Part one

THE ESCAPE

In the early morning of November 2, Napoleon the Third escaped from the Mshaga fur farm.

He ran not alone, but with a comrade - a blue fox with number one hundred and sixteen.

In fact, foxes were watched strictly, and Praskovyushka, who fed them, every time purposely checked whether the hooks on the cages were strong. But that morning something bad happened: the director of the fur farm, Nekrasov, deprived Praskovyushka of the prize that was expected for the holiday.

“You received last month,” said Nekrasov. "Now let the others."

- Oh, that's how! Praskovyushka answered and gasped. Her tongue was numb from anger. “He probably gave himself a bonus,” Praskovyushka shouted, “even though he received it last month!” So go to hell once and for all!

Director Nekrasov, however, did not disappear. He went into the office and slammed the door.

The premium collapsed. Together with her, pre-holiday plans collapsed. The soul of Praskovyushka turned to stone. In life, she now saw only two ways out: to move to another job or to rush into the pool, so that the director knew who to give the award to.

Indifferently she fed the foxes, cleaned the cages, and in her hearts slammed the doors so that the animals in the cages shuddered. Distressed to the extreme, Praskovyushka cursed her fate, went deeper and deeper into resentment and feelings, and finally went so deep that she fell into some kind of unconsciousness and forgot to lock two cages.

After waiting for her to leave for the car, Napoleon III jumped out of the cage and rushed to the fence, followed by the astonished blue fox number one hundred and sixteen.

ALUMINUM RINGING

Arctic foxes ran away from the fur farm very rarely, so Praskovyushka had no such thought in her head.

Praskovyushka was sitting in a cart, in which shovels stood along the wall, and scolded the director, constantly calling him Petka.

He gave an award to others! she got excited. - And he left a woman with children without money for the holidays!

- Where are your children? wondered Polinka, a young worker, only from a trade.

- How is it where! shouted Praskovyushka. My sister has triplets!

Praskovyushka honored the director until dinner. And the other workers listened to her, drank tea and agreed. All of them received an award.

But then it was time for dinner, and a metallic ringing rang through the fur farm. It was the arctic foxes who began to “play on cymbals” - to twist their drinking bowls.

These bowls are built into the lattice of the cage so cleverly that one half sticks out from the outside, and the other - inside. To feed the beast, the cage may not be unlocked. Food is placed in the half that is outside, and the fox twists the bowl with its paw - and the food enters the cage.

Before dinner, the Arctic foxes begin to impatiently twist the drinkers - aluminum ringing is heard throughout the fur farm.

Hearing the ringing, Praskovyushka came to her senses and ran to feed the animals. Soon she reached the cage where Napoleon the Third was supposed to sit. Praskovyushka looked inside, and her eyes completely faded. The feed mixture fell out of the basin onto molded rubber boots.

CHARACTER OF DIRECTOR NEKRASOV

Praskovyushka ran into the director's office, clinging to the Board of Honor with her stern basin. She froze on the carpet in the middle of the office, pressing her pelvis to her chest like a knight's shield. — Pyotr Yerofeich! she called. Napoleon has escaped!

Pyotr Yerofeich Nekrasov shuddered and dropped a folder on the floor with the inscription: "Whelping."

Praskovyushka was wildly silent, looking out from behind her pelvis.

The director grabbed the receiver of the telephone, raised it over his head like a dumbbell, and spat it so hard at the flyers of the apparatus that the fireproof cabinet behind him opened of its own accord. And before that, it was locked with an absolutely iron key.

“He unscrewed the hook with his paw,” Praskovyushka muttered, “and ran away, and with him the one hundred and sixteenth, a blue two-year-old.

- Paw? the director repeated hoarsely.

“A claw,” Praskovyushka explained timidly, hiding behind her pelvis.

Director Nekrasov took off his hat, waved it in the air, as if saying goodbye to someone, and suddenly barked:

- Get out of here!

The aluminum bowl hit the floor, whined, groaned, and rolled out of the office.

It was not for nothing that they said about director Nekrasov that he was hot.

DAVILO

The hot man Director Nekrasov was thin and lean. He walked all year round in a fawn hat.

Nekrasov worked at his post for a long time and ran an exemplary household. He knew all the animals by heart, and the most valuable came up with beautiful names: Kazbek, La Traviata, Academician of Millionshchikov.

Nedopyosok Napoleon the Third was an important beast. And although he had not yet become a real fox, but was a puppy, an underdog, the director respected him very much.

Napoleon's fur had a special color - not white, not blue, but one for which it is difficult to find a name. But the breeders still picked up - platinum.

This fur was divided, as it were, into two parts, and the lower one - the underfur was cloudy in color, and on top it was covered with dark gray hairs - a veil. In general, it turned out like this: a cloud, and on top - a gray rainbow. Only Napoleon's muzzle was dark, and a light strip cut right across his nose.

It was clear to everyone at the fur farm that the underdog outdid even Napoleon the First, and the director dreamed of breeding a new breed with never-before-seen fur - “Nekrasovskaya”.

Upon learning of the escape, director Nekrasov and foreman Filin rushed to the fence. They instantly climbed into the hole and rashly in low shoes ran along the trail.

- How many times have I said - close up the hole! shouted the director.

“So, Pyotr Yerofeich,” Filin complained to his back, “there is no tyos.

Very soon they filled their shoes with snow and returned to the farm. Changed shoes. We jumped into the "gas truck", rushed to the village of Kovylkino. The hunter Frol Nozdrachev lived there, who had a hound named Davilo.

They did not find Nozdrachev at home.

How do I know where he is! wife replied angrily. He doesn't report to me.

- Drive to the store! Nekrasov shouted to the driver.

The hunter Frol Nozdrachev really ended up in the store. He stood at the counter with two friends and laughed.

— Comrade Nozdrachev! the director said sternly. We have a tragedy. Napoleon escaped. Urgently take your dog and go on the trail.

The hunter Frol Nozdrachev looked lazily at the director and turned his left ear to him. The hunter had his own character, and this character whispered to Nozdrachev that the director's tragedy did not concern him yet.

The character of Frol Nozdrachev liked to sit in a warm store with friends.

“I am a busy man,” Nozdrachev said discontentedly, “so I wonder what I will get for this? What are the privileges?

“A lot,” Nekrasov replied.

Half an hour later, the Russian hound Davilo - a huge broad-shouldered dog with sad eyes - was put on the trail near the fence.

- Let's! Let's! - Nozdrachev yelled at him, who was promised a prize.

Davilo sniffed at the footprints, and the smell seemed disgusting to him. Rigid, iron. Reluctantly, without a voice, Davilo ran along the trail.

SNOW FIELD

Crawling through a hole in the fence, the foxes quickly ran into the field, but after a dozen steps they stopped. They were frightened by the snow that was under their feet. He interfered with running and cold heels.

It was the second snow of this winter. It was still shallow on the field, but still reached the belly of short-legged foxes.

Grass would scare foxes in exactly the same way. Previously, they did not have to run on the ground at all. They were born in cages and only looked from there at the earth - at the snow and at the grass.

Napoleon licked his paw—the snow was sweet.

Quite different, not the same as in the cage, was this snow. It just rained down and rained down from the sky, gathered in fluffy lumps in the cells of the iron grid and tasted insipid.

The sun peeked out of the clouds for a moment. Under the sunlight, far across the field, the snow sparkled with a grayish blue and lay calmly, not moving. And suddenly it seemed to the underdog that once, a long time ago, he stood in the same way in the middle of a sparkling field, licked his paws, and then even somersaulted, bathed in the snow. When it was, he could not remember, but he remembered exactly the cold sparks flashing under the sun, the taste of snow and the fresh, free smell that hit his head.

Napoleon lay on his side and rolled over, whipping up snow dust. A pleasant chill immediately pierced him, and his fur stood on end.

Snowflakes piled into the precious fur, washed both the underfur and the veil, washed away the remnants of timidity. It became easy and fun for the underdog, he beat the snow with his tail, scattered it in all directions, remembering how he had done it a long time ago.

The one hundred and sixteenth tumble did not begin, probably because he did not remember anything like that. He dipped his muzzle into the snow - frosty needles were stuffed into his nose. The 116th snorted nervously.

Napoleon shook himself, as if a mongrel crawling out of a pond, looked around and, pointing his nose exactly to the north, ran forward, across the field, to the forest. The 116th hurried after him, trying to jump higher out of the snow. At the haystack, which rose on the edge, Napoleon III stopped.

The snow was covered here. Some stars were imprinted on it, from which it smelled pleasant and hostile. These were fox and dog tracks.

Suddenly, under the snow, someone whistled into a thin bone.

Little Puppy jumped, slapped the snow with his paw and pulled the field mouse out.

IN THE FOREST

The haystack was full of mice. Squeaking, they darted about in the rotted hay, and Napoleon chased after them, flapping his paws and tail in the snow.

The 116th also wanted to hunt mice, but such a thing was painfully unusual. Suddenly a mouse jumped out from under his nose. The 116th grabbed it, swallowed it, and jumped in terror.

Frightened mice escaped under the haystack.

Napoleon dug a little cave in the hay and stuck his nose in it. The strong hay smell made her dizzy. The hay smelled of the stifling July thunderstorms of the past summer.

The mice hid, and the foxes gave up hunting and ran to the edge of the forest. We crossed a birch forest and reached large trees.

These were old trees.

Mature copper cones hung in clusters on their tops. At the foot, where the snow had not yet piled up, moss was bright green, and the thick trunks were plastered with gray lichen stars.

The soles of the trees smelled of frosty tar, the trunks rose dangerously upwards, intertwined with branches there and poured into the sky high overhead.

Suddenly, an alarming and strong knock was heard from above. A black woodpecker was sitting on an aspen tree in a red thunder helmet, hollowing out a hollow. Noticing the foxes, he shouted piercingly, spread his noiseless wings in the air, dived into the spruce dusk.

A magpie flew to his cry.

"Fear-fear!" she yelled grumpily.

Napoleon yelped back, threateningly waving his clawed paw.

But this only inflamed the magpie. From tree to tree she flew over the arctic foxes and shouted to the whole forest: they say, here they are, fugitives from the fur farm, catch them, hold them!

To the cry of a magpie, the foxes jumped out into a clearing littered with broken birch trees, uprooted stumps. Here, under a bunch of spruce branches, a hare slept. He walked and fattened all night and now slept soundly and calmly.

A rustle of snow and a magpie cry woke him up. Long-eared, with bulging eyes, he jumped out of the ground with a crash at the very feet of Napoleon and went to jump across the clearing, jumping over stumps.

The foxes froze in horror, and then blew in the other direction.

Magpie was lost. I could not figure out what to do now, who to fly after, who to crack over. She angrily sat down on a branch of a goat willow, twisted her green head. Her mood completely deteriorated.

Not far away, under the trees, snow suddenly rustled, sniffling was heard, and the hound Davilo ran out into the clearing. He glanced indifferently at the magpie, ran to the hare's trail, and then perked up. He snorted to the right, to the left, and then stuck his nose, resembling something like a wallet, right under a bunch of spruce branches.

The dog's tail trembled with joy, and foxes flew out of the hot-headed hound.

Davilo roared his bass and ran along the new trail, inhaling the sweet hare scent with pleasure.

The magpie flew down from the goat willow and down and down, imperceptibly, quickly and slowly disappeared from sight.

WHO SHOT?

- What! What else is this?! Who was shooting?

A close, unexpected shot stunned director Nekrasov, the fawn hat shuddered on his head.

The director was standing at the edge of the forest in high wading boots, and on his hands were janitor's mittens - to grab foxes in case of emergency. The director did not expect the shot. Napoleon was needed alive.

- Who was shooting? Who fired, I ask you! the director repeated sternly.

“It’s clear who,” the foreman Filin answered sullenly, who was moving nearby in the bushes, trying to disguise himself. - Obormot Nozdrachev.

Davilo jumped out of the forest. He was joyfully excited, his chocolate eyes were filled with blood.

— Nozdrachev! the director shouted sternly. - Did you shoot?

- Yes, I hit the oblique here, - a low voice was heard, coming from the very depths of the soul.

Soon Nozdrachev himself fell out onto the edge of the forest. From him fell gambling hunting steam. The hare, which had been walking and fattening all night, was now dangling at the waist. For three steps, Nozdrachev smelled of sour, smokeless powder "Pheasant".

“Toko I’m going out to the clearing,” Nozdrachev began to explain excitedly, “he scratches obliquely. I rrraz through the aspens ...

- Where are the foxes?

- Are the foxes? - the hunter was confused. They must be making circles.

Director Nekrasov looked at the hunter Frol Nozdrachev for just a second, but even in that second he managed to say a lot with his eyes. Straightening his hat, the director turned his back on the hunter and headed back to the fur farm. The brigadier hurried after him.

“Wait, wait,” Nozdrachev said after him. - Do not worry. Now let's catch up. I know everything around here, they won’t leave.

The breeders didn't even turn around. They left the hunter across the snowy field, and the prize went with them.

Here the hunter Frol Nozdrachev flared up, and crimson stripes went across his face, similar to the northern lights. True, no one saw a flash of radiance, but the director and the foreman heard how the hunter swears after them with empty words.

Having scolded, the hunter stamped his feet and went slowly to where his own character led him.

"Don't worry, Pyotr Yerofeich," Filin was saying in the meantime, catching up with the director. - They run, they want to eat - they will return in a week.

“Yes, in a week they will die of hunger,” the director said displeasedly. “What if someone slaps Napoleon?” What then?

- That's the question! Flynn confirmed. - What to do?

The director lit a cigarette, puffed smoke into the darkening lean sky.

“We must try the Marquis,” he said.

VERYA

The gray day was still gray, the clouds thickened in the sky, the evening wind drove them south.

By evening, the fugitives found themselves in a deaf ravine, at the bottom of which a black stream slowly froze. Along the ravine, along the ravine, up the stream they ran to the forest hill-veri.

Here, on the slopes of the faith, there were badger holes. Badgers settled on the hill from ancient times, pierced it through and through with burrows.

The approaching night disturbed Napoleon, he wanted to hide from the wind that was catching up with snow. The arctic foxes climbed the juniper slope to the top and noticed a dark cave in the roots of the fir-tree. Napoleon sniffed the snow around her, stuck his head inside.

The cave smelled of dry sand and resinous spruce roots. It was a badger hole, long abandoned by the owners. The roots that braided its ceiling slowly grew, moved, and gradually filled up the passages leading inside the faith.

Napoleon climbed into the cave, followed by the 116th, which immediately hid in a corner. The underdog curled up at the entrance, put out his muzzle and looked down at the forest.

Oh, how high they climbed! Dark forests were visible in the distance, timid village lights beyond the forests, a shroud shimmering over the lights. And quite far away, like a small fungus, a brick pumphouse was visible, marking the Mshaga fur farm above the trees.

It was getting dark. A dim red star rose from behind the spruce tops, and behind it, in a row, three more stars - bright and silver. It was the rising constellation of Orion.

The earth turned slowly - Orion stood up to his full height above the forest.

Oh Orion! A heavenly hunter with a blood star on his shoulder, with a bright silver-plated belt from which a sparkling star dagger hangs!

With one foot, Orion leaned on a tall pine tree in the village of Kovyl Kino, and the other froze over a water pump, marking the fur farm "Mshaga" above the black forests. Menacingly, Orion pulled the bowstring of a hunting bow woven from the smallest stars, - he aimed an arrow directly at the forehead of Taurus, who spread star horns in the middle of the sky.

Someone below snorted, grunted. It was badgers out hunting. They went down the slope, disappeared into the ravine.

It became quite quiet, from somewhere, probably from the village of Kovylkino, a human voice flew in:

- ... Do not forget to tighten the nuts ...

BADDER NIGHT

Badgers were busy all night in the ravine under the rope.

It was apparently the last badger night before hibernation.

The grumbling of the badgers disturbed Napoleon, he could not fall asleep in any way, every now and then he opened his eyes, preparing to meet an unfamiliar enemy. One grumbler, the oldest and so gray that even the stripes on his nose brightened, went up to the cave in which the arctic foxes slept.

Napoleon croaked at him like a raven, his eyes flashing red from the cave.

How old was the badger, but he could not make out what kind of animal was in front of him - whether it was a dog, or a fox, who would figure it out? The old man decided not to mess with him, rolled into the ravine, muttering something contemptuously. He muttered under his breath for a long time, scolding Napoleon.

And footprints, his own footprints in the snow, alarmed Napoleon. They were part of himself, stretching through the forests and ravines like a giant tail. Here someone will pull this tail and pull it out of the hole, from the badger's cave, drag it back to the fur farm.

He slept badly that night, and the director Nekrasov, although the badgers did not scold him, did not wander under the windows. The director dreamed of great troubles and losses that the escaped Napoleon brought to the fur farm. The director twitched, tossed about under the covers.

“Katya,” he said in a dream, “give me some cranberry pudding.”

And Praskovyushka slept unevenly, woke up, muttered, beat the pillow with her fists.

Frol Nozdrachev slept well that night, and he dreamed of a warm store, a box of pasta. Nozdrachev snored menacingly, recklessly, like a hunter, snoring as if he was pronouncing the name of the famous German philosopher: “Feuerrr-bang! Feuerrr-bang!

The badger night dragged on for a long time, and Orion rose high, slowly tilted to one side, catching up with the Taurus hiding behind the horizon. In the morning, Orion left for the ends of the earth, only the bloody star from his shoulder shone over the trees for a long time, a dim star with such a melodious and such an awkward, clumsy name in our forests - Betelgeuse.

Before dawn the badgers trotted along the ravine for the last time. Sniffling and groaning, they climbed into their holes to sleep. And as soon as the oldest badger lay down, a lingonberry strip of dawn stretched over the distant forests.

In the meantime, a short yelp was heard from the ravine, the rustle of withered grasses powdered with snow. Someone was running in the wake of the foxes. Here he crunched dry angelica by the stream and began to climb up.

Napoleon bristled.

He shuddered, a juniper bush stirred - and a short, reddish beast jumped out straight to the cave. Seeing Napoleon, he whined peacefully. It was the oldest Arctic fox from the fur farm, whose name was Marquis.

MARQUIS

Napoleon knew this red-haired Marquis well.

The marquis lived in a cage across the street and dozed from morning to evening, covering his nose with a magnificent tail. He never rushed around the cage, like other arctic foxes, and did not gnaw the grate. For days on end, he wisely slept, and woke up only to twist the swill.

The Marquis was very fond of pre-dinner music and was himself a good musician, he knew how to squeeze out a whole range of jubilant, and even sad, thoughtful sounds from his unpretentious instrument. His soul was, apparently, subtle, artistic.

The underdog hated iron music. From the squeal of the swill, his fur stood on end, he barked, trying to drown out the ringing, but for some reason, against his will, he twisted the bowl himself - he didn’t want to, but she attracted, lured.

The appearance of the Marquis on Badger Mountain did not surprise Napoleon in the slightest. He did not even think about where the Marquis came from here, who was supposed to doze off at the fur farm at the moment.

The marquis, meanwhile, sniffed Napoleon and the 116th, who also climbed out of the cave, yawning wearily.

Both the entrance to the cave and the foot of the tree were sniffed by the Marquis. Sniffing at the badger tracks, he snorted contemptuously.

The marquis was much older than Napoleon. For five years he had been spinning his drink on the farm. He was older, stronger, and commandingly walked now on the top of the hill and looked at the fugitives. The Marquis circled the blue horizons with his small gray nose and aimed at the pumping station, marking the Mshaga fur farm above the forests.

The underdog didn't like it. He also looked at the horizons, turned his nose exactly to the north and, without hesitation, began to descend from the hill, but not into the ravine, but in the other direction, towards the pine forest. The 116th tramped on the spot and reached for Napoleon.

The marquis, however, did not lose his head, overtook Napoleon in three jumps, clattered his teeth at his ear, rubbed it with his shoulder and led the run. By strength, by age, by all rights, the Marquis should have become a leader. And in this dispute, the 116th decided not to interfere, he ran last, and it was easy for him on the laid tracks.

Soon the badger's rope was left behind, a forest rose above the arctic foxes, so dense that even tits were not here. The gray-bearded capercaillie noticed the fugitives, but did not move in the spruce tent, although the running animals seemed to him unprecedented - the reddish Marquis, the platinum Napoleon and the blue One Hundred and Sixteenth.

For half an hour the Marquis fled to the north. He did not look back at his companions and did not stop, he confidently jumped over fallen trees, crossed cutting areas and clearings.

For the third time in his life, the Marquis found himself at large.

For the first time, just like Napoleon, he escaped and roamed the forests for three days. Hungry and skinned, he returned to the farm. A year later, another fox escaped, named Riesling. It was summer, and no trace of the fugitive could be found. Then director Nekrasov came up with the idea of ​​sending the Marquis after him. The director understood that the Marquis, having taken a sip of a free life, would definitely return to the farm. And sure enough, the Marquis returned for dinner, followed by an exhausted Riesling.

Today, the Marquis was released for the third time, but he had never climbed so far into the forest before. And he himself, when he was a fugitive, and Riesling spun around the farm, hiding in the bushes, listening to the pre-dinner bells.

The marquis was still running north, but he felt it was time to turn south. Going around the windbreaks, looking for the best road, slowly, imperceptibly, he turned, turned to the right, and in the end led the fugitives around the rope, put them to the north with his tail.

Napoleon realized that the Marquis was cunning, but his leader was leading him very confidently, and Hundred and Sixteenth, who had no doubts, hurried from behind.

The pine forest ended, copses and aspen trees began to grow, and suddenly the sky opened up overhead, and right in front of them lay a wide white field. And behind the field there is a wooden fence, rare fir-trees with knots cut off to the very tops, and between them a huge brick mushroom - a pumping station, marking the Mshaga fur farm above the black forests.

Close, very close, I heard the yelping of arctic foxes, the sour smell of frozen feed mixture and the shrill native sound - arctic foxes played on cymbals.

ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN IS TORN TO PARTS

At the hole in the fence the Marquis stopped. He turned to his companions, playfully wagged his tail in the direction of the fur farm: let's, they say, come back, guys, eat, sleep, and then we'll see.

The one hundred and sixteenth immediately rejoiced, jumped enthusiastically around the Marquis, hit the air with his paw, as if he were spinning a swill. The 116th, a blue two-year-old, was tired of this stupid running around and now felt like a traveler who, after long wanderings, returned home.

And home is always good. At home, a cozy, in general, cage is waiting for you, as much fodder mixture as you want, a drinker, old neighbors, old habits, a measured normal life. Yes, it is bad for those who do not have their own home. These eternal wanderers huddle here and there, then they will wash up on one shore, then they will stumble on the other, but behind the soul there is nothing - no cage, no swill.

Meanwhile, the pre-dinner ringing subsided, but the smell of the feed mixture intensified - the workers began to feed the animals. Their high voices could be heard from the cracks in the fence.

Ringing, smell, voices irritated Napoleon. Suddenly Napoleon drooped, and his platinum fur sagged, limp, faded. What is it, where did the fur farm come from again? The underdog Napoleon the Third thought, sat like a dog in the snow.

He did not look a bit like a proud beast now, he looked like a mongrel who was kicked with a boot so that she would not spin under her feet.

The Marquis ran up to Napoleon, bit him merrily on the ear, and backed away to the hole in the fence. One hundred and sixteen reached for him. When the head of the Marquis disappeared into the crack of the fence, Napoleon barked plaintively. The Marquis stopped. The 116th looked surprised.

At that moment, he made an underdog decision, shook his imperial head, and in front of his eyes turned from a beaten dog into a real fox. With his priceless platinum tail, Napoleon turned to the farm, and set his nose exactly to the north and ran slowly back in his tracks. One hundred and sixteenth was confused. His soul was torn to pieces. On the one hand, I wanted to have a bite to eat and sleep, on the other hand, I was dragging an underdog running away into an open field.

Oh, the underdog Napoleon III! Round ears, platinum fur!

Your majestic black muzzle is turned exactly to the north, and, like a compass needle, a white sparkling strip cut it from forehead to nose!

Beautiful, O Napoleon, your tail is light as poplar fluff, warm as eiderdown, and modest as dandelion fluff. Wrap your neck with this tail alone, eternal wanderer, and go to the North Pole at least.

Oh tail of the bastard! Neither the fox nor the sable can boast of such a magnificent tail the color of a cloud that melts in the blue depths of the sky over a birch or aspen forest. A most solemn tail, shaped like an airship.

The soul of the 116th was torn apart. One wanted to dive into the hole of the fence, eat and sleep, but in the other part of his soul a sense of camaraderie ripened: nevertheless, together with the underdog, they fled, suffered together.

The 116th whined guiltily, as if apologizing to the Marquis, and, like a dog after its owner, trotted across the field after Napoleon III.

The marquis did not expect such a turn. He wanted to catch up with the fugitives, but he himself was tired and was afraid to be late for dinner. The Marquis howled after them ruefully.

At the edge of the field, the foxes stopped to look at the Marquis for the last time. Like a small red spot, the Marquis was visible on the light snow, in front of the chipped fence, from behind which the smell of the fodder mixture was wafting and the aluminum ringing could be heard.

GRAY FOX

The foxes crossed the field and got on a country road. The snow mixed here with mud and sand, it turned out to be yellow jelly, but the road went exactly to the north, and Napoleon liked that there were almost no traces left on it.

The foxes ran along the road for a long time.

Suddenly, a monstrous roar was heard somewhere behind.

Rumbling empty milk cans, creaking and screeching brakes, they were overtaken by a ZIL truck.

The underdog jumped into the ditch, hid, and the 116th crouched on the ground and covered his head with his paws.

The car stopped.

Shamov, the driver, looked in amazement at the fluffy beast lying in a lush layer on the road. From the cockpit one could see how the breeze stirred the pearl fur.

"Grey fox! thought Shamov. - What to do?"

He senselessly began to fumble under the seat in search of something with which he could knock the beast.

The hand found a wrench. He pulled it out from under the seat, leaned out of the cab, and threw it as hard as he could. But he invested too much hope in his throw - the wrench jumped wildly along the road.

"Flight!" Shamov thought sadly.

He didn't have any more wrenches. There was a screwdriver, but it was not suitable for fox hunting. Fumbling under the seat, he pulled out the huge steel crank used to wind the truck and threw it powerfully at the gray fox.

The winder did not reach the fox.

Worried, he threw off his quilted jacket and got out of the cab. He unfolded his quilted jacket like a huge oiled wing and began to sneak up on the 116th.

The driver's heart was beating desperately, afraid to miss such a rare prey. But the heart of the 116th pounded even more desperately. It chirped like a grasshopper.

Before reaching two steps, Shamov jumped and covered the fox with a quilted jacket, pressing his knee to the ground.

One hundred and sixteen did not twitch and did not bite. He looked in shock at the driver Shamov and could not understand what it was.

I caught the gray fox! Caught a gray fox! shouted Shamov. His ears were blazing with joy. The hat bounced off his head.

He threw off his trouser belt, tied the 116th and suddenly thought: “Yes, this is not a fox! This is probably a beast from a fur farm.

Then a difficult task began in Shamov's head: what to do - whether to hide the prey or take it to the fur farm as state property?

"I'll hide it - they'll find it," Shamov thought sadly. “In vain, the devil, threw the keys.”

Lazily he pressed the pedal, turned the truck to the fur farm.

“Hey, aunt,” he called to the watchman at the gate, “where is your boss?” I caught some animal here. Is it not your brood?

The watchman looked into the cab, gasped, and blew a police whistle. And immediately a mess began around Shamov.

Nekrasov ran in, Brigadier Filin ran in, they slapped Shamov on the shoulders, dragged him to his office, asked where and how and if he had seen Napoleon III. Then they gave him a bonus - twenty rubles.

Shamov's award stunned. He crumpled it in his hands for a long time and repeated monotonously:

Well, just in time for the holidays!

Yes, the driver Shamov was lucky. He did not look for any miracles in his life, he never chased a blue bird, and suddenly he caught a gray fox.

Since then, the driver Shamov, driving along the roads, always vigilantly looked around and purposely had several wrenches in reserve. But never again in his life did he come across a gray fox.

CAPS AND WHEELS

When the rumble of the car died out, the little rat got out of the ditch and sniffed the place where the 116th lay. Napoleon did not understand where his companion had gone, but he decided to get out of the way as soon as possible.

While he was thinking, two motorcyclists came round the corner. They were wearing orange caps that glowed terribly over the cloudy ground.

“Look,” shouted the first motorcyclist, “little fox!”

The second did not hear anything over the roar of the engine, but only cheerfully waved his hand and rushed along the road. At the last moment, Napoleon jumped to the side - motorcycles rushed past.

Not understanding anything, Napoleon hid in a ditch, fell to the ground and closed his eyes.

The motorcyclists suddenly turned off their engines, got off their motorcycles and began to creep up, spreading their long arms in jagged gloves that looked like huge butterflies.

The underdog jumped out of the ditch, ran across the field away from the road.

- Catch up! Leave! shouted the motorcyclists, started their engines and blew after them.

It was difficult for them to ride along the clumsy field - motorcycles roared bouncing on frozen bumps. Steel gears squealed in them like thousands of empty slops, snowy mud gushed out from under the wheels like a fountain.

To the right, to the left, the underdog rushed, then ran with all his might, then crouched to the ground, trying to hide from this roar that was tearing his ears.

Finally, one of the motorcyclists awkwardly turned - the motorcycle crashed on its side. The second ran into him, caught on the wheel, jumped up and flew out of the saddle - a rumbling porridge from wheels and caps was brewed on the field.

A terrible jagged glove slipped off the motorcyclist's hand and suddenly crawled up to Napoleon, apparently intending to grab him. Napoleon snarled, biting into the glove with all his might.

With a glove in his mouth, he ran to the road and saw that some kind of pipe was laid under it. The underdog dived into the pipe and hid.

FIGHT WITH THE MUGS

Napoleon sat in the chimney and listened to the motorcyclists cursing. They did not leave for a long time, twisting something, pulling it up, knocking with keys.

A bitten motorcycle glove squeaked plaintively in Napoleon's teeth - it probably called the owner.

When the caps finally left, the underdog climbed out of the pipe and ran forward, to the north. He was holding a motorcycle glove in his teeth, and it fluttered weakly, trying to escape.

Now the underdog was not running along the road, but along it, and, hearing the car, immediately hid behind some bump. The field went into a slope, sank into a ravine. Beyond the ravine lay the village of Kovylkino.

The underdog ran to the fence, without hesitation dived into the hole and saw another fence and climbed through the gap again. But before he had time to run even a dozen steps, he again came across a blank fence. Behind him was a black wooden hump - a house.

The underdog started to run back, then to the side, but everywhere around him there were fences and houses with some kind of bad pipes hanging from the roofs. Suddenly he ran out to the village shop. It's already dark. An electric lamp was lit above the shop door. The wind picked up, and the lamp swayed with a creak on a wire under an iron cap.

At the porch stood the yellow mongrel Damka. She was waiting for her master, who had already been hanging out in the store for an hour. Seeing the underdog, Lady grinned angrily and growled. Immediately, a second mongrel jumped out from under the porch. This second one was short, half a stool in height, and somehow resembled a pig.

The underdog got frightened and backed away, but the Lady quickly rushed towards him, gaping her sharp-toothed mouth. Napoleon shook his head, and the motorcycle glove, like a big nasty toad, jumped into Lady's eyes. From horror, the Lady fell to the ground, and the glove sat on her astride.

But then Poltaburetka galloped up to Napoleon, barked disgustingly and grabbed him by the collar with her teeth. A huge amount of fur stuffed into her mouth. She pulled out a tuft, began to spit, and immediately screamed at the top of her voice, because the fox grabbed her muzzle with sharp claws and shook her well.

- They beat us! shouted Poltaburetka.

From all over the village, mongrels began to run to the store, and soon a dog fight boiled up at the porch. A man in rubber boots jumped out of the store at the noise.

— Ku! he yelled, shoving the dogs aside with his boots. — Fail! Fail!

The mutts ran away. Only the underdog was left on the ground by the porch, and next to him lay a chewed-up motorcycle glove in the snow. The man picked it up, tried it on, and the glove fit right on his left hand.

What a stupid gauntlet! Is it because of her that the dogs are biting? - said the man and looked around: can't you see where the second glove is?

This man was a Merino carpenter.

GOOD CARPENT MERIN

Merinov was considered a good carpenter in the village.

He knew how to cut huts, baths, planed beehives for bees, made birch stools. In addition, he was a spoon-maker, carved wooden spoons, decorated them with flowers and birds, and then took them to the market.

Seeing the underdog, Merinov realized that there was a puppy in front of him.

An English Spitz, he thought. “Probably, his summer residents abandoned him.”

Merin's carpenter knew little about dogs, but he treated them good-naturedly. In his yard lived the dog Palma, whom the carpenter liked to scratch behind his ear.

Pushing with his boot an English, as he thought, Pomeranian, Merinov wanted to go home, but the Pomeranian groaned, buried himself in a carpenter's rubber boot.

- What? the carpenter was surprised. - What are you whining about? Go to your gardeners!

The English Spitz, however, did not go to the summer residents, but still lay like a dead man on the ground. Napoleon lost his former beauty and now looked like the most skinned puppy in the world, in which there is neither sense nor breed. The precious fur stuck out in dirty tufts, matted in tangles. And, looking at him, no one, of course, could have thought that such unimportant animals are raised on fur farms.

"You've been beaten, poor fellow," said the carpenter. “And next time, be smarter - don’t mess with mutts.” Okay, now I'll put you somewhere.

He took the spitz by the scruff like a kitten and carried him to the store. The store was noisy, people crowded around the counter, and hunter Frol Nozdrachev was sitting on a box of pasta in the corner.

- Who wants a puppy? shouted the carpenter. - English Spitz! His gardeners abandoned him! Trained dog! Eats candy "Lake Ritsa"!

The store laughed and made a noise.

The saleswoman Asya shouted:

— Go, Merin, home. We need your puppy!

The hunter Frol Nozdrachev looked at the underdog with misty eyes and said:

This Spitz is not a purebred. He has a fox tail. Drop it.

Merinov the carpenter shouted some more, offering a puppy, then he bought groats and left the store.

“All right,” he muttered, going out onto the porch, “if you don’t want to, don’t. I'll take it home, Veruna as a gift. On, I'll tell you, Verunya, a gift - an English Spitz. Let him live in the yard. Yes, and Palma will be more fun.

The carpenter slipped the underdog into his bosom and the motorcycle glove into his pocket.

It was dry and warm in the bosom of the carpenter. It smelled of shag and wood glue.

PALM

With a clatter of boots stomping on the frozen ground, the carpenter Merinov went up to his fence and stopped, smoking his cigarette. His mistress was strict, she did not order smoking at home. And the carpenter respected his mistress. He stood by the fence, puffed on the smoke. From the cigarette, shag stars fell to the ground.

Having stamped out the fire, the carpenter opened the gate and entered the yard.

“Well, here it is,” he said, pulling out the underdog from his bosom. - Here we are at home. Do you see this house? This is ours. And our barn. And our cherries, fur coats. Don't be afraid of Palma, she won't touch... Palma! Their!..

The carpenter lowered the underdog to the ground, took out a motorcycle glove from his pocket, threw it on the porch, and went into the house himself. An electric light flashed through the open door, and an unusually pleasant, satisfying, and greasy smell reached me—the hostess was taking evening cabbage soup out of the oven.

The carpenter Merinov had a solid yard. He cut down the house from thick pine logs, decorated the platbands on the windows with grass patterns. Chunky cherries grew under the windows. Long gray icicles hung from their branches. To the side of the house was a barn in which the gelding cow Vorya stirred warmly. There were goats and a dog kennel covered with tar paper near the barn.

A fat, speckled dog crawled out of the kennel. She yawned and, noticing the underdog, barked lazily.

This was the Merinova Palm.

She looked like a pine log wrapped in felt, and spreading ears grew on her head, which gave her a resemblance to a palm tree in a tub.

Palma sniffed the air with her big and wet, pink nose even in the dark and immediately absorbed all the smells that were in it: evening cabbage soup, a motorcycle glove, Napoleon III, and even the smell of the moon that jumped out of a cold cloud for a minute.

Palma did not like the smell of the underdone, it was very hard, tinny. But at the same time, it did not cause much irritation.

“What can I do,” Palma probably thought good-naturedly. “There are such smells. The trouble is not great. The main thing is the heart, the soul.

Shaking her tropical ears, Palma approached the underdog. He immediately fell on his back, exposing the claws that had grown in the cage. But Palma ignored them. She stuck out her huge tongue, which was obviously too tall for her, and licked Napoleon. Warm, affectionate and pleasant was this language. It could only be compared with a trough in which mothers bathe their babies.

The underdog could not cling to such a language. He whined, exposing Palma's stomach and platinum sides, and in an instant he turned from Napoleon III into an ordinary puppy. The palm licked Napoleon hard and decided that the smell had become more decent. She pushed the underdog to the kennel.

Palma Merinova was actually a good-natured hostess, one of those who, having invited a guest, immediately put all sorts of gingerbread and shanezhki on the table. Under the kennel she had hidden various pieces and bits, and, having unearthed something from her stocks, Palma began to treat Napoleon.

Rumbling, he pounced on bread crusts and cock heads, and Palma paced around him, grumbling affectionately, regaling.

Yes, Palma Merinova was a hospitable hostess, and if she had a samovar in her kennel, she, of course, would have fired it up.

NIGHT IN THE KENNEL

Twilight thickened, turned into darkness, and at once night fell upon the land of Kovylkino from all sides. You won’t understand where it came from: whether it fell from the sky or rose from deaf ravines overgrown with angelica, from badger caves.

Towards midnight frost hit, and a blue rainbow shone around the moon, which emerged from the gray clouds. This nocturnal cold rainbow overtook the village dogs with wolf anguish, and they barked and howled in unison, looking at the moon.

The light of the moon saddened Palma too, she also howled, supporting her fellow villagers. Her voice, warm at first and velvety, rose higher and higher, lost its warmth and velvet along the way, and was already reaching for the moon with a thin silk thread. Having reached the moon itself, Palma began to slowly lower her head and saw the windows of the Merin's house, illuminated by electricity. The electric light excited her, and Palma barked, as if calling the hosts out into the street to share with her the anguish of the night.

Looking frowningly at the moon, he wanted to catch up, howl to the village mongrels, but nothing happened - only a yelp escaped from his throat, similar to an old man's hoarse cough. This cold sound did not fit in any way with the domestic dog howling, and it was not needed in the night village choir, just as Napoleon himself was not needed here, in the village, a wonderful beast, neither wild nor domestic - artificial, bred by man.

Under the howling of dogs, Napoleon crawled into the kennel to Palma, hid in the farthest corner, buried himself in some hot rags and dozed off.

He took a motorcycle glove with him, because it had become completely handmade.

The wind, which was walking high in the sky, dispersed the clouds, and it became clear how it poured out of the Kovylkinsky ravine into the sky Milky Way- dairy road. And on this road in pursuit of Taurus, measuring the hours of the night, Orion slowly rushed.

The dagger on his belt flashed menacingly, the stiff bow bent, and now a swift arrow traced the vault of heaven, hit the heavenly buffalo in the forehead.

From a formidable blow, sparks fell across the sky - stray comets - and burned out somewhere above the water pump, a small brick mushroom marking the Mshaga fur farm above the black forests.

No, Orion did not catch up with Taurus, did not catch up yesterday, will not catch up today and tomorrow. It is much easier for director Nekrasov to find an underdog, to return Napoleon III to the fur farm.

“Praskovyushka should have been given a prize,” director Nekrasov thought at that moment. “Still, she tries ... and now it’s just trouble.”

“Okay, I’ll live without a bonus,” Praskovyushka was thinking in the meantime, “happiness is not in money ...”

Falling asleep, she tossed and turned uneasily on a high bed with silver balls at the head, sighed, felt sorry for herself and Napoleon, who now wanders around somewhere, hungry and alone.

The driver Shamov, going to bed, thought only of one thing: what to do with the bonus - give it to his wife or hide it for personal needs?

“I’ll keep a fiver,” he decided in the end, and fell asleep on this, and he dreamed of a smooth road without puddles and without potholes.

A deep snow cloud ran into the sky, covered the moon, wrapped a cloak around the shoulders of the heavenly hunter. And all at once the village dogs fell silent, rattling their chains as they went to bed. Only Palma barked for a long time, until the lights went out in the windows of the Merin's house.

The palm climbed into the kennel, pressed Napoleon against the wall. Such a powerful heat emanated from it that Napoleon suffocated, twitched, without waking up, set his nose exactly to the north and found a gap in the wall of the kennel. He pressed his nose against her and calmed down. There was a cold breeze from the gap, and the smell of snow falling from the sky.

The underdog Napoleon the Third fell asleep, and, perhaps, he had never slept so calmly before as on that night in the yard of the carpenter Merinov, under the protection of the hot and good-natured Palma. He dreamed of long rows of cages, of Markquis twirling a bowl, and of the 116th, who was lying prone on the road.

The palm tree slept comfortably, snoring and snoring. She dreamed of a big kulebyaka, which would probably be baked for the holiday.

BIG VERA MERINOVA

By morning it snowed, so thick that the carpenter got up early to clear the paths with a wooden shovel.

The palm tree crawled out of its kennel and yawned sweetly. An underdog appeared behind Palma and also began to yawn and stretch.

“You see,” laughed the carpenter, “yawn!” Has Palma warmed up? Verun, come out on the porch, look who I brought you!

The carpenter's daughter Vera, a big girl who was in the second grade, came out onto the porch. In height, Vera caught up with her dad, and on her shoulders lay a tightly woven braid, thicker than a ship's rope.

- What kind of guy is this? Vera asked, glancing at the underdog. - Dad, why are you joking?

“This, Verun, is an English Spitz,” answered the carpenter, who, by the way, was a little afraid of his daughter, because she was strict. - His summer residents abandoned him, but I regretted it.

— Is it a dog? Look, what a tail, and a fox's muzzle.

“Maybe it’s a cross between a dog and a fox?” said the carpenter uncertainly.

- Dad, you think what you say. So where does this mixture come from? The fox is where, and the dogs are in the village. This is an animal, not a dog.

Mother Merinova Klavdia Efimovna, as large as a haystack, came out onto the porch with a towel in her hands. Like Vera, her mother had a braid on her shoulders, which, however, was much thinner than that of her daughter. Klavdia Efimovna worked as an accountant on the collective farm, and two years ago she was with the chairman at a fur farm, and she saw both arctic foxes and black-brown foxes. She immediately understood who was sitting in the snow by the kennel.

“Fox,” she said. He ran away from the farm.

“I beat him off the dogs at the store yesterday,” the carpenter said boastfully.

- And what is it, I wonder, you were doing at the store? asked Klavdia Efimovna.

“So, Klav...” the carpenter hesitated. - You know, you need to buy shag. And where can I get it, if not in a store?

“The whole yard stank of its tobacco,” Merinova’s mother remarked with displeasure and, squatting down, began to look at the underdog.

“What a beautiful fur,” Vera said. “Mom, give him a drink.”

- Nothing to feed the animals. Let dad get on the bike and take him to the farm.

"Don't go to the farm, Mom," Vera said. Let him live with us. It will be like a dog. Let's warm it up.

“Where am I going, Klav, now?” the carpenter supported Vera. “Will I drive through this snow?” In addition, the rear axle seems to have cracked.

“I know where the crack is,” said Mother Merinova, looking the carpenter in the eyes with displeasure. “Tell me better, what were you doing at the store?”

The Merin carpenter became confused, coughed, pulled out some kind of rope from under the porch and went behind the gate, saying enigmatically:

- I'm going for the poles.

YESTERDAY SHI

Cautiously, Vera tried to stroke the underdog on the wool. He shrank back and, frowning, looked somewhere over the fence. The light touches of a human hand surprised Napoleon, but there was nothing wrong with that, and suddenly a warm, pleasant shiver ran down his back.

And Vera was surprised at how sensitive his fur was. It flowed, moved under the fingers, was alive and even silvery to the touch. Vera really wanted to run her finger along the white strip that cuts the nose of the underdog, but she did not dare.

- Mom, bring cabbage soup. Let's feed him.

Mother Merinova stroked Vera on the head and said:

- You are my good man. You love animals. Okay, anyway, put new ones today.

She went into the house and brought out a pot of the same cabbage soup that smelled so delicious yesterday. Eh, mother Merinova had boiled mutton moss in stock, but she could not tear them from her heart!

Palma was poured into a bowl, and Vera found the underdone, a former frying pan with a broken handle, crumbled bread into cabbage soup.

The palm tree wagged its tail, went up to its bowl and struck the cabbage soup merrily with its tongue.

“Sip, sip, don’t be shy,” Vera urged Napoleon.

He resisted, wanted to start spinning the frying pan and unexpectedly scooped up cabbage soup with his paw. I licked it and immediately realized that I had never tasted anything so spicy and salty. He dipped his paw again and caught a shaggy knot.

“It’s cabbage,” Vera explained. - Slurp, sip ... Here you come across onions, round, yes, probably, they’ve already boiled, they’ve boiled. And potatoes.

Napoleon licked the cabbage. And so he began to eat: he dipped his paws in cabbage soup and licked them. Yesterday the cabbage soup smelled, maybe tastier, but even now they were good. Sour and greasy steam poured from them.

While the underdog was leaning on yesterday's cabbage soup, Vera Merinova brought a rope, affectionately, with a light bow, wrapped it around his neck, and tied the other end to a ring driven into the wall of the kennel.

“Sit there until dinner,” she said.

Only after licking his frying pan clean did Napoleon notice that something was in the way around his neck. He twisted his head and tried to knock off the rope with his paw, but it was already tightly closed around his neck, buried in the fur. Then it seemed to him that he could run away from this thing. He jumped to the side - the rope grabbed his throat, and Napoleon fell into the snow.

No, Napoleon, you can't run away from the carpenter's rope. The simplest subject, but easily turns a free beast into a dog. And Palma, and a warm kennel, and yesterday's hearty cabbage soup - this is just a deception suitable for yard dogs. To the north, to the north it was necessary, Napoleon, just because the right compass shows there, dissected by a white stripe. Disappeared, Napoleon drooped, got caught in a noose folded with a bow from a carpenter's rope.

"Don't worry, don't worry," Vera soothed him. "You can only sit like this until dinner." Not to run away. And when I come home from school, I'll arrange a house for you.

Vera affectionately stroked the underdog, persuaded him, as mothers persuade children.

I'll call him Silence, she thought.

Vera Merinova was a kind girl. She loved animals, all animals, no matter what. But preferably mammals.

HALF STOOL

Mother Merinova went to work, Vera went to school. There was no one left at home.

And Palma was a homebody by nature. She didn't much like hanging out in the streets, she liked it when guests came by themselves.

Having eaten, Palma jumped onto the kennel and lay down on its flat roof to wait for the guests.

Napoleon, knocked down by a rope, crawled into the kennel. It seemed to him that some terrible, strong and invisible beast had seized him by the neck and was holding him. Here he presses harder - it will tear his throat. The motorcycle glove, which had been dormant in a pile of rags, stirred, affectionately ran its index finger along his black nose, dissected by a white stripe. Napoleon whimpered, but the glove could not untie the rope around his neck.

Soon a guest appeared in the yard.

It was an old friend of Palma's little dog Pol-stool.

The small and malicious Poltaburetka had a bad temper. She stole everything that caught her eye, she liked to bite from behind. village dogs could not stand Pol-stool. Only Palma felt sorry for her.

“Little dogs are mean,” Palma reasoned. - You should feel sorry for them. Their lives are not good."

Palma always shared with the hungry Poltaburetka the bones that fell from the gelding table, and Poltaburetka came in every morning to have a bite to eat and generally chat.

Seeing the guest, Palma affably waved her tail. Half a stool grinned from afar, giggled, and galloped up to the kennel.

Suddenly she froze in place, wrinkled her nose - what is it that smells disgusting around here? The palm tree snorted good-naturedly: they say, do not worry, one acquaintance or relative, something like a nephew, is worming his way here.

An underdog with a motorcycle glove in his mouth crawled out of the kennel.

Half-stool snarled, her eyes lit up with a scandalous fire. She immediately remembered who scratched her whole face yesterday.

Without thinking, she rushed to the underdog, clattered her teeth and tore out a tuft of platinum wool, Napoleon grabbed her nose, and an unpleasant squeal was heard again.

Palma jumped off the kennel, wiped Polstool with her shoulder and stood between her and the underdog.

“Wait, wait, guys,” she seemed to say. "Let's figure out what's going on here first."

But Poltaburetka did not want to understand anything at all. Her nose was bleeding, and her mouth was clogged with fur. She didn't just bark, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

All this comedy Palme did not like. She drove Napoleon into the kennel and climbed into it herself, putting out only her good-natured muzzle. Palma peacefully grumbled, explaining that there was nothing to stir up fuss, that this was her acquaintance or even relative, and that, in the end, it was her own business, who lives in her kennel.

But Palma's persuasion did not help. The pack came close to the kennel, and the treacherous Poltaburet jumped up on the roof and began to scrape it with its claws.

Moshka the little dog, Poltaburetka's cousin, became quite insolent. She scratched the ground with her hind legs - clods of earth and snow flew into the face of the good-natured hostess.

Palma's patience ran out. In a rage, she jumped out of the kennel and terribly bit her cousin. And right there, Moshka, and Palma, and Lady, and Poltaburetka, and the stray dog ​​Jackalok grappled into one shaggy wheel. And Napoleon looked out excitedly from the kennel and somehow resembled, after all, his famous namesake, who is watching the progress of the battle from the marshal's tent.

The dogs curled into a ball, tied with a double sea knot. Their muzzles were in the middle of the knot, and their tails fluttered on the outside. The knot rolled across the yard, overturned the goats, but then suddenly a tin can flew in from somewhere and crashed into the very middle of the swara. And a terrible, terrible cry was heard:

— Artillery! Fire! The left gun with explosive shells - oh!

Explosive shells rained down on the dogs in a hail - fragments of pots and rattling cans. He was the first to rush towards Jackalok, followed by his cousin. Four seconds later, the yard was empty.

From behind the fence, a man in an officer's cap peered into the Merino yard. It was Serpokrylov, a preschooler.

Author reader's diary

Electronic reader's diary

Book Information

Title and author of the book	main characters	Plot	My opinion	Date of reading	Number of pages
Nedopesok Yuriy Koval	Himself an underdog (a fox puppy) Napoleon the Third, a preschooler Serpokrylov, a carpenter's daughter Vera Merinova	The story begins with the escape of this fox and his comrade ("blue fox number one hundred and sixteen") from the fur farm for the sake of their dream. They are on their way to the North Pole. But the one hundred and sixteenth is soon caught and returned to the farm, and the underdog continues his journey. And on his way he meets a variety of people.	An excellent book to read from young to old. This story, however, like all other books by this author, a story about freedom, about love, about compassion, is great to read aloud with your family.	I re-read the whole Koval more than once. The language is amazing.	http://loveread.ws/read_book.php?id=22909&p=1

About the author of the book

KOVAL, YURI IOSIFOVICH (1938-1995), Russian writer. Born February 9, 1938 in Moscow. After graduating from the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute (1960), with a diploma as a teacher of Russian language and literature, history and drawing, he worked in a rural school in Tatarstan. While studying at the institute, he became interested in the art of fresco, mosaic, and sculpture. He also took up drawing and painting. He made friends with many artists, including the poet and bard Y. Kim, the future theater director P. Fomenko, and others. In the early 1960s, Koval began to publish works for children. The most famous of them will be the Adventures of Vasya Kurolesov (1974), Cap with crucians (1974), Nedopesok (1975), Five kidnapped monks (1977), Wormwood tales (1987).

About the book

The story of the creation of the book During a trip to the Urals with the sculptor Nikolai Silis, Silis's brother Vadim once took them to a fur farm, where he showed them foxes.

Title of the work: underdog

Year of writing: 1975

Genre of work: story

Main characters: Pyotr Erofeich Nekrasov- director of the fur farm, Praskovyushka- worker, Napoleon III, Room 116, marquis- arctic foxes.

Summary of the story "Nedopesok" for the reader's diary tells of the escape of two polar foxes from a fur farm.

Plot

The key point of the story is "Mshaga". This is a large animal farm. There are arctic foxes here, for which care is entrusted to the worker Praskovya. The boss deprived her of the bonus, and in despair, she did not close the cells. Two scribes are missing: Napoleon III with an extremely valuable platinum fur, and Number 116 with blue. They wanted to find the fugitives with the help of a hunter's hound. But he was distracted from the trail, chasing the hare. Then they sent the Marquis, who always returned home. But his friends refused to go with him. 116 was found by the driver. And Napoleon settled in the village of Kovylkino. The girl Vera brought him back to the fur farm. But soon the fox made another escape.

Conclusion (my opinion)

The story has a deep meaning. The author conveys his great love to nature. The desire for freedom of animals resembles such thoughts in humans. Napoleon III did not want to be someone's collar, he just wanted a normal life.

Part 1

At the Mshaga fur farm, Praskovyushka usually took care of the Arctic foxes. Before the holidays, the director of the fur farm, Pyotr Erofeich Nekrasov, deprived her of her bonus. This turned out to be a real blow for the worker - she already had her own plans for the award, she wanted to help her sister with three children. All day she walked lost and, having fed the animals, she forgot to lock the cage behind two. When it was time for dinner, a metallic ringing sounded through the fur farm. It was the Arctic foxes who began to “play on cymbals” - to twist their drinking bowls. AT

It was at this time that Praskovyushka discovered the loss of two foxes: Napoleon III, with very valuable platinum-colored fur, and blue fox number 116. Upon learning of what had happened, Nekrasov was furious - the escape of a rare fox promised big losses, it was decided to look for fugitives.

First, the director Nekrasov and the foreman Filin went in search. They themselves did not achieve anything and turned for help to the hunter Frol Nozdrachev, who had a hound dog Davilo. The dog did not like the smell of the fox, he only ran along the trail for a while, and then he discovered the hare and happily chased the animal. The fugitives were never found.

And in the meantime

Napoleon ran farther and farther away from the fur farm. He liked freedom, and nature seemed familiar, although he had previously seen it only from his cell. Napoleon confidently ran forward, to the north, and the 116th faithfully followed him. The foxes had to spend the night in a badger hole, but Napoleon could not sleep - he felt the danger and was ready to fight back if something happened.

It was restless at the fur farm: everyone was worried about the fugitives. It was decided to send the Marquis after them. Marquis, an adult, red fox, lived in a cage next to Napoleon. The Marquis was known as a wise and calm fox. “For the third time in his life, the Marquis turned out to be free. For the first time, just like Napoleon, he escaped and roamed the forests for three days. Hungry and skinned, he returned to the farm. A year later, another fox escaped, named Riesling. It was summer, and no trace of the fugitive could be found. It was then that director Nekrasov came up with the idea of ​​sending the Marquis after him. The director understood that the Marquis, having taken a sip of a free life, would definitely return to the farm. And sure enough, the Marquis was back for dinner, followed by an exhausted Riesling.”

And the director did not lose: the Marquis was able to find the fleeing foxes and bring them back to the farm, but Napoleon did not want to return, and the 116th was tormented by doubts for a long time. He wanted to eat, to be warm, but still he decided to follow Napoleon, who led him so confidently somewhere. The fugitives never returned to their cells.

The foxes ran along the country road. A truck drove by. The driver Shamov mistook 116th for a gray fox, realized that it might be valuable, and caught it and returned it to the farm. He was extremely surprised when he received an award for a fox, a bonus of 20 rubles.

Now Napoleon became more careful, he was already running along the side of the road so that in case of danger he could hide. But still, two motorcyclists noticed him, again mistook him for a fox and wanted to catch him. Napoleon was able to escape from them, and at the same time steal the glove.

Not knowing how, Napoleon ran into the village of Kovylkino. There he fought with the mongrels, and the carpenter Merinov separated the dogs and saved the Arctic fox, mistaking him for an English Spitz. In the tavern, no one wanted to shelter such a rare animal, and the carpenter had to take it for himself.

Napoleon was introduced to the Merinov family - with his wife, Claudia Efimovna, with her daughter Vera, a second-grader, and with the dog Palma. Napoleon had to live in the same kennel with Palma, but they became friends, Palma cordially received her guest, treated him to the bones she had laid aside, and warmed him at night.

Part 2

In the morning, the mongrels came to the palm tree, they recognized the Arctic fox. A fight ensued. Lesha Serpokrylov, a preschooler passing by, dispersed the dogs, and at the same time took Napoleon away. Lesha imagined himself as the head of the expedition, and Napoleon (he called him Filka) was supposed to lead people to the North Pole.

It was the last lesson, the preschooler kept running with the fox, trying not to feel the rope around his neck. At the drawing lesson, Vera looked out the window and saw Lesha with her Tisha (that's what she called the fox). After school, she, along with classmate Kolya and art teacher Pavel Sergeevich, ran to save her fox. It turned out that some man took the animal away from a preschooler and planned to kill Napoleon and make his wife a collar. But Napoleon was saved. It was decided to leave the animal at school for the night, in a rabbit cage, and return it to the fur farm in the morning. For the third night Napoleon was free - his hair was no longer platinum, and the beast itself was already more like a mongrel, and not like a proud fox.

In the morning, many children gathered in the school yard, everyone wanted to look at a rare animal, which the cleaning lady called Sikimora. The principal of the school, Governor, didn't like it. He dispersed the students, and from Kolya and Vera he began to find out what kind of animal it was and where it came from. It was decided to call the fur farm.

Vera and Kolya became real celebrities at school, incredible rumors began to spread about them and about the animal. The second-graders decided that it was impossible to give the fox to the farm - they would make a collar out of it. They instructed the preschooler Lesha to hide Napoleon in the bathhouse.

The loss of the polar fox was discovered when director Nekrasov arrived. Two directors, Nekrasov and Governors, had a serious conversation with the students. The director of the fur farm explained to the children that Napoleon is a rare fox, he lives to get a completely new look, and no one is going to make a collar out of him. The children were even allowed to come to the farm and take care of the animals. Everyone agreed to hand over the fox, but he was not in the bathhouse.

Lesha released the fox into the wild so that he could run to the North Pole. The guys were upset, but they went to look for the beast. And Vera in an instant turned from a good and diligent hero girl into an outcast: after all, she vouched for the preschooler.

Vera returned home and began to think, did she do the right thing when she fed the Arctic fox, tied him up, left him in her house? But soon all these thoughts were gone, and it was as if a mountain had fallen from my shoulders. And it was at that moment that the girl saw Napoleon coming out of Palma's kennel. The mountain again climbed onto Vera's shoulders. It turns out that the arctic fox did not run to the North Pole, he ran to warmth and comfort.

Faith led Napoleon to the director of the farm. The fox was returned to the cage. In the evening, Vera came to visit Lesha, the girl could not figure out if she had done the right thing.

“Evening dragged on for a long time, delaying, pushing back the night, but finally it flooded the earth, extinguished all the windows, and in the sky above a lonely pine tree, along a road woven from the smallest stars, Orion slowly rushed. A red star on his shoulder burned dimly, a dagger sparkled, its starry tip pointed to a pumping station marking the Mshaga fur farm above the black forests.

The foxes have long since fallen asleep. Only the Marquis and the 116th rushed about the cages, scuffed the bars and looked, without looking up, at Napoleon curled up in a ball.

This concludes the story of the underdog Napoleon III. There is nothing more to add, except that exactly a month later the undersand ran away again. This time he did not stay anywhere and certainly reached the North Pole.

Option 2

At the Mshaga fur farm, they usually gave out a bonus before the holidays, but this time the director of the farm, Nekrasov, deprived the employees of such a gift. Praskovyushka, a girl who cared for animal cages, was counting on this award. She wanted to help her sister with three children. The whole day she walked around frustrated and thoughtful, as a result of which she forgot to close two cages with arctic foxes.

Two rare polar foxes, Napoleon the Third, with very valuable platinum-colored fur, and fox with turquoise fur number 116 escaped, and the management of the fur farm decided to go in search of them. Director Nekrasov and foreman Filin were the first to go, but, unable to find the fugitives, they turned to the hunter Frol Nozdrachev for help, who had a hound dog nicknamed Davilo. However, this did not bring results, the dog lost track and lost his way.

Desperate, the director decides to send the old fox Marquis after the fugitives. He had already had a bad experience of escaping in his youth, and the director counted on the fact that the Marquis would be able to catch up with the fugitives and bring them back. The old fox found the "missing", but he failed to bring them back.

Walking along a country road, the foxes came to the attention of the truck driver, who mistook the 116th for a gray fox. Having overtaken the arctic fox, he loaded it into the car and returned it to the fur farm. Quite unexpectedly, even for himself, he received as much as twenty rubles for the gray fox.

Napoleon continued his journey alone and he wandered into the village of Kovylkino. On the street, he managed to fight with yard dogs, but was saved by the carpenter Merinov. The carpenter brought the animal home and settled in a booth with his dog Palma. The girl Vera, Merinov's daughter, took care of the outlandish animal. The next morning dogs came to Palma and recognized Napoleon. A fight broke out again, but the preschooler Lyosha Serpokrylov, who arrived in time, dispersed the dogs. Seeing her new pet with some unfamiliar boy, after school, Vera, with her classmate Kolya and teacher Pavel Sergeevich, decided to return the fox home. As it turned out later, some man took a rare animal from the boy in order to make a collar for his wife.

Again, Napoleon's life was saved, but they decided to leave him at school until morning. In the morning a lot of schoolchildren gathered to look at the arctic fox, but the director of the Governors quickly dispersed everyone to their classes and decided to send the animal back to the Mshaga fur farm. Vera and Kolya managed to hide the fox, fearing that they would make a collar out of it at the fur farm. The director of the fur farm, Nekrasov, promised the children not to harm the animal, but to come and visit him.

Returning to the fur farm, Napoleon fell asleep peacefully, curled up in a ball. A month later, Napoleon escaped again, and it was not possible to find him.

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Summary of Nedopesok Koval February 2, 2015, 02:14 am

Yuri Koval is a unique phenomenon for me in Soviet literature. He wrote for children, but literary language his is so rich, original and pure that the feeling of childishness of literature does not arise at all. Even, on the contrary, sometimes you wonder if the children will be able to appreciate such an elegant verbal curtsy? However, kids can. Not at the analytical level, but at the level of sensations, because Yury Koval wrote, first of all, sincerely.

"Nedopesok" is a story about the delightful beauty of an arctic fox, which can teach a child to see behind any text not only a fascinating plot. although a fascinating plot, light humor and bright characters are also present here. "Nedopesok" can become a primer for entering more complex, no longer children's literature, in which it is not enough just to follow the story and imagine the movement. It is very difficult for Nedopyos-Napoleon not to empathize, but somehow you just get into his uncomfortable place, you understand that there is no way further without analysis and metaphors. Even if you are a child.

Nedopyosok-Napoleon the Third was born in captivity, was bred by human hands on a polar fox farm for the wonderful beauty of fur. And his fate is to go for someone's warm coat. But Napoleon the Third carried in his genes not only a magical fur, but also a fierce desire to break free, inherited from his ancestors. What freedom is, he imagines badly, because he has never seen it. And yet his sharp nose is steadily turned to the north, like a compass needle, and it is there that his paws and the call of the ancestors carry. The underdog runs away, they catch him, he runs away, they help him, they catch him, he ... Well, in general, you understand. It will not be boring in terms of action here, especially since there are not only leaf pioneers with a halo over their heads, but there are bunglers, and hooligans, and nasty adults.

The persistence with which a young inexperienced arctic fox runs to no one knows where is amazing. And how relative beauty is in this world: two minutes ago it was an amazingly beautiful animal, and now it’s some kind of dirty mongrel, not even a fox, but smeared in I don’t understand what a spitz. By the way, it's funny that the publishers of that time saw in the desire to get to the north an analogy with Jewish emigration, in connection with which there were some difficulties in printing "Nedopeska".

The child has a lot to think about. Adults have a lot to be nostalgic about. I didn’t read Koval as a child, so for the first time I could enjoy his wonderful language. And that's great.

trounin April 30, 2014 at 1:59 pm

There are no complaints about Koval - he is still children's writer. True, he worked in Soviet times, when any work went through strict censorship. Who would have thought that a fox, striving for freedom, running to the North Pole, can be equated with a Jew dreaming of escaping the country to Israel. You will say stupidity - but it was so. The book could have ended up in the writer's archive for a long time, if the prudence of the censors did not prevail.

Readers are always divided into 3 camps. Some just read a book, others look at history without trying to find a secret meaning, the latter, like the notorious censors, are trying to find something. We will not search. For the simple reason that few of us have seen a live fox, let alone its young. There is such a white beast, somewhat similar to a fox, living somewhere in the north. From the book, the reader learns about the existence of fur farms, where arctic foxes are not only grown for fur, but they also try to breed a good breed with better fur.

One of these miracles of selection is the protagonist of the book - the underdog Napoleon III, named so for a reason, because his father was Napoleon II, and he was the son of Napoleon I. The whole chain was nurtured by the chief director of the fur farm, who wants to breed a new high-quality breed and call it his own name. Of course, the escape of a rarity nullifies all the long years of work. And it’s not so clear when the reader is torn between the desire to return the fox back to the farm, where he will be fed and not sent for fur soon, but the reader can take the other side - the fox really rushes north, even if he can be hit by a car or shot along the way the hunter, and he is not accustomed to the wild environment, can only, literally, slurp the master's cabbage soup. In any case, Koval presents to our attention a small animal, not yet quite intelligent, but with possible prospects. It is not our business to know about the future of the fox, because a fairy tale cannot be destroyed.

There is no escape from children in children's literature. From good Soviet children. So correct and positive. They do not cheat and do not seek personal dominance. Every child in the book is good, although they are also divided into two sides, when someone wants to return the fox to the cage, and someone can not wait to contribute to his free life. All characters are beautifully written. And the children, and both directors - fur farms and rural schools.

The desire for freedom is a central theme. The concept and necessity of freedom is another matter.

panda007 November 10, 2008 at 1:47 pm

When it becomes dreary from "adult" books, and a little sick from the adults themselves, you want something pleasant, cozy and at the same time not stupid. I didn't read Yury Koval's book about a curious young arctic fox in my childhood. But in vain. Maybe then I would have understood long ago that all people are not divided into good and bad, but into those who "love animals" (that is, kind by definition) and those who "use animals" (in the sense of their own selfish purposes , that is, by definition evil).
The funny thing is that children, who are commonly considered evil by the people, in Koval's book, may sometimes turn out to be klutzes, but not monsters, ready for personal gain to captivate a handsome underdog with amazingly beautiful hair. It is only in adults that such vile, vile, inhuman thoughts arise. Fortunately for Napoleon, there are decent people among them, and not just greedy scoundrels, so his adventure through the northern snows ends not with death at the hands of motorcyclists-poachers or a stupid driver, but with a return to the fur farm, a momentary acquisition of the "meaning of life" and a new flight to the North Pole (where his canine soul so stretches).