Read why horses cry in abbreviation. - Are you having an argument? I was surprised

Year of publication of the story: 1973

The story "What Horses Cry About" was written in 1973. The work is an example of "village prose", like many other works of the author. In Fyodor Abramov's story "What Horses Cry About", we can read about the problem of people's attitudes towards animals in post-war times.

Abramov's story "What horses cry about" summary

Main character The story "What Horses Cry About" describes to us the feelings that he experiences when he enters the meadow. He is fascinated by the local landscapes, as if he is returning to his childhood. Often, going down to the meadow, the man took some bread with him to feed the horses.

The hero felt love and pity for horses. He felt sorry for them, because the groom Mikolka drank a lot and, as the main character, offended the horses. Could not feed, not wash them, not pour water. Knowing this, many villagers fed and soldered the horses, tried to take care of them in every possible way.

Further in the story "What Horses Cry About" summary it should be said that when the main character saw his beloved horse Ryzhukha, he ran to the meadow. It was a four or five year old horse, but already had a lot of back problems. Nevertheless, she stood out against the background of other horses. Redhead had spent several weeks in the hayfield and now looked very sad. When the man came closer, he saw that the horse was crying. He asked what happened to her, why is she so sad? The redhead replied that she had an argument with other horses. Nobody believed her when she said that people used to love horses and value them. She learned this at the hayfield from an old mare named Zabava, who, in turn, was told about it by her mother. Zabava often sang songs about the happy life of horses, but when Ryzhukha sang these songs today in the meadow, no one believed her. Then the horse asked the man if there really were such times that the old mare described to her?

After in Abramov’s story “What Horses Cry About,” we can read about how a man thought about it and began to remember that in his childhood people treated horses like a treasure. Sometimes people gave the last piece of bread in the house to their horse, because they considered them their breadwinners. These animals were taken to a watering place, combed out, at night people got up to check how their horse was doing. Because they understood that without her there was nowhere to get out of the village and not to take a walk on holidays.

The first toy a child had in the village was a wooden horse. Children's fairy tales could not do without this animal, and everyone had a horseshoe hanging on the porch for good luck. When collective farms appeared, a lot of controversy unfolded around horses.

The family of the protagonist also had a horse. His name was Karko. When the man returned to the village in 1947 after the war, he immediately began to ask everyone about the horse. Later, he learned that in order to celebrate Victory Day, people decided to sacrifice the oldest horse and threw heavy logs on Karka. The protagonist tried to find the remains of his horse, but to no avail.

He thought about it and did not find what to answer the horses. The man handed them a piece of bread and left. He waited for the horses to start eating bread, but they just stood there and watched him go. The main character felt ashamed of his silence. He realized that this was a kind of betrayal towards Redhead, who trusted him so much.

The story "What Horses Cry About" at Top Books

Fyodor Abramov's story "What Horses Cry About" is so popular to read that it is presented among. Such popularity of the story is largely due to its presence in school curriculum. Nevertheless, this will ensure that this work of Abramov will also be included in our subsequent ones.

Abramov F.A.

“Whenever I went down from the village extremity to the meadow, I seemed to find myself again and again in my distant childhood - in the world of fragrant herbs, dragonflies and butterflies and, of course, in the world of horses that grazed on a leash, each near its own cola.

I often took bread with me and fed the horses, and if there was no bread, I would still stop near them, pat them in a friendly way on the back, on the neck, cheer me up with a kind word, ruffle their warm velvety lips, and then for a long time, almost all day, I would feel in the palm of your hand, an incomparable horse darling.

Horses “rejoiced my peasant heart ... But most often they evoked in me a feeling of pity and even some kind of incomprehensible guilt before them.

The groom Mikolka, always drunk, sometimes did not show up to them day and night, and around the stake it was not like grass - the turf was gnawed and beaten black. They were constantly languishing, dying of thirst, they were pestered by a vile ... "

Feed the horses and village women.

One day, the narrator notices among other horses his favorite Clara, or Redhead.

She was from a breed of "the so-called mesenok, small, unprepossessing horses, but very hardy and unpretentious, well adapted to the difficult conditions of the North."

The hard work has disfigured her. But still, "Redhead was a pure filly, and besides, she still retained her cheerful, cheerful character, the agility of youth."

She is always happy to meet her storyteller friend. But this time, he stands petrified at his stake. He doesn't even respond to bread.

The hero sees tears on her face. "Large bean-sized horse tears."

What happened to you? the man asks.

And as if he hears the answer of the horse.

I cry for horse life. I told them that there were times when we horses were pitied and taken care of more than anything in the world, and they laughed at me, began to mock me ...

It turns out that on a distant mowing, from which Ryzhukha had just returned, she met one old mare, with whom she went for a couple in a horse-drawn mower.

The old woman Zabava comforted her young friend with songs during hard labor.

From these songs, Ryzhukha learned that "there were times when we, horses, were called nurses, groomed and caressed, decorated with ribbons."

The other horses did not believe Redhead's songs: “Shut up! And it's so boring!"

“The redhead, with hope, with a prayer, raised her huge, still wet, sad eyes to me, in the purple depths of which I suddenly saw myself - a small, tiny little man.”

Redhead and other horses ask the man to tell the truth.

“Everything, everything the old mare said was right, she didn’t lie. There were, there were such times, and there were still recently, in my memory, when a horse was breathed and lived, when it was fed the most delicious piece, and even the last loaf of bread - we somehow survive, we are with a hungry belly let's go until the morning. We are not used to. And what was done in the evenings, when the horse, which had worked during the day, entered its alley! The whole family, from young to old, ran out to meet her, and how many kind, how many grateful words she listened to, with what love they unharnessed her, nursed her, took her to a watering place, scraped, cleaned!

The horse was the main support and hope of all peasant life. And Russian festivities on horseback on the Maslenitsa holiday!

“The first toy of a peasant son is a wooden horse. The horse looked at the child from the roof of his father's home, about the horse-hero, about the sivka-burka, his mother sang and told, with a horse he adorned, growing up, a spinning wheel for his betrothed ... And with a horse horseshoe - a sign of long-awaited peasant happiness - almost everyone met you porch. Everything is a horse, everything is from a horse: the whole life of a peasant, from birth to death ... "

Karko's favorite horse, as the hero tells, worked at the logging site throughout the war. And on Victory Day, collective farmers brought down heavy logs on him and sent him to a festive cauldron.

The narrator gave bread to his pet and other horses and, "putting his hands deep into the pockets of fashionable jeans, with a quick, cheeky gait, moved towards the river".

“And what could I answer these poor fellows? To say that the old mare did not invent anything, that the horses had happy times?

“My whole being, my whole hearing was turned back to the horses. I waited, with every nerve I waited, when they would begin to gnaw bread, to cut the grass in the meadow with the usual crunch and crunch of a horse.

Not the slightest sound came from there. And then I suddenly began to understand that I had done something irreparable, terrible, that I had deceived Redhead, deceived all these unfortunate nags and goners, and that I would never, never again have that sincerity and that trust with Redhead that I had before. so far.

And melancholy, heavy horse melancholy fell upon me, bent me to the ground. And soon I already seemed to myself some kind of absurd, obsolete creature.

A creature from the same horse breed ... "

Every time When the narrator descended from the hillside (hill) to the meadow, he seemed to fall back into his distant Childhood again - into the world of fragrant herbs, dragonflies, butterflies and, of course, horses that were grazing on a leash, each near its own stake. He often took with him and treated the horses, and if there was no bread, he stopped near them anyway, gently stroked, ruffled their warm velvet lips. The horses worried him, but more often they evoked a feeling of pity and some kind of incomprehensible guilt before them.

Groom Mikolka, always drunk, sometimes he didn’t show up to them for days, and the horses stood hungry, languishing from thirst, suffering from the midge that hovered over them like clouds.

This time, the man did not walk, but ran to the horses, because among them he saw his favorite Ryzhukha, a small, unsightly horse, but very hardy and somehow especially clean, neat, with a lively, cheerful character. Usually she joyfully greeted him, but on this day she stood motionless near the stake, petrified, even turned her head away from the treat. The man grabbed her by the bangs, pulled her to him and, shocked, saw ... tears. Big horse tears. "Redhead, Redhead, what's the matter with you?"

And she said that they (horses) had an argument about life, horse life, of course. The redhead said that there was a time when horses were loved and groomed, pitied and cherished.

Her comrades laughed at her. Speaking of this, the filly burst into tears again. The man calmed her down. And here's what she said.

On the far side where she worked (and the labor was hard labor), Ryzhukha went in harness with one old mare, who tried to cheer up her partner with her songs. From these songs, Ryzhukha learned about the times when horses were called nurses, groomed and caressed, fed deliciously, decorated with ribbons. Listening to the songs of Zabava (that was the name of the old horse), her partner forgot about the heat, about the heavy mower she was dragging, about the blows of the evil peasant. Redhead could not believe that it was, a carefree horse's life, on Zabava assured that everything was true in the songs, her mother sang them to her. And my mother heard them from her mother.

When the horses were led out into the meadow. The redhead did not begin to sing the songs of the old mare, but they shouted at her: “What a lie! .. 11e poison our souls. And it's so boring." And now the horse, with hope and prayer, turned to the man: “Tell me, were there times when we, horses, lived well?” The narrator could not stand her direct, honest look, averted his eyes to the side. And then it seemed to him that all the horses were looking at him, waiting for an answer.

It is not known how long this silent torture lasted, but the man was sweating all over. He knew that the old mare was telling the truth. Yes, there were such times, and quite recently, when they breathed a horse, fed her the most delicious piece, or even the last loaf of bread, the whole family met her after work, and how many kind words she listened to, with what love they looked after her, took her to watering, scraping, cleaning.

The horse was a treasure, hope and support of a peasant family.

And what fun during the holidays! How reckless, how beautiful were the Russian festivities on horseback on Maslenitsa. You won't see this anywhere else.

“Everything was transformed, like in a fairy tale. Men and boys were transformed… horses were transformed. Oh, gulyushki, oh, dear ones! Don't let up! Amuse your brave heart! .. Colorful, patterned arcs danced like rainbows in the frosty air ... and bells, bells - the delight of the Russian soul.

The first toy of the peasant son was a wooden horse, his mother sang about a sivka-burka, a horseshoe - a symbol of happiness - met every porch in the village. "Everything is a horse, everything is from a horse: the whole life of a peasant, from birth to death."

Is it any wonder that because of the horse, because of the mare, passions boiled up in the first collective farm years. At the stables they crowded from morning till night, each looked closely at his horse, scolded the grooms for negligence. After all, men have been fed from horses all their lives.

The narrator recalls how long ago, even before the war, he could not calmly pass by his Karka, who, like the sun, illuminated the whole life of their large family. In forty-seven he returned to the village. Hunger, destruction, desolation. And Karko immediately came to mind.

The old groom answered him that Kark was no longer there. He gave his soul to God in the most. We should have celebrated this day. With what? And when Karko dragged himself out of the forest with his cart, heavy logs fell on him from above, from a pile ...

In every person lives, probably, Pushkin's prince Oleg: having once again arrived in the village, the narrator decided to find the remains of his beloved horse. This is where the logging took place. Desolation, thickets of nettles. He did not find any remains.

... Redhead and other horses still looked at him with hope and prayer. It seemed that the whole meadow was filled with horse eyes. Everyone, both the living and those who had not been there for a long time, questioned the man.

And he had to let go on themselves reckless prowess: "Well, well, stop being sour! .. Let's better gnaw bread while it gnaws." Avoiding looking into Ryzhukha's eyes, he gave her a piece of bread prepared in advance, and dressed the other horses. With reckless recklessness, he raised his hand theatrically: “Pockel!” And what could he answer these poor fellows? To say that the old mare did not invent anything, that horses had happy times? He didn't see anything around. I waited for them to start nibbling bread, cutting the grass with the usual crunch of a horse. But there was no sound from the meadow.

And the man realized that he did what- something irreparable, terrible, that he deceived these unfortunate nags, that he and Redhead would never have more sincere trust. And heavy horse anguish fell upon him, bent him to the ground ...

Fedor Abramov

What do horses cry about?

Every time when I went down from the village extremity to the meadow, I seemed to find myself again and again in my distant childhood - in the world of fragrant herbs, dragonflies and butterflies and, of course, in the world of horses that were grazing on a leash, each near its stake .

These horses evoked the most complex, most contradictory feelings in me.

They excited, delighted my peasant heart, gave the deserted meadow with rare tussocks and willow bushes their special - horse - beauty, and I could look at these kind and smart animals for minutes, hours, listen to their monotonous crunch, occasionally interrupted by a displeased snort , then with a short snore - dusty or inedible grass caught.

But most often these horses evoked in me a feeling of pity and even some kind of incomprehensible guilt before them.

In general, what can I say, the life of the poor was not easy. And that's why I did my best to brighten up, to lighten their lot. And not only me. A rare old woman, a rare woman, finding herself in a meadow, passed by them indifferently.

This time I did not walk - I ran to the horses, for whom did I see today among them? My favorite Clara, or Ryzhukha, as I called her easily, in an old fashion, according to the custom of those times when there were no Thunders, no Ideas, no Victories, no Drummers, no Stars, but there were Karki and Karyukha, Funnels and Voronukhas , Gnedki and Gnedukhi - ordinary horses with common horse names.

The redhead was of the same articles and the same bloodlines as the rest of the mares and geldings. From the breed of the so-called mesenok, horses are medium-sized, unprepossessing, but very hardy and unpretentious, well adapted to the difficult conditions of the North. And Ryzhukha got no less than her friends and comrades. At four or five years old, her back was already knocked down under the saddle, her belly sagged noticeably, and even the veins in her groins began to swell.

And yet Ryzhukha favorably stood out among her relatives.

Some of them were simply not worth looking at. Some kind of sloppy, drooping, with a faded, tattered skin, with festering eyes, with some kind of dull humility and doom in their eyes, in their whole downcast, hunched figure.

And Ryzhukha - no. The redhead was a pure filly, and besides, she still retained her cheerful, cheerful character, the agility of youth.

Usually, when she saw me descending from the corner, she would all tuck herself up, stretch out to the side, give her sonorous voice, and sometimes run around the stake as wide as the rope allowed, that is, make, as I called it, my welcoming circle of joy.

Today, Redhead, at my approach, did not show the slightest enthusiasm. She stood near the stake motionless, petrified, earnestly, as only horses can stand, and in no way, absolutely nothing, differed from the rest of the mares and horses.

“Yes, what about her? I thought anxiously. - Sick? Forgot me during this time? (Redhead was on a distant hayfield for two weeks.)

On the go I began to break off a large piece from the loaf - our friendship began with this, with top dressing, but then the mare completely puzzled me: she turned her head to the side.

Redhead, Redhead ... Yes, it's me ... I ...

I grabbed her by the thick gray-haired bangs, which I myself had cut three weeks ago - it completely clogged my eyes, pulled me to me. And what did I see? Tears. Large, bean-sized horse tears.

Redhead, Redhead, what's wrong with you?

The redhead silently continued to cry.

Well, well, you have grief, you have trouble. But can you tell me what's the matter?

We had an argument here...

Who has us?

We have horses.

Do you have a dispute? - I was surprised. - About what?

About horse life. I told them that there were times when we horses were pitied and taken care of more than anything in the world, and they laughed at me, began to mock me ... - and then Ryzhukha burst into tears again.

I did my best to reassure her. And this is what she finally told me.

On a distant mowing, from which Ryzhukha had just returned, she met an old mare, with whom she went for a couple in a horse-drawn mower. And this old mare, when it became completely unbearable for them (and the work there was hard labor, for wear and tear), began to cheer her up with her songs.

I have never heard anything like it in my life,” said Ryzhukha. - From these songs, I learned that there were times when we, horses, were called nurses, groomed and caressed, decorated with ribbons. And when I listened to these songs, I forgot about the heat, about the gadflies, about the blows of the belt, with which the evil man beat us every now and then. And it’s easier for me, by God, it was easier to drag a heavy mower. I asked Zabava - that was the name of the old mare - if she consoled me. Didn't she herself come up with all these beautiful songs about a horse's carefree life? But she assured me that it was all true and that her mother had sung these songs to her. She sang when she was a sucker. And my mother heard them from her mother. And so these songs about happy horse times were passed down from generation to generation in their family.

And so, - Ryzhukha concluded her story, - this morning, as soon as we were taken out to the meadow, I began to sing the songs of the old mare to my companions and comrades, and they shouted in one voice: “All this is a lie, nonsense! Shut up! Do not irritate us: the soul. And it's so boring."

The red-haired woman, with hope, with a prayer, raised her huge, still wet, sad eyes to me, in the violet depths of which I suddenly saw myself - a small, tiny man.

Tell me... You are a man, you all know, you are one of those who command us all our lives... Tell me, were there times when we horses lived well? Didn't the old mare lie to me? Didn't you cheat?

I could not stand the direct, questioning look of Redhead. I averted my eyes to the side and then it seemed to me that from everywhere, from all sides, large and inquisitive horse eyes were looking at me. Could it be that what Redhead was asking me interested the other horses as well? In any case, there was no usual crunch, which is always heard in the meadow.

I don’t know how long this silent torture lasted for me on the green meadow under the mountain - maybe a minute, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour, but I was wet from head to toe.

Everything, everything, the old mare said correctly, she did not lie. There were, there were such times, and there were still recently, in my memory, when a horse was breathed and lived, when it was fed the most delicious piece, and even the last loaf of bread - we somehow survive, we are with a hungry belly let's go until the morning. We are not used to. And what was done in the evenings, when the horse, which had worked during the day, entered its alley! The whole family, from young to old, ran out to meet her, and how many affectionate, how many grateful words she listened to, with what love they unharnessed her, nursed her, took her to a watering place, scraped, cleaned! And how many times during the night the owners got up to check on their treasure!

Yes, yes, treasure. The main support and hope of all peasant life, because without a horse - nowhere: neither to go to the field, nor to the forest. Yes, and do not walk properly.

I lived half a century in this world and, as they say, I saw a lot of miracles - both my own and overseas, but no, there is nothing to compare with Russian festivities on horseback about Shrovetide.

Everything was transformed like in a fairy tale. Men and boys were transformed - arched like hell on light painted sleds with iron undercuts, horses were transformed. Oh, gulyushki, oh, dear ones! Don't let up! Amuse the heart of a good fellow! Fan the blizzard-fire on the whole street!

And the horses puffed up. Colorful, patterned arcs danced like rainbows in the winter air, the July heat was carried from polished copper harnesses, and bells, bells - the delight of the Russian soul ...

The first toy of a peasant son is a wooden horse. The horse looked at the child from the roof of his father’s home, about the hero horse, the mother sang and told about the sivka-burka, he adorned the spinning wheel for his betrothed with a horse, he prayed to the horse - I don’t remember a single goddess in my village without Egor the Victorious . And almost every porch met you with a horseshoe - a sign of the long-awaited peasant happiness. Everything is a horse, everything is from a horse: the whole life of a peasant, from birth to death ...

Well, what is surprising that because of the horse, because of the mare, all the main passions boiled up in the first collective farm years!

They crowded around the stables, rallied from morning to night, they sorted out their relationship there. He knocked down the withers of Voronok, didn’t give Gnedukha a drink in time, heaped too much a cart, chased Chaly too quickly, and now a scream, now they drove in the snout with a fist.

Every time the narrator descended from the village extremity to the meadow, he seemed to find himself in the world of his distant childhood - in the world of herbs, dragonflies, butterflies and, of course, horses. He often took bread with him and fed the horses, and if there was no bread with him, he would still stop near them, pat them on the back, stroke them, or even just talk to them.

Horses evoked in him, a village dweller, the most contradictory feelings - from excitement and joy to pity and even guilt before them. The groom Mikolka sometimes did not show up to them day and night, and around the stake to which each horse was tied, not only the grass - the turf was gnawed. The poor animals were constantly languishing, they were pestered by midges.

The life of the poor was not easy, so no one could indifferently pass by them.

And this time the man ran to the horses. I saw my favorite Clara, or Ryzhukha, as he called her easily.

This horse was from the breed of mesenok, medium-sized animals, hardy and very unpretentious. At four or five years old, her back was already knocked down, her belly sagged noticeably, and her veins began to swell. And yet, she favorably stood out among her relatives in that she retained her cheerful character. Usually, when she saw her acquaintance, she made a welcoming circle of joy around the peg to which she was tied.

But something happened to her today. When a person appeared, she stood motionless, as if petrified. He thought that the filly had either fallen ill or had forgotten him while working on the distant hayfield. He began to break off bread for her from a large loaf, and she turned her head away.

The man pulled the horse towards him by the thick bangs and saw large tears in the eyes of the animal. The man calmed her down. I started asking what happened. The redhead said that they horses had an argument about horse life. Here is what she said.

At a distant hayfield, she met an old mare, with whom she rode in the same mower. When they were completely unbearable, Zabava cheered her up with her songs. The redhead said she had never heard anything like it before. These songs said that in former times horses were called breadwinners, groomed and caressed, decorated with ribbons. The redhead asked Zabava if she was comforting her. The neighbor answered that she heard these songs from her mother, and she heard them from hers.

When Redhead tried to tell the rest of the horses about this, she was ridiculed. She looked hopefully at the man and asked if the old mare had deceived her.

The interlocutor could not stand the horse's direct gaze and averted his eyes to the side. It seemed to him that inquisitive horse eyes were looking at him from all sides.

It is not known how long this silent torture continued. But the man was sweating from head to toe.

No, the old mare did not deceive. There were times when a horse was breathed and lived, it was fed the last piece, and even the last loaf of bread. We, they say, somehow. And what happened in the evenings, when the accumulated horse returned home! The whole family greeted her with love and looked after her. And how many times during the night the owners got up to see their treasure!

After all, without a horse, nowhere - neither in the field, nor in the forest. Yes, and do not walk without it properly. After all, Russian festivities on horseback on Maslenitsa have nothing to compare with.

The peasant's son's first toy is a wooden horse. The horse looked at the child from the roof of his native house, his mother told about him and sang about him, with his horse he decorated the spinning wheel of his betrothed, he prayed to him. And a horseshoe - a sign of happiness - met each porch. And what passions boiled around the horse in the first collective farm years!

But what can we say about the peasants, if the narrator, even as a university student, could not indifferently pass by Kar-ka, the breadwinner of his family. In the forty-seventh year, the student returned to the village. Everywhere there was hunger, desolation, in the houses they wept for those who did not return from the war, and he, as soon as he saw the first horse, immediately remembered his Karka.

The old groom answered that Karka was no more, he gave his soul to God on the forest front. After all, not only people fought in this war, but also horses.

In each of us, probably, lives Pushkin's prophetic Oleg. So the man who told this story was trying to find the remains of his horse, being in those places where logging was going on during the war.

But there was no lumber station for a long time, and dense thickets of Ivan-chai grew on the site of the pit, and of course, the search did not give results ...

... The redhead continued to look at the man with hope, together with her all the other horses looked with hope and prayer. material from the site

And the man took on a reckless prowess and said that it was enough to turn sour and stuff his head with all sorts of nonsense. It is better to gnaw bread while it gnaws. Following this, he threw a piece of bread near Ryzhukha, dressed the rest of the horses, uttered some nonsense and went home.

What else could he answer these poor fellows? To say that the old mare did not deceive and the horses really had happy times?

He crossed the lake and went out to the old boundary, which always delighted him with its herbs. But now the man did not see anything. All his hearing was turned back. The man hoped that he would hear the usual crunch and crunch of grass in the meadow. But not the slightest sound came from there.

And the man realized that he had done something irreparable. He deceived Redhead and all those unfortunate nags. He will never again have those sincere and trusting relations with Redhead that he had until now.

And heavy horse anguish fell upon him. Soon he himself seemed to himself an absurd, obsolete creature from the same horse breed.

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