In one English small town lived a grandfather chimney sweep. He was very old, and the years of his life were gathered in a network of wrinkles on his face and overworked hands. But everyone who greeted him was amazed by his eyes: transparent gray, radiant, young, young.
It is often said that chimney sweeps are "invisible people". Chimney sweeps are not heard or seen, they go to their hard work when the whole city is still asleep, and return late at night, stained with soot and coal - how can you make out them.
Grandfather the chimney sweep also passed through the streets of the town at dawn, but he was recognized from afar by his rough working clothes, a black top hat and a coil of strong rope rope thrown over his shoulder.
Every passer-by bowed to the chimney sweep grandfather and wished him a good day. He had been cleaning chimneys for so long that everyone forgot his real name and called grandfather Chimney Sweep-Kind-Soul.
One day the chimney sweep set out on a scalding frosty morning to another house. It turned out to be a smart mansion on a hill: he looked down on other houses, and his windows and doors were tightly closed, like a coat, buttoned up.
Chimney Sweep-Kind-Soul walked up the steps and rang a brass bell. A heavy door was opened for him and he was escorted into one of the rooms on the second floor to inspect the fireplace before going up to the roof.
In a cozy warm room, the chimney sweep saw two boys: one was older, the other younger; one had slicked back hair, the other had frizzy curls; one of them was in a green sweater, and the other in a red one.
Toys and beautiful things filled the room. In the corner against the wall, as if in a stable, wooden horses swayed, soldiers fought on a desk, a toy train rode merrily on the carpet by the fireplace, banging its wheels on rails.
The boys took their eyes off the game for a moment and nodded to the chimney sweep. He smiled at the children, brushed crystal snowflakes from his gray mustache, looked into the fireplace, grunted with satisfaction, and, having learned from the owners where the stairs to the attic, went upstairs.
The children had already forgotten about the strange guest and continued the game. But for some reason, the game did not work out for them: as soon as one of them, Leo, took up the engine, the little brother Theo got angry and took the engine for himself. If they pretended to ride horses, they argued loudly which of them was the best rider. If they played ball, then one wanted to kick the ball, and the second to throw.
Chimney Sweep-Kind-Soul was cleaning the chimney high on the roof. Everything was covered with ice, it was difficult to work, but he did all the work and went down the attic stairs to the house.
His face was smeared with soot, and the boys, seeing this, burst into laughter and began to tease grandfather:
- Dirty, dirty, dirty chimney sweep! they sang in unison.
The maid, burning with shame for the boys, respectfully brought a pitcher of water to the chimney sweeper and helped him to wash.
Chimney-sweep-Kind-Soul washed off the soot and carefully examined the guys. Then he spoke, and there was not a single note of irritation or anger in his voice:
- Boys, while I was cleaning the chimney, I heard all your quarrels through the fireplace and was surprised: you live in such prosperity, and yet you are such poor children.
Leo and Theo's eyes widened.
- Like this? We are not poor, our parents are the richest in our region.
The chimney sweep answered quietly:
- In your beautiful nursery and in your hearts there is no peace and harmony. You could not agree in good children's games, and a cruel joke against me united you. Is it supposed to be like that? Does evil bring people together?
The brothers felt embarrassed and lowered their eyes:
- We want to be friends with each other, but we do not always succeed. Sometimes such anger seizes, and there is nowhere to hide from it! How can we be?
The chimney sweep pointed at his soot-blackened hands.
- I am a simple person, not a scientist, I will explain to you this way: if the chimney is not cleaned of soot for a long time, it will become clogged and may break. So is the heart and soul of a person: if they are not cleansed of anger and resentment for a long time, a person can eventually become angry and cruel. I clean the chimney with my iron tools. And the heart and soul are cleansed after repentance, forgiveness and sincere tears.
Leo and Theo looked at each other and hugged tightly.
They asked for forgiveness from the chimney sweep for offending him.
They approached their mother and apologized for their naughty behavior.
Mom was touched and asked Dad's forgiveness for forgetting to make his favorite cabbage pie for dinner.
Papa relented and apologized to the cook for raising his voice to her.
Peace and tranquility reigned in the house on the hill.
... Chimney-sweep-Kind-Soul, throwing a heavy rope over his shoulder and adjusting his top hat, walked through the quiet sleeping town to his hut on the outskirts.
When he got home, he had supper of milk, bread, and cheese, and set the clock to the very early morning.
He had so many more houses to visit.
Collection of fairy tales - soon on Ridero!
kind soul
Often I think: what is the cutest thing in the world? and no matter how I guess, one answer always comes out: there is no sweeter human soul in the world. Of course, a good person does not always live well; Of course, he suffers even more often than the other, who looks with bulging eyes at the world of God, and he does not care about anyone's great sorrows, but he also suffers somehow quietly, sweetly, lovingly ...
It is good to meet a kind person in life: firstly, he has always seen, thought and experienced a lot, and therefore, he can tell and explain a lot; secondly, the very closeness of a good human soul enlightens and calms everything, no matter what touches it. How people get to the point where they become very, very kind, that they do not blame, do not resent, but only love and pity - it is rather difficult to explain right away. However, it can be said almost without error that this cannot be achieved otherwise than through the constant work of thought. When a person thinks a lot, when he considers not only the external signs of the deeds and actions of his neighbors, but also the inner history that served as a preparation for them, then it is very difficult to remain in the role of an accuser, even if the external signs of a certain action arouse indignation. As soon as thought explains and purifies action of impurities that confuse it, the heart cannot but dissolve and justify. Criminals disappear; their place is taken by the "unfortunate", and because of these "unfortunates" the good human soul burns, languishes and languishes...
We meet a lot of people in the world, but, unfortunately, most of them belong precisely to the number of those who walk around with bulging eyes and do not want to hear about anything except their little personal interests. These people are the most unfortunate, even more unhappy than those whom we actually call criminals. A real "criminal" may have a whole soul before he decides to commit a crime, and this one, who walks with bulging eyes along the street, does his little nasty things at every step and does not even feel that these nasty things are the same crimes and that all worldly misfortunes emanate from their dark mass.
But there are many good people, and you, dear children, always manage to distinguish them faster than anyone else. When you feel that it is easy and pleasant for you around some person; when your faces bloom with a smile at the sight of him, when you are instinctively beckoned to caress him ... know that he is as pure and sweet a person as you are; know that it is precisely that kind human heart that I want to talk about here is beating around you.
Nowhere are there so many good souls as between women. A man is almost always up to his neck in his petty worldly affairs; he is more on the people, he is more often forced to fight, to see and endure injustice. Therefore, he has more reasons to cultivate a sense of annoyance in himself and there is no time to consider his conclusions with the benefits of others, there is no time to forgive. Moreover, a certain degree of independence gave his actions a somewhat predatory character, as a result of which his favorite proverbs became: "That's what the war is for!" yes "Then in the sea there is a pike, so that the crucian does not doze off!" On the contrary, a woman from her earliest years is almost always alone and always in a pen; the real role to which - at least for the present - a woman is condemned is that of silence and the fulfillment of other people's desires and whims. So she is silent, but at the same time she thinks, she thinks a lot. And the more she thinks, the more painfully her own lonely life drags on, the more her loving, kind heart dissolves. She sees how a man fusses and beats all his life, how he is cunning and dodges because of a piece of daily bread, and the thought of "misfortune", which, as it were, has entangled the entire human race with a net, arises in her head by itself. If her husband returns home angry and drunk, she thinks: "Lord, what an unfortunate man he is!" If the son will be found guilty of lawless deeds, she thinks: "Lord! how he must suffer and how it is necessary, how he needs a loving heart that could instill peace in his yearning soul!"
And when a woman wants to comfort a grieving person, then we can say for sure that in the whole world there is no sweeter and better comfort than that. There is no woman who would not open a source of tears at the sight of a pacifying female caress; there is no murderer whose heart would not tremble before a loving woman's word. And not only because this caress or word puts a person to sleep or makes him forget something, but because this caress, this word restores a distorted human image, because they suddenly cleanse his soul from the alluvial dirt of life, which, although they do not destroy the past, but make it impossible to return to it...
When I was in that slum that I recently told you about, then chance brought me precisely to one infinitely kind woman, the memory of which will be blessed for me until the end of my life. I will talk about her with you.
It was the tradesman's widow, Anna Markovna Glavshchikova. Her husband was once a sufficient merchant, but then he lived, went bankrupt and died in the middle class, leaving Anna Markovna the most limited fortune. As I remember now, she lived in her small one-story house, with three windows looking out onto the street, near which stood a rather roomy barn with large folding doors. Mark Gavrilych, the father of Anna Markovna, usually traded in this hut, filled with all sorts of petty goods, an old man, as if covered with moss, who almost did not hear or see anything, but did not agree to let go of the reins of government. Seryozha was assigned to help him, a rather lively little boy who was something like a nephew to Anna Markovna, and by joint efforts they somehow managed to do business without detriment, although the father of the archpriest of the neighboring church, every time he passed by the Glavshchikovs’ shop, did not could resist not to say:
Old age and youth entered into an alliance; both yell: "Help!"
When I recognized Anna Markovna, she was already a woman in her fifties. Her face, apparently, even in her former young years could not be called beautiful, but good nature and some kind of happy calm shone in all his features. Often sensibility made her weep, but she wept effortlessly; tears will spontaneously spring from the eyes and run down the senile ruddy cheeks; and it was evident that she was crying easily and crying sweetly. Often she also sighed, but these were not real sighs, but some kind of soft sob, quite similar to a child's. In general, her ugliness was of such a kind that one could very soon get used to it, and the more you get used to it, the better and freer you feel with it, so that in the end, perhaps, this face devoid of any grace will seem more beautiful than any beauty.
There were always a great many children running around in her yard. Here were the children of Anna Markovna's poor relatives, and homeless orphans, whom she somehow knew how to find everywhere. Therefore, the fuss in the yard and at the gate, near the shop, was always terrible. Who jumps on the board, who digs in the sand, who kneads pies from clay, who talks to the Indian rooster, who finally sneaks up on grandfather Mark Gavrilych and strives to remove thick silver glasses from his nose.
Shhh... shot! - the grandfather will shout at them; but he will shout so mildly that the “shooters” will splash in all directions with ringing laughter and immediately begin to deliberate on how to compose a new campaign against grandfather.
This love of Anna Markovna for children served as a connecting link between her and me. I can't walk past a small child without patting him on the head or giving him a gingerbread. Anna Markovna immediately noticed this quality of mine, and I became fond of her. And I became even more fond of her when she found out that I belonged to the number of "unfortunate ones", that I, too, was a "prisoner" in my own way, although I go every day to serve in the provincial government, so that, as Mark Gavrilych put it, "every harm to build." And in the eyes of Anna Markovna, after the baby, there was no more beautiful person in the world, like "unfortunate" or "prisoner."
And then one day, when I, having set up a feasible amount of “harm” during the morning, was returning home from the provincial government and, stopping near the shop, talking with the “shooters” who surrounded me, Anna Markovna herself came out of the gate gate.
Yes, you, dear gentleman, at least have a cup of tea to eat! - she said to me, - otherwise I’m somehow ashamed, old woman! After all, you caress and give this freeman of mine, but I haven’t been able to pamper you with anything yet! please, darling, let's get to know each other!
I followed her, and from the moment I crossed the threshold of this house, my soul somehow cheered up. It was as if someone from afar smiled at me and cherished me, as if a long-lost and suddenly regained friend pressed me tightly to his chest.
Often, almost every day, I talked with her, and everything that I already knew, what the book told me about, all this seemed to me to be understood for the second time, understood by my heart, and thought, and my whole being. The book of life, in which every word seemed to breathe and beat, opened before me with all its pains; with all the thirst for happiness, which, like a mirage, beckons and trembles on the horizon, in vain only exhausting and drying up the chest of the poor wanderer of the sea of \u200b\u200blife. This simple but infinitely kind woman worked hard in her lifetime and thought a lot, but she only thought of love and forgiveness. She had not received any education and therefore did not always know how to clarify to herself the causes of this or that phenomenon; but since, at her age and in her circumstances, it was no longer possible to help this deficiency, she quite naturally compensated for it with that intensified burning of the heart, which is accessible even to the simplest person and which at the same time contributes so much to increasing the amount of good in the world. .
Her particular favorites were: firstly, children, secondly, peasants, and thirdly, criminals, or, as she always put it, prisoners.
I don’t know about you, my friend, she used to say to me (she very soon became friends with me and began to say “you” to me), but I love these kids so passionately! First, they are very smart and entertaining, second - there is not so much evil in them! And do not think, my friend, that such a kid would not understand something! No, he, the rogue, grew a yard from the ground, and he knew everything! After all, he is the same big man, only poured into a small mold; no matter how the sun plays in a droplet, so a real person looks into it!
Saying this, she stroked her little grandson Seryozha, who snorted with pleasure, listening to grandmother's speeches, and thereby undoubtedly confirmed their justice.
And tell me, Anna Markovna, something about the peasant need? I sometimes asked her, knowing that this was one of her favorite subjects and that nothing could make her more pleased than by giving her an opportunity to talk about it.
Oh, what a need, my friend! what a grievous need! It seems that the heart must burn all the time, as if in a real manner to think about this need!
And completeness, Anna Markovna! they live in clover, only a little cramped! - tell her this to incite and joke about her ardor.
No, don't say it, don't even joke about it! You only go up to a peasant’s hut, you try the bread that they eat, so it, their need, will rush into your eyes like that. And again, think that for this chaff bread of theirs and for empty cabbage soup, he must work for a whole century, until his death, everything to work, everything to work! As soon as the god of the soul holds them, as soon as the strength still remains in them! After all, for real, from these empty cabbage soup, a person should be washed, but he hides everything, everything works! And everything does not work for oneself ... yes, not for oneself!
But in the newspapers, Anna Markovna, they write that the peasant is poor because he drinks too much! - make fun of her again.
They all lie, your newspapers lie! - she will throw herself at me, - if only you wrote less of these lies, and you wouldn’t live in this slum, but, perhaps, in the stars and in the ribbons you cut pavements! Just think what word they are, these newspapermen are yours, they say! The man is drinking! And how often does he drink, I would ask you? Once a week, or even once a month, I was at the bazaar! Have you heard how a peasant goes to the market, what he goes with and what he does there?
No, Anna Markovna, to be honest, I know little about these matters.
So I'll tell you. A peasant goes to the market at night, in order to be in time for him in the city early, early, he will begin to dawn a little. He does not sleep, he walks all around the wagon and beats off his legs in such a way that they seem to grow out of his bast shoes. And he walks in this manner for dozens of miles, and in the wet, and in the dust, and in the snow, and in the blizzard, and in the rain. And his face turns white from the cold, and his legs ache, and sleep falls on him, but he goes on, everything goes on, as if he had some joy ahead of him. And he is lucky, my friend, in a cart on his own ... do you know that he is lucky? My soul, my friend, he is lucky! her soul, which for a whole week day-to-day toiled, didn’t drink, didn’t eat, and kept thinking: “Lord, how would I have salt and empty cabbage soup left, so that I die a Christian death, and not starve to death like a dog!” Well, he came, he sold his soul in the bazaar ... what do you think, where did he carry his money in advance of everything? In the tribute, my friend, in the tribute!
However, Anna Markovna, you will agree that the treasury must live on something!
I know, my friend, I know that paying taxes is the first thing, but that's not what I'm talking about with you! I say how it hurts the peasant, how his poor heart aches! And he will get cold, and he will not sleep, and they will deceive him, and they will rob him! What should he do! you tell him what to do?
And yet there is no reason to go to a tavern!
Well, brother, I see that you only want to bring me into my heart on purpose! Ying, goodbye better, God be with you!
Well, come on, Anna Markovna! you see that I'm joking. If I hadn't joked with you, you wouldn't have disagreed like that, and I wouldn't know how the peasants go to the market.
That's it, my friend, you need to know this life in order to talk about it, and even more so to embarrass the people with your speeches! Although I myself grew up as a merchant, I also grew up not far from this rank. So, as soon as you begin to delve into it, you will also know, since this science is not very sophisticated. And remember my word, remember this sign: when you look at our peasant, let your heart yearn for you, then speak boldly: I know, they say, I am our Russian peasant, because I can’t look at him without pity! And he will be so sweet to you, so sweet, that even his tattered thread will seem more beautiful than a non-sewn robe!
Anna Markovna told many stories of this kind, and I never tired of listening to her stories. She said how a Russian peasant is born, how he, like nettles near a fence, grows, as long as he enters the measure of reason; she said how she plows, harrows, mows, threshes, the Russian peasant blows, and everything is lucky somewhere, everything is lucky! she talked about how a Russian peasant dies meekly, humbly, earnestly ... These stories did not inflame me, did not raise bitterness in me, but, on the contrary, seemed to soften my heart. And it seems to me that there really were moments in my life when, looking at a peasant, my heart began to yearn, and that I owe these moments to no one else but my dear Anna Markovna.
Well, what about your "unfortunate" ones, why do you love them? after all, it was not for their virtues, but for their crimes that they became prisoners!
But you, my friend, just think about it, little one, and you will see, maybe that the real criminals are not sitting in prison, but here, between you and me, in the world in freedom, they are having fun and complacency!
This answer confused me a little. Of course, I thought, there are such answers ... there are! But how could the simple-hearted bourgeois of the city of Krutogorsk reach them? What kind of her own theory of insanity did she construct in her head? After all, with the help of some external signs, which are only accessible to the degree of development at which it was, it is impossible to come to such serious generalizations!
In actual fact, however, it turned out that life's questions, even the most intricate ones, are precisely such questions regarding which the simplest process of thought and the most complex process very often converge and lead to the same results. The only condition in this case, which cannot be avoided, is that the thought should go straight, that it should not be carried away by twists and turns and honestly and to the best of its ability resolve the questions that are presented to its attention.
What do you think, - Anna Markovna continues meanwhile, - from satiety, perhaps, a thief steals, from a good life, a robber goes out onto the road? Or do you think a person is born a villain? So here they are, children! look at them! Here's a whole bunch of them, as you want, so turn them!
I look at the children, and in fact I am convinced that they are all so brave, kind and smart that it is impossible to even imagine that villains and robbers would ever come out of them. It is true that little Petya is constantly waging a stubborn struggle with the old goat, who is basking in the sun near the stable, and even often offends the old man, but he has his own reasons for this.
Aunty! Vaska does not want to carry me! - he justifies himself every time Anna Markovna takes the side of the offended goat.
Why, he, my dear, is an old man! - admonishes his aunt.
Grandpa is also old, but he drives!
In any case, this sign is not at all so decisive that conclusions can be drawn from it. Yes, and the life of Vaska the goat, in fact, is not at all bad: how many times a day the same bully Petya, having made fun of him, will give him bread and bring milk ...
Bonds, my friend, are everywhere, - Anna Markovna continues her speech, - and how heavy ... oh, how heavy these bonds are! Only it is not easy to understand them, because we are looking for them in the wrong place, and we only run to grief, which itself sticks into our eyes! What do you think, growing under a fence is not a bond? to beat a big road with your feet - and this is also not a bond? And a boar! and theft, yes robbery, yes murder - after all, if you want, these are not even just bonds, but bonds of all bonds! Here they are, our muzhik ties, ripening, ripening, and you are looking for them in prison and among prisoners! There, after all, my friend, there is only one denouement, and just think what paths and roads have reached this denouement!
And from the word Anna Markovna immediately moved on to examples, which she knew a lot.
And here you try to approach him with affection, to the one whom you call a murderer, and you will see how he, the heart, will begin to turn over from mental anguish!
Have you tried it, Anna Markovna?
I tried, sir, without boasting I will say: I tried more than once. There was, I'll tell you, we have a great sinner before God in our prison here, Vasily Topor was called. How many Christian souls this Vasyutka untimely ruined - it's impossible to say. They read this, they read how they led him to the scaffold - even the people seemed to be seized with fear! And he stands that way, hands back to the tie post, and even his face has not changed at all! And they began to bald him ... I myself was here, my friend, and although it was not the first time for me to see these human passions, however, I was surprised at what courage he retained in his heart, even under the whips! Only I turn back home from the trading square, as if drunk, and think: “Lord, is there really such a person in the world who would not see your face!” And then I decided to go to the hospital and console him...
Anna Markovna stopped and for several moments could not continue from excitement.
So I came to see him in the hospital ... How much, how little we talked among ourselves - not tricky, my friend, our speeches! He just started to soften a little. "Vasenka! - I say, - your heart, my friend, is hot, tame it, quench your harmful obstinacy!" He looked at me, and, as if for the first time, something came into his head. "You did not endure your tight bonds, I say, in the forests and along the roads you wanted to smash your great grief!" "I couldn't take it," he whispered. “And you, I say, would think what kind of bonds other Christians endure; maybe worse than yours!” - "Worse," - he says. And I see, he began to strain, and sweat began to appear on him. And suddenly he surged. But what a sorrow it was, my friend, I can’t even express it to you! It’s not like crying or sobbing, but just screaming! .. And he is tormented ... and tormented ... So after this, the spots that were stained on his cheeks and on his forehead seemed more beautiful than an honest girlish blush!
I confess frankly, when I listened to this story, involuntary tears flowed from my eyes. It seemed to me that I had suddenly become purer and better than I had been before, and that, behind all that, I was not worth even an span of this simple and sweet woman, whose voice, like an all-cleansing furnace, knows how to penetrate into the darkest recesses of the soul and reconcile with conscience the most stubborn and hardened natures.
So, when you look at such examples, - she continued, - you will be ashamed to say about a person: what a thief! this one is a killer! After all, Christ dissolved the heart of the murderer, because he, father, went to hell ... and we!
Anna Markovna has long been gone from the world, but I still bless her memory. I am convinced that I owe much of the good feelings that I have to her. I could cite here many conversations in which we whiled away the long winter evenings with her; I could tell how she taught the children to follow the straight and honest path, and not to deviate from it even on pain of death, but I prefer to return to this subject in a separate story.
She died the same "peasant" death, about which she spoke so many times and which she strongly desired. On one of the warm spring days, returning from church, she got her feet wet and caught a cold. In the evening I still saw her, and although there was a doctor who forbade her to speak, she was such a talkative old woman that she could not help herself. The next morning I learned that Anna Markovna had fallen asleep...
Mark Gavrilych is still alive, but from old age he no longer says anything, but only cries all the time. Seryozha, the eldest grandson, has reached the age of twenty and manages his grandfather's capital, which, for the virtue of Anna Markovna, has accumulated very well. Often passing by a familiar house with three windows, I saw how in one of them the face of a pretty philistine girl was smiling, with her kind expression reminiscent of the face of a dead aunt. I knew that this face belonged to Seryozha's wife and that everyone in the house was happy, as if the eternally beloved shadow of Anna Markovna still lives in it and blesses everyone and everyone.
Once upon a time, there lived an old man - a kind soul. He lived with his wife, also a kind old woman, in a small white house near Snowdon.
Every evening, after dinner, the old man took a slop bucket with cleanings, and as soon as he took some ten steps, he was already at the stone fence of his garden. Hop! And all the peelings behind the fence - and onion peel, and potato peel, and carrot tops, and all that sort of thing.
And the next morning, the neighbor's pig came and ate everything, grunting with pleasure.
The good old man's soul rejoiced, looking at her. Needless to say, he really was a kind old man.
And then one evening, just as the moon was just rising, the old man, as usual, went out into the garden. Ten steps - and he was already at his fence. But just as he was about to pour the garbage pail over the fence, he suddenly noticed that someone was standing nearby. Some stranger whom the good old man had never seen before. Such a wonderful little man. Dressed in all green, only the vest is bright red. The style of his dress was also somehow wonderful - the old man had never seen such a thing in his life. In addition, the stranger was very mowed down. But most of all, the old man was surprised by his huge, enormous feet.
- Woe to me, woe! said the strange stranger. "Is this how it's going to go on every night?" And he pointed to the garbage pail.
The old man was surprised:
- What is it? I've been doing this all my life, every God's evening!
- That's the trouble, that every evening! - said the strange stranger and sighed so heavily that the good old man felt sorry for him.
- Is it bad for anyone? - he asked.
- Worse than ever! - said the stranger.
- But not the neighbor's pig! retorted the warmly kind old man. “She is very fond of cleanings - and onion peels, and potato peels, and carrot tops, and all that kind of thing - and every morning she comes here for them.
“I know all this very well,” said the strange stranger, and again heaved a sigh. “Listen,” he continued, “would you like to stand on my feet?
- Get on your feet? - the old man was even more surprised. - How will this help you?
- And that will help! Then I can show you what the trouble is.
- Well, I'll try, - says the old man, because he was a kind soul.
“Thank God,” he thought, “that cross-eyed eccentric has such huge feet! You can really stand on them."
And so, holding on to the stone fence, the kind old man stood up to the wonderful stranger on his feet and looked over the fence - just where he poured a slop bucket every evening for thirty years of his life. And - about a miracle! As if he looked through the earth, as if it were not solid earth, but pure, transparent water, and saw there - no, just imagine! - a small white house, exactly like his own. But my God, how dirty he was! Its roof was covered with slops, onion skins clogged the chimney, potato skins lay on the steps, carrot tops floated in a clean bucket of water, and so on.
- That's the trouble! - said the old man. - Well, who would have thought!
“Yes, and all these cleanings through the chimney get into our room,” said the stranger, almost crying. - And so thirty years! My wife's heart is breaking with grief that she cannot clean our house.
- Here attack! - exclaimed the old man. - What to do?
- Think of something!
- I'll think of something. But what?
- I'll give you a day! Tomorrow I will come to you for an answer, but now get off my feet!
Before the good old man had time to take a few steps, the white house and the big-legged wonderful stranger disappeared as if they had never been.
When the old man returned home, his wife asked him why he was walking around like that in the moonlight. He told her everything.
- Oh, you, fathers! exclaimed the kind old woman. - Well, the poor thing got to clean and wash her house every God's day for thirty years in a row!
Almost all night the old man and the old woman sat by the fireplace. If they slept, then quite a bit - everyone thought and wondered how they should be.
And in the morning, as dawn broke, they both hurried to the fence and looked over it. But they didn’t see anything like that - neither a strange, big-legged little man, nor a small white house. Only the neighbor's pig. She dug the ground with a snout, but all in vain - no onion peel, no potato peels, no carrot tops - there was nothing on the ground. The old man felt so sorry for her!
And when evening came and the moon appeared, he went to the fence. A strange little man - you must have guessed that it was a brownie, one of those brownies that guard cleanliness in the house - yes, so a strange little man was already waiting for him there.
- Well, did you think of something? he asked after they had politely greeted each other.
- Invented! - said the kind old man.
- Did your wife approve of what you came up with?
- Approved! - said the old man.
- So what did you come up with?
- Move the door of our house to the other side!
And so he did.
Called the carpenter, Mr. Williams, and the bricklayer, Mr. Bill Davis - he himself was too old to handle such a job - paid them generously, and they moved the door of his house to the other side. And every evening, after supper, the old man - a kind soul - took a slop bucket, and as soon as he took some ten steps, he was already at the fence of his garden. Hop! II all cleaning behind the fence.
Behind the fence, but only on the other side!
Since then, probably, it has become a tradition that the door of the Welsh is on the wrong side.
Yes, but the old man, by the way, did not remain for nothing. With Mr. Williams, a carpenter, and with Bill Davis, a bricklayer, he paid honor with honor. And yet it turned out that he did not spend a penny.
- How so? - you ask.
And so that every Saturday, as soon as it got dark, the kind old man and his wife, also a kind old woman, found an old silver coin under their door.
English folk tales Dear children! Today we have gathered for a meeting with an English fairy tale. Every nation has its own fairy tales, and the English also have their folk English fairy tales. Fairy tales reflect the soul of the people, their wisdom and thoughts. For the first time in the 19th century, two volumes of English folk tales were collected and published by Joseph Jacobs, president of the English Folk Club. It was difficult for Joseph Jacobs to collect fairy tales. many fairy tales have been forgotten. The scientist did not subject the fairy tale to literary processing, as did A.N. Afanasiev in Russia, Charles Perrault in France and the Brothers Grimm in Germany. He set himself the goal of giving examples of the fabulous people. English folk tales are strikingly different from the Russian ones we are used to. Everything is different in them - space and method of construction, genre and plot originality, features of heroes and characters. Fairy tales written in English give us an idea of national myths, legends, ballads, and also acquaint us with individual elements of the spiritual and material culture of this rich country. All this allows us to get acquainted with the life of England, learn about the different stages of its history. English fairy tales are based on specific information, some facts are used. Therefore, this means that English fairy tales are not very magical and fabulous, but rather sad stories. They do not always have a happy ending, sometimes even cruel: for example, "Magic Ointment", but always remain instructive. In them, the main character travels the world and observes various events, such as the gentleman from the fairy tale "Three Clever Heads". Along with morality, there is impracticality and stupidity. As a hero, there can be a practical and very intelligent person, but unfriendly and dishonorable, he is capable of trickery and deceit, although he is distinguished by enterprise and energy - character traits that were valued in bourgeois England, where capitalism began to develop for the first time in the world. For example, by deceiving cannibal giants, the girl Molly in the fairy tale "Molly Wappy" and Jack in the fairy tale "Jack and the Beanstalk" achieve happiness for themselves and their loved ones. The heroes of other English fairy tales are industrious, honest, noble and courageous; some of them become real folk heroes. So, Jack, the peasant son, the hero of the fairy tale "Jack the Giant Killer", entering the fight against the cannibal giants, at first thinks only about the reward, but then becomes a true fighter for the liberation of his people from the giant villains. Most English fairy tales begin with these words: “Once upon a time there was either a king and a queen, they had a son, and now, he grew up and went to seek his fortune! » Further, it turns out that the happiness of the hero lies in the fact that after fabulous events and incredible adventures, he finds just something from material wealth. The main motif of the English fairy tale is the avoidance of failure. In them, the heroes do not try to achieve something, but try to avoid failure, loss. But it is also worth saying that there is no pronounced motive for the English folk tale. The activities of the main characters are determined not only by their own desires, but also by duty, external circumstances. Recall, for example, the fairy tale "Mr. Mike", in which the little boy Tommy tries his best to behave in order not to get caught by Mr. Mike for dinner. So in the fairy tale "Magic Horn" greedy heroes take possession of the horn. Or, for example, in the fairy tale “Tom Tim Tom”, the main character is a not very smart girl who did not know how to spin five skeins of yarn per day, as her mother would have wished, but could only eat five puddings in one sitting. Nevertheless, even here the heroine finds a way out of the situation, finding herself a wonderful helper. In English fairy tales, characters are usually people: peasants, farmers, but also sorcerers, brownies. Often in English fairy tales there is such a character - a woman, brave and absolutely fearless. In fairy tales in which the main characters are animals, they teach the reader to distinguish between a good, bright beginning and an evil one, to empathize and help the weak, to believe in justice. The whole plot of the fairy tale is built on the constant clash of good and evil. The wolf and fox are very insidious and dangerous. But the power of evil is softened by humor, which occupies a significant place in the English fairy tale. Evil characters are constantly ridiculed and often get into ridiculous comic situations. English fairy tales are very diverse and have long attracted the attention of many Russian writers. All of you guys know the famous fairy tale "Three Bears". Do you know that this is an English fairy tale? L.N. Tolstoy retold it for Russian children. You also know another fairy tale "The Three Little Pigs". And this is also an English fairy tale! CM. Mikhalkov translated and edited it. It is curious that in the English version the piglet's terrible oath sounds like this: "I swear by my beard - beards!" This is explained by the fact that initially in the fairy tale it was not pigs that acted, but goats. Now I want to read to you an English folk tale called "The York House" Guys, what do you think, what is the meaning of this tale? Who is the positive character in the story and who is the negative character? What do you particularly remember about the story? Our lesson has come to an end, thank you for your attention!
