Once upon a time there lived a rose and a toad. The rose bush on which the rose bloomed grew in a small semicircular flower garden in front of the village house. The flower garden was very neglected; weeds grew thickly over old flowerbeds that had grown into the ground and along paths that no one had cleaned or sprinkled with sand for a long time. The wooden lattice with pegs trimmed in the form of tetrahedral peaks, once painted with green oil paint, is now completely peeling, dried out and fell apart; The pikes were taken away by the village boys to play soldiers and by the men who approached the house to fight off the angry watchdog with a company of other dogs.
And the flower garden became no worse from this destruction. The remains of the lattice were woven with hops, dodder with large white flowers, and mouse peas hanging in whole pale green heaps, with lavender tassels of flowers scattered here and there. The thorny thistles on the oily and wet soil of the flower garden (there was a large shady garden around it) reached such large sizes that they almost seemed like trees. The yellow mulleins raised their flower-lined arrows even higher than them. Nettles occupied an entire corner of the flower garden; it, of course, burned, but one could admire its dark greenery from afar, especially when this greenery served as a background for a delicate and luxurious pale rose flower.
It blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the flying away morning dew left a few clean, transparent tears on them. Rose was definitely crying. But everything around her was so good, so clean and clear on this beautiful morning, when for the first time she saw the blue sky and felt the fresh morning breeze and the rays of the shining sun, penetrating her thin petals with pink light; it was so peaceful and calm in the flower garden that if she could really cry, it would be not from grief, but from the happiness of living. She couldn't speak; she could only bow her head and spread a subtle and fresh smell around her, and this smell was her words, tears and prayer.
And below, between the roots of the bush, on the damp ground, as if stuck to it with its flat belly, sat a rather fat old toad, which had spent the whole night hunting for worms and midges and in the morning sat down to rest from its labors, choosing a shadier and damper place. She sat with her toad eyes covered with membranes and breathed barely noticeably, swelling her dirty gray warty and sticky sides and putting one ugly paw to the side: she was too lazy to move it to her belly. She did not rejoice in the morning, or the sun, or good weather; She had already eaten and was getting ready to rest.
But when the breeze died down for a minute and the scent of the rose did not drift away, the toad felt it, and it caused her vague uneasiness; however, for a long time she was too lazy to look where this smell was coming from.
No one had gone to the flower garden where the rose grew and where the toad sat for a long time. Last year in the fall, on the very day when the toad, having found a good crevice under one of the foundation stones of the house, was going to climb there for winter hibernation, a little boy entered the flower garden for the last time, who spent the whole summer sitting in it every clear day under the window of the house. An adult girl, his sister, was sitting by the window; she was reading a book or sewing something and occasionally glanced at her brother. He was a small boy of about seven, with big eyes and a large head on a thin body. He loved his flower garden very much (it was his flower garden, because besides him, almost no one went to this abandoned place) and, having arrived there, he sat in the sun on an old wooden bench that stood on a dry sandy path that had survived near the at home, because people were walking around closing the shutters, and he began to read the book he had brought with him.
- Vasya, do you want me to throw you a ball? - my sister asks from the window. - Maybe you can run with him?
- No, Masha, I’d rather do it this way, with a book.
And he sat for a long time and read. And when he got tired of reading about Robinsons, and wild countries, and sea robbers, he left the open book and climbed into the thicket of the flower garden. Here he knew every bush and almost every stem. He squatted down in front of a thick mullein stalk surrounded by shaggy whitish leaves, which was three times taller than him, and for a long time watched how the ant people ran up to their cows - grass aphids, how an ant delicately touched the thin tubes sticking out of the aphids on the back, and picks up clear droplets of sweet liquid that appear at the tips of the tubes. He watched as a dung beetle busily and diligently drags its ball somewhere, like a spider, spreading a cunning rainbow network, guards the flies, like a lizard, with its blunt muzzle open, sits in the sun, the green scutes of its back shining; and once, in the evening, he saw a living hedgehog! Here he, too, could not restrain himself from joy and almost screamed and clapped his hands, but fearing to scare away the prickly animal, he held his breath and, with his happy eyes wide open, watched in delight as he, snorting, sniffed the roots of the rose bush with his pig snout, looking for worms between them, and comically fingered his plump paws, similar to those of a bear.
“Vasya, dear, go home, it’s getting damp,” my sister said loudly.
And the hedgehog, frightened by the human voice, quickly pulled its prickly fur coat over its forehead and hind legs and turned into a ball. The boy quietly touched its thorns; the animal shrank even more and began to puff dully and hastily, like a small steam engine.
Then he got to know this hedgehog a little. He was such a weak, quiet and meek boy that even small animals seemed to understand this and soon got used to him. What a joy it was when the hedgehog tasted milk from a saucer brought by the owner of the flower garden!
This spring the boy could not go to his favorite corner. His sister was still sitting next to him, but no longer at the window, but at his bedside; she read the book, but not for herself, but out loud to him, because it was difficult for him to lift his emaciated head from the white pillows and difficult to hold even the smallest volume in his skinny hands, and his eyes soon got tired of reading. He will probably never go out to his favorite corner again.
- Masha! - he suddenly whispers to his sister.
- What, honey?
- So, is kindergarten good now? Have the roses bloomed?
The sister leans over, kisses his pale cheek and at the same time quietly wipes away a tear.
- Okay, darling, very good. And the roses bloomed. We'll go there together on Monday. The doctor will let you out.
The boy does not answer and takes a deep breath. My sister starts reading again.
- It will already be. I'm tired. I'd rather sleep.
The sister adjusted his pillows and white blanket, he turned to the wall with difficulty and fell silent. The sun shone through the window overlooking the flower garden and cast bright rays onto the bed and the small body lying on it, illuminating the pillows and blanket and gilding the child’s short-cropped hair and thin neck.
Rose knew none of this; she grew and showed off; the next day it was supposed to bloom in full bloom, and on the third it should begin to wither and crumble. That's all pink life! But even in this short life she experienced a lot of fear and grief. The toad noticed her.
When she saw the flower for the first time with her evil and ugly eyes, something strange stirred in the toad’s heart. She could not tear herself away from the delicate pink petals and kept looking and looking. She really liked the rose, she felt a desire to be closer to such a fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express her tender feelings, she couldn’t come up with anything better than these words:
“Wait,” she croaked, “I’ll eat you up!”
Rose shuddered. Why was it attached to its stem? Free birds, chirping around her, jumped and flew from branch to branch; sometimes they were carried away somewhere far away, where the rose did not know. The butterflies were also free. How she envied them! If she had been like them, she would have fluttered up and flown away from the evil eyes that were pursuing her with their gaze. Rose did not know that toads sometimes lie in wait for butterflies.
- I'll eat you up! - the toad repeated, trying to speak as gently as possible, which turned out even more terrible, and crawled closer to the rose.
- I'll eat you up! - she repeated, still looking at the flower.
And the poor creature saw with horror how nasty sticky paws cling to the branches of the bush on which she grew. However, it was difficult for the toad to climb: its flat body could crawl and jump freely only on level ground. After each effort, she looked up, where the flower swayed, and the rose froze.
- God! - she prayed, - if only I could die a different death!
And the toad kept climbing higher. But where the old trunks ended and the young branches began, she had to suffer a little. The dark green, smooth bark of the rose bush was covered with sharp and strong thorns. The toad broke its paws and belly on them and, bleeding, fell to the ground. She looked at the flower with hatred...
“I said I’ll eat you up!” – she repeated.
Evening came; it was necessary to think about dinner, and the wounded toad trudged off to lie in wait for unwary insects. Anger didn't stop her from filling her belly, as always; her scratches were not very dangerous, and she decided, after resting, to again get to the flower that attracted her and hated her.
She rested for quite a long time. Morning came, midday passed, and the rose almost forgot about her enemy. She had already completely blossomed and was the most beautiful creature in the flower garden. There was no one to come to admire her: the little master lay motionless on his bed, the sister did not leave him and did not appear at the window. Only birds and butterflies scurried around the rose, and bees, buzzing, sometimes sat in its open corolla and flew out from there, completely shaggy from the yellow flower dust. A nightingale flew in, climbed into a rose bush and sang its song. How different it was from the wheezing of a toad! Rose listened to this song and was happy: it seemed to her that the nightingale was singing for her, and maybe it was true. She did not see how her enemy quietly climbed onto the branches. This time the toad no longer spared either its paws or its belly: blood covered it, but it bravely climbed upward - and suddenly, amid the ringing and gentle rumble of the nightingale, the rose heard a familiar wheezing: “I said that I would eat it, and I will eat it!”
The toad's eyes gazed at her from a nearby branch. The evil animal had only one movement left to grab the flower. Rose realized that she was dying...
The little master had been lying motionless on the bed for a long time. The sister, sitting at the head of the chair, thought that he was sleeping. She had an open book on her lap, but she wasn't reading it. Little by little her tired head bowed: the poor girl had not slept for several nights, never leaving her sick brother, and now dozed off slightly.
“Masha,” he suddenly whispered.
The sister perked up. She dreamed that she was sitting by the window, that her little brother was playing, as last year, in the flower garden and calling her. Opening her eyes and seeing him in bed, thin and weak, she sighed heavily.
-What, honey?
– Masha, you told me that the roses have bloomed! Can I... have one?
- You can, my dear, you can! “She went to the window and looked at the bush. There was one, but very lush rose growing there.
“A rose has blossomed just for you, and what a lovely one!” Should I put it here on the table in a glass? Yes?
- Yes, on the table. I would like to.
The girl took the scissors and went out into the garden. She had not left the room for a long time; the sun blinded her, and the fresh air made her slightly dizzy. She approached the bush at the very moment when the toad wanted to grab the flower. oskazkah.ru - website
- Oh, what disgusting! – she screamed.
And grabbing a branch, she shook it violently: the toad fell to the ground and flopped on its belly. In a rage, she was about to jump at the girl, but could not jump higher than the hem of the dress and immediately flew far away, thrown back by the toe of her shoe. She did not dare try again and only from a distance saw the girl carefully cut the flower and carry it into the room.
When the boy saw his sister with a flower in her hand, for the first time after a long time he smiled faintly and with difficulty made a movement with his thin hand.
“Give it to me,” he whispered. - I'll smell it.
The sister put the stem in his hand and helped him move it towards his face. He inhaled the delicate scent and, smiling happily, whispered:
- Oh, how good...
Then his face became serious and motionless, and he fell silent... forever. The rose, although it was cut before it began to crumble, felt that it had not been cut for nothing. It was placed in a separate glass next to the small coffin.
There were whole bouquets of other flowers, but, to tell the truth, no one paid attention to them, and when the young girl put the rose on the table, she brought it to her lips and kissed it. A small tear fell from her cheek onto the flower, and this was the best incident in the rose's life. When it began to fade, they put it in a thick old book and dried it, and then, many years later, they gave it to me. That's why I know this whole story.
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The Tale of the Toad and the Rose is a touching story written in the spirit of Andersen's fairy tales. It is interesting to readers aged 12-14, who are already able to think about the complex aspects of life, about the lofty and tragic. An amazing fairy tale will also leave its mark in the hearts of adults. Be sure to read the fairy tale online and discuss it with your child.
The Tale of the Toad and the Rose read
Previously, a seven-year-old boy loved to come to the garden to admire the beautiful flowers. Teter Vasya was bedridden, his illness was taking away his last strength. A rose bloomed in the flower garden, but there was no one to enjoy its scent. The ugly toad chose a place under a rose bush. She was irritated by the sight of the fragrant flower, so she decided to eat the beauty at all costs. This fate frightened Rose. The vile Toad had already reached the flower, but Vasya’s sister managed to cut it off. She hurried home to please her dying brother with a beautiful flower. Vasya inhaled the wonderful smell and stroked the delicate stem... Rose realized that she had not lived her life in vain. Later it was placed in a glass near the small coffin. The girl put the withered flower in a book and kept it as a memory of her beloved brother. You can read the fairy tale online on our website.
Analysis of the tale of the Toad and the Rose
The fairy tale reveals the theme of the sublime and the base in life. In the image of Rose, the author shows the beauty of the human soul. In the image of Toad, Garshin embodied the evil and ugliness of the soul. The author encourages the reader to think about the meaning of life and look at the world with different eyes. Rose was destined to die. The heroine was afraid of a humiliating death in the clutches of a vile creature. She fulfilled a noble mission - she brightened up the last minutes of the life of a dying child. What does the tale of the Toad and the Rose teach? This fairy tale, stunning in its power, promotes the spiritual purification of the individual; it teaches one to resist evil and fosters philanthropy.
Moral of the tale of the Toad and the Rose
Every person, in the name of love for people, must cultivate the sprouts of beauty in his soul and eradicate callousness, evil, and violence from life - this is the main idea of the fairy tale About the Toad and the Rose.
Current page: 1 (book has 1 pages in total)
Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin
The Tale of the Toad and the Rose
Once upon a time there lived a rose and a toad.
The rose bush on which the rose bloomed grew in a small semicircular flower garden in front of the village house. The flower garden was very neglected; weeds grew thickly over old flowerbeds that had grown into the ground and along paths that no one had cleaned or sprinkled with sand for a long time. A wooden lattice with pegs trimmed in the form of tetrahedral peaks, once painted with green oil paint, is now completely peeling, dried out and fell apart; The pikes were taken away by the village boys to play soldiers and by the men who approached the house to fight off the angry watchdog with a company of other dogs.
And the flower garden became no worse from this destruction. The remains of the lattice were woven with hops, dodder with large white flowers, and mouse peas hanging in whole pale green heaps, with lavender tassels of flowers scattered here and there. The thorny thistles on the oily and wet soil of the flower garden (there was a large shady garden around it) reached such large sizes that they almost seemed like trees. The yellow mulleins raised their flower-studded arrows even higher than them. Nettles occupied an entire corner of the flower garden; it, of course, burned, but one could admire its dark greenery from afar, especially when this greenery served as a background for a delicate and luxurious pale rose flower.
It blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the flying away morning dew left a few clean, transparent tears on them. Rose was definitely crying. But everything around her was so good, so clean and clear on this beautiful morning, when for the first time she saw the blue sky and felt the fresh morning breeze and the rays of the shining sun, penetrating her thin petals with pink light; it was so peaceful and calm in the flower garden that if she could really cry, it would be not from grief, but from the happiness of living. She couldn't speak; she could only bow her head and spread a subtle and fresh smell around her, and this smell was her words, tears and prayer.
And below, between the roots of the bush, on the damp ground, as if stuck to it with its flat belly, sat a rather fat old toad, which had spent the whole night hunting for worms and midges and in the morning sat down to rest from its labors, choosing a shadier and damper place. She sat with her toad eyes covered with membranes and breathed barely noticeably, swelling her dirty gray warty and sticky sides and putting one ugly paw to the side: she was too lazy to move it to her belly. She did not rejoice in the morning, or the sun, or good weather; She had already eaten and was getting ready to rest.
But when the breeze died down for a minute and the scent of the rose did not drift away, the toad felt it, and it caused her vague uneasiness; however, for a long time she was too lazy to look where this smell was coming from.
No one had gone to the flower garden where the rose grew and where the toad sat for a long time. Last year in the fall, on the very day when the toad, having found a good crevice under one of the foundation stones of the house, was going to climb there for winter hibernation, a little boy entered the flower garden for the last time, who spent the whole summer sitting in it every clear day under the window of the house. An adult girl, his sister, was sitting by the window; she was reading a book or sewing something and occasionally glanced at her brother. He was a small boy of about seven, with big eyes and a large head on a thin body. He loved his flower garden very much (it was his flower garden, because besides him, almost no one went to this abandoned place) and, having arrived there, he sat in the sun on an old wooden bench that stood on a dry sandy path that had survived near the at home, because people were walking around closing the shutters, and he began to read the book he had brought with him.
- Vasya, do you want me to throw you a ball? - my sister asks from the window. - Maybe you can run with him?
- No, Masha, I’d rather do it this way, with a book.
And he sat for a long time and read. And when he got tired of reading about Robinsons, and wild countries, and sea robbers, he left the open book and climbed into the thicket of the flower garden. Here he knew every bush and almost every stem. He squatted down in front of a thick mullein stalk surrounded by shaggy whitish leaves, which was three times taller than him, and for a long time watched how the ant people ran up to their cows - grass aphids, how an ant delicately touched the thin tubes sticking out of the aphids on the back, and picks up clear droplets of sweet liquid that appear on the tips of the tubes. He watched as a dung beetle busily and diligently drags its ball somewhere, like a spider, spreading a cunning rainbow network, guards the flies, like a lizard, with its blunt muzzle open, sits in the sun, the green scutes of its back shining; and one time, in the evening, he saw a living hedgehog! Here he, too, could not restrain himself from joy and almost screamed and clapped his hands, but, fearing to frighten off the prickly animal, he held his breath and, with his happy eyes wide open, watched in delight as he, snorting, sniffed the roots of a rose bush with his pig snout , looking for worms between them, and comically fingered his plump paws, similar to those of a bear.
“Vasya, dear, go home, it’s getting damp,” my sister said loudly.
And the hedgehog, frightened by the human voice, quickly pulled its prickly fur coat over its forehead and hind legs and turned into a ball. The boy quietly touched its thorns; the animal shrank even more and began to puff dully and hastily, like a small steam engine.
Then he got to know this hedgehog a little. He was such a weak, quiet and meek boy that even small animals seemed to understand this and soon got used to him. What a joy it was when the hedgehog tasted milk from a saucer brought by the owner of the flower garden!
This spring the boy could not go to his favorite corner. His sister was still sitting next to him, but no longer at the window, but at his bedside; she read the book, but not for herself, but out loud to him, because it was difficult for him to lift his emaciated head from the white pillows and difficult to hold even the smallest volume in his skinny hands, and his eyes soon got tired of reading. He will probably never go out to his favorite corner again.
- Masha! - he suddenly whispers to his sister.
- What, honey?
- So, is kindergarten good now? Have the roses bloomed?
The sister leans over, kisses his pale cheek and at the same time quietly wipes away a tear.
- Okay, darling, very good. And the roses bloomed. We'll go there together on Monday. The doctor will let you out.
The boy does not answer and takes a deep breath. My sister starts reading again.
- It will already be. I'm tired. I'd rather sleep.
The sister adjusted his pillows and white blanket, he turned to the wall with difficulty and fell silent. The sun shone through the window overlooking the flower garden and cast bright rays onto the bed and the small body lying on it, illuminating the pillows and blanket and gilding the child’s short-cropped hair and thin neck.
Rose knew none of this; she grew and showed off; the next day it was supposed to bloom in full bloom, and on the third it should begin to wither and crumble. That's all pink life! But even in this short life she experienced a lot of fear and grief.
The toad noticed her.
When she saw the flower for the first time with her evil and ugly eyes, something strange stirred in the toad’s heart. She could not tear herself away from the delicate pink petals and kept looking and looking. She really liked the rose, she felt a desire to be closer to such a fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express her tender feelings, she couldn’t come up with anything better than these words:
“Wait,” she croaked, “I’ll eat you up!”
Rose shuddered. Why was it attached to its stem? Free birds, chirping around her, jumped and flew from branch to branch; sometimes they were carried away somewhere far away, where the rose did not know. The butterflies were also free. How she envied them! If she had been like them, she would have fluttered up and flown away from the evil eyes that were pursuing her with their gaze. Rose did not know that toads sometimes lie in wait for butterflies.
- I'll eat you up! - the toad repeated, trying to speak as gently as possible, which turned out even more terrible, and crawled closer to the rose.
- I'll eat you up! - she repeated, still looking at the flower.
And the poor creature saw with horror how nasty sticky paws cling to the branches of the bush on which she grew. However, it was difficult for the toad to climb: its flat body could crawl and jump freely only on level ground. After each effort, she looked up, where the flower swayed, and the rose froze.
- God! - she prayed. - If only I could die a different death!
And the toad kept climbing higher. But where the old trunks ended and the young branches began, she had to suffer a little. The dark green, smooth bark of the rose bush was covered with sharp and strong thorns. The toad broke its paws and belly on them and, bleeding, fell to the ground. She looked at the flower with hatred...
“I said I’ll eat you up!” – she repeated.
Evening came; it was necessary to think about dinner, and the wounded toad trudged off to lie in wait for unwary insects. Anger didn't stop her from filling her belly, as always; her scratches were not very dangerous, and she decided, after resting, to again get to the flower that attracted her and hated her.
She rested for quite a long time. Morning came, midday passed, and the rose almost forgot about her enemy. She had already completely blossomed and was the most beautiful creature in the flower garden. There was no one to come to admire her: the little master lay motionless on his bed, the sister did not leave him and did not appear at the window. Only birds and butterflies scurried around the rose, and bees, buzzing, sometimes sat in its open corolla and flew out from there, completely shaggy from the yellow flower dust. A nightingale flew in, climbed into a rose bush and sang its song. How different it was from the wheezing of a toad! Rose listened to this song and was happy: it seemed to her that the nightingale was singing for her, and maybe it was true. She did not see how her enemy quietly climbed onto the branches. This time the toad no longer spared either its paws or its belly: blood covered it, but it bravely climbed upward - and suddenly, amid the ringing and gentle rumble of the nightingale, the rose heard a familiar wheezing:
- I said I would eat it, and I will eat it!
The toad's eyes gazed at her from a nearby branch. The evil animal had only one movement left to grab the flower. Rose realized that she was dying...
* * *
The little master had been lying motionless on the bed for a long time. The sister, sitting at the head of the chair, thought that he was sleeping. She had an open book on her lap, but she wasn't reading it. Little by little her tired head bowed: the poor girl had not slept for several nights, never leaving her sick brother, and now dozed off slightly.
“Masha,” he suddenly whispered.
The sister perked up. She dreamed that she was sitting by the window, that her little brother was playing, as last year, in the flower garden and calling her. Opening her eyes and seeing him in bed, thin and weak, she sighed heavily.
- What, honey?
– Masha, you told me that the roses have bloomed! Can I... have one?
- You can, my dear, you can! “She went to the window and looked at the bush. There was one, but very lush rose growing there.
“A rose has blossomed just for you, and what a lovely one!” Should I put it here on the table in a glass? Yes?
- Yes, on the table. I would like to.
The girl took the scissors and went out into the garden. She had not left the room for a long time; the sun blinded her, and the fresh air made her slightly dizzy. She approached the bush at the very moment when the toad wanted to grab the flower.
- Oh, what disgusting! – she screamed.
And, grabbing a branch, she shook it vigorously: the toad fell to the ground and flopped on its belly. In a rage, she was about to jump at the girl, but could not jump higher than the hem of the dress and immediately flew far away, thrown back by the toe of her shoe. She did not dare try again and only from a distance saw the girl carefully cut the flower and carry it into the room.
When the boy saw his sister with a flower in her hand, for the first time after a long time he smiled faintly and with difficulty made a movement with his thin hand.
“Give it to me,” he whispered. - I'll smell it.
The sister put the stem in his hand and helped him move it towards his face. He inhaled the delicate scent and, smiling happily, whispered:
- Oh, how good...
Then his face became serious and motionless, and he fell silent... forever.
The rose, although it was cut before it began to crumble, felt that it had not been cut for nothing. It was placed in a separate glass next to the small coffin. There were whole bouquets of other flowers, but, to tell the truth, no one paid attention to them, and when the young girl put the rose on the table, she brought it to her lips and kissed it. A small tear fell from her cheek onto the flower, and this was the best incident in the rose’s life. When it began to fade, they put it in a thick old book and dried it, and then, many years later, gave it to me. That's why I know this whole story.
1884
Once upon a time there lived a rose and a toad.
The rose bush on which the rose bloomed grew in a small semicircular flower garden in front of the village house. The flower garden was very neglected; weeds grew thickly over old flowerbeds that had grown into the ground and along paths that no one had cleaned or sprinkled with sand for a long time. A wooden lattice with pegs trimmed in the form of tetrahedral peaks, once painted with green oil paint, is now completely peeling, dried out and fell apart; The pikes were taken away by the village boys to play soldiers and by the men who approached the house to fight off the angry watchdog with a company of other dogs. And the flower garden became no worse from this destruction. The remains of the lattice were woven with hops, dodder with large white flowers, and mouse peas hanging in whole pale green heaps, with lavender tassels of flowers scattered here and there. The thorny thistles on the oily and wet soil of the flower garden (there was a large shady garden around it) reached such large sizes that they almost seemed like trees. The yellow mulleins raised their flower-lined arrows even higher than them. Nettles occupied an entire corner of the flower garden; it, of course, burned, but one could admire its dark greenery from afar, especially when this greenery served as a background for a delicate and luxurious pale rose flower.
It blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the flying away morning dew left a few clean, transparent tears on them. Rose was definitely crying. But everything around her was so good, so clean and clear on this beautiful morning, when for the first time she saw the blue sky and felt the fresh morning breeze and the rays of the shining sun, penetrating her thin petals with pink light; it was so peaceful and calm in the flower garden that if she could really cry, it would be not from grief, but from the happiness of living. She couldn't speak; she could only bow her head and spread a subtle and fresh smell around her, and this smell was her words, tears and prayer.
And below, between the roots of the bush, on the damp ground, as if stuck to it with its flat belly, sat a rather fat old toad, which had spent the whole night hunting for worms and midges and in the morning sat down to rest from its labors, choosing a shadier and damper place. She sat with her toad eyes covered with membranes and breathed barely noticeably, swelling her dirty gray warty and sticky sides and putting one ugly paw to the side: she was too lazy to move it to her belly. She did not rejoice in the morning, or the sun, or good weather; She had already eaten and was getting ready to rest. But when the breeze died down for a minute and the scent of the rose did not drift away, the toad felt it, and it caused her vague uneasiness; however, for a long time she was too lazy to look where this smell was coming from.
No one had gone to the flower garden where the rose grew and where the toad sat for a long time. Last year in the fall, on the very day when the toad, having found a good crevice under one of the foundation stones of the house, was going to climb there for winter hibernation, a little boy entered the flower garden for the last time, who spent the whole summer sitting in it every clear day under the window of the house.
An adult girl, his sister, was sitting by the window; she was reading a book or sewing something and occasionally glanced at her brother.
He was a small boy of about seven, with big eyes and a large head on a thin body. He loved his flower garden very much (it was his flower garden, because besides him, almost no one went to this abandoned place) and, having arrived there, he sat in the sun on an old wooden bench that stood on a dry sandy path that had survived near the at home, because people were walking around closing the shutters, and he began to read the book he had brought with him.
- Vasya, do you want me to throw you a ball? - my sister asks from the window. - Maybe you can run with him?
- No, Masha, I’d rather do it this way, with a book.
And he sat for a long time and read. And when he got tired of reading about Robinsons, and wild countries, and sea robbers, he left the open book and climbed into the thicket of the flower garden. Here he knew every bush and almost every stem. He squatted down in front of a thick mullein stalk surrounded by shaggy whitish leaves, which was three times taller than him, and for a long time watched how the ant people ran up to their cows - grass aphids, how an ant delicately touched the thin tubes sticking out of the aphids on the back, and picks up clear droplets of sweet liquid that appear at the tips of the tubes. He watched as a dung beetle busily and diligently drags its ball somewhere, like a spider, spreading a cunning rainbow network, guards the flies, like a lizard, with its blunt muzzle open, sits in the sun, the green scutes of its back shining; and once, in the evening, he saw a living hedgehog! Here he, too, could not restrain himself from joy and almost shouted and clapped his hands, but fearing to frighten the prickly animal, he held his breath and, with his happy eyes wide open, watched in delight as he, snorting, sniffed the roots of a rose bush with his pig snout, looking for worms between them, and comically fingered his plump paws, similar to those of a bear.
“Vasya, dear, go home, it’s getting damp,” my sister said loudly.
And the hedgehog, frightened by the human voice, quickly pulled its prickly fur coat over its forehead and hind legs and turned into a ball. The boy quietly touched its thorns; the animal shrank even more and began to puff dully and hastily, like a small steam engine.
Then he got to know this hedgehog a little. He was such a weak, quiet and meek boy that even small animals seemed to understand this and soon got used to him. What a joy it was when the hedgehog tasted milk from a saucer brought by the owner of the flower garden!
This spring the boy could not go to his favorite corner. His sister was still sitting next to him, but no longer at the window, but at his bedside; she read the book, but not for herself, but out loud to him, because it was difficult for him to lift his emaciated head from the white pillows and difficult to hold even the smallest volume in his skinny hands, and his eyes soon got tired of reading. He will probably never go out to his favorite corner again.
- Masha! - he suddenly whispers to his sister.
- What, honey?
- So, is kindergarten good now? Have the roses bloomed?
The sister leans over, kisses his pale cheek and at the same time quietly wipes away a tear.
- Okay, darling, very good. And the roses bloomed. We'll go there together on Monday. The doctor will let you out.
The boy does not answer and takes a deep breath. My sister starts reading again.
- It will already be. I'm tired. I'd rather sleep.
The sister adjusted his pillows and white blanket, he turned to the wall with difficulty and fell silent.
The sun shone through the window overlooking the flower garden and cast bright rays onto the bed and the small body lying on it, illuminating the pillows and blanket and gilding the child’s short-cropped hair and thin neck. Rose knew none of this; she grew and showed off; the next day it was supposed to bloom in full bloom, and on the third it should begin to wither and crumble. That's all pink life! But even in this short life she experienced a lot of fear and grief. The toad noticed her. When she saw the flower for the first time with her evil and ugly eyes, something strange stirred in the toad’s heart. She could not tear herself away from the delicate pink petals and kept looking and looking. She really liked the rose, she felt a desire to be closer to such a fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express her tender feelings, she couldn’t come up with anything better than these words:
“Wait,” she croaked, “I’ll eat you up!”
Rose shuddered. Why was it attached to its stem? Free birds, chirping around her, jumped and flew from branch to branch; sometimes they were carried away somewhere far away, where the rose did not know. The butterflies were also free. How she envied them! If she had been like them, she would have fluttered up and flown away from the evil eyes that were pursuing her with their gaze. Rose did not know that toads sometimes lie in wait for butterflies.
- I'll eat you up! - the toad repeated, trying to speak as gently as possible, which turned out even more terrible, and crawled closer to the rose.
- I'll eat you up! - she repeated, still looking at the flower.
And the poor creature saw with horror how nasty sticky paws cling to the branches of the bush on which she grew. However, it was difficult for the toad to climb: its flat body could crawl and jump freely only on level ground. After each effort, she looked up, where the flower swayed, and the rose froze.
- God! - she prayed, - if only I could die a different death!
And the toad kept climbing higher. But where the old trunks ended and the young branches began, she had to suffer a little. The dark green, smooth bark of the rose bush was covered with sharp and strong thorns. The toad broke its paws and belly on them and, bleeding, fell to the ground. She looked at the flower with hatred...
“I said I’ll eat you up!” – she repeated.
Evening came; it was necessary to think about dinner, and the wounded toad trudged off to lie in wait for unwary insects. Anger didn't stop her from filling her belly, as always; her scratches were not very dangerous, and she decided, after resting, to again get to the flower that attracted her and hated her. She rested for quite a long time. Morning came, midday passed, and the rose almost forgot about her enemy. She had already completely blossomed and was the most beautiful creature in the flower garden. There was no one to come to admire her: the little master lay motionless on his bed, the sister did not leave him and did not appear at the window.
A beautiful rose and a nasty toad lived in the garden. The toad really did not like the smell of the flower, and she decided to eat it. Rose did not want such a sad ending to her life. The flower became the last gift to the sick boy.
The Tale of the Toad and the Rose download:
Read the tale of the toad and the rose
Once upon a time there lived a rose and a toad. The rose bush on which the rose bloomed grew in a small semicircular flower garden in front of the village house. The flower garden was very neglected; weeds grew thickly over old flowerbeds that had grown into the ground and along paths that no one had cleaned or sprinkled with sand for a long time. The wooden lattice with pegs trimmed in the form of tetrahedral peaks, once painted with green oil paint, is now completely peeling, dried out and fell apart; The pikes were taken away by the village boys to play soldiers and by the men who approached the house to fight off the angry watchdog with a company of other dogs.
And the flower garden became no worse from this destruction. The remains of the lattice were woven with hops, dodder with large white flowers, and mouse peas hanging in whole pale green heaps, with lavender tassels of flowers scattered here and there. The thorny thistles on the oily and wet soil of the flower garden (there was a large shady garden around it) reached such large sizes that they almost seemed like trees. The yellow mulleins raised their flower-lined arrows even higher than them. Nettles occupied an entire corner of the flower garden; it, of course, burned, but one could admire its dark greenery from afar, especially when this greenery served as a background for a delicate and luxurious pale rose flower.
It blossomed on a fine May morning; when she opened her petals, the flying away morning dew left a few clean, transparent tears on them. Rose was definitely crying. But everything around her was so good, so clean and clear on this beautiful morning, when for the first time she saw the blue sky and felt the fresh morning breeze and the rays of the shining sun, penetrating her thin petals with pink light; it was so peaceful and calm in the flower garden that if she could really cry, it would be not from grief, but from the happiness of living. She couldn't speak; she could only bow her head and spread a subtle and fresh smell around her, and this smell was her words, tears and prayer.
And below, between the roots of the bush, on the damp ground, as if stuck to it with its flat belly, sat a rather fat old toad, which had spent the whole night hunting for worms and midges and in the morning sat down to rest from its labors, choosing a shadier and damper place. She sat with her toad eyes covered with membranes and breathed barely noticeably, swelling her dirty gray warty and sticky sides and putting one ugly paw to the side: she was too lazy to move it to her belly. She did not rejoice in the morning, or the sun, or good weather; She had already eaten and was getting ready to rest.
But when the breeze died down for a minute and the scent of the rose did not drift away, the toad felt it, and it caused her vague uneasiness; however, for a long time she was too lazy to look where this smell was coming from.
No one had gone to the flower garden where the rose grew and where the toad sat for a long time. Last year in the fall, on the very day when the toad, having found a good crevice under one of the foundation stones of the house, was going to climb there for winter hibernation, a little boy entered the flower garden for the last time, who spent the whole summer sitting in it every clear day under the window of the house. An adult girl, his sister, was sitting by the window; she was reading a book or sewing something and occasionally glanced at her brother. He was a small boy of about seven, with big eyes and a large head on a thin body. He loved his flower garden very much (it was his flower garden, because besides him, almost no one went to this abandoned place) and, having arrived there, he sat in the sun on an old wooden bench that stood on a dry sandy path that had survived near the at home, because people were walking around closing the shutters, and he began to read the book he had brought with him.
- Vasya, do you want me to throw you a ball? - my sister asks from the window. - Maybe you can run with him?
- No, Masha, I’d rather do it this way, with a book.
And he sat for a long time and read. And when he got tired of reading about Robinsons, and wild countries, and sea robbers, he left the open book and climbed into the thicket of the flower garden. Here he knew every bush and almost every stem. He squatted down in front of a thick mullein stalk surrounded by shaggy whitish leaves, which was three times taller than him, and for a long time watched how the ant people ran up to their cows - grass aphids, how an ant delicately touched the thin tubes sticking out of the aphids on the back, and picks up clear droplets of sweet liquid that appear at the tips of the tubes. He watched as a dung beetle busily and diligently drags its ball somewhere, like a spider, spreading a cunning rainbow network, guards the flies, like a lizard, with its blunt muzzle open, sits in the sun, the green scutes of its back shining; and once, in the evening, he saw a living hedgehog! Here he, too, could not restrain himself from joy and almost shouted and clapped his hands, but fearing to frighten the prickly animal, he held his breath and, with his happy eyes wide open, watched in delight as he, snorting, sniffed the roots of a rose bush with his pig snout, looking for worms between them, and comically fingered his plump paws, similar to those of a bear.
“Vasya, dear, go home, it’s getting damp,” my sister said loudly.
And the hedgehog, frightened by the human voice, quickly pulled its prickly fur coat over its forehead and hind legs and turned into a ball. The boy quietly touched its thorns; the animal shrank even more and began to puff dully and hastily, like a small steam engine.
Then he got to know this hedgehog a little. He was such a weak, quiet and meek boy that even small animals seemed to understand this and soon got used to him. What a joy it was when the hedgehog tasted milk from a saucer brought by the owner of the flower garden!
This spring the boy could not go to his favorite corner. His sister was still sitting next to him, but no longer at the window, but at his bedside; she read the book, but not for herself, but out loud to him, because it was difficult for him to lift his emaciated head from the white pillows and difficult to hold even the smallest volume in his skinny hands, and his eyes soon got tired of reading. He will probably never go out to his favorite corner again.
- Masha! - he suddenly whispers to his sister.
- What, honey?
- So, is kindergarten good now? Have the roses bloomed?
The sister leans over, kisses his pale cheek and at the same time quietly wipes away a tear.
- Okay, darling, very good. And the roses bloomed. We'll go there together on Monday. The doctor will let you out.
The boy does not answer and takes a deep breath. My sister starts reading again.
- It will already be. I'm tired. I'd rather sleep.
The sister adjusted his pillows and white blanket, he turned to the wall with difficulty and fell silent. The sun shone through the window overlooking the flower garden and cast bright rays onto the bed and the small body lying on it, illuminating the pillows and blanket and gilding the child’s short-cropped hair and thin neck.
Rose knew none of this; she grew and showed off; the next day it was supposed to bloom in full bloom, and on the third it should begin to wither and crumble. That's all pink life! But even in this short life she experienced a lot of fear and grief. The toad noticed her.
When she saw the flower for the first time with her evil and ugly eyes, something strange stirred in the toad’s heart. She could not tear herself away from the delicate pink petals and kept looking and looking. She really liked the rose, she felt a desire to be closer to such a fragrant and beautiful creature. And to express her tender feelings, she couldn’t come up with anything better than these words:
“Wait,” she croaked, “I’ll eat you up!”
Rose shuddered. Why was it attached to its stem? Free birds, chirping around her, jumped and flew from branch to branch; sometimes they were carried away somewhere far away, where the rose did not know. The butterflies were also free. How she envied them! If she had been like them, she would have fluttered up and flown away from the evil eyes that were pursuing her with their gaze. Rose did not know that toads sometimes lie in wait for butterflies.
- I'll eat you up! - the toad repeated, trying to speak as gently as possible, which turned out even more terrible, and crawled closer to the rose.
- I'll eat you up! - she repeated, still looking at the flower.
And the poor creature saw with horror how nasty sticky paws cling to the branches of the bush on which she grew. However, it was difficult for the toad to climb: its flat body could crawl and jump freely only on level ground. After each effort, she looked up, where the flower swayed, and the rose froze.
- God! - she prayed, - if only I could die a different death!
And the toad kept climbing higher. But where the old trunks ended and the young branches began, she had to suffer a little. The dark green, smooth bark of the rose bush was covered with sharp and strong thorns. The toad broke its paws and belly on them and, bleeding, fell to the ground. She looked at the flower with hatred...
“I said I’ll eat you up!” – she repeated.
Evening came; it was necessary to think about dinner, and the wounded toad trudged off to lie in wait for unwary insects. Anger didn't stop her from filling her belly, as always; her scratches were not very dangerous, and she decided, after resting, to again get to the flower that attracted her and hated her.
She rested for quite a long time. Morning came, midday passed, and the rose almost forgot about her enemy. She had already completely blossomed and was the most beautiful creature in the flower garden. There was no one to come to admire her: the little master lay motionless on his bed, the sister did not leave him and did not appear at the window. Only birds and butterflies scurried around the rose, and bees, buzzing, sometimes sat in its open corolla and flew out from there, completely shaggy from the yellow flower dust. A nightingale flew in, climbed into a rose bush and sang its song. How different it was from the wheezing of a toad! Rose listened to this song and was happy: it seemed to her that the nightingale was singing for her, and maybe it was true. She did not see how her enemy quietly climbed onto the branches. This time the toad no longer spared either its paws or its belly: blood covered it, but it bravely climbed upward - and suddenly, amid the ringing and gentle rumble of the nightingale, the rose heard a familiar wheezing: “I said that I would eat it, and I will eat it!”
The toad's eyes gazed at her from a nearby branch. The evil animal had only one movement left to grab the flower. Rose realized that she was dying...
The little master had been lying motionless on the bed for a long time. The sister, sitting at the head of the chair, thought that he was sleeping. She had an open book on her lap, but she wasn't reading it. Little by little her tired head bowed: the poor girl had not slept for several nights, never leaving her sick brother, and now dozed off slightly.
“Masha,” he suddenly whispered.
The sister perked up. She dreamed that she was sitting by the window, that her little brother was playing, as last year, in the flower garden and calling her. Opening her eyes and seeing him in bed, thin and weak, she sighed heavily.
-What, honey?
– Masha, you told me that the roses have bloomed! Can I... have one?
- You can, my dear, you can! “She went to the window and looked at the bush. There was one, but very lush rose growing there.
“A rose has blossomed just for you, and what a lovely one!” Should I put it here on the table in a glass? Yes?
- Yes, on the table. I would like to.
The girl took the scissors and went out into the garden. She had not left the room for a long time; the sun blinded her, and the fresh air made her slightly dizzy. She approached the bush at the very moment when the toad wanted to grab the flower.
- Oh, what disgusting! – she screamed.
And grabbing a branch, she shook it violently: the toad fell to the ground and flopped on its belly. In a rage, she was about to jump at the girl, but could not jump higher than the hem of the dress and immediately flew far away, thrown back by the toe of her shoe. She did not dare try again and only from a distance saw the girl carefully cut the flower and carry it into the room.
When the boy saw his sister with a flower in her hand, for the first time after a long time he smiled faintly and with difficulty made a movement with his thin hand.
“Give it to me,” he whispered. - I'll smell it.
The sister put the stem in his hand and helped him move it towards his face. He inhaled the delicate scent and, smiling happily, whispered:
- Oh, how good...
Then his face became serious and motionless, and he fell silent... forever. The rose, although it was cut before it began to crumble, felt that it had not been cut for nothing. It was placed in a separate glass next to the small coffin.
There were whole bouquets of other flowers, but, to tell the truth, no one paid attention to them, and when the young girl put the rose on the table, she raised it to her lips and kissed it. A small tear fell from her cheek onto the flower, and this was the best incident in the rose’s life. When it began to fade, they put it in a thick old book and dried it, and then, many years later, they gave it to me. That's why I know this whole story.
