The girl read the morning verse, which taught her grandfather. The hall fell into a stupor! Bashny.Net

Studious kids are so diligent! The website tells hilarious story, which he shared in his Live journal under the name the lady eilin-o-connor.

Stopvreditel.give the middle group of the kindergarten for the September event I was prepared grandfather. The holiday theme was animals and birds: how they meet and fall getting ready for winter. Poems, as I remember, we were not distributed and, if distributed, grandpa rejected the proposals of the teachers and said that to read we are his.

This he chose an outstanding, no nonsense, works of Nikolai Oleinikov "Cockroach".

It's hard for me to say that they led. My grandfather never garden is not visited, so to take revenge on him was not for that. My kindergarten teacher was a wonderful kind woman. I do not know. Perhaps he wanted to make a note of high tragedy in the everyday flickering squirrels and starlings.

So on a fine autumn morning I went out to the middle of the room, straightened his dress, embroidered with leaves of velvet paper, looked at the audience and heartfelt beginning:

The cockroach sits in the glass,
The leg redhead sucks.
He was caught. He's in the trap.
And now he awaits execution.

At the Theatre Maugham's first acting lessons were given to Julia's aunt. Instead my aunt was my grandfather. We worked out all the pauses, gestures, breathing.

— A cockroach to the glass pressed
And stares, barely breathing.
He would were not afraid of death,
If I knew that there is a soul.

Gradually my voice got stronger and gained momentum. I approached the most terrible moment:

— He sad eyes
On the sofa looks,
Where with knives, axes
Vivisectors are sitting.

Grandfather didn't see me, but he would be proud of me. I recited with deep feeling. And on "the vivisectors" the faces of teachers and mothers began to change, explained to himself the influence of poetry and his talent.

— Here the executioner approaches him, passionately I exclaimed. And feeling his chest under the ribs he finds that it is necessary to pierce!

The hero ruthlessly kill. One hundred and four tools to tear apart the patient! (here I trembled). Injuries from wounds and dying cockroach.

At this point, the intensity of the drama peaked. When I later read in school Lermontov's "death of a poet", it turned out that the whole complete range of emotions, from anger to grief, was experienced by me in five years.

— Everything in the past, — I sighed, the pain, the hardships. There is no longer anything. And subsurface water flow from him.

Here I made another pause. Adults face lit up with hope: apparently, they decided that I was finished. Ha! And the tragedy of the orphaned child?

— There, in the cracks of the big cupboard
All the throw, one,
Son said: "daddy, Daddy!"
Poor son!

Shouting the last word. To look up. To keep silent, out of breath.
Shocked hall was silent with me.

But it was not the end.

And standing over him shaggy. scrappy — with a grim hatred I said. — Ugly, hairy, with tongs and a saw.

Someone of weak spirit of the children began to cry.

— You scoundrel, wearing pants! — I shouted in the face of someone's dad. Know a dead cockroach is a Martyr for science! And not just a cockroach.

Dad made a strange guttural sound that I failed to interpret. But it was insignificant. Stormy waves of the poetry carried me to the finale.

— The watchman rough hand
From the window of his throw.
And in the yard upside down
Our darling will fall.

Pause. Pause. Pause. The window is still yellowing chestnut, ran across the porch roof, some kind of birdie, but it was all over.

— Trampled track — sadly I said — near the porch he will be with his legs to wait for the bitter end.

Powerless to drop hands. To stoop. Look like a person who has lost the meaning of life. And clearly, stifling sobs, to utter the last four lines:

— Its bone dry
Will the rain to pour,
His eyes are blue
Will the chicken peck.

Silence. Someone sobbed — I'm pretty sure. My hem fell off velvet leaf fell, swirling to the floor in a rustle, breaking the oppressive silence, and then, finally, somewhere deep in the basement violently, desperately, full-length applauded cockroaches.

Actually, of course not. Cockroaches-we didn't have and sheet have not been off. I very carefully tapped, apparently for fear to flash encore, took crying children, patted him on the cheek unconscious, given water limp the teacher of the younger group and handed me some kind of ridiculous children's book of short stories like Bianchi.

Why? asked angrily in the evening the grandmother of my grandfather. The anger was caused by the fact that in her indignation she was alone. From my parents to wait for understanding not accounted for: dad laughed, and mom said she hates mornings and I could even read "Mein Kampf", it would not. — Why did you learn with your child this poem?

— Because of the "Bug-Semite" in one person recite inconvenient, we sincerely regret that his grandfather said.

via eilin-o-connor.livejournal.com/142187.html