The girl read the verse on the matinee, which was taught by her grandfather. The hall fell into a stupor!

The girl read the verse on the matinee, which was taught by her grandfather. The hall fell into a stupor!

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In the middle group of kindergarten, my grandfather was preparing me for the September matinee. The theme of the holiday was animals and birds: how they meet autumn and prepare for winter. Poems, as far as I remember, were not handed out to us, and if they gave it out, grandfather rejected the sentences of educators and said that we will read our own.

He chose his outstanding, without fools, the work of Nikolai Oleinikov “Tarakan”.

It’s hard for me to say what directed them. Grandfather himself never visited the kindergarten, so there was nothing to take revenge on him. My educators were wonderful kind women. Don’t know. Perhaps he wanted to make a note of high tragedy into the ordinary flickering of squirrels and starlings.

So I went out to the middle of the hall in the middle of the hall in the morning, pulled out a dress embroidered with leaves from velvet paper, looked around the audience and began with penetrating:

– A cockroach sits in a glass,
A red -haired leg sucks.
He got caught. He is in a trap.
And now he is waiting for execution.

In the “Theater” Maama, the first lessons of Julia’s acting was given by aunt. I had a grandfather instead of aunt instead. We worked out everything: pauses, gestures, correct breathing.

– The cockroach pressed against the glass
And looks, barely breathing.
He would not be afraid of death,
If I knew that there is a soul.

Gradually my voice got stronger and gained strength. I was approaching the most formidable moment:

– He is sad eyes
He glance at the sofa,
Where with knives, axes
Vivisectors are sitting.

Grandfather did not see me, but he could be proud of me. I recited with a deep feeling. And the fact that on the “vivisectors” the faces of educators and mothers began to change, explained for themselves the influence of poetry and their talent.

– Here the executioner approaches him, – I exclaimed ardently. – And having felt his chest, he finds under the ribs what should be pierced!

The hero is ruthlessly killing. One hundred four instruments are torn to parts of the patient! (Then my voice fluttered). From muffles and from wounds it dies the cockroach.

In this place, the intensity of drama reached the peak. When I later read at Lermontov’s school “to the death of the poet”, it turned out that the entire reliable range of emotions, from anger to grief, was experienced by me at five years old.

“Everything is in the past,” I sighed doomedly, “pain, hardships. There is nothing more. And the underground waters flow out of it.

Then I made a long pause. The faces of adults were lit up with hope: apparently they decided that I finished. Ha! And the tragedy of a orphaned child?

– There, in the gap of the large cabinet,
All filmed, one,
Son babbles: “Dad, dad!”
Poor son!

Shout out the last words. See up. Pry the breath.
The hall was shocked in shock with me.

But it was not the end even.

“And there is a shaggy vivisector with a daredevil over him,” I said with gloomy hatred. – ugly, hairy, with forceps and saw.

Someone from the weak spirit of children sobbed.

– You, a scoundrel wearing trousers! -I cried out in the face of someone’s dad. – Know that the dead cockroach is a martyr of science! Not just a cockroach.

Dad made a strange throat sound that I failed to interpret. But it was and insignificant. The stormy waves of poetry carried me to the finale.

– Watchman with a rough hand
It will throw him from the window.
And in the yard down the head
Our darling will fall.

Pause. Pause. Pause. Outside the window, Kashtan was still yellow, some kind of pichuzhka ran along the roof of the veranda, but it was all over.

“On a trampled path,” I said mournfully, “near the porch itself, he will lifted his legs to wait a sad end.

Surround your hands powerlessly. Closure. Look like a person who has lost the meaning of life. And clearly, holding back sobs, to pronounce the last four lines:

– His bones are dry
Water the rain,
His eyes are blue
There will be a chicken to peck.

Silence. Someone sobbed-perhaps I myself. A velvet sheet fell off from my hem, falling around, on the floor, breaking the oppressive silence with a rustle, and then, finally, somewhere deep in the basement is violently, desperately, in full growth, cockroaches were applauded.

In fact, of course, there is no. And we did not have cockroaches, and the sheet did not fall off me. I was very carefully patted, apparently fearing to cause a flash of BIS, took up crying children, patted the cheeks of those who lost consciousness, gave the water of the limp teacher of the younger group and handed me some ridiculous children’s book like Biang’s stories.

– Why? – my grandfather’s grandmother asked angrily in the evening. Anger was caused, including by the fact that in her indignation she was lonely. I didn’t have to expect my parents from my parents: dad laughed, and my mother said that she hates the matinees and I could read even “Mine Campf” there, would not be worse. – Why did you learn this poem with the child?

“Because the“ anti-Semita beetle ”is inconvenient to recite in one person,” said grandfather with sincere regret.

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