Brief summary of the tale
After the death of his wife and children, the old man settled in an abandoned fishing hut on the shore of a lake and fed on the gifts of nature, living in harmony with the world around him. The closest creature to him was the dog Sobolko. On the lake, Taras picked up the chick of a pair of swans that had been shot by hunters. The helpless chick became attached to the old man and became friends with Sobolko. Taras admired his pets and rejoiced at their friendship. As an adult, the swan swam all over the lake. He considered the fisherman's hut his home and always returned to Taras. At the end of summer, a flock of swans appeared on the lake. The birds were gaining strength before a long flight. The foster child was interested in swans. Gradually he became friends with them. Taras was worried about the future of his pet. He understood that the swan is a proud and freedom-loving bird; it will definitely be drawn to its relatives and want to return to the wild. Taras has repeatedly observed how swans teach their chicks to fly, and young swans, under the guidance of their parents, become strong birds. The adopted child was not ready for long flights and severe trials. The hunters, seeing the old man’s affection for his adopted son, advised him to slightly trim the bird’s wing. Then she will not be able to fly far and will remain to winter with Taras. But the old man’s hand did not rise to disfigure the handsome swan. He also understood something else: if the bird did not fly away with the swans, the bird alone would wither away and die. The old man reasoned wisely: if the adopted son wants to follow the swan flock, let him try his luck. For two days Taras’s favorite sailed to the hut. With his behavior, he seemed to express gratitude, ask for forgiveness for his choice and say goodbye to his friends. You can read the fairy tale online in full on our website.
Adopted - Mamin-Sibiryak D.N.
Rainy summer day. I love wandering through the forest in this weather, especially when there is a warm corner ahead where I can dry myself and warm up. And besides, summer rain is warm. In the city in such weather there is dirt, but in the forest the earth greedily absorbs moisture, and you walk on a slightly damp carpet of last year’s fallen leaves and fallen pine and spruce needles.
The trees are covered with raindrops that rain down on you every time you move. And when the sun comes out after such rain, the forest turns so brightly green and burns with diamond sparks. Something festive and joyful is around you, and you feel like a welcome, dear guest at this holiday.
It was on such a rainy day that I approached Svetloe Lake, to the familiar watchman at the fishing sama (parking lot) Taras. The rain was already thinning. On one side of the sky, gaps appeared, a little more - and the hot summer sun would appear. The forest path made a sharp turn, and I came out onto a sloping cape that jutted out into the lake with a wide tongue. Actually, here there was not a lake itself, but a wide channel between two lakes, and the salmon was nestled in a bend on the low bank, where fishing boats huddled in the bay. The channel between the lakes was formed thanks to a large wooded island, spread out like a green cap opposite the salmon.
My appearance on the cape evoked a guard call from the dog Taras - she always barked at strangers in a special way, abruptly and sharply, as if angrily asking: “Who is coming?” I love such simple dogs for their extraordinary intelligence and faithful service.
From a distance the fisherman's hut seemed like a large boat turned upside down - it was a hunched old wooden roof overgrown with cheerful green grass. All around the hut there was a thick growth of fireweed, sage and “bear pipes”, so that the person approaching the hut could only see his head. Such thick grass grew only along the shores of the lake, because there was enough moisture and the soil was oily.
When I was getting very close to the hut, a motley little dog flew head over heels from the grass at me and burst into desperate barking.
- Sobol, stop... Didn’t recognize it?
Sobolko stopped in thought, but apparently did not yet believe in the old acquaintance. He approached cautiously, sniffed my hunting boots, and only after this ceremony began to wag his tail guiltily. They say I’m guilty, I made a mistake, but still I have to guard the hut.
The hut turned out to be empty. The owner was not there, that is, he probably went to the lake to inspect some fishing equipment. Around the hut, everything spoke of the presence of a living person: a faintly smoking fire, an armful of freshly chopped firewood, a net drying on stakes, an ax stuck in a stump of a tree. Through the half-open door of the lake one could see Taras’s entire household: a gun on the wall, several pots on the stove, a chest under the bench, hanging gear.
The hut was quite spacious, because in winter, during fishing, a whole artel of workers could fit in it. In the summer the old man lived alone. Despite any weather, he heated the Russian stove every day and slept on the floors. This love of warmth was explained by Taras’s venerable age: he was about ninety years old. I say “about” because Taras himself forgot when he was born. “Even before the French,” as he explained, that is, before the French invasion of Russia in 1812.
Taking off my wet jacket and hanging my hunting armor on the wall, I began to make a fire. He hovered around me a lot, sensing some kind of profit. The fire flared up cheerfully, sending up a blue stream of smoke. The rain has already stopped. Torn clouds rushed across the sky, dropping rare drops. Here and there the sky was blue. And then the sun appeared, the hot July sun, under whose rays the wet grass seemed to smoke.
The water in the lake stood quietly, as it does only after rain. It smelled of fresh grass, sage, and the resinous aroma of a nearby pine forest. In general, it’s as good as it can be in such a remote forest corner. To the right, where the channel ended, the expanse of Svetloe Lake was blue, and mountains rose beyond the jagged edge. Wonderful corner! And it’s not for nothing that old Taras lived here for forty years.
Somewhere in the city he wouldn’t have lived even half of it, because in the city you couldn’t buy such clean air for any money, and most importantly, this calmness that covered here. Good on Saimaa! A bright light burns merrily; The hot sun begins to burn, it hurts your eyes to look at the sparkling distance of the wonderful lake. So I would sit here and, it seems, would not part with the wonderful freedom of the forest. The thought of the city flashes through my head like a bad dream.
While waiting for the old man, I attached a copper camp kettle filled with water to a long stick and hung it over the fire. The water was already beginning to boil, but the old man was still not there.
-Where should he go? — I thought out loud. — The gear is inspected in the morning, and now it’s noon. Maybe he went to see if anyone was fishing without asking. Sobolko, where did your master go?
The smart dog just wagged its fluffy tail, licked its lips and squealed impatiently. In appearance, Sobolko belonged to the type of so-called “fishing” dogs. Small in stature, with a sharp muzzle, erect ears, a curved tail, he probably resembled an ordinary mongrel with the difference that a mongrel would not have found a squirrel in the forest, would not have been able to “bark” at a wood grouse, or track down a deer - in a word, a real hunting dog, man's best friend. You need to see such a dog in the forest in order to fully appreciate all its advantages.
When this “man’s best friend” squealed joyfully, I realized that he had spotted his owner. Indeed, a fishing boat appeared as a black dot in the channel, skirting the island. This was Taras. He swam on his feet and deftly worked with one oar - this is how real fishermen all sail in their one-tree boats, which are called, not without reason, “gas chambers.” As he swam closer, I noticed, to my surprise, a swan swimming in front of the boat.
- Go home, reveler! - the old man grumbled, urging the beautifully swimming bird on. - Go, go. Here I will give it to you - sail away to God knows where. Go home, reveler!
The swan swam beautifully to the salmon, went ashore, shook itself and, swaying heavily on its crooked black legs, headed towards the hut.
II
Old man Taras was tall, with a thick gray beard and stern, large gray eyes. All summer he walked barefoot and without a hat. It is remarkable that all his teeth were intact and the hair on his head was preserved. The tanned, broad face was furrowed with deep wrinkles. In hot weather, he wore only a shirt made of peasant blue canvas.
- Hello, Taras!
- Hello, master!
-Where is God coming from?
- But I swam after Priemysh, after the swan. Everything was spinning around in the channel, and then suddenly it disappeared. Well, I'm following him now. I went out into the lake - no; swam through the creeks - no; and he swims behind the island.
- Where did you get it from, the swan?
- God sent it, yes! Here gentlemen hunters came; Well, the swan and the swan were shot, but this one remained. Huddled in the reeds and sitting. He doesn’t know how to fly, so he hid as a child. Of course, I set my nets near the reeds, and I caught him. If one goes missing, the hawk will be eaten, because there is no real meaning in it yet. Left an orphan. So I brought it and am holding it. And he got used to it too. Now it will soon be a month that we have been living together. In the morning at dawn he gets up, swims in the channel, feeds, and then goes home. Knows when I get up and waits to be fed. A smart bird, in a word, knows its own order.
The old man spoke unusually lovingly, as if talking about a loved one. The swan hobbled to the hut itself and, obviously, was waiting for some handout.
“He will fly away from you, grandfather,” I remarked.
- Why does he need to fly? And it’s good here: full, water all around.
- And in winter?
- He will spend the winter with me in the hut. There is enough space, and Sobolko and I have more fun. Once a hunter wandered into my lake, saw a swan and said the same thing: “It will fly away if you don’t clip its wings.” How can you mutilate God's bird? Let her live as the Lord told her... A man is given one thing, but a bird another... I can’t understand why the Lord shot the swans. After all, they won’t even eat it, just for mischief.
The swan clearly understood the old man’s words and looked at him with his intelligent eyes.
- How is he and Sobolko? - I asked.
“At first I was afraid, but then I got used to it.” Now the swan will take a piece from Sobolka another time. The dog will growl at him, and the swan will grumble at him. It's funny to look at them from the outside. Otherwise they go for a walk together: the swan on the water, and Sobolko on the shore. The dog tried to swim after him, but it was not the same craft: he almost drowned. And when the swan floats away, Sobolko looks for him. He sits on the bank and howls. They say, I, the dog, am bored without you, dear friend. So the three of us live together.
I love the old man very much. He spoke very well and knew a lot. There are such good, smart old people. I had to while away many summer nights on Saimaa, and every time you learn something new. Previously, Taras was a hunter and knew places around fifty miles, knew every custom of forest birds and forest animals; and now he could not go far and knew only his fish. Sailing on a boat is easier than walking with a gun through the forest, and especially through the mountains. Now Taras kept the gun only out of old memory and just in case a wolf ran in. In winter, wolves looked at the salmon and had long been sharpening their teeth on Sobolko. Only Sobolko was cunning and did not give in to the wolves.
I stayed at Saimaa for the whole day. In the evening we went fishing and set up our nets for the night. Svetloye Lake is good, and it’s not for nothing that it’s called Svetloye, because the water in it is completely transparent, so you sail on a boat and see the entire bottom at a depth of several fathoms. You can see colorful pebbles, yellow river sand, and algae, and you can see how the fish move in a “fleece,” that is, in a herd. There are hundreds of such mountain lakes in the Urals, and all of them are distinguished by their extraordinary beauty.
Svetloye Lake differed from others in that it was adjacent to the mountains on only one side, and on the other it went “out into the steppe,” where blessed Bashkiria began. All around the Svetloe Lake lay the most peaceful places, and from it came a brisk mountain river that spread across the steppe for a thousand miles. The lake was up to twenty miles long and about nine miles wide. The depth reached fifteen fathoms in some places. A group of wooded islands gave it special beauty. One such island was located in the very middle of the lake and was called Goloday, because when fishermen found it in bad weather, they often went hungry for several days.
Taras has lived on Svetly for forty years. Once he had his own family and home, but now he lived as a bastard. The children died, his wife also died, and Taras remained hopelessly on Svetloye for whole years.
“Aren’t you bored, grandpa?” - I asked when we were returning from fishing. “It’s scary for someone to be alone in the forest.”
- Alone? The master will say the same. I live here like a prince. I have everything. And all kinds of birds, and fish, and grass. Of course, they don’t know how to speak, but I understand everything. The heart rejoices to look at God’s creation another time. Each one has its own order and its own mind. Do you think it’s in vain that a fish swims in the water or a bird flies in the forest? No, they have no less worries than we do. Evon, look, the swan is waiting for Sobolko and me. Ah, the prosecutor!
The old man was terribly pleased with his Stepchild, and all conversations ultimately centered on him.
“A proud, real royal bird,” he explained. - Lure him with food and don’t give him anything, next time he won’t come. It also has its own character, despite being a bird. He also behaves very proudly with Sobolko. Just a little bit, now he’ll hit you with his wing, or even his nose. It is known that the dog wants to make trouble next time, tries to catch him by the tail with his teeth, and the swan in his face. This is also not a toy to be grabbed by the tail.
I spent the night and got ready to leave the next morning.
“Come back in the fall,” the old man says goodbye. “Then we’ll fish the fish with a spear.” Well, let's shoot hazel grouse. Autumn hazel grouse is fat.
- Okay, grandpa, I’ll come sometime.
When I was leaving, the old man returned me:
- Look, master, how the swan played with Sobolko.
Indeed, it was worth admiring the original painting. The swan stood with its wings spread, and Sobolko attacked him with squeals and barks. The clever bird stretched out its neck and hissed at the dog, as geese do. Old Taras laughed heartily at this scene, like a child.
III
The next time I came to Svetloe Lake was in late autumn, when the first snow fell. The forest was still good. Here and there there were still yellow leaves on the birch trees. The spruce and pine trees seemed greener than in summer. Dry autumn grass peeked out from under the snow like a yellow brush. Dead silence reigned all around, as if nature, tired of the summer's hectic work, was now resting. The light lake seemed large because the coastal greenery was gone. The transparent water darkened, and a heavy autumn wave crashed noisily onto the shore.
Taras's hut stood in the same place, but seemed higher because the tall grass surrounding it was gone. The same Sobolko jumped out to meet me. Now he recognized me and affectionately wagged his tail from afar. Taras was at home. He was repairing a net for winter fishing.
- Hello, old man!
- Hello, master!
- Well, how are you doing?
- Never mind. In the fall, around the first snow, I got a little sick. My legs hurt. This always happens to me in bad weather.
The old man really looked tired. He seemed so decrepit and pathetic now. However, it turned out that this was not due to illness at all. Over tea we started talking, and the old man told his grief.
- Do you remember, master, the swan?
- Adopted child?
- He is. Oh, what a beautiful bird it was! But Sobolko and I were left alone again. Yes, the foster child is gone.
- Killed by hunters?
- No, he left on his own. That's how offensive it is to me, master! It seems like I didn’t look after him, didn’t I hang around! Hand fed. He came towards me and followed my voice. He swims on the lake, I click on him, and he swims up. Scientist bird. And I’m quite used to it. Yes! It's already a frosty day. During the flight, a flock of swans descended on Svetloe Lake. Well, they rest, feed, swim, and I admire.
Let God's bird gather its strength: it is not a close place to fly. Well, here comes the sin. My fosterling at first avoided the other swans: he would swim up to them and then back. They cackle in their own way, call him, and he goes home. They say, I have my own house. So they had it for three days. Everyone, therefore, talks in their own way, in a bird’s way. Well, then, I see, my foster child is sad. It’s all the same how a person grieves. He will come ashore, stand on one leg and start screaming. Why, he screams so pitifully. It will make me sad, and Sobolko, the fool, howls like a wolf. It is known that he is a free bird, and the blood took its toll.
The old man fell silent and sighed heavily.
- Well, so what, grandfather?
- Oh, don't ask. I locked him in the hut for the whole day, and then he pestered me. He will stand on one leg right next to the door and stand until you drive him out of his place. Only he won’t say in human language: “Let me go, grandfathers, to my comrades. They’ll fly to the warmer side, but what am I going to do with you here in the winter?” Oh, you, I think, are a task! Let it go - it will fly away after the herd and disappear.
- Why will it disappear?
- What about it? They grew up in freedom. They are young, whose father and mother taught them to fly. After all, what do you think about them? When the swans grow up, their father and mother will first take them out onto the water and then begin to teach them to fly. Gradually they learn: further and further. I saw with my own eyes how young people are trained for the flight. First they teach separately, then in small flocks, and then they gather together into one large herd. It looks like soldiers being drilled. Well, my foster child grew up alone and almost never flew anywhere. Swimming on the lake - that's all there is to it. Where should he fly? He will become exhausted, fall behind the herd and disappear. Unaccustomed to long summers.
The old man fell silent again.
“But I had to let him out,” with sadness for
he said. “All the same, I think, if I keep him for the winter, he will become sad and wither.” This bird is so special. Well, he released it. My fosterling came to the herd, swam with it for a day, and in the evening went home again. So he sailed for two days. Even though he’s a bird, it’s hard to part with his home. It was he who swam to say goodbye, master. The last time he sailed from the shore about twenty fathoms, he stopped and how, my brother, he screamed in his own way. Say: “Thank you for the bread, for the salt!” I was the only one who saw him. Sobolko and I were left alone again. At first, we were both very sad. I’ll ask him: “So much, where is our Reception?” And Sobolko is now howling. So he regrets it. And now to the shore, and now to look for a dear friend. At night I kept dreaming that Priemysh was rinsing himself near the shore and flapping his wings. I go out - there is no one.
That's how it turned out, master.
