All books about: "Evgeny Permyak book about .... All books about: "evgeny permyak book about ... Books of the Great Alta by Jane Yolen

Where and when Samo's grandfather lived - no one knows.
Nothing fell out of his hands. Everything could.
Grandpa Samo lived well. For people. Not for everyone, let's say, but only for the honest. And especially for those whose hands did not work thoughtlessly, but kept advice with their heads. We were looking for what and how to do it, rather, easier and better.
He will see Samo a working person - he will definitely reward him.
He will come to him, say, an old wanderer or a cheerful old woman, or even a goat or a starling. Him what? He could even crawl into the house with a whistling cricket - bring happiness.
And he brought happiness. Labor. Working.
Digging, say, an old man with a shovel. Gets out of strength. Grandfather Samo will come to him and start tare-bars, rastabars... About this and that. And then he whispers a secret word to the shovel and says "Be like me." Only they saw him. The magpie will fly away or the ferry will melt there. And the shovel from this will become self-digging. She digs the earth herself. Digs and throws where necessary.
The digger's eyes are on his forehead, and a shovel works for ten.
Or, say, a guy cuts a forest with an axe. Tries. He wants to overpower his power. Suddenly a woodpecker will fly to him, sit on an ax and shout: "Be like me!" And there is no woodpecker. And the ax is wrapped around with a self-cutting ax. He cuts himself. Just indicate where to cut, which tree to cut down.
So it is in every business.
Somehow, a horse died, on which the son of the miners from the mountain carried ore to the blast furnace. Die family. Nothing to buy a horse. And suddenly a stray dog comes running. She barked something like that to the cart, and then barked: "Be like me."
The son of the miners is looking - the dog is gone, and the cart itself has gone self-propelled. You don't even have to order. Mentally controlled. Wherever a person intends, he turns there. Moreover, when necessary, she dumps the ore from herself without permission.
There have been many such cases in our area. Wherever grandfather Samo appears, to which working tool he gives his name - this tool starts working by itself. Even self-tapping machines appeared. Self saw saws. Self-propelled boats. Furnaces-samovars. Stop and order. The furnaces themselves fill up the charge, they themselves produce the release of steel.
What a trough in which linen is washed, and then Samo’s grandfather made self-washing for one old woman. Throw only shirts into it, and it will wash and wring out.
And everything would be fine if the rust didn’t eat up the ax and the shovel, if the rot didn’t destroy the trough, if time didn’t destroy the furnace, the carts wouldn’t drive out.
The time has come - grandfather Samo is gone. His self-powered self-made self-propelled guns were worn out. There was no one to say a secret word, "be like me" to utter. Only the fairy tale about grandfather Samo remained. This one I'm talking about.
For a long time she entertained the people with a good hope, and over the years it has grown into fiction. Became empty talk. Rarely, rarely, some old man another time, tipsy, will retell her grandchildren. One will laugh, the other will not believe, and the third will let it in into the right ear, let it out into the left nostril.
But not all grandchildren were like that. There were eared and big-headed ones. They started thinking, talking.
- Not in vain, - they say, - such a fairy tale lived among the people. For something she had an effect.
Hunting has become for big-headed grandchildren to dig with a self-propelled shovel, to ride on a self-propelled cart, to sharpen on a self-propelled machine.
Well done thought.
Some began to search for the magic word of grandfather Samo, while others - the most big-headed ones - saw a hint in a fairy tale. They didn't seek the secret word. The head and hands were harnessed to a fairy tale-hint. And they weren't wrong.
The shovel began to dig by itself. Self-propelled plows in the field went out. No horse, no horse. And besides, they began to fly. The flying machine was called an airplane. A self-driving machine was called a self-tapping machine. Self-running stroller - scooter. Self-tying machine - self-tying. A dump truck - a dump truck ... And is it just that? Many other things begin with the name of Grandpa Samo.
And in the last September of the first Leninist century, the interplanetary-sparkling name of grandfather Samo was attached to the divolonny ship. Shorter than short, fuller than full, he called himself.
Self-takeoff. Self-planted. Self-managed. Self-drilling. Self-loading. Self-unloading. Self-seeing. Self listening. Self-answering... And thirty-three more titles, each beginning with the name Self.
And Samo himself healed again. Not alone. Not fabulous. Lived by scientists miracle workers healed. It is now in their power to order "be like me" to everything that can become an unquestioning servant of a person and when it is necessary to replace him in any comprehension, both upwards and in depths and breadths ...
The wisdom of the old fairy tale about grandfather Samo again spoke about the liberation of the hands of a person from what is beyond their strength.

Where and when Samo's grandfather lived - no one knows.

Nothing fell out of his hands. Everything could.

Grandpa Samo lived well. For people. Not for everyone, let's say, but only for the honest. And especially for those whose hands did not work thoughtlessly, but kept advice with their heads. We were looking for what and how to do it, rather, easier and better.

If he sees Samo a working person, he will definitely reward him.

He will come to him, say, an old wanderer or a cheerful old woman, or even a goat or a starling. Him what? He could even crawl into the house with a whistling cricket - bring happiness.

And he brought happiness. Labor. Working.

Digging, say, an old man with a shovel. Gets out of strength. Grandfather Samo will come to him and start tare-bars, rastabars ... About this and that. And then he whispers a secret word to the shovel and says "Be like me." Only they saw him. The magpie will fly away or the ferry will melt there. And the shovel from this will become self-digging. She digs the earth herself. Digs and throws where necessary.

The digger's eyes are on his forehead, and a shovel works for ten.

Or, say, a guy cuts a forest with an axe. Tries. He wants to overpower his power. Suddenly a woodpecker will fly to him, sit on an ax and shout: “Be like me!” And there is no woodpecker. And the ax is wrapped around with a self-cutting ax. He cuts himself. Just indicate where to cut, which tree to cut down.

So it is in every business.

Somehow, a horse died, on which the son of the miners from the mountain carried ore to the blast furnace. Die family. Nothing to buy a horse. And suddenly a stray dog comes running. She barked something like that to the cart, and then barked: “Be like me.”

The son of the miners looks - the dog is gone, and the cart itself went on its own. You don't even have to order. Mentally controlled. Wherever a person intends, there he turns. Moreover, when necessary, she arbitrarily dumps the ore from herself.

There have been many such cases in our area. Wherever Grandpa Samo appears, to what working tool he gives his name, this tool starts working by itself. Even self-tapping machines appeared. Self saw saws. Self-propelled boats. Furnaces-samovars. Stop and order. The furnaces themselves fill up the charge, they themselves produce the release of steel.

What a trough in which linen is washed, and then Samo’s grandfather made self-washing for one old woman. Throw only shirts into it, and it will wash and wring out.

And everything would be fine if the rust didn’t eat up the ax and the shovel, if the rot didn’t destroy the trough, if time didn’t destroy the furnace, the carts wouldn’t drive out.

The time has come - grandfather Samo is gone. His self-powered self-made self-propelled guns were worn out. There was no one to say a secret word, "be like me" to utter. Only the fairy tale about grandfather Samo remained. This one I'm talking about.

For a long time she entertained the people with a good hope, and over the years it has grown into fiction. Became empty talk. Rarely, rarely, some old man another time, tipsy, will retell her grandchildren. One will laugh, the other will not believe, and the third will let it in into the right ear, let it out into the left nostril.

But not all grandchildren were like that. There were eared and big-headed ones. They started thinking, talking.

- Not in vain, - they say, - such a fairy tale lived among the people. For something she had an effect.

Hunting has become for big-headed grandchildren to dig with a self-propelled shovel, to ride on a self-propelled cart, to sharpen on a self-propelled machine.

Well done thought.

Some began to look for grandfather's magic word Samo, while others - the most big-headed ones - saw a hint in a fairy tale. They didn't seek the secret word. The head and hands were harnessed to a fairy tale-hint. And they weren't wrong.

The shovel began to dig by itself. Self-propelled plows in the field went out. No horse, no horse. And besides, they began to fly. The flying machine was called an airplane. A self-driving machine was called a self-tapping machine. Self-running stroller - scooter. Self-tying machine - self-tying. A dump truck - a dump truck ... And is it just that? Many other things begin with the name of Grandpa Samo.

And in the last September of the first Leninist century, the interplanetary-sparkling name of grandfather Samo was attached to the divolonny ship. Shorter than short, fuller than full, he called himself.

Self-takeoff. Self-planted. Self-managed. Self-drilling. Self-loading. Self-unloading. Self-seeing. Self listening. Self-answering... And thirty-three more titles, each beginning with the name Self.

And Samo himself healed again. Not alone. Not fabulous. Lived by scientists miracle workers healed. It is now in their power to order “be like me” to everything that can become an unquestioning servant of a person and when it is necessary to replace him in any comprehension, both upwards and in depths and breadths ...

The wisdom of the old fairy tale about grandfather Samo again spoke about the liberation of the hands of a person from what is beyond their strength.

About Grandpa Samo

Where and when Samo's grandfather lived - no one knows. They only say that he worked at all the factories, visited all the mines. He knew the blast-furnace business and also understood the steelworks. And he burned coal and flattened sheets, forged damask steel and mined ore. Nothing fell out of his hands. Everything could. He even forged his own death. No matter how much she chased after him, she could not catch up. Heavy horseshoes interfered. She limped on both legs. And for this reason, Samo's grandfather lived until he got bored.

Grandpa Samo lived well. For people. Not for everyone, let's say, but only for the honest. And especially for those who have never had a dry forehead, whose hands have not dangled in vain. Lived for the workers.

He will see Samo a working person - he will definitely reward him.

He will come to him, say, an old wanderer or an old old woman, or even a goat or a starling. Him what? He could even crawl into the house like a black cockroach - bring happiness.

And he brought happiness. Labor. Working.

Digging, say, an old man with a shovel. Gets out of strength. Grandfather Samo will come to him and start tare-bars, rastabars ... About this and that. And then he whispers a secret word to the shovel and says: "Be like me." Only they saw him. The magpie will fly away or the ferry will melt there. And the shovel from this will become self-digging. She digs the earth herself. Digs and throws where necessary.

The old man's eyes pop into his forehead, and a shovel for ten people digs up a garden, makes furrows - it requires work.

So it is in every business.

The son of the miners is looking - the dog is gone, and the cart went by itself on its own. You don't even have to order. Mentally controlled. Wherever a person intends, he turns there. Moreover, when necessary, it dumps the ore from itself.

There have been many such cases in our area. Wherever grandfather Samo appears, to which working tool he gives his name - this tool starts working by itself. Even self-tapping machines appeared. Self saw saws. Self-propelled boats. Furnaces-samovars. Stop and order. The furnaces themselves fill up the charge, they themselves produce the release of steel.

What a trough in which linen is washed, and then Samo’s grandfather made self-washing for one old woman. Throw only shirts into it, and it will wash and wring out.

And everything would be fine if the rust didn’t eat up the ax and the shovel, if the rot didn’t destroy the trough, if time didn’t destroy the furnace, the carts wouldn’t drive out.

The time has come - grandfather Samo is gone. His self-powered self-made self-propelled guns were worn out. There was no one to say a secret word and "be like me" to utter. Only the fairy tale about grandfather Samo remained. This one I'm talking about.

For a long time she lived a true story among the people, and over the years it has grown into a fiction. Became empty talk. Rarely, rarely, some old man another time, tipsy, will retell her grandchildren. One will laugh, the other will not believe, and the third will let it in into the right ear, let it out into the nostril.

But not all grandchildren were like that. There were eared and big-headed ones. They started thinking, talking.

Not in vain, - they say, - such a fairy tale lived among the people. For something she had an effect.

Hunting has become for big-headed grandchildren to dig with a self-propelled shovel, to ride on a self-propelled cart, to sharpen on a self-propelled machine.

Well done thought.

Some began to search for the magic word of grandfather Samo, while others - the most big-headed ones - saw a hint in a fairy tale. They didn't seek the secret word. The head and hands were harnessed to a fairy tale-hint. And they weren't wrong.

The shovel began to dig by itself. The cart ran by itself. No horse, no horse. And besides, they began to fly. The flying machine was called an airplane. A self-driving machine was called a self-tapping machine. Self-running stroller - scooter. Self-tying machine - self-tying. A dump truck - a dump truck ... And is it just that? Many other things begin with the name of Grandpa Samo.

Learned people, masters of words, perhaps they will judge all this in a different way. Just don't argue with them. Let her live. It amuses the soul. It warms the heart and praises the Ural old people, who, in the torments of martyrdom, in overwork, invented this fairy tale and made them live with light-winged hope-thinking about a self-powered helper machine ...

Let him live. Maybe she will put the name of her grandfather Samo on more than one new car.

Evgeny Permyak

Grandpa's piggy bank

When my grandmother was a granddaughter, she loved fairy tales very much. And her grandfather used to tell her stories.

A granddaughter would come running to her grandfather and:

Tell me, grandfather, a fairy tale!

Which one do you want.

Then the grandfather tells his granddaughter to give a wooden chiseled mushroom, he will open the cap-cap of the fungus and begin to rummage through the fungus. And there are a lot of all sorts of things in the fungus. And a goose feather, and a rainbow button, and fragments from glasses, and a white-yar grain. Grandfather will sort through all sorts of things, revise and begin to tell a fairy tale.

Once the granddaughter asks the grandfather:

And why are you asking for a fungus, how to start telling a fairy tale?

And her grandfather answered her:

This is not a fungus, granddaughter, but a piggy bank.

What piggy bank, grandfather?

Fabulous. Dedushkin. After all, I, the granddaughter, was also a grandson, and my grandfather told me fairy tales too. If he comes up with a fairy tale or hears it, he will immediately put a memo trinket in the piggy bank so that he does not forget the fairy tale. A fairy tale about a goose is a goose feather. About a candle - a little cinder, about white wheat - a grain.

And you, granddaughter, do it when you become a grandmother. I bequeath this grandfather's piggy bank to you.

This is what my granddaughter did when she became a grandmother. I added my reminders to my grandfather's piggy bank. And now we have inherited this piggy bank. And we not only preserve this heritage, but multiply it to the best of our ability.

You will get this piggy bank - do the same. And now let's see what is in this piggy bank.

Who grinds flour

How Fire married Water

The red-haired robber Fire passionately fell in love with the cold beauty Water. He fell in love and decided to marry her. But how can Fire-Water marry, so as not to extinguish itself and dry it out?

Began asking. And everyone has the same answer:

What are you thinking, redhead? What kind of a match is she for you? What are you? Why do you need cold water, childless family?

The Fire yearned, burned. Through the forests, through the villages, he went on fire. So it is worn, only the red mane flutters in the wind.

Fire walked, Fire grieved and met with an intelligent artisan. His name was Ivan.

Fire fell at his feet. Low smoke spreads. From the last forces, blue tongues are smoldering.

You are a craftsman, you can do everything. I want to quit robbery, I want to live in my own house. I want to marry water. Yes, so that she does not extinguish me and I do not dry her.

Don't worry, fire. I'm getting married. I'll marry.

The artisan said so and began to build the tower. He built a tower and ordered the wedding to be played, the guests to be called.

Fire relatives came from the groom's side: Aunt Lightning and cousin Vulkan. He had no more relatives in the world.

From the bride's side came the elder brother Dense Fog, the middle brother Oblique Rain and the younger sister of Water - Clear-Eyed Dew.

They came and argued.

You, Ivan, have conceived an unheard-of deed, - says Vulkan and puffs on a flame. - It has never happened before that our fiery clan chose a bride from the water rock.

And the craftsman answers this:

How could it not happen! Oblique Rain with fire Lightning live in the same cloud and do not complain about each other.

It's all so, - said the Thick Fog, - only I know by myself: where the Fire is, where it is warm, there I begin to thin out.

Both I and I dry out from the heat, - Rosa complained. - I'm afraid that the Fire would dry up my sister Water.

Here Ivan said firmly:

I built such a tower that they will live in it and rejoice. That's why I'm a craftsman.

Believed. The wedding began to play.

Went to dance Lightning with Oblique Rain. The Volcano lit up, flashed with a bright flame, in the clear eyes of Dew, it began to play with fiery highlights. Dense Fog plundered, crawled away to rest in a ravine.

The guests at the wedding took a walk and went home. And the artisan man brought the bride and groom into the tower. He showed everyone his mansions, congratulated the young people and wished them an endless life and a heroic son.

How much, how little time has passed, only the mother Water gave birth from the father of Fire to the heroic son.

A good son grew up to be a hero. Hot as dear Father Fire. And the appearance of uncles is thick and whitish, like fog. Important and moist, like dear mother Water. Strong as Volcano, as Auntie Lightning.

All relatives recognize their blood in him. Even Rain and Dew see themselves in him when he freezes and drops to the ground.

A good name was given to the heroic son: Par.

The Par-bogatyr will sit on the cart - the cart will roll with his force, and even a hundred other carts will be lucky by train.

Steam the miracle worker will step on the ship - remove the sails. Without wind, the ship rolls, cuts through the wave, gives a steamy voice, warms the sailors with its warmth.

He will come to the factory - he will turn the wheels. Where a hundred people worked - one is enough. He grinds flour, threshes bread, weaves chintz, carries people and luggage - helps the people, mother, father pleases.

And to this day, Fire and Water live in the same iron cauldron-tower. Neither she extinguishes him, nor he can dry her. They live happily. Endlessly. Wide.

Year by year, the strength of their heroic son is growing, and the glory of the Russian craftsman does not fade. The whole world now knows that he cold water he forced me to marry for the hot Fire, and put their son-hero to us, grandchildren-great-grandchildren, into the service.

How the samovar was harnessed

Different people tell different stories about the same thing. That's what I heard from my grandmother ... Master Foki, a dock of all trades, had a son. Also called Foka. In the father of Fok, Fokich went savvy. Nothing escaped his eyes. He gave everything. He also learned to croak before the rain - to predict the weather.

Foka Fokich is sitting somehow - drinking tea. And from the samovar through the steam engine thick steam pours. With a whistle. Even the kettle on the burner shudders.

Look at you, what power is wasted! It would not be bad to put you to work, - says Foka Fokich and thinks how this can be done.

What else is this? - the lazy Samovar puffed and snorted. - It’s enough for me that I boil boiling water, warm the kettle, amuse my soul with a song, show off on the table.

It is true, says Foka Fokic. - Only songs to sing and in public everyone can show off. It would be nice to adapt you, Samovar, to thresh bread.

When the Samovar heard this, it boiled up and began spitting boiling water. Look, he'll run away. And Foka Fokich scooped it up and carried it out to the threshing current and let's attach an impeller with a cunning lever to it there.

He attached a wheel with a cunning lever and, well, boil the Samovar for full steam. The samovar boils to the fullest, the wheel turns, it works with a cunning lever, like a hand.

Fock Fokich moved the drive belt from the impeller to the threshing handwheel and:

Eh, keep up, do not yawn, untie the sheaves, put them in the thresher.

Samovar began to thresh bread, to be nicknamed a steam engine. But the character remains the same. Quarrelsome. Look at him, he will burst from anger - he will scald the steam.

Here you are! - says Foka Fokich. - Wait, I'll think of a better job for you.

I didn't have to think long. Once Fokie Fokich's horse went lame. And you have to go to the city. And Fok Fokich thought of harnessing the Samovar.

Fok Fokich knocked the Samovar on its side. He bent a pipe to him so that she looked at the sky. Fitted strong wheels under it. He forged cunning connecting rod levers and made their wheels turn. And so that the Samovar does not burst with anger, he bound it with good iron. Then he attached a tarantass to the Samovar, and a cart to the tarantass, loaded it with what was necessary, raised the steam and:

Eh, hurry up, where you need to turn. Give me a couple!

Where and when Samo's grandfather lived - no one knows.

Nothing fell out of his hands. Everything could.

He will see Samo a working person - he will definitely reward him.

He will come to him, say, an old wanderer or a cheerful old woman, or even a goat or a starling. Him what? He could even crawl into the house with a whistling cricket - bring happiness.

And he brought happiness. Labor. Working.

Digging, say, an old man with a shovel. Gets out of strength. Grandfather Samo will come to him and start tare-bars, rastabars... About this and that. And then he whispers a secret word to the shovel and says "Be like me." Only they saw him. The magpie will fly away or the ferry will melt there. And the shovel from this will become self-digging. She digs the earth herself. Digs and throws where necessary.

The digger's eyes are on his forehead, and a shovel works for ten.

So it is in every business.

The son of the miners is looking - the dog is gone, and the cart itself has gone self-propelled. You don't even have to order. Mentally controlled. Wherever a person intends, he turns there. Moreover, when necessary, she dumps the ore from herself without permission.

There have been many such cases in our area. Wherever Grandpa Samo appears, to which working tool he gives his name, this tool starts working by itself. Even self-tapping machines appeared. Self saw saws. Self-propelled boats. Furnaces-samovars. Stop and order. The furnaces themselves fill up the charge, they themselves produce the release of steel.

What a trough in which linen is washed, and then Samo’s grandfather made self-washing for one old woman. Throw only shirts into it, and it will wash and wring out.

And everything would be fine if the rust didn’t eat up the ax and the shovel, if the rot didn’t destroy the trough, if time didn’t destroy the furnace, the carts wouldn’t drive out.

But not all grandchildren were like that. There were eared and big-headed ones. They started thinking, talking.

Not in vain, - they say, - such a fairy tale lived among the people. For something she had an effect.

Hunting has become for big-headed grandchildren to dig with a self-propelled shovel, to ride on a self-propelled cart, to sharpen on a self-propelled machine.

Well done thought.

Self-takeoff. Self-planted. Self-managed. Self-drilling. Self-loading. Self-unloading. Self-seeing. Self listening. Self-answering... And thirty-three more titles, each beginning with the name Self.

The wisdom of the old fairy tale about grandfather Samo again spoke about the liberation of the hands of a person from what is beyond their strength.