of troubles, according to his faith, the birds and animals of the forest, the beautiful, wise princesses, and even Baba Yaga herself, who pitied him "in his youth," rescued him. There were flying carpets, invisibility caps for him, milky rivers flowed, semi-precious treasures hid, from all mortal spells there were keys of ever-living water, he knew prayers and spells, miraculous again according to his faith, flew away from dungeons, throwing himself a bright falcon , hitting the damp Earth-Mother, dense jungles, black swamps, flying sands protected him from dashing neighbors and thieves, and the merciful god forgave him for all the whistling remote, knives sharp, hot ...

One more thing, I say, was in this song - this is what we and they, these Ryazan peasants, knew well, in the depths of our souls, that we were infinitely happy in those days, now infinitely distant - and irrevocable. For everything has its time - the fairy tale has passed for us too: our ancient intercessors abandoned us, roaring animals fled, prophetic birds scattered, self-made tablecloths curled up, prayers and spells were desecrated, Mother-Cheese-Earth dried up, life-giving springs dried up - and the end has come , the limit of God's forgiveness.

Evgeny Permyak. Tale-saying about the native Ural

In this fairy tale-saying, there is more than enough of all kinds of nonsense. In the forgotten dark times, someone's idle language gave birth to this bike and let it go around the world. Her life was so-so. Malomalskoe. In some places she huddled, in some places she lived to our age and got into my ears.

Do not disappear the same fairy tale-saying! Somewhere, no one, maybe it will do. Live - let it live. No, it's my side. For what I bought, for that I sell.

Listen.

Soon, as our land hardened, as the land separated from the seas, it was inhabited by all sorts of animals, birds, from the depths of the earth, from the steppes of the Caspian Sea, the golden snake crawled out. With crystal scales, with a semi-precious tint, a fiery gut, an ore skeleton, a copper vein...

I thought of encircling the earth with myself. He conceived and crawled from the Caspian midday steppes to the midnight cold seas.

More than a thousand miles crawled like a string, and then began to wag.

In the autumn, apparently, it was something. The full night caught him. Never mind! Like in a cellar. Dawn doesn't even work.

The snake wobbled. I turned from the Mustache River to the Ob and started moving towards Yamal. Cold! After all, he somehow came out of hot, hellish places. Went to the left. And I walked some hundreds of miles, but I saw the Varangian ridges. They did not like, apparently, the snake. And he thought through the ice of the cold seas to wave directly.

He waved something, but no matter how thick the ice, can it withstand such a colossus? Could not resist. Cracked. Donkey.

Then the Serpent went to the bottom of the sea. Him that with an unreachable thickness! It crawls along the seabed with its belly, and the ridge rises above the sea. This one won't sink. Just cold.

No matter how hot the fiery blood of the Snake-Snake, no matter how boiling everything around, the sea is still not a tub of water. You won't heat up.

The crawl began to cool down. From the head. Well, if you get a cold in your head - and the body is over. He became numb, and soon completely petrified.

The fiery blood in him became oil. Meat - ores. Ribs are stone. Vertebrae, ridges became rocks. Scales - gems. And everything else - everything that is only in the depths of the earth. From salts to diamonds. From gray granite to patterned jaspers and marbles.

Years have passed, centuries have passed. The petrified giant is overgrown with a lush spruce forest, pine expanse, cedar fun, larch beauty.

And now it will never occur to anyone that the mountains were once a living snake-snake.

And the years went on and on. People settled on the slopes of the mountains. The snake was called the Stone Belt. After all, he girded our land, though not all of it. That is why they gave him a uniform name, sonorous - Ural.

Where the word came from, I cannot say. That's just what everyone calls him now. Although a short word, it absorbed a lot, like Russia ...

Konstantin Paustovsky. Collection of miracles

Everyone, even the most serious person, not to mention, of course, boys, has his own secret and slightly funny dream. I also had such a dream - be sure to get to Borovoye Lake.

It was only twenty kilometers from the village where I lived that summer to the lake. Everyone tried to dissuade me from going - and the road was boring, and the lake was like a lake, all around there was only forest, dry swamps and lingonberries. Famous painting!

- Why are you rushing there, to this lake! the garden watchman Semyon was angry. - What didn't you see? What a fussy, grasping people went, Lord! Everything he needs, you see, he has to snatch with his hand, look out with his own eye! What will you see there? One reservoir. And nothing more!

— Have you been there?

- And why did he surrender to me, this lake! I don't have anything else to do, do I? That's where they sit, all my business! Semyon tapped his brown neck with his fist. - On the hump!

But I still went to the lake. Two village boys, Lyonka and Vanya, followed me.

Before we had time to go beyond the outskirts, the complete hostility of the characters of Lenka and Vanya was immediately revealed. Lyonka estimated everything that he saw around in rubles.

“Here, look,” he said to me in his booming voice, “the gander is coming.” How much do you think he pulls?

- How do I know!

- Rubles for a hundred, perhaps, it pulls, - Lyonka said dreamily and immediately asked: - But how much will this pine tree pull? Rubles for two hundred? Or all three hundred?

— Accountant! Vanya remarked contemptuously and sniffled. - At the very brains of a dime are pulled, but he asks the price of everything. My eyes would not look at him.

After that, Lyonka and Vanya stopped, and I heard a well-known conversation - a harbinger of a fight. It consisted, as is customary, of only questions and exclamations.

- Whose brains are they pulling on a dime? My?

- Probably not mine!

— You look!

— See for yourself!

- Don't grab it! They did not sew a cap for you!

“Oh, how I wouldn’t push you in my own way!”

- Don't be afraid! Don't poke me in the nose! The fight was short but decisive.

Lyonka picked up his cap, spat, and went, offended, back to the village. I began to shame Vanya.

- Of course! Vanya said, embarrassed. - I got into a heated fight. Everyone fights with him, with Lyonka. He's kinda boring! Give him free rein, he hangs prices on everything, like in a general store. For every spike. And he will certainly bring down the whole forest, chop it for firewood. And I am most afraid of everything in the world when they bring down the forest. Passion as I fear!

- Why so?

— Oxygen from forests. Forests will be cut down, oxygen will become liquid, rotten. And the earth will no longer be able to attract him, to keep him near him. He will fly away to where he is! Vanya pointed to the fresh morning sky. - There will be nothing for a person to breathe. The forester explained to me.

We climbed the izvolok and entered the oak copse. Immediately, red ants began to seize us. They clung to the legs and fell from the branches by the scruff of the neck. Dozens of ant roads strewn with sand stretched between oaks and junipers. Sometimes such a road passed, as if through a tunnel, under the knotty roots of an oak tree and again rose to the surface. Ant traffic on these roads was continuous. In one direction, the ants ran empty, and returned with the goods - white grains, dry paws of beetles, dead wasps and hairy caterpillars.

- Bustle! Vanya said. — Like in Moscow. An old man from Moscow comes to this forest for ant eggs. Every year. Takes away in bags. This is the most bird food. And they are good for fishing. The hook needs to be tiny, tiny!

Behind the oak copse, on the edge, at the edge of the loose sandy road, stood a lopsided cross with a black tin icon. Red, flecked with white, ladybugs crawled along the cross.

A gentle wind blew in your face from the oat fields. Oats rustled, bent, a gray wave ran over them.

Behind the oat field we passed through the village of Polkovo. I noticed a long time ago that almost all regimental peasants differ from the neighboring inhabitants by their high growth.

- Stately people in Polkovo! our Zaborevskys said with envy. — Grenadiers! Drummers!

In Polkovo, we went to rest in the hut of Vasily Lyalin, a tall, handsome old man with a piebald beard. Gray tufts stuck out in disorder in his black shaggy hair.

When we entered the hut to Lyalin, he shouted:

- Keep your heads down! Heads! All of my forehead on the lintel smash! It hurts in Polkovo tall people, but slow-witted - the huts are put on a short stature.

During the conversation with Lyalin, I finally found out why the regimental peasants were so tall.

- Story! Lyalin said. "Do you think we've gone up in the air for nothing?" In vain, even the Kuzka-bug does not live. It also has its purpose.

Vanya laughed.

- You're laughing! Lyalin observed sternly. — Not enough learned yet to laugh. You listen. Was there such a foolish tsar in Russia - Emperor Pavel? Or was not?

“I was,” Vanya said. - We studied.

— Yes, he swam. And he made such business that we still hiccup. The gentleman was fierce. A soldier at the parade squinted his eyes in the wrong direction - he is now inflamed and begins to thunder: “To Siberia! To hard labor! Three hundred ramrods!” That's what the king was like! Well, such a thing happened - the grenadier regiment did not please him. He shouts: “Step march in the indicated direction for a thousand miles! Campaign! And after a thousand versts to stand forever! And he shows the direction with his finger. Well, the regiment, of course, turned and marched. What will you do! We walked and walked for three months and reached this place. Around the forest is impassable. One hell. They stopped, began to cut huts, knead clay, lay stoves, dig wells. They built a village and called it Polkovo, as a sign that a whole regiment built it and lived in it. Then, of course, liberation came, and the soldiers settled down to this area, and, read it, everyone stayed here. The area, you see, is fertile. There were those soldiers - grenadiers and giants - our ancestors. From them and our growth. If you don't believe me, go to the city, to the museum. They will show you the papers. Everything is written in them. And just think, if they had to walk another two versts and come out to the river, they would have stopped there. So no, they did not dare to disobey the order - they just stopped. People are still surprised. “What are you, they say, regimental, staring into the forest? Didn't you have a place by the river? Terrible, they say, tall, but guesswork in the head, you see, is not enough. Well, explain to them how it was, then they agree. “Against the order, they say, you can’t trample! It is a fact!"

Vasily Lyalin volunteered to accompany us to the forest, show the path to Borovoye Lake. First we passed through a sandy field overgrown with immortelle and wormwood. Then thickets of young pines ran out to meet us. The pine forest met us after the hot fields with silence and coolness. High in the sun's slanting rays, blue jays fluttered as if on fire. Clean puddles stood on the overgrown road, and clouds floated through these blue puddles. It smelled of strawberries, heated stumps. Drops of dew, or yesterday's rain, glittered on the hazel leaves. The cones were falling.

- Great forest! Lyalin sighed. - The wind will blow, and these pines will hum like bells.

Then the pines gave way to birch trees, and water glistened behind them.

— Borovoye? I asked.

- Not. Before Borovoye still walk and walk. This is Larino Lake. Let's go, look into the water, look.

The water in Larino Lake was deep and clear to the very bottom. Only near the shore did she tremble a little - there, from under the mosses, a spring poured into the lake. At the bottom lay several dark large trunks. They gleamed with a faint, dark fire as the sun reached them.

“Black oak,” said Lyalin. - Seared, age-old. We pulled one out, but it's hard to work with it. The saw breaks. But if you make a thing - a rolling pin or, say, a rocker - so forever! Heavy wood, sinks in water.

The sun shone in the dark water. Beneath it lay ancient oak trees, as if cast from black steel. And above the water, reflected in it with yellow and purple petals, butterflies flew.

Lyalin led us to a deaf road.

“Go straight ahead,” he pointed, “until you run into msharas, into a dry swamp.” And the path will go along the msharams to the very lake. Just go carefully - there are a lot of pegs.

He said goodbye and left. We went with Vanya along the forest road. The forest grew taller, more mysterious and darker. Gold resin froze in streams on the pines.

At first, the ruts, long overgrown with grass, were still visible, but then they disappeared, and the pink heather covered the whole road with a dry, cheerful carpet.

The road led us to a low cliff. Msharas spread out under it - thick birch and aspen undergrowth warmed to the roots. Trees sprouted from deep moss. Small yellow flowers were scattered here and there over the moss, and dry branches with white lichen were lying about.

A narrow path led through the mshary. She walked around high bumps.

At the end of the path, the water shone with a black blue — Borovoye Lake.

We cautiously walked along the msharams. Pegs, sharp as spears, stuck out from under the moss—the remains of birch and aspen trunks. The lingonberry bushes have begun. One cheek of each berry - the one that turned to the south - was completely red, and the other was just beginning to turn pink.

A heavy capercaillie jumped out from behind a bump and ran into the undergrowth, breaking dry wood.

We went to the lake. Grass rose above the waist along its banks. Water splashed in the roots of old trees. A wild duck jumped out from under the roots and ran across the water with a desperate squeak.

The water in Borovoye was black and clean. Islands of white lilies bloomed on the water and smelled sickly. The fish struck and the lilies swayed.

- That's a blessing! Vanya said. Let's live here until our crackers run out.

I agreed.

We stayed at the lake for two days.

We saw sunsets and twilight and the tangle of plants that appeared before us in the firelight. We heard the calls of wild geese and the sound of night rain. He walked for a short time, about an hour, and tinkled softly across the lake, as if stretching thin, like cobweb, trembling strings between the black sky and the water.

That's all I wanted to tell.

But since then, I will not believe anyone that there are places on our earth that are boring and do not give any food to either the eye, or hearing, or imagination, or human thought.

Only in this way, exploring some piece of our country, you can understand how good it is and how we are attached with our hearts to each of its paths, springs, and even to the timid squeaking of a forest bird.

"For a man there is nothing
closer and dearer than the native land ... "

An essay about "My native land"

Motherland! So many wonderful memories in just a few words. Blooming cherry orchards and fragrant mint carpets along the paths. The alluring blue of the blue summer sky, the aroma of golden linden, the harvesting of bread - nostalgia overwhelms at the mere mention native spaces where you were born, grew up and took your first steps into an exciting and interesting world.

You will always have mother's shining eyes, father's wise instructions, grandmother's tales and grandfather's stories about the war. Motherland, you have experienced so much and mean so much. Once upon a time, military battalions passed through these steppes, trying to free our strong people from the oppression of the enemy. Once these fields were dotted with golden corn in green feathers. Once upon a time, the murmur of the river merged with the noise of a birch grove, and you sat on a small hummock, wandered with your eyes over the relief expanses and thought about something of your own.

Motherland always beckons to him, pulls back to those paths along which he ran with the guys, to those gardens where he stole ripe apricots. We travel around the world, travel, meet new people, but in the heart there always lives one single corner of warmth and comfort, where you feel not just at home, but really there, in your native land.

Now, walking along the dusty noisy city streets, peering into sparkling shop windows and neon signs, you mentally return to the place where you caught butterflies in the morning and ate grandmother's cherry pies. For a person there is nothing closer and more expensive native land- a place that has grown you like a little spikelet, and released you on a long journey to the heights of your life path.

« Composition about the native land» / January 2015

An essay about "The nature of my native land"

The city where I live is surrounded by very picturesque nature. Many natural monuments and reserves are around. Lush forests, deep lakes and even high mountains are located, if not within walking distance, then drive to them no more than two hours. If you take an electric train in my city and drive 4 stations, you can find yourself at the station that leads to the foot of the largest mountain in my country. When I saw Hoverla for the first time, I was greatly impressed by her majesty and monumentality, looking at her you realize all your insignificance and understand how short the human life is.

And if you get off 2 stations earlier, you find yourself in a wonderful area, with green thickets and winding paths. After walking a couple of kilometers along one of them, a swift mountain waterfall opens in front of you, next to which there are many underground springs with crystal clear water. The famous lake is also located nearby, which is famous for its blue and ancient legends.

The forest and its inhabitants

I already wrote that my native land located in a forested area. In the forests around there are clearings for recreation and picnics, many mushroom places, all these areas are well known, illuminated and it is almost impossible to get lost on them. But there are places where the thicket becomes impassable and high crowns of trees hide the sunlight.

Nature is one of the wonders of the world

Wild animals live in these places and many of them are far from harmless. Non-dangerous representatives of the local fauna are roe deer, various birds and small rodents. But of the predators there are foxes, wild boars and even wolves. Only hunters are allowed to go to the habitats of predators and only after the start of the hunting season.

Nature of my native land amazes with its diversity and beauty.

« The composition "The nature of my native land"» / January 2015

The writing About native land

- this is the most native thing that a person has. Motherland This is the place where a person was born and raised. I was born and raised in Kuban. This is a wonderful place, saturated with fresh air and warm rays of the sun.

I believe that the native land should be the most beautiful and beloved. If a person leaves his native land on his own, then he is not a patriot of his birthplace.

If a person is forced to leave his native land due to need, then the fault should not lie on him. The nature of my native land has many faces. she seems to be crying and saying goodbye to summer, and the frost covers everything with fluffy snow and the forest and fields freeze. Looking at the forest in winter is very beautiful. The snow cap covers all the tops of the trees and they seem to be in the same scale.

As soon as it comes down, the first, still barely green, grass appears. From under the ground, the first flowers are trying to break through, which will delight all people. The trees have already taken off their snow cap and seemed to be pulling for the sun. The first green leaves appear on the branches. The rays of the sun break through the window and illuminate my entire room. Sometimes the sun will wake me up in the morning instead of an alarm clock so I won't be late for school. Butterflies arrive and the world around us becomes more colorful. Summer is my favorite time of the year. In my native land in the summer you can do anything you want. Not far from my house there is a sea in which I like to swim. The native land is not only nature, but also the animals that inhabit this land. We have a lot of different birds that come here and stay until autumn. Then they fly away to a warmer climate to wait out the winter.

My native land is very dear to me, although there are no palms and peach trees here, but here there is warmth of loved ones and clean air. One day, I thought about removing all Nuclear Power Plants (NPPs) and creating safer facilities for generating electricity. Because of them, our air is not always as clean as we would like. After all, people can create something new so as not to destroy our planet.

I am proud that I still do not leave my native land, but intend to develop here and start a family. Motherland is everything for a person. Each person has his own, even if it is very small, homeland. A person must protect it with all his might and not pollute it, because our descendants will also live on it.

« Composition on the theme of native land» / January 2015

Schoolchildren may well be asked to write an essay-reasoning about Writing such a work is not difficult. The most important thing is that parents, based on the age category of the child, suggest how to correctly compose an essay-reasoning about the nature of their native land and in what order to express thoughts. After all, every parent knows what a child is capable of.

It is important to correctly place the accents and write the native land. It is necessary that the thought be expressed in full, it is such a story that will be appreciated.

How to write a good essay

Much can be said about nature. The essay says the following:

• What kind of nature prevails most in the village.
• What are the features of the nature of the native land.
• Species of trees, shrubs, flowers that can be found in different parts of the country.

These are just some of the details that should be emphasized when writing an essay about nature. In fact, this type of creativity allows you to put emotions and thoughts into action by writing them on a piece of paper.

Essay-reasoning "On the nature of the native land." Plan

To make it comfortable for a son or daughter to write an essay, parents should make a plan for the child. To compile it, you just need to think about the order in which it is more correct to express thoughts about your native land. The order of writing may be as follows:

Such an essay plan is quite suitable for an excellent, full-fledged and detailed story.

Examples of reasoning essays for elementary school students

As a rule, children love to write essays, because in this type of creative task there are no limits and limits. It is in such works that one can show self-expression, fully pour out emotions on a piece of paper. However, for the task to be ideal, it is worth showing the child examples of reasoning essays. For this purpose, you can take the following options:

In our country, nature is simply beautiful. One has only to go into the forest, and it immediately becomes clear. Beautiful tall trees are everywhere you look. Even in the city itself, there are many unusual and fascinating representatives of the plant world.

Most often in our city you can find pines, chestnuts, oaks. From the bushes there are jasmine, roses. And from the flowers you can often see sunflowers, daisies, asters, chrysanthemums.

Our nature is magnificent, one has only to go to the park or to the forest, and immediately the soul becomes light and free.

Much can be said about the beauty of nature. Most of all, I love the vegetation in our country house and near the lake, where we often go. In this area there are oaks, and birches, and chestnuts, and even pines. Flowers and bushes grow on the plot.

Our homeland pleases with the beautiful colors of the plant world. I really like to look from the hill, which you can climb when we go for a walk in the forest from our summer cottage. From a hill, nature is especially beautiful, you can see trees, bushes, and even flowers in all their glory.

I am very glad that in our country such beautiful nature is our pride and inspiration.

Such an essay about nature is quite suitable for children of elementary grades. Therefore, you can safely take it into account and give it to children as an example.

Essay-reasoning for high school students

In high school, you can write an essay with more complex turns and expressions. For example, you can take this option:

In our homeland, nature is like the intoxication of the soul. The most beautiful natural beauties can be observed in autumn.

Once I climbed a hill, not far from our private house. It was somewhere in the middle of autumn. The beauty that opened up to my eyes made my heart beat faster. Autumn tree decorations filled with different shades, a rainbow carpet on the ground. How wonderful it is to admire such beauty.

We have the best nature in our country. Love is limitless. It is not surprising that nature is depicted in many works of artists.

Such an essay is quite suitable for a high school student. The most important thing is that the child expresses his thoughts sincerely and extensively. Then the result of such a task will be evaluated with the highest score.