Ryab hen and 10 ducklings read. Poached hen and ten ducklings - Samuil Marshak. Ryaba chicken and ten ducklings

Do you know the tale about the grandfather and the woman
And a chicken pock?
If you know her
May I
Tell you another story.
Once upon a time there were other grandfather and woman,
And there was another hen of them.
The chicken laid the testicle
Not golden
Simple.
Not soft-boiled
And not cool
And the most ordinary
Raw.
The mouse was running
She waved her tail
The testicle fell
And it crashed.
Crying bitterly
Poached chicken.
Spared the chicken
Woman,
I ran into the chicken coop with a basket,
And in the basket are duck eggs,
Not one, but a dozen.
- Hatch, poached, ducklings!
And the pockmarked chicken is happy.
She doesn't need anything else.
She immediately got down to business
The whole ten sat down to hatch.
He sits all day and night.
Rarely rarely eat and drink.
Soon hatched from a brood hen
From the shells fluffy children
A whole dozen
Yellow ducklings.
Squealed one by one:
- We want to eat!
We want to drink!
We want to live!
They don't look like chickens:
On the legs - skin membranes,
And their noses are flat, long,
Not chicken,
And duck.
A mother hen came out with the children
Take a walk from the gate, take a peck.
It rakes the ground nimbly,
Looks for crumbs and grains with his paw.
I found and calls ducklings,
And the ducklings don't want to go
We ran away into a groove somewhere
They nibble fresh grass with their beaks.
And the chicken
Short nose
Not grown to duck.
It is good for her to peck grain,
And pinching the grass is tricky.
Ducklings hobble behind a chicken
Down the green street.
They saw a wide pond
They ran to the water - and they float,
They drink water, overtake each other ...
And the hen screams out of fright:
- Where-where! Where-where! Where are you going?
Or don't you see? This is water!
Such a chicken is a bird
That water, like fire, is afraid.
And the ducklings, sensing freedom,
So they cut the icy water.
They do not want to leave the water.
The mother hen looks at the ducklings,
Walks restlessly along the shore
The eye does not take the naughty children away.
- Ko-ko-ko! - He speaks. - Ko-ko-ko!
You will drown! It's deep there!
And she herself would go into the water,
Yes, the hen does not swim!
Nine ducklings return
They go out to waddle, in a hurry.
Only the younger does not want to return,
Flaps its wings, wets its head.
I saw a swimmer - and dived.
And the hen shouts: - Help!
The youngest son drowned!
So the tenth duckling came out,
The rest of the ducklings are gone
Each friend is following a chain
And the pond goes to the other.
They had a little more to run.
Suddenly a whiskered cat was meeting.
She hid behind the grass
Only moves his head slightly,
She squints at the waddling ducklings.
Yes, a chicken spotted her.
I looked with an angry eye,
Fluff and feathers ruffled at once
And, although she did not know how to fly before,
An arrow flew over the ground.
Swooped in and rushed into battle
Covering all the ducklings.
The cat had a bad time in this fight.
She runs away without looking back
On the grass between bumps and stumps.
And the hen
In pursuit
For her
Through holes, bumps and bumps ...
What a brave Ryaba hen!

Do you know the tale about the grandfather and the woman

And a chicken pock?

If you know her

Tell you another story.

Once upon a time there were other grandfather and woman,

And there was another hen of them.

The chicken laid the testicle

Not golden

Not soft-boiled

And not cool

And the most ordinary

Raw.

The mouse was running

She waved her tail

The testicle fell

And it crashed.

Crying bitterly

Poached chicken.

Spared the chicken

I ran into the chicken coop with a basket,

And in the basket are duck eggs,

Not one, but a dozen.

Hatch, poached, ducklings!

And the pockmarked chicken is happy.

She doesn't need anything else.

She immediately got down to business

The whole ten sat down to hatch.

He sits all day and night.

Rarely rarely eat and drink.

Soon hatched from a brood hen

From the shells fluffy children

A whole dozen

Yellow ducklings.

Squealed one by one:

We want to eat!

We want to drink!

We want to live!

They don't look like chickens:

On the legs - skin membranes,

And their noses are flat, long,

Not chicken,

And duck.

A mother chicken came out with the children

Take a walk from the gate, take a peck.

It rakes the ground nimbly,

Looks for crumbs and grains with his paw.

I found and calls ducklings,

And the ducklings don't want to go

We ran away into a groove somewhere

They nibble fresh grass with their beaks.

And the chicken

Short nose

Not grown to duck.

It is good for her to peck grain,

And pinching the grass is tricky.

Ducklings hobble behind a chicken

Down the green street.

They saw a wide pond

They ran to the water - and they float,

They drink water, overtake each other ...

And the hen screams out of fright:

Where-where! Where-where! Where are you going?

Or don't you see? This is water!

Such a chicken is a bird

That water, like fire, is afraid.

And the ducklings, sensing freedom,

So they cut the icy water.

They do not want to leave the water.

The mother hen looks at the ducklings,

Walks restlessly along the shore

The eye does not take naughty children off.

Ko-ko-ko! - He speaks. - Ko-ko-ko!

You will drown! It's deep there!

And she herself would go into the water,

Yes, the hen does not swim!

Nine ducklings return

They go out to waddle, in a hurry.

Only the younger does not want to return,

He flaps his wings, wets his head.

I saw a swimmer - and dived.

And the hen shouts: - Help!

The youngest son drowned!

So the tenth duckling came out,

The rest of the ducklings are gone

Each friend is following a chain

And the pond goes to the other.

They had a little more to run.

Suddenly a whiskered cat was meeting.

She hid behind the grass

Only moves his head slightly,

She squints at the waddling ducklings.

Yes, a chicken spotted her.

I looked with an angry eye,

Fluff and feathers ruffled at once

And, although she did not know how to fly before,

An arrow flew over the ground.

Swooped in and rushed into battle

Covering all the ducklings.

The cat had a bad time in this fight.

She runs away without looking back

On the grass between bumps and stumps.

And the hen

In pursuit

Through holes, bumps and bumps ...

What a brave Ryaba hen!

Do you know the fairy tale about the grandfather and the woman And the ryaba chicken? If you know her, Can I Tell you another story. Once upon a time there were other grandfathers and a woman, And there was another hen of the ryaba. The chicken took the egg, Not golden, Simple. Not soft-boiled And not steep, And the most ordinary - Raw. The mouse ran, waved its tail - The testicle fell And broke. The Poached Chicken is crying bitterly. Baba took pity on the chicken, She ran into the chicken coop with a basket, And in the basket - duck eggs, Not one, but a dozen. - Hatch, poached, ducklings! And the pockmarked chicken is happy. She doesn't need anything else. She immediately got down to business - the whole ten to hatch the village. He sits all day and night. Rarely rarely eat and drink. Soon the hen hatched from the shells of fluffy babies - A dozen Yellow ducklings. They squealed one by one: - We want to eat! We want to drink! We want to live! They do not look like chickens: They have skin membranes on their legs, And their noses are flat, long, Not chicken, But duck's. A mother hen came out with the children Out of the gate to take a walk, to peck. It rakes the ground nimbly, Looking for crumbs and grain with its paw She found and calls the ducklings, And the ducklings don't want to go - They ran away somewhere in the groove, They pinch fresh grass with their beaks. And the chicken has a short nose, Not grown to duck. It is good for her to peck the grain, And it is tricky to pinch the grass. Ducklings hobble behind a chicken, Down the green street. We saw a wide pond, They ran to the water - and they float, They drink water, overtake each other ... And the hen screams in fright: - Where-where! Where-where! Where are you going? Or don't you see? This is water! Such a chicken is a bird That fears water like fire. And the ducklings, sensing freedom, So cut the icy water. They do not want to leave the water. The hen-mother looks at the ducklings, Restlessly walks along the shore, The eye does not take the naughty children off. - Ko-ko-ko! - He speaks. - Ko-ko-ko! You will drown! It's deep there! And she herself would have gone into the water, But the poached hen does not swim! Nine ducklings return, Waddle out, in a hurry. Only the younger does not want to return, flaps his wings, wets his head. I saw a swimmer - and dived. And the hen shouts: - Help! The youngest son drowned! So the tenth duckling came out, Yes, the rest of the ducklings are gone - Each friend is following a chain, And a pond is heading to another. They had a little more to run. Suddenly a whiskered cat was meeting. She hid behind the grass, Only drives her head slightly, Squints at waddling ducklings. Yes, a chicken spotted her. She looked with an angry eye, fluffed Pooh and feathers at once And, although she had not been able to fly before, She flew like an arrow over the earth. She flew in and rushed into battle, Covering all the ducklings. The cat had a bad time in this fight. She runs away without looking back On the grass between bumps and stumps. And the hen - After her - Through the pits, hillocks and bumps ... Well, the brave poached hen!

Great about poetry:

Poetry is like painting: another work will captivate you more if you look at it up close, and another if you go further away.

Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of greasy wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which fell through.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is the most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen sparkles.

Humboldt W.

Poems work well if they are created with spiritual clarity.

Writing poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish poetry grows without knowing shame ... Like a dandelion by the fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: \u200b\u200bit is spread everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life blows from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a mental growth disease.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn along the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing within us. As he tells us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens our love and our sorrow in our souls. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no room for quibbling.

Murasaki Shikibu

I am referring to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags a stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

-… Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! - suddenly boldly and frankly said Ivan.
- Do not write anymore! - asked the visitor pleadingly.
- I promise and I swear! - Ivan said solemnly ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them in words.

John Fowles. "The mistress of the French lieutenant"

Every poem is a blanket stretched out on the edges of several words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike those of today, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, the whole Universe is invariably hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who inadvertently wake up the dozing lines.

Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"

To one of my awkward hippopotamuses, I attached such a paradise tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not worry, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not the sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore - chase critics. They are only pitiful slips of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Do not let his vulgar palpating hands go there. Let the poetry seem to him an absurd hum, a chaotic pile of words. For us it is a song of freedom from boring reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "Thousand Lives"

Poems are heart flutter, soul excitement and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Do you know the tale about the grandfather and the woman
And a chicken pock?

If you know her
May I
Tell you another story.
Once upon a time there were other grandfather and woman,
And they had another poached chicken.

The chicken laid the testicle
Not golden
Simple.
Not soft-boiled
And not cool
And the most ordinary -
Raw.
The mouse was running
She waved her tail -
The testicle fell
And it crashed.

Crying bitterly
Poached chicken.

Spared the chicken
Woman,
I ran into the chicken coop with a basket,
And in the basket are duck eggs,
Not one, but a dozen.
- Hatch, poached, ducklings!

And the pockmarked hen is happy.
She doesn't need anything else.
She immediately got down to business -
The whole ten sat down to hatch.

He sits all day and night.
Rarely rarely eat and drink.

Soon hatched from a brood hen
From the shells fluffy children -
A whole dozen
Yellow ducklings.
Squealed one by one:
- We want to eat!
We want to drink!
We want to live!
They don't look like chickens:
On the legs - skin membranes,
And their noses are flat, long,
Not chicken,
And duck.

A mother chicken came out with the children
Take a walk from the gate, take a peck.
It rakes the ground nimbly,
Looks for crumbs and grains with a paw.

I found and calls ducklings,
And the ducklings don't want to go -
We ran away into a groove somewhere
They nibble fresh grass with their beaks.
And the chicken
Short nose
Not grown to duck.
It is good for her to peck grain,
And pinching the grass is tricky.

Ducklings hobble behind a chicken
Down the green street.
They saw a wide pond
They ran to the water - and they float,
They drink water, overtake each other ...

And the hen screams out of fright:
- Where-where! Where-where! Where are you going?
Or don't you see? This is water!

Such a chicken is a bird
That water, like fire, is afraid.
And the ducklings, sensing freedom,
So they cut the frozen water.

They do not want to leave the water.
The mother hen looks at the ducklings,
Walks restlessly along the shore
The eye does not take the naughty children away.
- Ko-ko-ko! - He speaks. - Ko-ko-ko!
You will drown! It's deep there!
And she herself would go into the water,
Yes, the hens do not swim!

Nine ducklings return
They go out to waddle, in a hurry.
Only the younger does not want to return,
Flaps its wings, wets its head.
I saw a swimmer - and dived.

And the hen shouts: - Help!
The youngest son drowned!

So the tenth duck came out,
Yes, the rest of the ducklings are gone -
Each friend is following a chain
And the pond goes to the other.

They had a little more to run.
Suddenly, a baleen cat was meeting you.

She hid behind the grass
Only moves his head slightly,
She squints at the waddling ducklings.
Yes, a chicken spotted her.
I looked with an angry eye,
Fluff and feathers ruffled at once
And, although she did not know how to fly before,
An arrow flew over the ground.
Swooped in and rushed into battle
Covering all the ducklings.

The cat had a bad time in this fight.
She runs away without looking back
On the grass between bumps and stumps.

And the hen -
In pursuit
For her -
Through pits, bumps and bumps ...
What a brave Ryab hen! Posted by: Mishkoy 27.03.2018 12:04 24.05.2019

Confirm rating

Rating: / 5. Number of ratings:

Help to make the materials on the site better for the user!

Write the reason for the low rating.

Send message

Thanks for your feedback!

Read 3796 times

Other verses of Marshak

• Kittens - Samuil Marshak

  Two little kittens quarreled in the corner. The angry hostess took her broom And swept the fighting kittens out of the kitchen, Failing to cope with this, who is right and who is wrong. And it was at night, in winter, in January. Two little kittens were chilled out in the yard. They lay down, curled up on a stone by the porch, Noses buried in their paws and began to wait for the end. But the hostess took pity and opened the door. - Well? - she asked. - Don't you quarrel now? They went quietly to their corner for the night. The cold, wet snow was brushed from the skin. And both fell asleep in front of the stove, sweet sleep. And the blizzard rustled outside the window until dawn. (Ill. A. Eliseeva)

• Quiet Tale - Samuil Marshak

  You will read this fairy tale Quiet, quiet, quiet ... Once upon a time there was a gray hedgehog And his hedgehog. The gray hedgehog was very quiet And the hedgehog too. And they had a child - A very quiet hedgehog. The whole family go for a walk At night ...

• English children's songs - Samuil Marshak

  The ship Floats, the boat floats, The golden ship, Lucky, carries gifts, Gifts to you and me. On deck sailors Whistle, scurry, hurry, On deck sailors - Fourteen mice. The boat is sailing, sailing West, east. Ropes - cobwebs, ...

• Drawing - Sergey Mikhalkov

  I took a pencil and paper, I drew a road, I drew a bull on it, And a cow next to it. Rain to the right, garden to the left, There are fifteen points in the garden, As if the apples are hanging And the rain does not wet them. I did …

• Unfulfilled Dreams - Sergei Mikhalkov

  When I was eight years old, I only dreamed that a small bike rolled into my house. I would ride it in the morning, in the evening and during the day. It hurt me to tears, When I heard: ...

• Riddles - Samuel Marshak

  1 He makes noise in the field and in the garden, But he won't get into the house. And I'm not going anywhere, As long as he goes. (Rain) 2 On New Year's Eve he came to the house with such a ruddy fat man. But with everyone ...

Search

Charushin E.I.


The story describes the young of different forest animals: wolf, lynx, fox and deer. Soon they will be big, handsome beasts. In the meantime, they play and play naughty, charming, like any kids. Wolf The Wolf lived in the forest with his mother. Gone ...

Who lives how

Charushin E.I.


The story describes the life of a wide variety of animals and birds: squirrels and hares, foxes and wolves, lion and elephant. Grouse with grouse A grouse walks in a clearing, protects chickens. And they swarm, looking for food. Fly is not yet ...

Torn Eye

Seton-Thompson

The story about the rabbit Molly and her son, who was nicknamed Torn Eye after a snake attacked him. Mom taught him the wisdom of survival in nature and her lessons were not in vain. Torn ear to read Near the edge ...

Animals of hot and cold countries

Charushin E.I.


Small interesting stories about animals living in different climatic conditions: in the hot tropics, in the savannah, in the northern and southern ice, in the tundra. Leo Beware, zebras are striped horses! Beware, swift antelopes! Watch out, cool wild buffaloes! ...

What is the favorite holiday of all the guys? Of course, New Year! On this magical night, a miracle descends on earth, everything sparkles with lights, laughter is heard, and Santa Claus brings long-awaited gifts. A huge number of poems are dedicated to the New Year. IN …



In this section of the site you will find a selection of poems about the main wizard and friend of all children - Santa Claus. Many poems have been written about the kind grandfather, but we have selected the most suitable for children 5,6,7 years old. Poems about ...



Winter has come, and with it fluffy snow, blizzards, patterns on the windows, frosty air. The guys rejoice at the white flakes of snow, get their skates and sledges from the far corners. Work is in full swing in the courtyard: they are building a snow fortress, an ice slide, sculpt ...



A selection of short and memorable poems about winter and New Year, Santa Claus, snowflakes, a Christmas tree for the younger group of kindergarten. Read and study short poems with children 3-4 years old for matinees and New Years. Here …

1 - About the baby bus who was afraid of the dark

Donald Bisset


A fairy tale about how the mother-bus taught her baby-bus not to be afraid of the dark ... About the baby-bus who was afraid of the dark to read Once upon a time there was a baby-bus. He was bright red and lived with his dad and mom in the garage. Every morning …

2 - Three kittens

V.G. Suteev

A small tale for the little ones about three fidgeting kittens and their funny adventures. Young children love short stories with pictures, which is why Suteev's tales are so popular and loved! Three kittens read Three kittens - black, gray and ...