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Read and fairy tales about cherries. Cherry - a children's fairy tale The Tale of the Cherry Tree

Information for parents: Under the Cherry is a fairy tale by the famous writer Astrid Lindgren. The tale tells the story of a little girl who sits on a bench by a village road. A woman was walking there and spoke to a girl who began to tell her that her mother was adopted, and then gypsies stole her back, and she committed suicide as an adult. The fairy tale "Under the Cherry" is recommended for reading to older children from 9 to 12 years old. Enjoy reading.

Read the fairy tale Under the cherry

On a summer evening, Ann sits under a cherry tree and watches the flying swallows. Cherry is covered with snow-white flowers. Oh, how beautiful she is! She would stand in the sky so that little angels could swing on her branches. Maybe she used to stand in heaven, and then God transferred her to earth so that Ann could sit under her summer evenings. Who knows! Maybe this wonderful tree is magical and can fulfill all desires? And nobody knows.

Ann decides to try it right away. But it’s not good to wish a lot at once, because no one has asked anything from this tree for a long time, it has lost the habit of fulfilling desires. You can’t immediately take and wish ... well, for example, little pony. It can be desired later, when it gets used to doing whatever you ask. Ann doesn't want to be greedy and decides to ask for something lighter.

“I want someone walking down the road now that I can chat with,” she says loudly, looking at the white cherry blossoms. Ann is waiting. And it is necessary! Just five minutes later, my aunt appears on the road. Ann doesn't know her. She probably lives in a boarding house nearby.

Aunt stops and looks at Ann. Oh, what a beauty: a pretty little girl, with dreamy blue eyes, sitting under a fabulously beautiful cherry blossom.

Ann smiles at her invitingly.

“Good evening, my friend,” says aunt, “are you sitting here all alone?”

“Yes,” Ann replies, “do you want to sit with me?”

Ann knows not to say "you" to adults. But if you can’t say “you” to them, then how can you talk to them? And not to say a word to adults is somehow embarrassing. And so Ann, without hesitation, says:

- Do you want to sit with me?

Of course, my aunt wants to babysit Ann. She gladly sits down on the green bench next to Ann, strokes her blond head and asks:

“You look so small and alone.

“Yes,” she says, sighing, “I'm lonely.

— Where is your mother? - asks the aunt.

- My mom died.

There is silence.

“Poor child,” says the aunt at last. Ann shows on big White House deep in the garden.

“Mommy lived there when she was alive.

“That’s how it is,” Auntie says sympathetically.

“But she wasn't born there,” Ann continues.

- So, where was she born?

- No one knows. My mother is a foundling. In this white house lived a master and one lady. They were my grandparents, you know? And then one morning they went out into the garden and found mom just under this cherry.

It seems that the aunt does not really believe this.

“Yes, yes, it’s true,” Ann assures her vividly. Mom was sleeping under a tree, wrapped in a dirty blanket. My grandparents didn't have children and were glad they found my mom.

“Yes, and this does not happen,” the unfamiliar aunt thinks.

And did they know who put it there? - asks the aunt.

- What do you think? Exactly, they found out, - Ann answers.

- Indeed? And who was it?

- Gypsies. They drove past our house at night and took my mother with them. Nobody knows why they put it under the tree. When my mother was three years old, one day she was sitting under a tree on a bench, that's how we are now. And guess what happened to her?

- How should I know!

“They came back and took my mother away, you understand? They grabbed it and stuffed it into their wagon and rushed off so that only sparks flew from under the wheels. Oh, how grandma cried!

- It seems to me that you sit and invent all sorts of fables.

- Not at all. After all, this is my mother, and I know everything about her.

“But you don’t look like a gypsy at all,” says the aunt, looking at the girl’s blue eyes and golden hair.

“And I look like my dad.”

“So what happened to your mom then?”

- Mom learned to sing and dance and do all sorts of tricks. Wherever the gypsies came, she danced, and then went around with a red hat and collected money.

- Wow! - says aunt.

“At this time, grandparents were looking for mom everywhere,” says Ann, “with all the gypsies. But all the gypsies look alike, and it was very difficult to find her. But one evening...

"And what happened that evening?" - with interest asks aunt.

“Once the gypsies were driving along this road again. And my mother was sitting in the same wagon. She forgot her grandparents. And when she saw this cherry, she said loudly: “Look, this is my cherry.”

Grandfather and grandmother were just sitting on this bench and heard this. The gypsies have pitched their camp in that meadow. At night, my grandfather sneaked in there and stole my mother back. The gypsy leader woke up and shot at the grandfather. But grandfather hid my mother under his jacket, ran home as fast as he could and locked the door.

The unfamiliar aunt was about to say something, but at that moment a cart appeared on the road, many carts. It rolls past the gypsy camp. Ann turns pale. She tightly grabs her aunt by the hand and shouts:

- Save me! They want to steal me! They want to take me away from my grandparents, just like they took my mother. Save me!

Auntie is scared too. She thought Ann was making up stories, and now she doesn't know what to think.

“Save me,” Ann whispers.

But before her aunt can figure out what to do, Ann nimbly climbs a tree and hides in its flowering branches.

Gypsy wagons stop near the aunt. Auntie grabs her heart with her hand, it is clear that she is very nervous. A dark-skinned man sitting in the first wagon, waving a whip in the form of a greeting, asks:

“Can we pitch a camp in that meadow over there?”

The meadow does not belong to this aunt at all, but she screams in fright:

- No, by no means! Get out of here! You cannot stop here.

The gypsy grunts angrily through his teeth:

We always stopped at this meadow! We are honest people. We don't steal anything.

"We don't steal anything! - Auntie thinks to herself. “Only children are stolen.”

- Get away! she screeches.

“Well done, you did well,” she says, approvingly clapping her aunt on the arm. The aunt hugs Ann by the shoulders, as if protecting her. No one will dare to steal this lovely baby, she will protect her.

“Do you want to know what happened to my mom then?” Ann asked.

“Of course I do,” my aunt replied.

— You know, my mother was very fond of this cherry. And one night, right after grandpa stole it back from the gypsies, she climbed on it, that's how I am now. She just made it to the top. And from there she suddenly fell down and lay dead on the grass, white as a cherry blossom.

“Ah, poor child,” exclaims the aunt with a sad look.

But suddenly her face is filled with color, and she abruptly rises from the bench. Ann doesn't notice.

“There are many cherries in the sky like this one,” Ann says dreamily. - And there mom with other angels sways on the branches.

- Shut up! Aunt is outraged. “Shame on you for making up such nonsense. Do you want people to believe you that your mother died as a small child?! Farewell, little liar, she says, and walks away.

“My mother really died when she was little,” Ann shouts angrily after her.

But she immediately forgets about the unfamiliar aunt. After all, she sits under a tree that grants wishes. Staring at the cherry blossoms, Ann says loudly:

“I want a little pony!”

She sits and waits. But the pony doesn't show up. But another aunt appears in the garden with the same dreamy eyes and golden hair as Ann's.

“Well, baby, it’s time for bed soon,” she says. Grandma and Grandpa are calling you for dinner.

“Okay, Mom, I’m going,” Ann says obediently.

But she doesn't leave right away. Flower petals fall on her head, but she does not notice them. Little Ann sits under a cherry tree and looks at the flying swallows.

Tale of the cherry forest. Part 1

Rosemary stood at the window and looked at the tall cherry trees. These were special trees, with thick, resilient trunks and a crown reaching into the sky.

Trunks tens of meters high grew close to each other. Their bare torsos cast shadows, creating twilight even on a sunny day.

Throwing your head back, you could see branches covered with foliage and cherries. The morning light touched only the tops of the trees, helping the berries to fill with juice.

Forest dwellers treated cherry plantations with trepidation. The cherry fed them all year round. But getting to the very top was extremely difficult.

People selected the most dexterous and strong for their team. Each group was assigned a leader. He was always at the bottom: giving orders, resolving disputes and motivating lazy people.

There were also those who mined cherries, uniting with family members. Some of the relatives were weaker, some stronger, but they were saved by the family spirit. Secrets passed down from generation to generation also helped. They owned in unique ways how to reach the tops of the trees faster and safer and come down with a sweet trophy.

In the forest also lived those who coped alone or in pairs. Such did not tolerate other people's instructions and possessed a remarkable mind and adventurism. pure water experimenters and fearless innovators.

Even if they had to harvest a small crop, this did not stop them. They took risks and tried all new ways to pick fruit trees. Over time, they took assistants for a portion of the sweet berry and a free daily routine. And then they formed their own groups, where they no longer worked, but simply led the process.

Rosemary was a cherry picker with the Westwood brothers. They owned two trees in the middle of the clearing. They were firm but fair leaders. They assigned a clear role to each member of the team and monitored its implementation.

Ernie was responsible for the health of the workers. He made sure that those who climbed trees did not have corns and abrasions. Pierre invented mechanisms to facilitate lifting people and lowering baskets of cherries. Ronald and Mel insured the high-altitude workers in the event of a fall. Dalena tilled the ground at the roots and got rid of the bark beetles. Danika counted the collected cherries and shared them among the team members.

Vitel, Ron and Rosemary had the most responsible task. They climbed up to the clouds and carefully harvested, cherry by cherry. And then, without saying a single gram, they returned to the earth and handed it over to the Westwood brothers.

From day to day, Rosemary rushed about without a break. Her most ordinary day presented an unenviable picture. Early rise. Quick fees. Jogging up to the Westwood trees. Tense climbing up, touching knots and branches. Hasty harvest. Hasty descent. Climbing up the cherry trunks again and down again. And so on until dark.

Partner Ron held out his hand to her several times and offered to take her basket to facilitate the descent. But she rejected his help, preferring to cope on her own:

Thanks, Ron. I do not need. I always lifted this basket and nothing, - she answered with undisguised pride.

Ron made a couple more obvious attempts to court the girl, but soon stopped caring for an independent colleague.

After receiving her portion of cherries from Danica's bookkeeper, Rosemary was heading home. She froze part of it for the winter, made jam from part, and packed the remaining portion for elderly relatives.

Exhausted, she went to bed. As soon as her head touched the pillow, as the morning came, which means new stage for picking berries. Again she took high speed without noticing what is happening around.

Only occasionally did she glance at the neighboring trees, where her girlfriends were chirping cheerfully.

I don't have time for such nonsense. Here are the lazybones! she thought, and continued to work without interruption until late at night.

She wanted to make good impression on others with their diligence and have time to fulfill the plan.

So the months passed. Two cherry trees of the Westwood family and her own house That was her world. She did not go beyond it. The girl was tired, she felt unhappy, but she had long been accustomed to this.

“How could it be otherwise? she thought. - After all, everyone lives like this: they climb the cherry with difficulty, harvest the crop from morning to evening, and before going to bed they make juices and casseroles from it. That's how life works. Poor, I am poor, this is my fate.

But one Sunday, there was a knock on her door.

Rosemary, my girl! - V doorway a blond, curly-haired lady appeared. Behind her stood two men and smiled affably.

Honey, I didn't expect it! What fates? Without warning? – surprised and delighted at the same time hostess.

- Yes, you always have no time! - began to make excuses girlfriend. “My Dany and I decided to visit you. Won't you kick us out?! The guest burst out laughing. “And this is family friend Mark. He wanted to keep us company.

Rosemary was embarrassed and unprepared for a spontaneous visit. But her conscience did not allow her to leave the guests on the street.

Mark regarded Rosemary with interest. As soon as he wanted to introduce himself to her personally, she beat him to it:

“Let's get to know each other, Mark,” she blurted out and aggressively began to question him. She diluted the interrogation with a story about herself. - Are you a local or a visitor? What brings you to my house? How do you find the view from the window? Look, you can see the trees I'm working on there. Would you like to try the cherry pie I picked with my own hands? I climbed to the very top for her...

It turned out that Mark himself owns a cherry plantation. But things are not going uphill. Trees rarely bear fruit because of the mineral-poor soil.

Rosemary, as if turned on, spun in the kitchen and bombarded the guest with questions. Mark reluctantly kept up the conversation, and then completely fell silent. He felt how active Rosemary was. He felt uncomfortable and uncomfortable in this house, where he had to either overcome her pressure, or become quieter than the grass himself.

– Something you are not talkative today, my friend? Dany asked.

- I don't feel well. Work week, worries, you know, - Mark immediately came up with an excuse.

- Yes? And I forget about work on weekends. Especially when my Mila is nearby, - with these words he hugged his wife.

Mila exuded tender femininity. In her slow gestures, smile read calmness and equanimity. She did not set the tone for the conversation, only occasionally expressing her opinion or defusing the situation with a joke.

Mark began to gather one of the first. Rosemary volunteered to escort him to the crossroads, but Mila called her aside.

“My dear, you should stop and take care of yourself. He will find his own way. Look how big.

- What are you talking about? Rosemary stood bewildered.

You are always busy and too active. You have a tired look and a shifty look. You think and talk only about work, you are directly and immodestly interested in someone else's life. Mark doesn't seem to understand if he's going to be okay with you.

– Is it bad? I have a lot to talk about, I'm funny, what's wrong?

“From the outside, I feel different. You have no peace. On the contrary, you are fussy and restless. And a man feels good where there is calm.

“Girls, you are talking about something,” Denis called to his wife.

- Already going! - Mila responded and turned to Rosemary in farewell. – Find some time in the week, we’ll go to the Cocktail Room. They serve wonderful milk and berry drinks. At the same time we will discuss everything.

“It's a bit difficult this week,” the hostess hesitated. “There is so much more to be done.

"Hold your horses, dear!" Otherwise, you won't be able to do anything. You will be exhausted at the next turn, - Mila winked at her friend and disappeared behind the door.

Rosemary was left alone with her thoughts: “And what did Mila want to say with all this?”

It looks like this:

Rest is not an idle occupation, but an irreplaceable source of energy.

Men are attracted to peaceful women.

The Tale of the Vocation This is a tale about a man who, in his youth, began to think about his vocation. He studied well and was not the weakest boy in school, because he did everything and a lot - he ran and jumped, fought and played chess. He was respected by teachers and always and always