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The story begins with a description of a lake lost in the Siberian taiga. This lake is named after the boy Vasyutka, who himself found it, and then showed it to people.

Vasyutka's father was a foreman of fishermen. That summer, fishermen walked along the banks of the Yenisei for a long time, looking for a place to fish. But either the weather was too inclement, or there were too many steamships and motor boats on the Yenisei, but the fish "did not go." Then Vasyutkin's father decided to stop in one place and prepare for the autumn fishing.

Vasyutka spent this summer with his parents. But he was very bored - all his friends remained in the village, where by the beginning of the school year his parents were going to send Vasyutka himself. In the meantime, August was still going on, and Vasyutka amused himself by going into the taiga in the daytime in search of pine nuts, and in the evening listening to the stories of the fishermen who were going to dine in their house.

One morning, 10 days before the start of the school year, Vasyutka went to the forest. The mother, grumbling that it was time to get ready for school, and not to drag around the forests, nevertheless let him go, giving him a piece of bread. Vasyutka calmly walked through the forest, watching the notches he left on the trees, and finally saw a large cedar. He knocked down all the cones from it, collected it in a bag and looked at another cedar, when a large bird fluttered up right in front of him. It was a capercaillie. Vasyutka remembered the stories of the hunters about how they catch the capercaillie, regretted that he had not taken the dog with him, even got down on all fours and barked, as the hunters said that the capercaillie is a curious bird and will definitely look at the dog, and the hunter shoots at this time his. Finally, Vasyutka caught the capercaillie at gunpoint and fired. Capercaillie began to fall, then got up and flew heavily, and Vasyutka ran after him. As a result, he caught up with the capercaillie and his joy knew no bounds - he imagined how he would return home with prey. He was merrily walking through the forest, when he suddenly realized that he had not seen the notches on the trees for a long time. Vasyutka was frightened - he began to rush from side to side, and then he remembered how his father and grandfather told him that the taiga loves only strong people. Therefore, he calmed down, made a fire, buried the capercaillie in the hot coals, had supper and began to prepare for the night. The next day he went through the forest, looking for signs of the proximity of water - he knew that by going to the Yenisei, even if not near the place where the fishermen settled down, he would be able to find help.

Finally, he saw tall grass among the taiga moss - and this meant that the water was close. He went in the direction where the grass grew, and went out to the shore of the lake. Ducks swam across the lake, there were many of them, Vasyutka shot three, but found only two - one swam away somewhere. And in the lake Vasyutka was struck by a large number of fish, but not lake, but white. And this meant that the lake was flowing. Again he made a fire, roasted the ducks, had supper, and went to bed. And in the morning he went along the lake, which led him to another lake - a larger one. And there were also a lot of white fish in it, and Vasyutka also found his duck there, which he had shot the day before. So along the shore of the lake Vasyutka managed to reach the Yenisei. Here he was picked up by people to whom he explained that he was lost. They brought him to the fishing camp, and there the grandfather met them with the words that his grandson was lost. Seeing Vasyutka, grandfather was delighted and took him to his mother. His mother fed him, rubbed him with alcohol and tried to persuade him to eat something else. And then the father came, who spent the whole day in the forest in search of Vasyutka. Vasyutka was afraid that his father would scold him, but he was too glad that his son was found. Then Vasyutka told his father about the lake, in which there were a lot of fish, and which could be reached from the river. And the next day he led the fishermen to this lake. And as soon as the water appeared, one of the fishermen shouted: "Here it is, Vasyutkino Lake." So they began to call this lake, and then the name appeared on the maps.

Vasyutkino lake
Victor Astafiev

The stories of Viktor Astafiev are imbued with faith in a person, in his moral strength, they make you be kinder to each other, more attentive to other people, their troubles and joys.

Victor Astafiev

Vasyutkino lake

This lake cannot be found on the map. It is small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy - a lake named after him! Even if it is not large, not like, say, Baikal, but Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, do not be surprised and do not think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander through it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka's father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swelled the river, the water rose in it, and the fish began to catch badly: they went to the depths.

Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim into the river. The fishermen overslept, malted from idleness, they even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and smoothed people's faces as if. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But catches were still small.

We don’t have luck now, - Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy grumbled. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, they lived as God commands, and the fish walked in clouds. And now steamboats and motorboats have scared away all living creatures. The time will come - ruffs and minnows will also be transferred, and they will read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon only in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, because no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far in the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were dragged ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-up tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little shy in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

Sabbath, guys! - Grigory Afanasyevich said when the unloading was over. - We will no longer wander. So, to no avail, you can reach the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, correcting the bark on the roof that had moved to the side. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully brushed off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that it was possible to calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, but for now to fish by ferries and ropes. Boats, nets, flowing nets and all other tackle must be properly prepared for the big move of the fish.

The monotonous days dragged on. The fishermen repaired the seine, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, pitched.

Once a day, they checked the crossings and paired networks - ferries that were set far from the coast.

Valuable fish fell into these traps: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, a settler. But it's quiet fishing. There is no excitement in it, dashing and that good, labor fun that is torn out of the peasants when they pull out several centners of fish with a half-kilometer net for one ton.

A completely boring life began at Vasyutka's. There is no one to play with - no comrades, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would soon begin, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fishing boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka no, no, and even looks into them out of boredom.

In the evenings, the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and there were stories told. By nightfall, a thick layer of walnut shells lay on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice in puddles.

Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped off all the nearby cedars. Every day I had to climb further and further into the depths of the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, sings, sometimes fires from a gun.

Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Athanasius has gone somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a sheet of the calendar and noted with joy that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he got busy with cedar cones.

The mother said unhappily:

You have to prepare for learning, and you disappear into the forest.

What are you, mom? Who needs to get the nuts? Must. After all, the fishermen want to click in the evening.

- "Hunting, hunting"! We need nuts, so let them go. They got used to pushing around the boy and littering in the hut.

Mother grumbles but out of habit, because she has no one else to grumble at.

When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a bandolier on his belt, resembling a stocky, little peasant, left the hut, his mother habitually strictly reminded:

You don’t go far from the ventures - you will perish. Did you take bread with you?

Why is he to me? I bring it back every time.

Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. For centuries it has been so established, it is still small to change the taiga laws.

You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest - take food, take matches.

Vasyutka obediently put the piece of bread into the sack and hurried to disappear from his mother's eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something.

Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the markings on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with skids. A man makes a notch on one tree, moves away a little, pokes another ax with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; they will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass, berry bushes, imprint footprints in the mud, and a path will turn out. The forest paths are narrow, winding, like wrinkles on the forehead of grandfather Athanasius. Only other paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are hardly overgrown.

Vasyutka's propensity for lengthy reasoning, like any taiga dweller, appeared early. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for a creaky quacking somewhere above his head.

“Kra-kra-kra! ..” - rushed from above, as if a strong bough was being cut with a blunt saw.

Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and yelled at the top of its voice. Her friends responded to her in the same way. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He did not shoot. His ears have already been flogged more than once for wasted cartridges. The thrill of the precious "supply" (as the Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly driven into Siberians from birth.

- Kra-kra! Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.

The guy was annoyed that he could not beat the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. Nutcracker stopped screaming, slowly plucked herself, lifted her head, and her creaking “kra!” again rushed through the forest.

Ugh, cursed witch! - swore Vasyutka and went.

Feet trod softly on the moss. Cones, spoiled by nutcrackers, lay here and there on it. They looked like clumps of honeycombs. In some holes of the cones, like bees, nuts stuck out. But trying them is useless. The Nutcracker has a surprisingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even take empty nuts out of the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:

Oh, and you are a bastard!

Vasyutka scolded so, for solidity. After all, he knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.

Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to the tree and climbed on it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick needles, whole broods of resinous cones hid. He began to beat with his feet on the spreading branches of the cedar. The cones just fell down.

Vasyutka climbed down from the tree, collected them in a sack and lit a cigarette without haste. Puffing on a cigarette, he looked around the surrounding forest and took a fancy to another cedar.

I'll take this one too," he said. - It will be hard, perhaps, but nothing, I will inform.

He carefully spat on the cigarette, pressed it down with his heel, and left. Suddenly, ahead of Vasyutka, something clapped loudly. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, and waders, and partridges, but he had not yet had a chance to shoot a capercaillie.

The capercaillie flew over a mossy clearing, dodged between the trees and sat down on a dry land. Try sneak up!

The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that the capercaillie is often taken with a dog. The hunters said that the capercaillie, sitting on a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes teases it. The hunter, meanwhile, imperceptibly approaches from the rear and shoots.

Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for the mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. Capercaillie froze, observing this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face, tore his quilted jacket, but did not notice anything. In front of him is a capercaillie!

... It's time! Vasyutka quickly got down on one knee and tried to put the worried bird on the fly with a flurry. Finally, the trembling in my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie ... Thr-rah! - and the black bird, flapping its wings, flew into the depths of the forest.

"Wounded!" - Vasyutka started up and rushed after the padded capercaillie.

Only now did he guess what was the matter, and he began to reproach himself mercilessly:

He rumbled with small shots. And what is small for him? He is almost with Druzhka! ..

The bird left in small flights. They got shorter and shorter. The capercaillie was weakening. Here he is, no longer able to lift a heavy body, ran.

"Now everything - I'll catch up!" - confidently decided Vasyutka and started up stronger. The bird was very close.

Quickly throwing off the bag from his shoulder, Vasyutka raised his gun and fired. In a few jumps, he found himself near the capercaillie and fell on his stomach.

Stop, darling, stop! Vasyutka muttered happily. - Don't leave now! Look, how quick! I, brother, also run - be healthy!

Vasyutka stroked the capercaillie with a satisfied smile, admiring the black feathers with a bluish tint. Then he weighed it in his hand. “There will be five kilograms, or even half a pood,” he estimated and put the bird in a bag. - I'll run, otherwise my mother will kick on the scruff of the neck.

Thinking about his luck, Vasyutka, happy, walked through the forest, whistled, sang whatever came to mind.

Suddenly he caught himself: where are the winds? It's time to be.

He looked around. The trees were no different from those on which the notches had been made. The forest stood motionless, quiet in its dull pensiveness, just as sparse, half-naked, entirely coniferous. Only here and there could be seen frail birch trees with rare yellow leaves. Yes, the forest was the same. And yet something else blew from him ...

Vasyutka abruptly turned back. He walked quickly, carefully looking at each tree, but there were no familiar notches.

Fu-you, damn! Where are the grips? - Vasyutka's heart sank, perspiration appeared on his forehead. - All this capercaillie! Rushed like a goblin, now think about where to go, - Vasyutka spoke aloud to drive away the approaching fear. - Nothing, I'll think about it and find a way. So-so ... The almost bare side of the spruce - it means that the north is in that direction, and where there are more branches - the south. So-so…

After that, Vasyutka tried to remember on which side of the trees the old notches were made and on which side the new ones. But he did not notice this. Push and push.

Eh, bastard!

Fear began to press even harder. The boy spoke again.

Okay, don't be shy. Let's find a hut. You have to go in one direction. You have to go south. At the hut, the Yenisei makes a turn, you can’t pass by. Well, everything is in order, and you, an eccentric, were afraid! - Vasyutka chuckled and cheerfully commanded himself: - Step arsh! Hey, two!

But the vigor did not last long. There weren't any, and there weren't any. At times it seemed to the boy that he could clearly see them on the dark trunk. With a beating heart, he ran to the tree to feel with his hand a notch with drops of resin, but instead of it he found a rough fold of bark. Vasyutka had already changed direction several times, poured the bumps out of the sack, and walked and walked...

The forest became very quiet. Vasyutka stopped and stood listening for a long time. Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock... - my heart was beating. Then Vasyutka's hearing, strained to the limit, caught some strange sound. There was a buzz somewhere. Here it froze and a second later it came again, like the hum of a distant plane. Vasyutka bent down and saw at his feet the decayed carcass of a bird. An experienced hunter - a spider stretched a web over a dead bird. The spider is no longer there - it must have gone to spend the winter in some kind of hollow, and abandoned the trap. A well-fed, large spit fly caught in it and beats, beats, buzzes with weakening wings. Something began to disturb Vasyutka at the sight of a helpless fly stuck in a net. And then it seemed to hit him: why, he got lost!

This discovery was so simple and amazing that Vasyutka did not immediately come to his senses.

He heard terrible stories from hunters many times about how people wander in the forest and sometimes die, but he did not imagine it at all. It all worked out very simply. Vasyutka did not yet know that the terrible things in life often begin very simply.

The stupor lasted until Vasyutka heard some mysterious rustling towards the depths of the darkened forest. He screamed and took off running. How many times he stumbled, fell, got up and ran again, Vasyutka did not know. Finally, he jumped into the windbreak and began to crash through the dry thorny branches. Then he fell face down from the deadwood into the damp moss and froze. Despair seized him, and immediately there was no strength. "Come what may," he thought vaguely.

Night flew silently into the forest like an owl. And with it, the cold. Vasyutka felt his clothes soaked with sweat get cold.

“Taiga, our nurse, doesn’t like flimsy ones!” - he remembered the words of his father and grandfather. And he began to remember everything he was taught, what he knew from the stories of fishermen and hunters. First things first, you need to make a fire. It's good that he grabbed the matches from home. Matches came in handy.

Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches near the tree, plucked a bunch of dry bearded moss with his touch, crumbled the knots finely, put everything in a pile and set it on fire. The light, swaying, crept uncertainly through the branches. The moss flared up - it brightened around. Vasyutka threw more branches. Shadows shivered between the trees, the darkness receded further away. Monotonously itching, several mosquitoes flew into the fire - more fun with them.

We had to stock up on firewood for the night. Vasyutka, not sparing his hands, broke the boughs, dragged dry deadwood, twisted the old stump. Pulling a piece of bread out of the bag, he sighed and thought with anguish: “Crying, come on, mother.” He, too, wanted to cry, but he overcame himself and, having plucked the capercaillie, began to gut him with a penknife. Then he raked the fire aside, dug a hole in the hot spot and put the bird in it. Having tightly covered it with moss, sprinkled it with hot earth, ash, coals, put flaming brands on top and threw up firewood.

About an hour later, he unearthed the capercaillie. There was steam and an appetizing smell from the bird: the capercaillie stole in its own juice - a hunting dish! But without salt, what a taste! Vasyutka swallowed the insipid meat through force.

Oh, stupid, stupid! How much of this salt is in barrels on the shore! That it cost a handful to pour into your pocket! he reproached himself.

Then he remembered that the sack he had taken for the cones was salted, and hastily turned it inside out. He dug out a pinch of dirty crystals from the corners of the bag, crushed them on the butt of his gun, and smiled through force:

After dinner, Vasyutka put the rest of the food in a bag, hung it on the bough,
/>End introductory snippet
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The story "Vasyutkino Lake" was written by Viktor Astafiev in 1956. The idea of ​​creating a story about a boy who got lost in the taiga came to the author when he himself was still at school. Then his essay on a free theme was recognized as the best and published in. Many years later, Astafiev remembered his creation and published a story for children.

Vasyutka, a thirteen-year-old teenager, often went fishing in his days with a team led by his father. While the adults were repairing boats and nets, the boy went to the taiga to collect. Once, on such a walk, he decided to shoot a capercaillie. In pursuit of a wounded bird, the boy lost his way and got lost. At first, panic seized him, but then, remembering everything that his relatives had taught him, he began to think about how to return home. He prepared firewood for the night, roasted the capercaillie, and in the morning set off.

Vasyutkino lake

By evening, the boy accidentally came across a lake. Here he shot a couple of ducks. Only in the morning he decided to get his prey out of the water. And here a discovery awaited him. There were fish in the lake, apparently-invisibly. And a river flowed into the lake, which stretched along the forest. He hoped that she would lead him to the Yenisei. However, Vasyutka was not lucky, as the weather turned bad and it began to rain. The boy hid under the branches of a fir tree, ate a piece of bread taken from the house, and fell asleep, clinging to the tree. In the morning, the teenager made a fire to keep warm.

The rescue

Suddenly Vasyutka heard a quiet sound, reminiscent of the squeak of a ship. He realized that it was the sound of a steamship. The boy got up and went to this sound. His strength left, but he did not forget to take care of food. He roasted two geese and went on. Soon Vasyutka came to an unfamiliar shore. While he was thinking about where to go next, smoke from the ship appeared in the distance. After waiting for the ship to come closer, the boy began to wave his hands in the hope that the passengers would see him. One person waved back. However, the boy realized that people, most likely, did not attach any importance to this greeting, because on the journey, passengers had already seen those who waved their hands on the shore more than once. Vasyutka was seized with despair. He began to prepare for the night, but suddenly he saw a fishing boat and began to shout loudly. Finally, they noticed him, took him on board.

Homecoming

The boy was fed on the boat and taken home. Everyone was glad of his return, because they no longer hoped to find him alive. The boy told his father about a wonderful lake where there are many fish. In the morning, the whole brigade went to the place indicated by the teenager. They decided to call this place “Vasyutkino Lake”. There were really a lot of fish there. I had to call another team to bring the whole catch. Today Vasyutkino Lake can be found even on maps.

Conclusion

At school, children read a lot of good literature. These are the creations of such authors as Korolenko, Solzhenitsyn, Afanasiev. "Vasyutkino Lake" is one of any works of teenagers. After all, it tells about the courage and bravery of an ordinary boy who finds himself in difficult life circumstances.

Victor Astafiev

Vasyutkino lake

This lake cannot be found on the map. It is small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy - a lake named after him! Even if it is not large, not like, say, Baikal, but Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, do not be surprised and do not think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander through it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka's father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swelled the river, the water rose in it, and the fish began to catch badly: they went to the depths.

Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim into the river. The fishermen overslept, malted from idleness, they even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and smoothed people's faces as if. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But catches were still small.

We don’t have luck now, - Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy grumbled. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, they lived as God commands, and the fish walked in clouds. And now steamboats and motorboats have scared away all living creatures. The time will come - ruffs and minnows will also be transferred, and they will read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon only in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, because no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far in the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were dragged ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-up tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little shy in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

Sabbath, guys! - Grigory Afanasyevich said when the unloading was over. - We will no longer wander. So, to no avail, you can reach the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, correcting the bark on the roof that had moved to the side. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully brushed off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that it was possible to calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, but for now to fish by ferries and ropes. Boats, nets, flowing nets and all other tackle must be properly prepared for the big move of the fish.

The monotonous days dragged on. The fishermen repaired the seine, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, pitched.

Once a day, they checked the crossings and paired networks - ferries that were set far from the coast.

Valuable fish fell into these traps: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, a settler. But it's quiet fishing. There is no excitement in it, dashing and that good, labor fun that is torn out of the peasants when they pull out several centners of fish with a half-kilometer net for one ton.

A completely boring life began at Vasyutka's. There is no one to play with - no comrades, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would soon begin, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fishing boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka no, no, and even looks into them out of boredom.

In the evenings, the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and there were stories told. By nightfall, a thick layer of walnut shells lay on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice in puddles.

Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped off all the nearby cedars. Every day I had to climb further and further into the depths of the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, sings, sometimes fires from a gun.

Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Athanasius has gone somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a sheet of the calendar and noted with joy that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he got busy with cedar cones.

The mother said unhappily:

You have to prepare for learning, and you disappear into the forest.

What are you, mom? Who needs to get the nuts? Must. After all, the fishermen want to click in the evening.

- "Hunting, hunting"! We need nuts, so let them go. They got used to pushing around the boy and littering in the hut.

Mother grumbles but out of habit, because she has no one else to grumble at.

When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a bandolier on his belt, resembling a stocky, little peasant, left the hut, his mother habitually strictly reminded:

You don’t go far from the ventures - you will perish. Did you take bread with you?

Why is he to me? I bring it back every time.

Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. For centuries it has been so established, it is still small to change the taiga laws.

You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest - take food, take matches.

Vasyutka obediently put the piece of bread into the sack and hurried to disappear from his mother's eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something.

Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the markings on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with skids. A man makes a notch on one tree, moves away a little, pokes another ax with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; they will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass, berry bushes, imprint footprints in the mud, and a path will turn out. The forest paths are narrow, winding, like wrinkles on the forehead of grandfather Athanasius. Only other paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are hardly overgrown.

Vasyutka's propensity for lengthy reasoning, like any taiga dweller, appeared early. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for a creaky quacking somewhere above his head.

“Kra-kra-kra! ..” - rushed from above, as if a strong bough was being cut with a blunt saw.

Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and yelled at the top of its voice. Her friends responded to her in the same way. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He did not shoot. His ears have already been flogged more than once for wasted cartridges. The thrill of the precious "supply" (as the Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly driven into Siberians from birth.

- Kra-kra! Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.

The guy was annoyed that he could not beat the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. Nutcracker stopped screaming, slowly plucked herself, lifted her head, and her creaking “kra!” again rushed through the forest.

Ugh, cursed witch! - swore Vasyutka and went.

The story of how in a critical situation not to get confused, succumbing to panic, and, having mobilized strength, to do everything that depends on you, is told in his work “Vasyutkino Lake” by V.P. Astafiev.

The plot of the story is taken from the childhood of the writer, who spent his student years in the Krasnoyarsk Territory. Even the surname of the foreman is real and belongs to the well-known dynasty of Siberian fishermen.

History of creation

“Vasyutkino Lake” was written in 1952, and published in 1956. But the beginning of the appearance of the story was the year when the fifth-grader Vitya, on the task of a literature teacher, told in an essay dedicated to the past summer about how he got lost in the taiga , spent many anxious days alone with nature, discovered a lake unknown to the old-timers and, in the end, was able to independently get to the river. A vivid and truthful retelling of the boy's experiences led to the fact that his work was published in the school magazine.

The children's essay created from memory became the basis for the writer.

Description of the story

In a simple but figurative language, the narrator tells about the everyday life of a fishing camp in Siberia. Thirteen-year-old Vasyutka, the son of a brigadier, tries to help adults to the best of his ability, extracting pine nuts for them.

One day, having captured a gun and provisions, the boy went further into the forest, hoping for a rich harvest, and got lost. After futile attempts to find the way, Vasyutka realizes that there is nowhere to wait for help, she must rely only on herself. Horror, panic and confusion gradually give way to calm prudence. It was not for nothing that the guy grew up in this harsh land, from childhood hearing the instructions of the old people on how to behave in such a case. Using the advice of experienced hunters and his own skills, the boy manages not only to survive in harsh conditions for several days, overcoming his fear, but also to get food for himself, warm himself, discover a lost reservoir with valuable fish, and, remembering the lessons of geography, go to the banks of the Yenisei, to people.

A schoolboy walked sixty kilometers in five long days full of suspense and anxiety. Knowing that the fishermen have been longing for a catch for a long time, Vasyutka, having arrived home, immediately reported on the lake he had seen. Having indicated the path to the brigade's cherished route, the teenager feels involved in the common cause. Subsequently, the reservoir was mapped and named after Vasily.

Main character

Vasily Shadrin is an ordinary village schoolboy, a mischievous and braggart. He loves adventure, considers himself quite an adult and independent person. His character was formed under the influence of his father, the laconic inhabitants of the taiga village. The customs and traditions of the Siberian region also left their mark. The author does not give a detailed description of the protagonist, his personality is revealed in the process of narration.

Having found himself in a hopeless, frightening situation, knowing what the loss of a road in the forest could turn into, clearly imagining the consequences, Vasyutka showed courage and endurance, practical ingenuity and prudence, without losing his sense of humor. Not succumbing to fear, bravely overcoming obstacles, the boy thinks not only about himself, but also about common interests.

Story analysis

In the introduction, conducted in the third person, the author talks about the new lake and Vasyutka's role in this discovery. Deep love for the motherland and the conviction that big and small victories await each of us is evident in the opening lines.

The plot occurs when, carried away by the hunt for capercaillie, the teenager got lost. The climax is the moment when the taiga people save the desperate Vasyutka. The denouement of the story is the return of the guy to his mother and the beginning of fishing in the open lake.

The narrator uses traditional composition with a consistent narrative and a minimal number of characters. The slowness and detail of the presentation allows you to imagine yourself in the place of the central character, the reader sympathizes with Vasya, worries about him.

Astafiev is characterized by the use of comparisons. Thanks to colorful descriptions, the nature of the lower reaches of the Yenisei comes to life. The figurativeness of the actors is added by the use of the local dialect in direct speech.

Overcoming difficulties, always looking for a way out of a difficult situation, using all opportunities - that's what this story teaches. A great desire to live helped the little Siberian get out of the taiga.