White Forest

At this point you go slowly, trying to guess, to notice what has changed around since that last visit. And only in Marfin ravine where can be seen already tops of the poplars, shot up above the village, again accelerates the move. Because the familiar trail promises a lot of interesting meetings, and among them one, home. I remember clearly the morning of the postwar years, the autumn overcast, znobkoe. Crunches under the wheels of carts matte crust of ice puddles, leisurely float over the huts of gray, pale yellow burn mark in the clouds. I mentally hup: "Hurry, hurry to wolf Zaymishche!" Ahead, leaving the straw on the reins, sat my grandfather, Michael and for some reason not in a hurry. That he Zaymishche Wolf - Forest wilderness, about which we, malyshne, so much of talk of all the terrible stuff! Before descending to the river's grandfather still prihlestnul horse, and once in the cart something began to rattle and creaked, and the first rut so shaken - just hold on. We pass a red aspen. Again shaking, stubble and the road that goes steeply toward the horizon, where the gold strip coveted Zaymishche. Lie down, will not soon again. - Santa stopped the horse, peretryahnul in the cart and straw, to the eyes hiding my jacket, said: "Fear not, wake up, how come". I woke up from silence. Grandfather, tightening the girth, softly muttering his horse, and then easily lifted me out of the cart. Where are we? Not visible lumen in the tricky intertwining of the branches of the aspens and birches, over which the green tops of tall pine trees. That's really really well and on top: the broken circle of the sky, and here the bottom. Like a petrified trees stood in front of her, afraid to cross the forbidden line, where to begin prickly carpet canted Otava. And so there was no air, so burning on the carpet speckled specks of autumn leaves, that even the faint traces of ruts looked unnatural, alien. While his grandfather was putting hay in the cart and carefully got on a cart, I was running on the meadow, picking the brightest leaves. Grandfather did not pay attention to me, only mildly shouted that I did not dare to come close to the ravine, which could be seen three hundred meters from the stacks. Carefully parted the branches of cherry, I stepped on a soft turf, but she soon gave way and fell down. I do not know whether I had time to scream, but certainly not had time to get scared - too swift was this descent. I came to myself at the bottom of the ravine, unhurt, unscathed. Wanted to get up, but, as he tried to overpower her, as it follows the treacherous slope, all in vain: the earth crumbled under his feet, scoring boots, spiky lashes Blackberry clinged shirt, and not for what was to grab his hands. Left to call for help of his grandfather, but before he came to find a place pootlozhe. I walked slowly along the bottom of the ravine, trying to discern in the thickets of bright stripes of the new debris, and suddenly, quite by accident stumbled upon a spring. Like a string of coil flowed from him on the slope a narrow creek, a helpless-looking: like - quietly. Bar the palm. But continuously worked in the sandy bed of the tiny spring volcano, and boiling their jets felt something powerful, irresistible. Here, near a spring, and found my grandfather. Look fontanelle what! - He exclaimed with undisguised admiration. Then carefully scooped up a handful of water, drank it slowly, smacking his lips. - Look, beautiful! Well, now we know where our river flows. So I've learned from our flowing river, and was proud of that first opened its source, albeit accidentally, but still myself. A matured, I realized how good-naturedly cleverly done if the old man. No, it was spring a mystery, but he could not, would not take away my joy of the discoverer. And yet, he probably knew that surprise childhood remain with a person for life. They are as light springs, warm heart, filled him with pride for his native land, which will not find more beautiful. That's what every time I remember, when they get up in the way of sentinel White birch grove. And I'm nice and easy because the same noise and it seems the same to other great kids that come here today. That's why I'm so hurry while. I have since come so many happy visits. And with the river, and with a cleft Zaymishche. AND WITH MY TI / 'MI spring. I am pleased to know that today's boys have good hearts. I admire the young pine trees, which were not then - they have grown children from the school forest, look at the slender poplars guarding rest of the river, and I can not hold back emotion. If such caring hands of the young, if so noble their intentions, so long flaunt and flourish my secret place. But only if my! We each have our own springs of the heart. Their hot springs warm the highest sense of the earth - the love for the motherland. By the mighty Soviet Motherland, which is part of our lives bright edges of childhood and from year to year, growing and growing, opening before us more and more open spaces.