- You will be driven out of the kindergarten with a wolf ticket, and everything will become porcelain! The grandmother said.
What is “farfolene,” I did not know. But that was not what interested me.
Where do wolves go for a ticket? I asked.
In the bathroom! My grandmother screamed in my heart. “No, this child was designed specifically to bring me to the Swordlovka!
“I don’t need a wolf ticket,” I told my grandmother. I go to the bathroom without a ticket. So I probably won’t get rid of her, I reassured her.
The fact is that I refused to read in the childhood morning general educational poems such as “Our Masha...” or “Tyros” and insisted on something from Yesenin.
At that time, Sergey Yesenin's poems were not very published, but his grandmother knew a large number of them. I loved to declare. And now we have reaped the fruits of it.
Teachers would also go to Yesenin, if I agreed, for example, on the barrel, but I would definitely want to perform "Mother's Letter". The preliminary listening made the babysitter and one of the educators faint. The second lasted to the best lines in my performance. And when I cried out, “I’m not such a miserable propyza...” I tried to slip along the wall.
Thank God, normal children don’t hear this. She cried when she recovered.
Well, here she squeezed a little. That case! Will I read my favorite poet without the audience? Wait to!
In short, I specifically opened the door to the playroom and spoke as loudly as possible.
What is a heavy fool? – asked, the teacher barely entered the playroom, girl Rita.
It is heavy! I corrected it.
– Marina Andreevna, why are you crying? I asked Rita this time.
The parents got back again.
After a serious conversation with his dad, during which he was proposed the version that to give a couple of times to some disgust in a soft place - the measure is still educational.
As a person very interested in the outcome of the discussion, I raised a number of objections, citing such authorities as Grandma, Korchak and Uncle Grish. (Uncle Grisha had four daughters, so he loved me so much.)
How will your older brother look at this? I asked my father, pedaling the word, the elder.
The case ended with something like a pact. That is to say, I promised not to publicly declare any poems!
It is no-ka-ki! I asked for papas.
I promised. And suspiciously willing.
Except for those who are teachers. Dad got caught.
I had to go to that too.
It cannot be said that for kindergarten teachers came some resemblance to the Renaissance. In addition to me, there were nineteen other “presents” in the group. I bothered them at least. And the forces accumulated... Oh, Dad... How I was tormented by the word given to him!
Then came a big celebration. And all parents should have come and be amazed at how we have grown and become smarter. I was asked to read poetry.
Which ones? I asked.
What you want! The teacher who lost his alertness.
Could the Marshall?
Of course! She smiled. For her, Marshak was the soft and thin books of Dethiza.
When my dad came to me in the evening, I brought him to the teacher and asked her to confirm that I should read Samuel Marshak’s poem in the morning. She confirmed and even struck me in the head.
What poetry? The vigilant dad clarified.
The Marshall? – she was surprised and taughtly added: – Marshak poems can be read to children any! It is time for you to know!
My confused dad took me home.
Then came the morning. Everyone read poetry. The parents were friendly. It was my turn.
“Samuel Marshak,” I announced. The Queen Eleanor.
Without expecting anything bad from Marshak, everyone smiled. Except for Dad and Mom. Mom even wanted to stop me, but dad looked at the teacher and did not.
“The Queen of Britain is seriously ill,” I began, “her days and nights are numbered... and the people immediately became interested. Inspired by the attention, I continued...
When it came to the picky situation with the confessors, the people did not have fun, but began to be very surprised. And I continued:
– I had two sons in marriage... – I spoke with the weak voice of the queen.
The eldest son and good and good.
Opinions are divided. Some asked me to stop. Others were interested...and they demanded a continuation. But I wanted to read something. I went to my mom and dad. to cry.
On the way home, I was very afraid that I was about to be announced some sort of repression. His father was suspiciously silent.
“Yes, by the way,” he said, “you haven’t read it until the end. Read now, or my mom and I forgot what happened!
And passers were surprised to listen to the poems, which, going by the pen with their parents, declared a five-year-old boy...

by Alexander Birstein