Works all words with the letter p. "Beautiful couple" - a wonderful story in which all words begin with the letter "P"

We study the next letter of the Russian alphabet - the letter P.

The letter P is the seventeenth letter of the Russian alphabet. The letter P denotes a consonant deaf sound: hard [P] and soft [P "].

Words that start with P: penguin, dumpling, scarecrow, mail, pasta...

The letter P in the middle of the words: hat, ax, corkscrew, mouthpiece ...

The letter P at the end of the words: stop, bug ...

Several letters P in one word: flood, drop, quail ...

Here you will find interesting poems for learning the letter P, riddles and poems about the letter P.

Poems for the letter P for children

Letter P in the gym
They called it a crossbar.
- Come on, honey, don't be lazy,
Come and pull up.
(A. Shibaev)

Hockey, football
The letter P is the gate in the field.
(V. Stepanov)

We will find the letter P at home,
Looking into the doorway.
(G. Vanyukhina)

Letter P right at the gate
Come on, whoever wants to.

Poems about the letter P, quatrains

This was the case with SPIDER:
Somehow he wove a web of spiders.
There is no funnier story -
He got himself entangled in it!

***
A turtle wears a shell
hides his head from fear.

***
Penguin swimming in the sea
Sitting on a snowy beach
And I thought: "How wonderful
On the south coast!

***
Petya, Petya, Cockerel,
Get to know the letter P
For the Pope to read
Everyone needs to know the letter P.

***
The rooster flew up on the fence,
He ordered to call all the birds to him,
You know my friends
All birds begin with the letter P, and of course I.

Pete's dad says
Learn Petya the alphabet,
You will know the letter P
You can travel.

***
Someone recently said:
P looks like a gate
I was too lazy to object
I knew that P is like a stump.

***
Hockey, football
Letter P - gate in the field

Poems about the letter P for grade 1

Family of the letter "P"

Stick, stick, top roof -
The letter P is on the line.

The roof from the letter P has fallen,
But got stuck on the way.
Became a crossbar -
Find it in the letter N.

Crossbar jump-jump
And she lay down.
Changed inside
Got the letter I.

If suddenly over the letter I
The bird has flown
Become I short letter I
I immediately wanted to.
(T. Bokova)

Tomato and patisson -
This food is for people.
What about parsley?
This is a spicy herb.

Pepper, peach, and papaya
I answer your question,
From food to the letter "P",
I love puree the most.

Looks like a "P"
Over on the archway in the yard.

Then you will know completely:
"Did the job -
Walk boldly!

Riddles for the letter P

Piano Proshino

New good.

The finger presses the key

The piano will sing:

Do-re-mi! Do-re-mi!

Better sing, not make noise!

Birds are dancing on the path

Write them a letter ... (P)

parrot, parrot,
Don't scare mom and dad.
Do not look for a bug in the croup,
Find us a letter...

In this riddle, you must first guess the words in question, and then the letter that these words begin with.

The letter in the sea catches the wind,
The sun wakes up at dawn
Holds skirts and pants
Where they should be.

Answer: letter P (sail, rooster, belt)

Patter with the letter P

Petya was sawing a stump with a saw.

Behind the hippo on the heels
Hippo stomps.

A pair of birds fluttered, fluttered -
Yes, and fluttered.

The field is not weeded, the field is not watered,
He asks for a drink -
You need to water the field.

Petru baked pies.

The Victory Parade pleased after the Victory.
After the victory, we are happy with the Victory Parade.

A story where all words begin with the letter P VISITING THE PRILUKIN ESTATE Before the Orthodox patronal feast of St. Panteleimon, Petr Petrovich Polenov received a letter by mail. A thick package after an afternoon snack was brought by a full-grown postman Prokofy Peresypkin. Having thanked, seeing off the letter carrier, Polenov read the letter full of pleasant wishes. “Pyotr Petrovich,” wrote Polina Pavlovna Prilukina, “come. We talk, we walk, we dream. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, as soon as possible, after the first Friday, while the weather is fine. Pyotr Petrovich liked the invitation letter: it was a pleasure to receive a message from Polina Pavlovna. Thoughtful, dreaming. I remembered the year before last, the first pre-autumn trip, last year's repeated visit to the Prilukinsky estate after the Easter holiday. Anticipating an excellent reception, Polenov analyzed the letter, thought about the trip, adopted the right plan: to go at the invitation of Prilukina, to see Polina Pavlovna, whom she liked. After supper, Pyotr Petrovich cleaned his low shoes, blackened the scuffs, hung the coat under the raincoat, prepared a pullover, a jacket, checked the strength of the sewn buttons, hemmed the collar. He brought the briefcase, opened it slightly, put the gift intended for Polina Pavlovna. Then he put down a towel, a purse, a first-aid dressing bag, tweezers, a dropper, pills, a band-aid. Polenov almost constantly prudently picked up something like this when traveling: sometimes passengers had to dress up passengers and help the injured. Covering his briefcase, Polenov ventilated the room, prepared the bed, and turned off the ceiling. Pyotr Petrovich woke up early in the morning, stretched. I got up, stretched myself: I did five-minute squats, lower back turns, jumps. I had breakfast. He dressed up in a festive way, straightened his fastened suspenders. Leaving the penates, Polenov hurried to visit a hairdresser: he shaved, cut his hair, combed his hair. Having thanked the hairdresser in a friendly way, Pyotr Petrovich overcame a half-kilometer path along Privalovsky Prospekt, crossed the underground passage, crossed the square rebuilt, embellished after redevelopment. There are plenty of passengers. Passing along the platform crowded with passengers, Polenov stood aside and respectfully greeted the strolling postmaster Petukhov. I met a friend Porfiry Plitchenko. We stood and chatted about everyday problems. On the way, I grabbed a pint of semi-sweet port and bought peonies. Having given the seller a five-kopeck piece, he received a couple of packs of shortbread biscuits. “Purchases will come in handy,” Polenov summed up. Buying a five-ruble reserved seat, I remembered the estate of the Prilukins, I realized: Polina Pavlovna will like it. The postal-passenger train, having passed Pskov, Ponyri, Pristen, Prokhorovka, Pyatikhatki, arrived in the afternoon. The conductor showed the Priluki station, wiped the handrails. The train slowly slowed down. Polenov, thanking the conductor, left the train, crossed the sidings, the platform. He greeted the wayfarer and walked along the station lane. Turn right and go straight. The estate of the Prilukins appeared. In front of the front door, Pyotr Petrovich was greeted by Polina Pavlovna's most venerable gray-haired father, Pavel Panteleevich. Hello. - We are waiting, we are waiting, - said, puffing on a cigarette, representative, complaisant Pavel Panteleevich. - Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down, take a break after the trip. Let's wait for Polina Pavlovna, then we'll go for a bite to eat. A bald nephew came up with a springy penguin gait and greeted the arrival of Pyotr Petrovich. Let me introduce myself: Prokhor Polikarpovich, - said Prilukin's nephew, adjusting his pince-nez. Limping, the blind-sighted pinscher Polkan hobbled along. At first, the dog barked slowly, then, sniffing Polenov's low shoes, he calmed down, caressed, lay down. In front of the painted front garden appeared the lush-haired Polina Pavlovna, covered with a Panama hat. Waving a blue handkerchief, she smoothly approached. Pyotr Petrovich bowed affably, presented peonies, kissed the outstretched fingers. We talked for half an hour, joked, and recalled Polenov's past visits. Pyotr Petrovich turned and looked: the wattle fence, intertwined with wire, still divided the landowner's courtyard in half. The first half of the courtyard was a rectangular clearing crossed by pedestrian lanes sprinkled with sand. The right half of the farmstead was intended for basements and outbuildings. We walked across the trodden clearing. A one and a half-story solid five-walled building appeared before Polenov. “Perhaps the building is half a century old,” thought Polenov. We passed the portico. Holding Polina Pavlovna, Pyotr Petrovich crossed the threshold of the hallway, stepped over the threshold of a spacious room. Looked closely. Everywhere is in perfect order. I was struck by the pomposity of the room, the splendor. Brocade curtains, touching the floor, covered the primroses placed on the windowsills. The parquet floor is covered with oblong, wool-blend, tight-fitting rugs. Pale semi-matte panels were illuminated by candlesticks attached almost to the ceiling. It smelled of paraffin. The perimeter ceiling was supported by rectangular pilasters covered with varnish. Attractive landscape panels, portraits of great-grandfather Pavel Panteleevich of Polish origin, politician Peter the Great, lieutenant of the Poltava infantry regiment Pashchenko, writers Pisemsky, Pomyalovsky, poets Pushkin, Prokofiev, Pestel, travelers Przhevalsky, Potanin are hung under the candlesticks. Pavel Panteleevich bowed to Pushkin's poetry, periodically re-read Pushkin's poems and prose stories. Pyotr Petrovich asked Pavel Panteleevich to explain why a cartridge belt was hung under the landscape panel. Prilukin came closer, opened his bandolier, showed Polenov the cartridges, and said: - At the friendly suggestion of the St. Petersburg landowner Pautov, you periodically have to hunt, relax after the everyday vicissitudes of the garden. The last half of the year showed an increase in swimming birds. The bird population is constantly replenished everywhere. Pavel Panteleevich accepted Pyotr Petrovich's request to try to hunt, wander around the floodplain area of ​​the winding Potudan flowing nearby. An invitation to dine followed. They ate wonderfully. Buttered dumplings sprinkled with pepper, fried liver garnished with fragrant parsley, pilaf, pickles, pate, spicy salted tomatoes, salted boletus boletus, boletus, portioned pudding, mashed puree, hearth pie, chilled yogurt, sugared donuts were served. They put orange, port, pepper, beer, punch. Pavel Panteleevich crossed himself, rubbed the bridge of his nose, cracked his fingers, smacked his lips. Having missed half a glass of orange, he began to refresh himself with dumplings. Polina Pavlovna took a sip of port wine. Pyotr Petrovich, following the example of Polina Pavlovna, took a sip of semi-sweet port wine. The shemyannik tried the peppercorns. Polenov was offered to try foamy beer. Liked the beer. They drank a little, ate a lot. Supporting the polished tray, the servants brought in toasted pampushki smeared with peach marmalade. We enjoyed shortbread cookies, gingerbread, cakes, marshmallows, peaches, ice cream. At the request of Polenov, Pavel Panteleevich invited a cook. The complete cook has arrived. She introduced herself: "Pelageya Prokhorovna Postolova." Pyotr Petrovich got up, personally thanked Pelageya Prokhorovna, and praised the cooked food. Sitting down, I felt a pleasant satiety. After eating we went to rest. Polina Pavlovna invited Polenov to look at the sparrowhawk. Then she showed an attractive purple parrot Petrusha. The parrot greeted those approaching with a respectful bow. He jumped, began to beg, repeating constantly: "Petrusha to eat, Petrusha to eat ...". Praskovya Patrikeevna, an elderly resident covered with a worn, colorful shawl, came up, nibbled on a lenten pie, and placed it in front of the parrot. Petrusha sniffed, pecked, bowed, brushed his feathers. Jumping on the crossbars, he began to repeat: "Petrusha ate, Petrusha ate ...". After looking at the parrot, we visited Polina Pavlovna's reception room, admired the repainted floor, covered in the middle with a half-cloth carpet. Polenov asked Polina Pavlovna to sing. Polina Pavlovna sang popular songs. Those present applauded. “A captivating songstress,” said Pyotr Petrovich. Polina Pavlovna ran her fingers over the piano: the forgotten potpourri flowed smoothly. After a pause, they danced to the gramophone brought by their nephew. Polina Pavlovna turned in a pirouette, then made a “pa” in a semicircle. The nephew wound up the gramophone spring, rearranged the record. We listened to a polonaise and danced a polka. Raising his hips, dad started dancing. Leaving the premises, Pavel Panteleevich sent servants to call the clerk. The clerk tried to arrive quickly. Pavel Panteleevich meticulously asked again: - Did the carpenter repair the span? Having received positive confirmation, he ordered the clerk to submit a pair of skewbald. A prepared landowner's double-horse carriage rolled up. "Piebald thoroughbreds," thought Polenov. The clerk looked at the horseshoes, straightened, trimming, the lines, bandaging, adjusted the girth, tied the leash, checked the strength of the screwed semicircular wire footboard, rubbed the front of the cab with a bundle of semi-moist tow. Plush pillows covered with a bedspread. Polina Pavlovna went to change. While Polina Pavlovna was changing her clothes, Pyotr Petrovich sensibly observed the process of the fireman's meticulous check of the pump and fire-fighting devices. After viewing, the fireman recommended that the clerk approached to replenish the sandbox with sand and paint the scaffolding. Polina Pavlovna came in, taking a starched cape. Pyotr Petrovich helped Polina Pavlovna up the steps. Sit comfortably. The well-dressed clerk, imitating the landowner, stood up, whistled, waved his whip, whipped the piebalds, shouted: The flight took off. We got a little shaken up, so we went slower. Drove The story was written by N.A. Frolov, WWII veteran.

The only thing I didn't like about it was the introduction about the symposium of linguists. It gave the story some kind of anecdotal… (Like, a Russian, an American, a German and a Jew met…) All this is somehow frivolous. At first I wanted to cut this intro, and then, out of respect for the author's talent, I decided to leave everything as it is.

So enjoy! Even if you don't read it to the end, I think you'll enjoy it anyway!

"Linguists from England, France, Germany, Italy, Poland and Russia met at one scientific symposium. Naturally, they started talking about languages. And they began to find out whose language is better, richer, more expressive.

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great navigators and travelers who spread the glory of her language throughout the world. English - the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron - is undoubtedly the best in the world.

"I do not agree," replied the German. - The German language is the language of science and philosophy, medicine and technology, the language in which the world work of Goethe's "Faust" is written is the best in the world."

“You are both wrong,” the Italian entered into an argument. - Think, all mankind loves music, songs, romances, operas. And in what language do the best love romances, the most enchanting melodies and brilliant operas sound? In the language of sunny Italy.

“A significant contribution to world literature,” said the representative of France, “was made by French writers. Obviously, everyone has read Balzac, Hugo, Stendach... Their works demonstrate the greatness of the French language. By the way, in the 19th century, many representatives of the Russian intelligentsia studied French.”

The floor was taken by the representative of Poland. “In its original way,” he said, “is the Polish language. The Poles consider it understandable, beautiful. This is confirmed by the works of Bolesław Prus, Henryk Sienkiewicz and my other compatriots.”

The Russian silently and attentively listened, thinking about something. But when it was his turn to speak about the language, he said: “Of course, I could, just like each of you, say that the Russian language, the language of Pushkin and Lermontov, Tolstoy and Nekrasov, Chekhov and Turgenev, -ascends all the languages ​​of the world. But I won't follow your path. Tell me, could you compose a short story in your own languages ​​with a plot and denouement, with a consistent development of the plot, but so that all the words of this story begin with the same letter?

The interlocutors looked at each other. This question puzzled them. All five answered that it was impossible to do this in their languages.

“But in Russian it is quite possible,” said the Russian. After a short pause, he suggested: “I can prove it to you now. Give me some letter,” he turned to the Pole.

"It doesn't matter," replied the Pole. “Since you contacted me, put the story on the letter “p”, which begins the name of my country.”

"Fine," said the Russian. - Here's a story with the letter "p". By the way, this story can, for example, be called "Visit to the estate of the Prilukins."

VISITING THE PRILUKIN ESTATE

Before the Orthodox patronal feast of St. Panteleimon, Petr Petrovich Polenov received a letter by mail. A thick package after an afternoon snack was brought by a full-grown postman Prokofy Peresypkin. Having thanked, seeing off the letter carrier, Polenov read the letter full of pleasant wishes. “Pyotr Petrovich,” wrote Polina Pavlovna Prilukina, “come. We talk, we walk, we dream. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, as soon as possible, after the first Friday, while the weather is fine.

Pyotr Petrovich liked the invitation letter: it was nice to receive a message from Polina Pavlovna. Thinking, dreaming.

I remembered the first pre-autumn trip the year before last, last year's repeated visit to the Prilukinsky estate after the Easter holiday.

Anticipating an excellent reception, Polenov analyzed the letter, thought about the trip, and adopted the right plan: to go at the invitation of Prilukina, to see Polina Pavlovna, whom she liked.

After supper, Pyotr Petrovich cleaned his low shoes, blackened the scuffs, hung the coat under the raincoat, prepared a pullover, a jacket, checked the strength of the sewn buttons, hemmed the under-collar. He brought the briefcase, opened it a little, put the gift intended for Polina Pavlovna. Then he put down a towel, a purse, a first-aid dressing bag, tweezers, a pipette, pills, a band-aid. Polenov almost constantly prudently picked up something like this when he traveled: sometimes passengers had to make dressings and help the injured. Covering his briefcase, Polenov ventilated the room, prepared the bed, and turned off the ceiling.

Pyotr Petrovich woke up early in the morning, stretched. I got up, stretched myself: I did five-minute squats, lower back turns, jumps. I had breakfast. He dressed up in a festive way, straightened his fastened suspenders.

Leaving the penates, Polenov hurried to visit the hairdresser's: he shaved, cut his hair, combed his hair. Having thanked the hairdresser in a friendly way, Pyotr Petrovich overcame a half-kilometer path along Privalovsky Prospekt, crossed the underground passage, crossed the square rebuilt, embellished after redevelopment. There are plenty of passengers. Passing along the platform crowded with passengers, Polenov stood aside and respectfully greeted the strolling postmaster Petukhov. I met a friend Porfiry Plitchenko. We stood and chatted about everyday problems. On the way, I grabbed a pint of semi-sweet port and bought peonies. Having given the seller a five-kopeck piece, he received a couple of packs of shortbread biscuits. “Purchases will come in handy,” Polenov summed up.

Buying a five-ruble reserved seat, I remembered the estate of the Prilukins, I realized: Polina Pavlovna will like it.

The postal-passenger train, having passed Pskov, Ponyri, Pristen, Prokhorovka, Pyatikhatki, arrived in the afternoon.

The conductor showed the Priluki station, wiped the handrails. The train slowly slowed down. Polenov, having thanked the conductor, left the train, crossed the access roads, the platform. He greeted the wayfarer and walked along the station lane. Turn right and go straight. The estate of the Prilukins appeared.

In front of the front door, Pyotr Petrovich was greeted by Polina Pavlovna's most venerable gray-haired father, Pavel Panteleevich. Hello.

We are waiting, we are waiting, - said, puffing on a cigarette, representative, complaisant Pavel Panteleevich. - Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down, take a break after the trip. Let's wait for Polina Pavlovna, then let's go have a bite.

A bald nephew came up with a springy penguin gait and greeted the arrival of Pyotr Petrovich.

Let me introduce myself: Prokhor Polikarpovich, - said Prilukin's nephew, adjusting his pince-nez.

Limping, the blind-sighted pinscher Polkan hobbled along. At first, the dog barked slowly, then, sniffing Polenov's low shoes, he calmed down, caressed, lay down.

In front of the painted front garden appeared the puffy-haired Polina Pavlovna, covered with a Panama hat. Waving a blue handkerchief, she smoothly approached.

Pyotr Petrovich bowed affably, presented peonies, kissed the outstretched fingers.

We talked for half an hour, joked, recalled Polenov's past visits. Pyotr Petrovich turned around and looked: the wattle fence, interwoven with wire, still divided the landowner's courtyard in half. The first half of the courtyard was a rectangular clearing crossed by pedestrian lanes sprinkled with sand. The right half of the farmstead was intended for basements, backyard buildings.

We walked across the trodden clearing. A one and a half-story solid five-walled building appeared before Polenov. “Perhaps, the construction is half a century old,” thought Polenov. We passed the portico.

Holding Polina Pavlovna, Pyotr Petrovich crossed the threshold of the hallway, stepped over the threshold of a spacious room. Looked closely. Everywhere is in perfect order. I was struck by the pomposity of the room, the splendor. Brocade curtains, touching the floor, covered the primroses placed on the windowsills. The parquet floor is covered with oblong, half-woolen, tight-fitting rugs.

Pale semi-matt panels were illuminated by candlesticks attached almost to the ceiling. It smelled of paraffin. The ceiling along the perimeter was supported by rectangular pilasters covered with varnish. Attractive landscape panels, portraits of great-grandfather Pavel Panteleevich of Polish origin, politician Peter the Great, lieutenant of the Poltava infantry regiment Pashchenko, writers Pisemsky, Pomyalovsky, poets Pushkin, Prokofiev, Pestel, travelers Przhevalsky, Potanin are hung under the candlesticks. Pavel Pan-teleevich bowed to Pushkin's poetry, periodically re-read Pushkin's poems and prose stories.

Pyotr Petrovich asked Pavel Panteleevich to explain why a cartridge belt was hung under the landscape panel. Prilukin came closer, opened his bandolier, showed Polenov the cartridges, and said:

At the friendly suggestion of the St. Petersburg landowner Pautov, from time to time I have to go hunting, relax after the everyday ups and downs in the backyard. The last half-year showed an increase in swimming birds. The bird population is constantly replenished everywhere.

Pavel Panteleevich accepted Pyotr Petrovich's request to try to hunt, wander around the floodplain area of ​​the winding Potudan flowing nearby.

An invitation to dine followed. They ate wonderfully. Buttered dumplings sprinkled with pepper, fried liver embellished with fragrant parsley, pilaf, pika-li, pate, spicy salted tomatoes, salted boletus-viki, boletus, portioned pudding, mashed puree, hearth pie, chilled yogurt, sugared donuts. They put orange, port, pepper, beer, punch.

Pavel Panteleevich crossed himself, rubbed the bridge of his nose, cracked his fingers, smacked his lips. Having missed half a glass of orange juice, he began to refresh himself with dumplings. Polina Pavlovna took a sip of port wine. Pyotr Petrovich, following the example of Polina Pavlovna, took a sip of semi-sweet port wine. Shemyannik tried peppercorns. Polenov was offered to try foamy beer. Liked the beer.

They drank a little, ate for a fee. Supporting a polished tray, the servants brought in toasted pampushki smeared with peach marmalade. We enjoyed shortbread cookies, gingerbread, cakes, marshmallow, peaches, ice cream.

At the request of Polenov, Pavel Panteleevich invited a cook. The complete cook has arrived.

She introduced herself: "Pelageya Prokhorovna Postolova." Pyotr Petrovich got up, personally thanked Pelageya Prokhorov-well, and praised the cooked food. Sitting down, I felt a pleasant satiety.

After eating we went to rest. Polina Pavlovna invited Polenov to look at the sparrowhawk. Then she showed an attractive purple parrot, Petrusha. The parrot greeted those approaching with a respectful bow. He jumped, began to beg, repeating constantly: "Petrusha to eat, Petrusha to eat ...". ,

Praskovya Patrikeevna, an elderly resident covered with a worn, colorful shawl, came up, nibbled on a lenten pie, and placed it in front of the parrot. Petrusha sniffed, pecked, bowed, brushed his feathers. Jumping on the crossbars, he began to repeat: "Petrusha ate, Petrusha ate ...".

After looking at the parrot, we visited Polina Pavlovna's reception room, admired the repainted floor, covered in the middle with a half-cloth carpet. Polenov asked Polina Pavlovna to sing. Polina Pavlovna sang popular songs. Those present applauded. “A captivating songstress,” said Pyotr Petrovich.

Polina Pavlovna ran her fingers over the piano: the forgotten potpourri flowed smoothly.

After a pause, they danced to the pa-tefon brought by their nephew. Polina Pavlovna turned in a pirouette, then made a “pa” in a semicircle. The nephew wound up the gramophone spring, rearranged the record. We listened to a polonaise and danced a polka. Raising his hips, dad started dancing.

Leaving the premises, Pavel Panteleevich sent servants to call the clerk. The clerk tried to arrive quickly. Pavel Panteleevich meticulously asked again:

Did the carpenter repair the span?

Having received positive confirmation, he ordered the clerk to submit a pair of skewbald. A prepared landowner's steam-horse cab rolled up. "Piebald thoroughbreds," thought Polenov.

The clerk looked at the horseshoes, straightened them out, trimming them line by line, bandaging them, adjusted the girth, tied the leash, checked the strength of the screwed semicircular wire footboard, rubbed the front of the cab with a bundle of semi-moist tow. Plush pillows covered with a bedspread. Polina Pavlovna went to change.

While Polina Pavlovna was changing her clothes, Pyotr Petrovich comprehensionly observed the process of the fireman's meticulous check of the pump and fire fighting devices. After viewing, the fireman recommended that the clerk who approached fill up the sandbox with sand and paint the scaffolding.

Polina Pavlovna came in, taking a starched cape. Pyotr Petrovich helped Polina Pavlovna up the steps. Sit comfortably.

The well-dressed clerk, imitating the landowner, half rose, whistled, waved his whip, whipped the skewbald, shouted:

Let's go, pegasus, let's go!

The flight took off. We were pretty shocked, so let's go slower. We passed a dusty field plowed by plows with the help of steamers (steamers helped to acquire a half-Tavchan Pashchenko). The fertile soil has dried up. Wilted wheatgrass, motherwort; faded, turned yellow tumbleweed, plantain; fruits of nightshade darkened.

Right hand seemed a decent sown area of ​​ripening wheat. The gently sloping hillock was blazing with sunflowers. Leaving the cab, they crossed the wasteland, the clearing. One by one, they walked straight along the sandy strip.

In the distance stretched a full-flowing pond. Come up. In the middle of the surface of the pond, a couple of beautiful pelicans swam.

Let's buy, - suggested Polenov.

We’ll catch a cold, Polina Pavlovna warned. Then she admitted: “I swim badly.”

They seeded along the stretch. Minnows, roaches splashed nearby, pond leeches swam.

With the help of a pontoon raft, they pleasantly swept across the pond under a firmly attached canvas sail. Then we walked along a half-grown semi-shrub wormwood glade.

Behind the pond appeared primordial nature. Petr Petrovich was struck by a beautiful landscape panorama. Freedom! Pro-store! Just excellent! Polina Pavlovna sniffed the fragrant petunia, admired the weaving of a transparent web by a spider, was afraid to disturb. Polenov, narrowing his eyes, listened: songbirds sang. Alarmed quails called to one another every minute, frightened warblers fluttered. Ferns and pikulnik came across everywhere. We admired the fir-far-away fir, the plane tree intertwined with ivy.

Pyotr Petrovich noticed the flight of bees: perhaps, an apiary was set up behind the copse. “Beekeeping is profitable, the bee product is useful,” Polenov estimated.

In front of the churchyard, a pasture was visible; an elderly simple-haired shepherd Pahom, holding a staff, pasture breeding first-calf heifers, nibbling dodder.

An hour and a half walk along Prilukino seemed simply excellent. After the trip, Pavel Panteleevich affably invited Polenov to take a walk in the manor park, then see the buildings and production.

There was an intermittent muffled cry. Pyotr Petrovich listened, shrugged his shoulders. Pavel Panteleevich understood the frightened Polenov, hastened to explain:

The tribal flogs the shepherd Porfishka. The day before yesterday I procarau-lil a one and a half month old piglet. Serves right. It's time to smarten up.

Grow up, get smarter.

“The vile executioner, he found a reason to flog the shepherd,” Polenov thought about Prokhor Polikarpovich. The insightful Pyotr Petrovich noticed: the nephew is a swindler, a toady - he has adapted, uses the landowner's indulgence. I was ashamed to argue with Prilukin. I understood: the nephew was constantly under the patronage of Prilukin.

We visited a nursery, looked at a fruit peach plantation with an area of ​​half a hectare, hotbeds, and a demonstrative poultry farm. The poultry keeper showed fifty pieds. Before construction, the servants sorted out last year's rotted hemp. A wagon drove through the yard; under the supervision of a agile clerk, the brought millet was transferred under the annex. The servants with washed, steamed wheat were feeding the shaft of spotted gilts that ran up.

Five tanned guys alternately cut half-meter logs with a cross-cut saw, supplied by the carpenter Parfyon. The woodpile gradually filled up. Getting a decent pay, the guys had to sweat. Having finished sawing, the guys helped the carpenter nail the crossbar that supported the woodpile more firmly.

Behind the primitive outhouse, a rooster crowed over the wattle fence. Upon landing, walking, the Plymouth Rocks pecked at the sprinkled millet.

Polenov took an interest in the progressive process of processing fruit products, obtaining monthly profits. They explained to Petr Petrovich in detail: the profit is calculated periodically, the products are sold cheaper to the residents of Prilukino, and more expensive to visiting buyers. Production figures are consistently good.

Having visited the converted semi-basement, Po-lenov looked at the production process for obtaining jam.

Pyotr Petrovich was asked to taste peach jam. Liked the jam.

Half of the basement is adapted for a bakery. The baker showed the baking ovens. The blazing stove flame illuminated the coasters covered with whitewashed linen, prepared for holiday pies.

After viewing the stoves, Polina Pavlovna advised Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park.

Let's sit down, - suggested Polina Pavlovna.

Perhaps, - supported Polenov.

We looked after a flat stump under the fir. Sit down. Shut up. Understandable: tired. Nearby, a peacock was walking calmly.

Beautiful weather, whispered Polina Pavlovna.

Thoughtful, Polenov assented. We talked about the year, about friends.

Polina Pavlovna told about her visit to Paris. Polenov envied the "traveler". They remembered the details of the walk along the pond. They joked, laughed, exchanged jokes, retold proverbs and sayings.

Polina Pavlovna moved closer, ran her fingers along Polenov's shoulder. Pyotr Petrovich turned around and admired Polina Pavlovna: her beauty was like the first snowdrop. There was a first kiss.

Let's get married, let's get married, - half-jokingly, half-seriously, Pavel Panteleevich came up slowly, winking, flashing the mother-of-pearl buttons of his striped pajamas.

Let's get married, let's get married, - repeating squeaky, like a parrot, repeated the nimble nephew who appeared, looking intently over his pince-nez.

Papa, stop it, - Polina Pavlovna, who turned pink, asked in a half-whisper.

It's enough, it's enough to pretend, good boy, - said Pavel Panteleevich. He shook his finger at the ingenuous Polina Pavlovna, patting Polenov on the shoulder.

Pyotr Petrovich blushed, straightened his jacket, respectfully bowed to Polina Pavlovna from the waist up, and hurried out of the park.

Seeing off Polenov, Polina Pavlovna wished her a pleasant journey... Pavel Panteleevich opened his cigarette case, crumpled a cigarette between his fingers, lit a cigarette, coughed. The nephew, obedient to the patron, nicknamed Polenov the loitering hanger-on, wiped his pince-nez with a handkerchief, touched his sweaty chin, stamped his feet, and said nothing.

Beamed up, Polina Pavlovna quietly kissed the gilded ring, presented by Pyotr Petrovich.

It got late, it was chilly.

While waiting for the train, Polenov, on reflection, analyzed the behavior. Admitted: practically acted according to the rules of decency. Walking along the platform, he waited for the train to approach. I tried to understand what had happened under the clatter of the train. Polenov thought: “Polina Pavlovna is the right match, the right one. Change mind? Why? Resolving, rethinking is a bad omen. I understood: I fell in love with Polina Pavlovna. I was glad to receive Pavel Panteleevich.

Before Polenov flashed the prospect of rightfully getting a decent estate. Pyotr Petrovich recognized as correct the principle of the landowner to be useful. At first, Polenov considered Prilukin a pedant. Later I realized: Pavel Panteleevich is an excellent enterprising production worker who correctly understands production practice. I thought: "I'll have to succeed, to follow the example of the life-long position of the landowner."

Whistling invitingly, the locomotive puffed hard. Polenov, like fellow passengers, half way, reclining quietly dozed off.

Arrived after midnight. Aired out empty rooms. Have dinner. He prepared the bed: he laid down a sheet, put down a duvet cover, straightened the wrinkled pillow, brought a half-woolen blanket. Tired, he lay down to sleep. The downy feather bed received Polenov, who was tired after a pleasant trip.

Woke up late. Reinforced heavily. Showing punctuality, he visited the post office: he sent a message to Polina Pavlovna, a proposal written in almost printed handwriting. He added an afterword: "It's time to end the vegetative life ...".

Pyotr Petrovich was bored for a couple of five days, while Polina Pavlovna sent confirmation of receipt of the letter. Read-tal. Polina Pavlovna accepted the offer, invites Pyotr Petrovich to come and talk.

Polenov went at the invitation. They received Petr Petrovich simply excellently. The hushed Polina Pavlovna came up, bowed, holding up the poplin dress sewn by the Prilukino dressmaker before Polenov's arrival. Bow to invited friends. Polenov noticed: Polina Pavlovna used powder, lipstick.

The procedure has gone through. Polenov repeated the proposal. Polina Pavlovna made a heartfelt confession. The friends praised the act of Pyotr Petrovich, congratulated him, presented the prepared gifts, saying:

Pyotr Petrovich did the right thing. Look, a truly beautiful couple.

Having accepted the donated items, Polenov thanked those present.

The feast dedicated to the engagement lasted almost half a day.

An Englishman, a Frenchman, a Pole, a German and an Italian were forced to admit that the Russian language is indeed the richest.

Petr Petukhov, Lieutenant of the 55th Podolsky Infantry Regiment, received a letter in the mail full of good wishes.

“Come,” wrote the lovely Polina Pavlovna Perepelkina, “we’ll talk, dream, dance, take a walk, visit a half-forgotten half-grown pond, go fishing. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, to visit as soon as possible.”

Petukhov liked the offer. Figured: I'll come. He grabbed a half-worn field cloak, thought: it will come in handy.

The train arrived in the afternoon. Pyotr Petrovich was received by Polina Pavlovna's most venerable father, Pavel Panteleimonovich.

“Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down more comfortably,” said dad. A bald nephew came up and introduced himself: “Porfiry Platonovich Polikarpov. Please, please."

The lovely Polina appeared. Full shoulders were covered with a transparent Persian scarf. We talked, joked, invited to dine. Dumplings, pilaf, pickles, liver, pate, pies, cake, half a liter of orange juice were served. We had a hearty meal. Pyotr Petrovich felt a pleasant satiety.

After eating, after a hearty snack, Polina Pavlovna invited Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park. In front of the park stretched a half-forgotten, half-grown pond. Ride under sail. After swimming in the pond, we went for a walk in the park.

"Let's sit down," suggested Polina Pavlovna. Sit down. Polina Pavlovna moved closer. We sat down, were silent. There was a first kiss.

Pyotr Petrovich got tired, offered to lie down, spread a half-worn field cloak, thought: useful. Lie down, lie down, fall in love. “Pyotr Petrovich is a prankster, a scoundrel,” Polina Pavlovna said as usual.

"Let's get married, let's get married!" whispered the bald nephew.
“Let's get married, let's get married,” boomed the approaching dad.

Pyotr Petrovich turned pale, staggered, then ran away. Having run, I thought: “Polina Petrovna is a wonderful party, it’s enough to take a steam bath.”

The prospect of obtaining a beautiful estate flashed before Pyotr Petrovich. Hastened to send an offer. Polina Pavlovna accepted the offer, and later they got married. Friends came to congratulate, brought gifts. Passing the package, they said: "A beautiful couple."

Friends! I must say right away that this is a copy-paste and, perhaps, you have already read this. But, I think that on a patriotic site it should be mandatory. Here we are talking about something that many do not even think about, about the priceless treasure that we all possess, everyone who is able to read this text - about the Russian language. Here is a text that cannot be reproduced in any language in the world! The thinking of a native speaker of Russian is fundamentally different from that of speakers of other languages. All the former Soviet republics, having abandoned the Russian language, have lost a lot. There have already been articles on this topic on KONT, I will not repeat myself. So enjoy. Even if you don't read it to the end, I think you'll still enjoy it!

"Linguists from England, France, Germany, Italy, Poland and Russia met at a scientific symposium. Naturally, they started talking about languages. And they began to find out whose language is better, richer, more expressive.

The Englishman said: “England is a country of great navigators and travelers who spread the glory of her language throughout the world. English - the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron - is undoubtedly the best in the world.

"I do not agree," replied the German. - The German language is the language of science and philosophy, medicine and technology, the language in which the world work of Goethe's "Faust" is written is the best in the world."

“You are both wrong,” the Italian entered into an argument. - Think, all mankind loves music, songs, romances, operas. And in what language do the best love romances, the most enchanting melodies and brilliant operas sound? In the language of sunny Italy.

“A significant contribution to world literature,” said the representative of France, “was made by French writers. Obviously, everyone has read Balzac, Hugo, Stendach... Their works demonstrate the greatness of the French language. By the way, in the 19th century, many representatives of the Russian intelligentsia studied French.”

The floor was taken by the representative of Poland. “In its original way,” he said, “is the Polish language. The Poles consider it understandable, beautiful. This is confirmed by the works of Bolesław Prus, Henryk Sienkiewicz and my other compatriots.”

The Russian silently and attentively listened, thinking about something. But when it was his turn to speak about the language, he said: “Of course, I could, just like each of you, say that the Russian language, the language of Pushkin and Lermontov, Tolstoy and Nekrasov, Chekhov and Turgenev, surpasses all the languages ​​of the world. But I won't follow your path. Tell me, could you compose a short story in your own languages ​​with a plot and denouement, with a consistent development of the plot, but so that all the words of this story begin with the same letter?

The interlocutors looked at each other. This question puzzled them. All five answered that it was impossible to do this in their languages.

“But in Russian it is quite possible,” said the Russian. After a short pause, he suggested: “I can prove it to you now. Give me some letter,” he turned to the Pole.

"It doesn't matter," replied the Pole. “Since you turned to me, make up a story with the letter “p”, which begins the name of my country.”

"Fine," said the Russian. - Here's a story with the letter "p". By the way, this story can, for example, be called "Visit to the Prilukins' estate."

VISITING THE PRILUKIN ESTATE

Before the Orthodox patronal feast of St. Panteleimon, Petr Petrovich Polenov received a letter by mail. A thick package after an afternoon snack was brought by a full-grown postman Prokofy Peresypkin. Having thanked, seeing off the letter carrier, Polenov read the letter full of pleasant wishes. “Pyotr Petrovich,” wrote Polina Pavlovna Prilukina, “come. We talk, we walk, we dream. Come, Pyotr Petrovich, as soon as possible, after the first Friday, while the weather is fine.

Pyotr Petrovich liked the invitation letter: it was a pleasure to receive a message from Polina Pavlovna. Thoughtful, dreaming.

I remembered the year before last, the first pre-autumn trip, last year's repeated visit to the Prilukinsky estate after the Easter holiday.

Anticipating an excellent reception, Polenov analyzed the letter, thought about the trip, adopted the right plan: to go at the invitation of Prilukina, to see Polina Pavlovna, whom she liked.

After supper, Pyotr Petrovich cleaned his low shoes, blackened the scuffs, hung the coat under the raincoat, prepared a pullover, a jacket, checked the strength of the sewn buttons, hemmed the collar. He brought the briefcase, opened it slightly, put the gift intended for Polina Pavlovna. Then he put down a towel, a purse, a first-aid dressing bag, tweezers, a dropper, pills, a band-aid. Polenov almost constantly prudently picked up something like this when traveling: sometimes passengers had to dress up passengers and help the injured. Covering his briefcase, Polenov ventilated the room, prepared the bed, and turned off the ceiling.

Pyotr Petrovich woke up early in the morning, stretched. I got up, stretched myself: I did five-minute squats, lower back turns, jumps. I had breakfast. He dressed up in a festive way, straightened his fastened suspenders.

Leaving the penates, Polenov hurried to visit a hairdresser: he shaved, cut his hair, combed his hair. Having thanked the hairdresser in a friendly way, Pyotr Petrovich overcame a half-kilometer path along Privalovsky Prospekt, crossed the underground passage, crossed the square rebuilt, embellished after redevelopment. There are plenty of passengers. Passing along the platform crowded with passengers, Polenov stood aside and respectfully greeted the strolling postmaster Petukhov. I met a friend Porfiry Plitchenko. We stood and chatted about everyday problems. On the way, I grabbed a pint of semi-sweet port and bought peonies. Having given the seller a five-kopeck piece, he received a couple of packs of shortbread biscuits. “Purchases will come in handy,” Polenov summed up.

Buying a five-ruble reserved seat, I remembered the estate of the Prilukins, I realized: Polina Pavlovna will like it.

The postal-passenger train, having passed Pskov, Ponyri, Pristen, Prokhorovka, Pyatikhatki, arrived in the afternoon.

The conductor showed the Priluki station, wiped the handrails. The train slowly slowed down. Polenov, thanking the conductor, left the train, crossed the sidings, the platform. He greeted the wayfarer and walked along the station lane. Turn right and go straight. The estate of the Prilukins appeared.

In front of the front door, Pyotr Petrovich was greeted by Polina Pavlovna's most venerable gray-haired father, Pavel Panteleevich. Hello.

We are waiting, we are waiting, - said, puffing on a cigarette, representative, complaisant Pavel Panteleevich. - Please, Pyotr Petrovich, sit down, take a break after the trip. Let's wait for Polina Pavlovna, then we'll go for a bite to eat.

A bald nephew came up with a springy penguin gait and greeted the arrival of Pyotr Petrovich.

Let me introduce myself: Prokhor Polikarpovich, - said Prilukin's nephew, adjusting his pince-nez.

Limping, the blind-sighted pinscher Polkan hobbled along. At first, the dog barked slowly, then, sniffing Polenov's low shoes, he calmed down, caressed, lay down.

In front of the painted front garden appeared the lush-haired Polina Pavlovna, covered with a Panama hat. Waving a blue handkerchief, she smoothly approached.

Pyotr Petrovich bowed affably, presented peonies, kissed the outstretched fingers.

We talked for half an hour, joked, and recalled Polenov's past visits. Pyotr Petrovich turned and looked: the wattle fence, intertwined with wire, still divided the landowner's courtyard in half. The first half of the courtyard was a rectangular clearing crossed by pedestrian lanes sprinkled with sand. The right half of the farmstead was intended for basements and outbuildings.

We walked across the trodden clearing. A one and a half-story solid five-walled building appeared before Polenov. “Perhaps the building is half a century old,” thought Polenov. We passed the portico.

Holding Polina Pavlovna, Pyotr Petrovich crossed the threshold of the hallway, stepped over the threshold of a spacious room. Looked closely. Everywhere is in perfect order. I was struck by the pomposity of the room, the splendor. Brocade curtains, touching the floor, covered the primroses placed on the windowsills. The parquet floor is covered with oblong, wool-blend, tight-fitting rugs.

Pale semi-matte panels were illuminated by candlesticks attached almost to the ceiling. It smelled of paraffin. The perimeter ceiling was supported by rectangular pilasters covered with varnish. Attractive landscape panels, portraits of great-grandfather Pavel Panteleevich of Polish origin, politician Peter the Great, lieutenant of the Poltava infantry regiment Pashchenko, writers Pisemsky, Pomyalovsky, poets Pushkin, Prokofiev, Pestel, travelers Przhevalsky, Potanin are hung under the candlesticks. Pavel Panteleevich bowed to Pushkin's poetry, periodically re-read Pushkin's poems and prose stories.

Pyotr Petrovich asked Pavel Panteleevich to explain why a cartridge belt was hung under the landscape panel. Prilukin came closer, opened his bandolier, showed Polenov the cartridges, and said:

At the friendly suggestion of the St. Petersburg landowner Pautov, from time to time I have to go hunting, relax after the everyday ups and downs in the backyard. The last half of the year showed an increase in swimming birds. The bird population is constantly replenished everywhere.

Pavel Panteleevich accepted Pyotr Petrovich's request to try to hunt, wander around the floodplain area of ​​the winding Potudan flowing nearby.

An invitation to dine followed. They ate wonderfully. Buttered dumplings sprinkled with pepper, fried liver garnished with fragrant parsley, pilaf, pickles, pate, spicy salted tomatoes, salted boletus boletus, boletus, portioned pudding, mashed puree, hearth pie, chilled yogurt, sugared donuts were served. They put orange, port, pepper, beer, punch.

Pavel Panteleevich crossed himself, rubbed the bridge of his nose, cracked his fingers, smacked his lips. Having missed half a glass of orange, he began to refresh himself with dumplings. Polina Pavlovna took a sip of port wine. Pyotr Petrovich, following the example of Polina Pavlovna, took a sip of semi-sweet port wine. The shemyannik tried the peppercorns. Polenov was offered to try foamy beer. Liked the beer.

They drank a little, ate for a fee. Supporting the polished tray, the servants brought in toasted pampushki smeared with peach marmalade. We enjoyed shortbread cookies, gingerbread, cakes, marshmallows, peaches, ice cream.

At the request of Polenov, Pavel Panteleevich invited a cook. The complete cook has arrived.

She introduced herself: "Pelageya Prokhorovna Postolova." Pyotr Petrovich got up, personally thanked Pelageya Prokhorovna, and praised the cooked food. Sitting down, I felt a pleasant satiety.

After eating we went to rest. Polina Pavlovna invited Polenov to look at the sparrowhawk. Then she showed an attractive purple parrot Petrusha. The parrot greeted those approaching with a respectful bow. He jumped, began to beg, repeating constantly: "Petrusha to eat, Petrusha to eat ...". ,

Praskovya Patrikeyevna, an elderly resident covered with a worn, colorful shawl, came up, nibbled on a lenten pie, and placed it in front of the parrot. Petrusha sniffed, pecked, bowed, brushed his feathers. Jumping on the crossbars, he began to repeat: "Petrusha ate, Petrusha ate ...".

After looking at the parrot, we visited Polina Pavlovna's reception room, admired the repainted floor, covered in the middle with a half-cloth carpet. Polenov asked Polina Pavlovna to sing. Polina Pavlovna sang popular songs. Those present applauded. “A captivating songstress,” said Pyotr Petrovich.

Polina Pavlovna ran her fingers over the piano: the forgotten potpourri flowed smoothly.

After a pause, they danced to the gramophone brought by their nephew. Polina Pavlovna turned in a pirouette, then made a “pa” in a semicircle. The nephew wound up the gramophone spring, rearranged the record. We listened to a polonaise and danced a polka. Raising his hips, dad started dancing.

Leaving the premises, Pavel Panteleevich sent servants to call the clerk. The clerk tried to arrive quickly. Pavel Panteleevich meticulously asked again:

Did the carpenter repair the span?

Having received positive confirmation, he ordered the clerk to submit a pair of skewbald. A prepared landowner's double-horse carriage rolled up. "Piebald thoroughbreds," thought Polenov.

The clerk looked at the horseshoes, straightened, trimming, the lines, bandaging, adjusted the girth, tied the leash, checked the strength of the screwed semicircular wire footboard, rubbed the front of the cab with a bundle of semi-moist tow. Plush pillows covered with a bedspread. Polina Pavlovna went to change.

While Polina Pavlovna was changing her clothes, Pyotr Petrovich sensibly observed the process of the fireman's meticulous check of the pump and fire-fighting devices. After viewing, the fireman recommended that the clerk approached to replenish the sandbox with sand and paint the scaffolding.

Polina Pavlovna came in, taking a starched cape. Pyotr Petrovich helped Polina Pavlovna up the steps. Sit comfortably.

The well-dressed clerk, imitating the landowner, half rose, whistled, waved his whip, whipped the skewbald, shouted:

Let's go, pegasus, let's go!

The flight took off. We got a little shaken up, so we went slower. We passed a dusty field plowed with plows by means of steam engines (Pashchenko from Poltava helped to buy steam engines). The fertile soil has dried up. Wilted couch grass, motherwort; faded, turned yellow tumbleweed, plantain; fruits of nightshade darkened.

Right hand seemed a decent sown area of ​​ripening wheat. The gently sloping hillock was blazing with sunflowers. Leaving the cab, they crossed the wasteland, the clearing. One by one, they walked straight along the sandy strip.

In the distance stretched a full-flowing pond. Come up. In the middle of the surface of the pond, a couple of beautiful pelicans swam.

Let's buy, - suggested Polenov.

We’ll catch a cold, Polina Pavlovna warned. Then she admitted: “I swim badly.”

They seeded along the stretch. Minnows, roaches splashed nearby, pond leeches swam.

With the help of a pontoon raft, they pleasantly swept across the pond under a firmly attached canvas sail. Then we walked along a half-grown semi-shrub polynya clearing.

Behind the pond appeared primordial nature. Pyotr Petrovich was struck by a beautiful landscape panorama. Freedom! Space! Just excellent! Polina Pavlovna sniffed the fragrant petunia, admired the spider's weaving of a transparent web, and was afraid to disturb her. Polenov, narrowing his eyes, listened: songbirds sang. Every minute the disturbed quail called to one another, frightened warblers fluttered. Ferns and pikulnik came across everywhere. We admired the pyramidal fir, the plane tree intertwined with ivy.

Pyotr Petrovich noticed the flight of bees: perhaps, an apiary has been set up behind the copse. “Beekeeping is profitable, the bee product is useful,” Polenov estimated.

In front of the churchyard, a pasture was visible; an elderly simple-haired shepherd Pahom, holding a staff, pasture breeding heifers, nibbling dodder.

An hour and a half walk along Prilukino seemed simply excellent. After the trip, Pavel Panteleevich affably invited Polenov to take a walk in the manor park, then see the buildings and production.

There was an intermittent muffled cry. Pyotr Petrovich listened, shrugged his shoulders. Pavel Panteleevich understood the frightened Polenov, hastened to explain:

The tribal flogs the shepherd Porfishka. The day before yesterday I guarded a one and a half month old piglet. Serves right. It's time to smarten up.

Grow up, get smarter.

“The vile executioner, he found a reason to flog the shepherd,” Polenov thought about Prokhor Polikarpovich. The perceptive Pyotr Petrovich noticed: the nephew is a swindler, a toady - he adapted, uses the landowner's indulgences. I was ashamed to argue with Prilukin. I understood: the nephew was constantly under the patronage of Prilukin.

We visited a nursery, looked at a fruit peach plantation with an area of ​​half a hectare, hotbeds, and a demonstrative poultry farm. The poultry keeper showed fifty pieds. Before construction, the servants sorted out last year's rotten hemp. A wagon drove through the yard; under the supervision of a agile clerk, the brought millet was transferred under the annex. The servants fed the spotted gilts that ran up with washed, steamed wheat.

Five tanned guys alternately cut half-meter logs with a cross-cut saw, supplied by the carpenter Parfyon. The woodpile gradually filled up. Getting a decent pay, the guys had to sweat. Having finished sawing, the guys helped the carpenter to nail the crossbar that supported the woodpile more firmly.

Behind the primitive outhouse, a rooster crowed over the wattle fence. As they landed, the Plymouth Rocks pecked at the sprinkled millet as they walked about.

Polenov took an interest in the progressive process of processing fruit products, obtaining monthly profits. They explained to Petr Petrovich in detail: the profit is calculated periodically, the products are sold cheaper to the residents of Prilukino, and more expensive to visiting buyers. Production figures are consistently decent.

Having visited the converted semi-basement, Polenov looked at the production process for obtaining jam.

Pyotr Petrovich was asked to taste peach jam. Liked the jam.

Half of the basement is adapted for a bakery. The baker showed the baking ovens. The blazing stove flame illuminated the coasters covered with whitewashed linen, prepared for holiday pies.

After viewing the stoves, Polina Pavlovna advised Pyotr Petrovich to take a walk in the park.

Let's sit down, - suggested Polina Pavlovna.

Perhaps, - supported Polenov.

We looked after a flat stump under the fir. Sit down. They were silent. Understandable: tired. Nearby, a peacock walked quietly.

Beautiful weather, whispered Polina Pavlovna.

Thoughtful, Polenov assented. We talked about the weather, about friends.

Polina Pavlovna told about her visit to Paris. Polenov envied the "traveler". They remembered the details of the walk along the pond. They joked, laughed, exchanged jokes, retold proverbs and sayings.

Polina Pavlovna moved closer, ran her fingers along Polenov's shoulder. Pyotr Petrovich turned around and admired Polina Pavlovna: her beauty was like the first snowdrop. There was a first kiss.

Let's get married, let's get married, - half-jokingly, half-seriously, Pavel Panteleevich came up slowly, winking, flashing the mother-of-pearl buttons of his striped pajamas.

Let's get married, let's get married, - repeating squeaky, like a parrot, repeated the nimble nephew who appeared, looking intently over his pince-nez.

Papa, stop it, - Polina Pavlovna, who turned pink, asked in a half whisper.

It's enough, it's enough to pretend, good boy, - said Pavel Panteleevich. He shook his finger at the ingenuous Polina Pavlovna, patting Polenov on the shoulder.

Pyotr Petrovich blushed, straightened his jacket, respectfully bowed to Polina Pavlovna from the waist up, and hurried out of the park.

Seeing off Polenov, Polina Pavlovna wished her a pleasant journey... Pavel Panteleevich opened his cigarette case, crumpled a cigarette between his fingers, lit a cigarette, coughed. The obedient nephew, nicknamed Polenov the loitering hanger-on, wiped his pince-nez with a handkerchief, touched his sweaty chin, stamped his feet, and said nothing.

Beamed up, Polina Pavlovna quietly kissed the gilded ring given by Pyotr Petrovich.

It got late, it was chilly.

While waiting for the train, Polenov, on reflection, analyzed the behavior. Admitted: practically acted according to the rules of decency. Walking along the platform, he waited for the train to approach. I tried to understand what had happened under the clatter of the train. Polenov thought: “Polina Pavlovna is the right match, the right one. Change mind? Why? Rethinking, rethinking is a bad omen. I understood: I fell in love with Polina Pavlovna. I was glad to receive Pavel Panteleevich.

Before Polenov flashed the prospect of rightfully getting a decent estate. Pyotr Petrovich recognized as correct the principle of the landowner to be useful. At first, Polenov considered Prilukin a pedant. Later I realized: Pavel Panteleevich is an excellent enterprising production worker who correctly understands production practice. I thought: "I'll have to succeed, follow the example of the landowner's life-long position."

Whistling invitingly, the locomotive puffed hard. Polenov, like fellow passengers, half way, reclining quietly dozed off.

Arrived after midnight. Aired out empty rooms. Had dinner. He prepared the bed: he laid down a sheet, put down a duvet cover, straightened the crumpled pillow, brought a half-woolen blanket. Tired, he lay down to sleep. The downy feather bed received Polenov, who was tired after a pleasant trip.

Woke up late. Reinforced heavily. Showing punctuality, he visited the post office: he sent a message to Polina Pavlovna, a proposal written in almost printed handwriting. He added an afterword: "It's time to end the vegetative life ...".

Pyotr Petrovich was bored for a couple of five days, while Polina Pavlovna sent confirmation of receipt of the letter. I read it. Polina Pavlovna accepted the offer, invites Pyotr Petrovich to come and talk.

Polenov went at the invitation. They received Pyotr Petrovich simply excellently. Silent Polina Pavlovna came up, bowed, holding up a poplin dress sewn by the Prilukino dressmaker before Polenov's arrival. Bowed to invited friends. Polenov noticed: Polina Pavlovna used powder, lipstick.

The procedure has gone through. Polenov repeated the offer. Polina Pavlovna made a heartfelt confession. Friends praised the act of Pyotr Petrovich, congratulated, presented prepared gifts, saying:

Pyotr Petrovich did the right thing. Look, a truly beautiful couple.

Having accepted the donated items, Polenov thanked those present.

The feast dedicated to the engagement lasted almost half a day.

An Englishman, a Frenchman, a Pole, a German and an Italian were forced to admit that the Russian language is the richest."