Essay based on the text by M. Ageev, Y. Trifonov. Ready-made essays based on source texts. Preparation for the OGE in the Russian language - a collection of texts for essays-reasoning OGE Russian language once in early October

Materials for preparing to write an essay 15.3

"What's happened mother's love»

Text of the presentation

The word mom is a special word. It is born with us, accompanies us in the years of growing up and maturity. It is babbled by a child in a cradle. Pronounced with love by the young man and the very old man. The language of every nation has this word. And in all languages it sounds tender and affectionate.

The place of a mother in our lives is special, exceptional. We always bring our joy and pain to her and find understanding. Mother's love inspires, gives strength, inspires heroism. In difficult life circumstances, we always remember our mother. And at this moment we only need her. A man calls his mother and believes that no matter where she is, she hears him, has compassion and rushes to help. The word mother becomes equivalent to the word life.

How many artists, composers, poets have created wonderful works about mother! Take care of mothers! - the famous poet Rasul Gamzatov proclaimed in his poem. Unfortunately, we realize too late that we forgot to say a lot of good and kind words to our mother. To prevent this from happening, you need to give them joy every day and hour. After all, grateful children are the best gift for them.

Text 8.1(from the story “The First Day” by A. G. Aleksin)

(1) Tolya didn’t like autumn. (2) He didn’t like it because the leaves were falling and “the sun shone less often,” and most of all because it often rained in the fall and his mother didn’t let him go outside.

(3) But then a morning came when all the windows were in winding water paths, and the rain was hammering and hammering something into the roof... (4) But mother did not keep Tolya at home, and even hurried her. (5) And Tolya felt that now he was very big: dad also went to work in any weather!

(6) Mom took an umbrella out of the closet and white raincoat, which Tolya secretly put on instead of a robe when he and the guys played doctors.

- (7) Where are you going? – Tolya was surprised.

- (8) I’ll accompany you.

– (9) Should I... see you off? (10) What are you?

(11) Mom sighed and put the prepared things back in the closet.

(12) Tolya really liked running to school in the rain. (13) Once he turned around and suddenly saw his mother on the other side of the street. (14) There were a lot of raincoats and umbrellas on the street, but he recognized his mother immediately. (15) And she, noticing that Tolya turned around, hid around the corner of an old two-story house.

(16) “Hiding!” – Tolya thought angrily. (17) And he ran even faster, so that his mother would not try to catch up with him.

(18) Near the school itself, he turned around again, but his mother was no longer there.

(19) “I’m back,” he thought with relief.

(20) At the ceremonial line, the students lined up by class. (21) The young teacher quickly brushed wet strands of hair from her face and shouted:

– (22) First “B”! (23) First “B”!

(24) Tolya knew that the first “B” was him. (25) The teacher took the children to the fourth floor.

(26) While still at home, Tolya decided that he would never sit at a desk with a girl. (27) But the teacher, as if jokingly, asked him:

- (28) You probably want to sit down with Chernova, right?

(29) And it seemed to Tolya that he really had always dreamed of sitting next to Chernova.

(30) The teacher opened the magazine and began roll call. (31) After roll call she said:

- (32) Orlov, please close the window.

(33) Tolya immediately jumped up and went to the window, but it was not easy for him to reach the handle. (34) He stood up and suddenly froze on tiptoe: outside the window he suddenly saw his mother. (35) She stood holding a folded umbrella in her hands, not paying attention to the rain that was dripping from her raincoat, and slowly ran her eyes along the school windows: mom probably wanted to guess in which class her Tolya was sitting.

(36) And then he could not get angry. (37) On the contrary, he wanted to lean out into the street, wave to his mother and shout loudly, so as not to be drowned out by the rain:

– (38) Don’t worry! (39) Don't worry, mommy... (40) Everything is fine! (41) But he couldn’t shout, because shouting is not supposed to happen in class. (According to A. Aleksin)*

* Aleksin Anatoly Georgievich (born in 1924) – writer, playwright. His works such as “My Brother Plays the Clarinet”, “ Characters and performers”, “Third in the fifth row”, etc., tell mainly about the world of youth.

Text 8.2(from “A Romance with Cocaine” by M. Ageev)

(1) One day at the beginning of October, early in the morning, while leaving for the gymnasium, I forgot the envelope with money my mother had prepared in the evening. (2) They had to pay tuition fees in the first half of the year.

(3) When the big change began, when all of us were let out into the yard on the occasion of the cold, but dry and sunny weather, and at the bottom of the stairs I saw my mother, only then did I remember about the envelope and realized that she, apparently, could not stand it and brought him herself.

(4) Mother, however, stood aside in her bald fur coat, in a funny bonnet, under which gray hairs hung, and with noticeable excitement, which somehow further enhanced her pitiful appearance, helplessly peered at the crowd of schoolchildren running past, who, laughing, they looked back at her and said something to each other.

(5) As I approached, I paused and wanted to slip through unnoticed, but my mother, seeing me and immediately lighting up with a gentle smile, waved her hand, and I, although I was terribly ashamed in front of my comrades, approached her.

“(6) Vadichka, boy,” she spoke in an old man’s dull voice, handing me the envelope she had left at home and timidly, as if she was burning herself, touching the button of my overcoat with her little yellow hand, “you forgot the money, and I think he’ll be scared, so I brought it.”

(7) Having said this, she looked at me as if she was asking for alms, but, in rage for the shame caused to me, I objected in a hateful whisper that these calf tendernesses are not for us, that if she brought money, then let her pay for it herself.

(8) The mother stood quietly, listened in silence, guiltily and sadly lowering her old, affectionate eyes. (9) I ran down the already empty stairs and, opening the tight, noisily sucking door, looked back and looked at my mother. (10) But I did this not at all because I felt any pity for her, but only out of fear that she would cry in such an inappropriate place.

(11) Mother still stood on the platform and, sadly bowing her head, looked after me. (12) Noticing that I was looking at her, she waved her hand with the envelope at me the way they do at the station, and this movement, so young and cheerful, only showed even more how old, ragged and pitiful she was.

(13) Several comrades approached me in the yard and one asked who this pea jester in a skirt was with whom I had just talked. (14) I, laughing cheerfully, replied that she was an impoverished governess and that she had come to me with written recommendations.

(15) When, having paid the money, my mother came out and, without looking at anyone, hunched over, as if trying to become even smaller, quickly tapping her worn out, completely crooked heels, walked along the asphalt path to the iron gate, I felt that I was in pain heart for her.

(16) This pain, which burned me so hotly in the first moment, did not last, however, very long.

(According to M. Ageev)*

* Mikhail Ageev (Mark Lazarevich Levi) (1898–1973) – Russian writer.

Text 8.3

(1) No one, like a mother, knows how to hide her suffering and torment so deeply. (2) And no one, like children, knows how to so calmly not notice what is happening to their mother. (3) She doesn’t complain, which means she feels good.

(4) I have never seen my mother cry. (5) Not once did her eyes moisten in my presence, not once did she complain to me about life, about pain. (6) I didn’t know that this was the mercy she showed me.

(7) As a child, we easily accept sacrifices from our mother and demand sacrifices all the time. (8) And we learn later that this is cruel – from our children.

(9) “Golden days” do not last forever; they are replaced by “harsh days” when we begin to feel independent and gradually move away from our mother. (10) And now the beautiful lady and the little knight are no longer there, and if he is, then he has another beautiful lady - with pigtails, with capriciously pouting lips, with a blot on her dress...

(11) One of the “harsh days” I came home from school hungry and tired. (12) Threw the briefcase. (13) Undressed. (14) And immediately to the table. (15) There was a pink circle of sausage on the plate. (16) I ate it instantly. (17) It melted in my mouth. (18) It’s as if he didn’t exist. (19) I said:

- (20) Not enough. (21) I want more.

(22) Mom remained silent. (23) I repeated my request. (24) She went to the window and, without looking back, said quietly:

- (25) No more... sausage.

(26) I got up from the table without saying “thank you.” (27) Not enough! (28) I walked noisily around the room, rattling chairs, and my mother still stood at the window. (29) I thought that she was probably looking at something, and I also went to the window. (30) But I didn’t see anything. (31) I slammed the door - not enough! - and left.

(32) There is nothing more cruel than asking your mother for bread when she doesn’t have it. (33) And there’s nowhere to get it. (34) And she has already given you her piece... (35) Then you can get angry and slam the door. (36) But years will pass, and shame will overtake you. (37) And you will become excruciatingly painful from your cruel injustice.

(38) You will think about the day of your shame even after the death of your mother, and this thought, like an unhealed wound, will either subside or awaken. (39) You will be under her heavy power and, looking back, you will say: “Forgive me!” (40) No answer.

(41) There is no one to whisper the merciful word “I forgive.”

(42) When mom stood at the window, her shoulders shook slightly from silent tears. (43) But I didn’t notice this. (44) I didn’t notice my dirty April footprints on the floor, I didn’t hear the door slamming.

(45) Now I see and hear everything. (46) Time keeps pushing away, but it has brought this day and many other days closer to me. (47) I have accumulated a lot of words. (48) They are bursting my chest, knocking on my temple. (49) They rush out, into the light, onto paper.

(50) Forgive me, dear! (According to Yu.Ya. Yakovlev)*

Text 8.4(from the story by E. A. Permyak “Mom and We”)

(1) We stayed late at school, and when we went outside, it was already getting dark. (2) The snow piled up to half of my felt boots. (3) I became worried, knowing how cruel our Siberian steppe snowstorms are, what troubles they can bring.

(4) And soon what I feared began. (5) The snowflakes suddenly swirled in such a dance that after a few minutes a real snowstorm began, which soon turned into a big snowstorm. (6) The narrow path that led to our village was constantly covered with snow, and then it completely disappeared. (7) As if someone very unkind had stolen it from under her feet.

(8) I was scared and didn’t know what to do next. (9) The wind whistled in every way, wolves seemed to be there. (10) And suddenly, in the howling of the wind, I heard my mother’s calm voice: “Don’t be afraid, you need to bury yourself in the snow.” (11) I heard my mother’s voice so clearly, knowing full well that with my mother’s voice I was talking to myself in my imagination...

(12) We dug a cave and sat all night, telling each other different stories. (13) And in the morning, having broken through a hole to freedom, we went home.

(14) Opening the door, I rushed to my mother. (15) He rushed and - what happened, happened - began to cry.

- (16) What are you talking about? (17) “Change your shoes and get to the table quickly,” said the mother, without asking anything about the previous night.

(18) Father arrived. (19) He praised me and promised to buy me a small but real gun. (20) He was surprised at my resourcefulness. (21) And the mother?.. (22) The mother said: “The guy is thirteen years old, and it would be strange if he got lost in a snowstorm and didn’t save himself and his comrades.”

(23) In the evening, my grandmother and I were left alone. (24) Mother went to the station, to see the paramedic. (25) She said that she was crazy and had a headache. (26) It was always easy and simple for me with my grandmother. (27) I asked her: “Grandmother, at least tell me the truth: why didn’t my mother take pity on me? (28) Am I really that worthless?

- (29) You’re a fool, no one else! - answered the grandmother. - (30) Your mother didn’t sleep all night, bawled like crazy, looked for you across the steppe with the dog, her knees were frostbitten... (31) But you, look, don’t talk about it to her!

(32) Soon the mother returned. (33) She told her grandmother: “The paramedic gave powders for the head. (34) He says it’s nonsense, it will soon pass.”

(35) I rushed to my mother and hugged her legs. (36) Through the thickness of her skirts, I felt that her knees were bandaged. (37) But I didn’t even show it. (38) I have never been so affectionate with her. (39) I have never loved my mother so much. (40) Shedding tears, I kissed her weather-beaten hands. (41) And she stroked my head and went to lie down. (42) Apparently it was difficult for her to stand.

(43) This is how our loving and caring mother raised and strengthened us. (44) She looked far away. (45) And nothing bad came of it. (46) My brother is now a twice Hero. (47) And I could say something about myself, but my mother strictly ordered me to say as little as possible about myself. (According to E.A. Permyak)*

* PermTo Evgeniy Andreevich ( real name– Vissov) (1902–1982) – Russian Soviet writer.

Text 8.5(from the article by I. Seliverstova “About Mom”)

(1) All mothers are different: young, beautiful, gray-haired and tired, kind and strict. (2) But until old age, they remain the same mothers for us. (3) After all, an adult, just like a child, needs his mother’s advice. (4) Only mother, no matter what, will support you in any good endeavors, and sometimes will help you out in difficult times, forgive you for any mistake and failure, a rude word and misunderstanding. (5) He will only sigh quietly, stealthily wipe away a tear from his sad eyes and... forgive you.

(6) After all, a mother’s heart is bottomless. (7) After all, a mother’s heart is able to forgive you everything in the world. (8) Suddenly I remembered a poem by Dmitry Kedrin about how a son, having torn out his mother’s heart, carried it to his cruel lover. (9) His path was not easy; on a slippery threshold he stumbled and fell. (10) And at that moment I heard my heart ask: “Are you hurt, son?” (11) Mom forgave her son’s betrayal and his cruelty, because she couldn’t do otherwise...

(12) And your mother’s hands... (13) Have you ever thought how much your mother’s hands do for you, how tired they are, how restless they are - kind, gentle, strong and caring mother’s hands. (14) They are the very first thing we felt in life when we came to this new, unfamiliar and amazing world. (15) They pressed us to their chests, protecting us from adversity and anxiety. (16) Mom’s palm will touch your hair, ruffle it playfully, and now all the troubles and sorrows are gone, as if mom took them away from you with her mother’s hand. (17) The most expensive treasure, the greatest value in our lives are the hands of our mother! (18) Those who have taken upon themselves all the pain and cold, all the wounds and blows of life, all the hardships and bad weather - everything that protects us from adversity and allows us to be happy.

(19) Unfortunately, we rarely think about how much time and effort, how much work and health, how much affection and care our mother spends on us. (20) We grow up and, having left our home, we forget to call, write a couple of lines, or sign a holiday card. (21) And mom is waiting! (22) And finds any excuse for our callousness, our busyness, our inattention.

(23) Unfortunately, many realize too late that they forgot to say a lot good words to their mothers. (24) To prevent this from happening, you need to give warmth to mothers every day and hour, because grateful children are the best gift for them.

(25) No matter how much we talk about mom, it won’t be enough. (26) Every mother will selflessly do everything for her child. (27) She will worry about your fate no matter how old you are. (28) She will scold her grown-up child, and then be happy for him and be sure to celebrate all the good changes, which happened to her always little dear man. (29) Mom will give everything for you to become a real person.

(According to I. Seliverstova)*

* Seliverstova Inna is a modern writer and poet.

http://www.proza.ru/2007/09/17/161

Text 8.6(from the story “Heart of the Earth” by Yu. Ya. Yakovlev)

(1) A city man does not know what the earth smells like, how it breathes, how it suffers from thirst - the earth is hidden from his eyes by the hardened lava of asphalt.

(2) My mother accustomed me to the earth, just as a bird accustoms its chick to the sky. (3) But the land truly opened up to me during the war. (4) I learned the saving property of the earth: under strong fire I pressed myself against it in the hope that death would pass me by. (5) This was my mother’s land, my native land, and she kept me with maternal fidelity.

(6) Once, only once, the earth did not save me...

(7) I woke up in a cart, on the hay. (8) I did not feel pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. (9) The lips, head, and chest were thirsty. (10) Everything that was alive in me wanted to drink. (11) It was the thirst of a burning house. (12) I was burning with thirst.

(13) And suddenly I thought that the only person who could save me was my mother. (14) A forgotten childhood feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. (15) She will quench thirst, take away pain, calm, save. (16) And I began to call her.

(17) The cart rumbled, drowning out my voice. (18) Thirst sealed my lips. (19) And with the last of my strength I whispered the unforgettable word “mommy.” (20) I called her. (21) I knew that she would respond and come. (22) And she appeared. (23) And immediately the roar ceased, and cold, life-giving moisture poured out to extinguish the fire: it flowed over the lips, down the chin, down the collar. (24) Mom supported my head carefully, afraid of causing pain. (25) She gave me water from a cold ladle and took death away from me.

(26) I felt the familiar touch of a hand, heard a familiar voice:

- (27) Son, son, dear...

(28) I couldn’t even open my eyes slightly. (29) But I saw my mother. (30) I recognized her hand, her voice. (31) I came to life from her mercy. (32) My lips parted and I whispered:

- (33) Mom, mommy...

(34) My mother died in besieged Leningrad. (35) In an unfamiliar village near a well, I mistook someone else’s mother for my own. (36) Apparently, all mothers have a great similarity, and if one mother cannot come to her wounded son, then another becomes at his bedside.

(37) Mom. (38) Mommy.

(39) I know a lot about the exploits of women who carried wounded soldiers from the battlefield, who worked for men, who gave their blood to children, who followed their husbands along the Siberian highways. (40) I never thought that all this undoubtedly had something to do with my mother. (41) Now I look back at her life and see: she went through all this. (42) I see this belatedly. (43) But I see.

(44) At the Piskarevskoye cemetery, filled with people’s grief, the grass is green. (45) My mother is buried here, like many other victims of the siege. (46) No documents. (47) There are no eyewitnesses. (48) There is nothing. (49) But there is eternal love for sons. (50) And I know that my mother’s heart became the heart of the earth. (According to Yu.Ya. Yakovlev)*

* Yakovlev Yuri Yakovlevich (1923–1996) – writer and screenwriter, author of books for children and youth.

Text 8.7(story by V.V. Chaplina “Wolverine”)

(1)Once upon a time in early spring brought a wolverine to the zoo. (2) She looked like a huge marten: dark brown, covered with long, coarse hair. (3) From the behavior of the wolverine, the zookeepers realized at first glance that she was probably about to give birth to cubs and was looking for a place for a den.

(4) A wooden house was placed in the cage. (5) However, the wolverine did not like the house. (6) After a long search, she made a den under the house: she dug a small depression, lined it with her wool, and a few days later the squeak of newborns was heard from there.

(7) With the advent of the little cubs, the wolverine stopped yearning and yearning for freedom. (8) And if her cubs were in danger, she would growl in a special way, and the cubs, as if on command, would hide under the house. (9) Wolverine was especially worried when they approached the next cage in which two feisty wolves were sitting. (10) Gray predators have long been hunting for her babies. (11) If they ran up to the bars, the wolves growled angrily, their fur stood on end, they grabbed the mesh with their teeth and pulled with force, trying to grab the wolverines.

(12) During the day, the servant drove away the wolves. (13) But at night no one bothered them. (14) And then one day, when the wolves, as usual, were tugging at the net, it could not withstand the pressure, broke, and two gray predators crawled into the wolverine’s cage.

(15) Seeing that the cubs were in danger, the mother boldly rushed to their defense. (16) She was much weaker than the two wolves and, if she had not had children, she would probably have tried to leave. (17) But could a mother wolverine leave and leave her cubs?

(18) She furiously rushed first at one wolf, then at another, dodged their bites, rushed again, not allowing them to approach the children.

(19) Several times the wolves tried to get under their house, and each time the wolverine drove them away.

(20) But suddenly, in the struggle, someone knocked over the wooden house. (21) Two little frightened wolverines were left completely without cover. (22) The wolves, thirsty for prey, were ready to grab them, but the mother managed to cover the cubs with herself. (23) She laid her whole body on the kids and, no matter from which side the wolves tried to grab them, she instantly turned around and met them with her bared jaws.

(24) Covering the cubs with herself, the wolverine could not even dodge the bites of the wolves and still found the strength to repel their attack.

(25) It is unknown how this unequal battle would have ended if the watchman had not come running in response to the noise. (26) He quickly unlocked the cage and drove the wolves into place. (27) Then he sealed the hole tightly and approached the wolverine. (28) She was so weak that she didn’t even have the strength to get up. (29) And yet, when the watchman wanted to see if her babies were safe, she bared her teeth and was still ready to protect them.

(30) Having made sure that the babies were unharmed, the watchman left, and the wolverine stood up with difficulty and began to gently lick the tousled fur of her cubs. (According to V. Chaplina)*

* Chaplina (Mikhailova) Vera Vasilievna (1908–1994) - famous children's writer.

Text 8.8(story by V. P. Astafiev “Kapalukha”)

(1) A herd of calves and bulls pulled into an old clearing littered with trees. (2) The bulls and calves, and us too, trudged slowly and tiredly, with difficulty getting over the knotty dead wood.

(3) In one place, a small mound appeared in the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved, flowering blueberries. (4) The green pimples of future blueberries released barely noticeable gray blades of petals, and they somehow crumbled imperceptibly. (5) Then the berry will begin to enlarge, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

(6) There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. (7) I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie running in circles along it with outstretched wings (hunters call it a capalukha).

– (8) Nest! (9) Nest! - the guys shouted.

(10) I began to look around, feeling the blueberry hillock with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest.

- (11) Yes, there you go! – the kids pointed to the green snag near which I was standing.

(12) I looked, and my heart began to beat with fear: I almost stepped on a nest. (13) No, it was not built on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root that elastically protruded from the ground. (14) Overgrown with moss on all sides and on top too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was slightly open towards a blueberry tubercle. (15) In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. (16) There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. (17) The eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. (18) I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

- (19) Let's take it! – the boy standing next to me exhaled.

- (20) Why?

- (21) Yes so!

- (22) What will happen to the kapalukha? (23) Look at her!

(24) Kapalukha rushed to the side. (25) Her wings were still scattered, and she was rubbing the ground with them. (26) She sat on the nest with her wings outstretched, covering her future children, preserving valuable warmth for them. (27) That’s why the bird’s wings became stiff from immobility. (28) She tried and could not take off. (29) Finally she flew up onto a spruce branch and landed above our heads. (30) And then we saw that her belly was bare right down to her neck and the skin on her bare, puffy chest was often, often trembling. (31) It was out of fear, anger and fearlessness that the bird’s heart beat.

“(32) But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare belly in order to give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who approached.

- (33) This is like our mother. (34) She gives everything to us. (35) Everything, every drop... - one of the guys said sadly, like an adult, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words spoken for the first time in their lives, shouted: “Come on, let’s go catch up with the herd!”

(36) And everyone ran merrily away from the capalukha’s nest. (37) Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching her neck after us. (38) But her eyes no longer followed us. (39) They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew off the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

(40) Her eyes began to be covered with a drowsy film, but she was all alert, all tense. (41) The kapalukha’s heart beat with strong tremors, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will appear in a week or two, and maybe even a few days later.

(42) And when they grow up, when on the ringing dawn of an April morning they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga, perhaps this song will contain words, bird words incomprehensible to us about a mother who gives everything to her children, sometimes even her life. (According to V.P. Astafiev)*

* Astafiev Viktor Petrovich (1924–2001) - an outstanding Russian Soviet prose writer.

Mother's love is the most difficult form of love, the most powerful, constant and selfless. A mother's love is all-forgiving, she does not expect gratitude and does not demand anything in return. Motherly love is considered the highest form of love and the most sacred of all emotional bonds.

After the earthquake in Japan, when rescuers reached the ruins of a young woman's house, they saw her body through the cracks. Her posture was very strange: she knelt down like a praying person, her body was bent forward, and her hands were clasping something. The collapsed house injured her back and head.

With great difficulty, the leader of the rescue team stuck his hand through a narrow gap in the wall to the woman's body. He hoped she was still alive, but her body was cold. Along with the rest of the team, he left this house to investigate the next collapsed building. However, an irresistible force called him to the house of the dead woman. Kneeling again, he stuck his head through the narrow gaps to explore the area under her body. Suddenly he cried out with excitement: “Child! There’s a child here!”

The entire team carefully removed the piles of debris around the deceased. Beneath her lay a three-month-old boy, wrapped in a colorful blanket. Apparently, when the house collapsed, the woman covered her son with her body. The little boy was still sleeping peacefully when the team leader picked him up. The doctor quickly arrived to examine the child. Unrolling the blanket, he saw a cell phone. On the screen was a text message: “If you survive, remember that I love you.”

This cell phone changed hands. Everyone who read the message cried. “If you survive, remember that I love you.” Such is the love of a mother!

Aphorisms

A mother's love is the only love from which you cannot expect betrayal. V.G. Belinsky

There is nothing holier and more selfless than a mother’s love; every attachment, every love, every passion is either weak or self-interested in comparison with it. V.G. Belinsky

Everything beautiful in a person comes from the rays of the sun and from the Mother’s milk. Maksim Gorky

Let us praise the woman-Mother, whose love knows no barriers, whose breasts fed the whole world! Maksim Gorky

For some reason, many women think that having a child and becoming a mother are the same thing. One could just as well say that having a piano and being a pianist are one and the same thing. S. Harris

The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. Peter de Vries

Mother is the only deity on earth who does not know atheists. E. Legouwe

A mother's heart is an inexhaustible source of miracles. Pierre Jean Beranger

A mother's heart is an abyss, in the depths of which forgiveness will always be found. O. de Balzac

We love our mothers almost without thinking about it, and we do not realize the full depth of this love until we separate forever. Guy de Maupassant

A mother is the most touching thing on earth. Mother means: to forgive and sacrifice oneself. Erich Maria Remarque

Poetry

Nikolay Nekrasov

Listening to the horrors of war,

With every new casualty of the battle

I feel sorry for not my friend, not my wife,

I'm sorry not for the hero himself...

Alas! the wife will be comforted,

And a friend best friend will forget;

But somewhere there is one soul -

She will remember it to the grave!

Among our hypocritical deeds

And all sorts of vulgarity and prose

I've spied the only ones in the world

Holy, sincere tears -

Those are the tears of poor mothers!

They will not forget their children.

Nikolay Nekrasov

We hear children calling their mothers,

Distant, but eager to reach children.

Great feeling! It's all the way

We keep it alive in our souls, -

We love sister, and wife, and father,

But in our torment we remember our mother!

There is a sign in nature, holy and prophetic,

Brightly marked for centuries!

The most beautiful of women -

A woman with a child in her arms. Sergey Ostrovoy

What is most sacred in our hearts?

There is hardly any need to think and guess

There is the simplest word in the world

And the most sublime - Mother! Eduard Asadov

Evgeny YevtushenkoMother's Prayer

There is no icon in the mother's room,

She doesn't hit anyone with her forehead,

Neither early morning,

Not before bed

Doesn't bow.

But this bright prayer

We see in her eyes

Day and night.

Intercessor, give me a big soul,

Kind heart

Hands are strong, gentle -

It's very difficult to be a mother!

I'm not asking the authorities

I'm not worth it for money

Breathe, compassionate one, into my chest

So much love and strength

To the grave

For the whole family -

For my husband, for my son, for my daughter, -

For all their doubts

And confusion

To stumbles and quirks,

On the swirls

And hobbies

On misconceptions

And it's cold.

Only love opens hearts

Only in front of her does the mountain recede.

I need a lot of love.

You are the mother

You understand me…

Evgeniy Yevtushenko Mothers leave

Mothers leave us
They leave quietly, on tiptoe,
And we sleep peacefully, having had our fill of food,
Without noticing this terrible hour.

Mothers don’t leave us right away, no, -
It only seems to us that right away,
They leave slowly and strangely.
Small steps along the feet of the years.

Suddenly catching myself nervously one year,
We celebrate their birthdays noisily,
But this is a belated wish
It will not save their souls or ours.

Everyone is deleted, everyone is deleted.
He reaches out to them, waking up from sleep,
But your hands suddenly hit the air -
A glass wall has grown in it!

We are late.
The terrible hour has struck.
We look with hidden tears,
Like quiet, stern columns
Our mothers are leaving us...

Nikolay Rylenkov

I remember my mother's hands,
Even though she’s gone, she’s been gone for a long time,
I have never known hands more tender and kind,
How tough and calloused are these
I remember my mother's hands,
What once wiped away my tears,
They brought me handfuls of them from the fields
Everything that spring in our native land is rich with.
I remember my mother's hands,
Rare moments of harsh affection.
I became better and stronger
From her every touch.
I remember my mother's hands,
Wide, rough palms.
They are like a ladle.
Come close to them and drink,
And you cannot find a bottomless source.
I remember my mother's hands,
And I want the children to repeat:
"The worn hands of mothers,
There is nothing holier than you in the world!”

***
Rasul Gamzatov Mothers

Here we are alone in the house today,

I don’t hide the pain in my heart

And I bow my palms to yours

I turn my head gray.

I'm sad, mom, sad, mom,

I am a prisoner of stupid vanity,

And there’s not enough of me in my life

You felt the attention.

I'm spinning on a noisy carousel,

I'm rushing somewhere, but suddenly again

The heart will clench: “Really?

Have I started to forget my mother?!”

Victor Gin Don't hurt mothers

Don't offend mothers
Don't be offended by mothers.
Before parting at the door
Say goodbye to them more gently.
And go around the bend
Don't rush, don't rush,
And to her, standing at the gate,
Wave as long as possible.
Mothers sigh in silence
In the silence of the nights, in the disturbing silence.
For them we are forever kids,
And it is impossible to argue with this.
So be a little kinder
Don’t be annoyed by their care,
Don't offend mothers
Don't be offended by mothers.
They suffer from separation
And we are on a boundless road
Without mother's kind hands -
Like babies without a lullaby.
Write letters to them quickly
And don’t be shy about lofty words.
Don't offend mothers
Don't be offended by mothers.

Victor Korotaev

O faith of our mothers,
Forever knowing no limits,
Holy, reverent faith in us,
Growing children.
She is like light in a birch forest,
Nothing in the world can erase:
Not one in the diary,
Nor the angry complaints of the neighbors.
Mothers - such a people - will sigh,
With a long glance, he looks at us:
“Let them go crazy. It will pass! -
And again they believe, believe, believe.
Only mothers believe this way,
Demanding and patient.
And - they are not loud - they
They don't think it's a wonder.
I just don’t care about the year
Their faith, reverent and tender,

But we don’t always
Let's live up to their hopes.

Yaroslav Smelyakov Mother

Good my mother. Kind, cordial.
Come to her - crowned and mutilated -
Share good luck, hide sadness -
The kettle will warm up, lunch will be put on,
He listens and leaves you overnight:
For herself - on the chest, and for the guests - on the bed
Old. After all, I have seen the sights
She knew deception, blasphemy, insults.
But her studies did not serve her well.
The windows went out. The lantern is extinguished.
Only until late in our room
A joyful light glows.
It was she who bent over the letter
I didn’t forget, I wasn’t lazy -
Writes answers to all corners:
Who will he regret, who will he congratulate,
Some will be encouraged, and some will be corrected.
Human conscience. My mother.
She sits for a long time over her notebook,
Pushing aside a gray strand
(efficient - it’s too early for her to retire),
Without closing the tired eyes
Warming those near and far
With your radiant kindness.
I would greet everyone, make friends with everyone,
I would marry everyone I know.
I wish I could gather all the people around the table,
And to be there yourself - as if! - superfluous,
Sit in a corner and you can’t hear it from there
Watch the noisy celebration.
I wish I could get along with you all the time,
I wish I could smooth out all your wrinkles.
Maybe then I’ll write poetry
That, conscious of male strength,
The way my heart carried me
I carry you in my heart.

Evgeny Dolmatovsky In memory of mother

Mom and I were not gentle,
Together - strict and lonely,
But today I need it so much
Her reproaches and reproaches.

A Life is going- departure, arrival.
Both a clear day and bad weather...
I miss her so much
Like a climber oxygen.

I'm trampling at other people's doors
And I torment my friends with the words:
Cherish your mothers,
While they are in the world, with you.

Aliyev phase Mother (excerpt from the poem)

Mother! Dear, beloved! Listen!
It is impossible to read the letter to the end...
Forgive me, mother, for the bitter torment,
Sorry for your tired black hands,
For taking away your sleep in the morning,
Because I was sick a lot as a child...
I take your hands in deep wrinkles,
I take your warm eyes into my lips.
And they roll - transparent lines flow,
And word after word fell to the pen.
Wounded by eternal suffering
Their all-maternal mind
Challenges humanity:
"My son is still alive
everyone alive!”
No!
Let them not forget those naive
And forever young sons,
How not to raise weeping willow
Its tear-stained branches.
No!
Not poor old women
Tears feed evil sadness,
Grieves, having risen from ruin,
Living mother - Holy Rus'!

Examples of writing essays based on texts. Unified State Examination in Russian

Essays on Unified State Exam texts.

Works based on texts by M. Ageev, Y. Trifonov.

Essay-discussion based on the text by M. Ageev

Original text:

(1) Then, when the big change began, when all of us were let out into the yard on the occasion of the cold, but dry and sunny weather, and I saw my mother at the bottom of the stairs, then I only remembered about the envelope and the fact that she apparently didn’t she endured it and brought it with her.
(2) Mother, however, stood aside in her bald fur coat, in a funny bonnet, under which gray hairs hung (she was already fifty-seven years old at that time), and with noticeable excitement, somehow even further enhancing her pitiful appearance, helplessly she peered at the crowd of schoolchildren running past, some of whom, laughing, looked back at her and said something to each other.
(3) Approaching, I wanted to slip through unnoticed, but my mother, seeing me and immediately lighting up with a gentle, but not cheerful smile, called me - and I, although I was terribly ashamed in front of my comrades, approached her.
(4) “Vadichka, boy,” she spoke in an old man’s dull voice, handing me an envelope and timidly, as if she was burning herself, touching the button of my overcoat with her little yellow hand, “you forgot the money, boy, and I think he’ll be scared, so I brought it.”
(5) Having said this, she looked at me as if she was asking for alms, but, in rage for the shame caused to me, I objected in a hateful whisper that these calf tendernesses are not for us, that if she brought money, then let her pay for it herself.
(6) Mother stood quietly, listened in silence, guiltily and sadly lowering her old tender eyes, but I, running down the already empty stairs and opening the tight, noisily sucking door, although I turned around and looked at my mother, did not do it because I felt somewhat sorry for her, but only out of fear that she would cry in such an inappropriate place. (7) Mother still stood on the platform and, sadly bowing her head, looked after me. (8) Noticing that I was looking at her, she waved her hand and envelope at me the way they do at the station, and this movement, so young and cheerful, only showed even more how old, ragged and pitiful she was.
(9) In the courtyard, where several comrades approached me and one asked who this pea jester in a skirt was, with whom I had just been talking, I, laughing cheerfully, answered that she was an impoverished governess and that she had come to me with written letters. recommendations.
(10) When, having paid the money, my mother came out and, without looking at anyone, hunched over, as if trying to become even smaller, as quickly as she could, clicking on her worn-out, completely crooked heels, walked along the asphalt path to the gate, I felt that my heart aches for her.
(11) This pain, which burned me so hotly at the first moment, did not last, however, very long.
(According to M. Ageev)

Essay based on the text by M. Ageev:

In front of me is a fragment from the work of M. Ageev “A Romance with Cocaine”. The writer paints an image of a pitiful woman, every word evokes sympathy: “bald fur coat,” “funny bonnet,” “gray hair,” “she peered helplessly.” The hero, the boy Vadim, is ashamed of his mother and laughs at her along with his classmates. In the confrontation between the mother and son, the problem of the relationship between them, the problem of fathers and children, emerges.

This moral problem, unfortunately, is eternal. We read about disagreements and misunderstandings between people of different generations in the works of I.S. Turgenev, A. Ostrovsky, L.N. Tolstoy, A.P. Chekhov. This issue often becomes the subject of discussion among psychologists, teachers, journalists, and ordinary people in private conversations, on radio, and on television.

The mother, who came to the gymnasium, acts against the will of her son. But does the son have a moral right to treat her with hatred because of this? Why is the appearance of his mother a shame for him, even if she is old, ragged and pitiful? The author, in my opinion, is not on the boy’s side. The heart of this callous, self-loving man was only momentarily burned by pain for his mother, but he does not feel any sense of shame or remorse.
One cannot but agree with M. Ageev’s thoughts that parents, even if they do not fully understand us, are the most sacred thing in life. We come to them in difficult times for help, advice, and a kind word.
Parents, it seems to them, try to do everything for the benefit of their children. But children, unfortunately, cannot always appreciate and understand this. Let us recall, for example, the heroes from D.I. Fonvizin’s comedy “The Minor.” Despite the fact that Mrs. Prostakova is a rude, greedy landowner, she loves her only son Mitrofan and is ready to do anything for him. But the son turns away from her at the most tragic moment.
The relationship between children and parents cannot be cloudless and ideal. But the most important thing is that you need to learn to admit your mistakes, not be afraid to ask for forgiveness and strive for mutual understanding. In the story by A.S. Pushkin's "Station Warden" hero Samson Vyrin loves his daughter very much, but a passing hussar takes Dunya with him. The father, distraught with grief, becomes an alcoholic and dies, and Dunya appears only at his grave.
Following the famous poet Rasul Gamzatov, I would like to say: “Children of the world, take care of your mother.” Take care of your parents, respect them and do not harm them!

Essay-discussion based on the text by Yu. Trifonov

Original text:

(1) Volodya often amazed me. (2) His actions could not be foreseen.
(3) For example, the story with the rat, which excited the whole school! (4) We had a wonderful co-educational school, the best on Vasilyevsky Island and, probably, in the whole of St. Petersburg; she was called Prigodinskaya after Nikolai Apollonovich Prigoda, founder, director, enthusiast and admirer of Thomas More and Campanella, he taught history, his wife Olga Vitalievna taught biology. (5) Strange people! (6) They didn’t need anything, they didn’t need anything in life except school and students. (7) School councils, introduced after February 17th, existed in Prigodinskaya much earlier. (8) Everything was decided by voting. (9) So, that story began with the fact that Olga Vitalievna asked to bring a rat; it had to be cut up in order to teach anatomy. (10) Someone promised to catch it, but it took a long time, but they finally brought it. (11) The whole school knew that on this day a rat would be slaughtered in our class, alive, the boy brought it in a cage and for some reason said that its name was Fenya. (12) He himself volunteered to cut. (13) Suddenly a deputation from the senior class comes to class, led by Volodya.
(14) “We don’t want a living creature to be killed in our school! (15) We feel sorry for Fenya!” (16) Some shout - it’s a pity! (17) Others - cut! (18) A terrible argument begins. (19) I remember that Olga Vitalievna inflames this dispute. (20) The statement that the rat’s name is Feneya is fatal. (21) The rat ceases to be just a rat, it becomes an individual. (22) They are taking a closer look at her. (23) She behaves like Fenya. (24) At the meeting, passionate speeches are made, forgetting about the rat, which modestly awaits decisions on its fate, everyone talks about science, about history, about the guillotine, about the Paris Commune. (25) “Great goals require sacrifices! (26) But the victims do not agree to this! (27) And you ask the rat! (28) And you take advantage of her muteness, if she could speak, she would answer! (29) Finally we decide to vote. (30) Not only our class votes, the rat question has excited the whole school.
(31) Volodya solemnly takes the cage into the yard and, in the presence of everyone, releases the failed victim of science to freedom. (32) An exciting moment! (33) Olga Vitalievna was especially excited, and we felt with all our hearts that this was not a matter of a rat, but of something more important.
(According to Yu. Trifonov)

Essay based on the text by Yu. Trifonov:

Before me is a fragment from Yu. Trifonov’s text, in which he raises the problem of mercy.

This problem is very relevant in our time, as they write about it in newspapers and talk about it on television. The author tells a story that “excited the whole school” about how once upon a time, when he was in school, the students rose up to defend a rat that they wanted to cut up for experiments. The whole school seemed to be divided into two camps, deciding the fate of the rat. Every person should understand that animals are also living beings, their hearts beat inside them, therefore the problem raised by the author can be classified as moral.

Telling the story about the rat, Yu. Trifonov convinces us that we need to be kind and merciful towards “our smaller brothers” - such as Volodya, who releases the “failed victim of science” to freedom, and all the guys feel “that It’s not about the rat, but about something more important.”

It is impossible not to agree with the writer, because kindness and mercy are integral qualities of any person, which should be manifested towards everything that surrounds us, people, because cruel treatment of animals entails the same harsh attitude towards people. Let us remember the story of Belogrudka from the story of the same name by V.P. Astafiev. Children do not spare the little kittens; they take them away from their mother and feed them to dogs. A child's prank does not pass without a trace, the marten begins to take revenge on people, and revenge always kills the best in any living creature - a sense of justice, kindness, mercy. Thus, human cruelty and the thoughtless actions of children lead to tragedy.
On the other hand, there are many people in the world like the students from the story of Yu. Trifonov. Many people understand that responsiveness is a very important property of the human soul. For example, grandfather Larion Malyavin from K. Paustovsky’s story “Hare Paws” brings home from the forest a hare whose paws are burned, treats him, lets him live with him, because the hare saves his life and prevents him from dying from a forest fire.

In conclusion, I would like to say that both animals and people should be grateful to each other for kindness, indifference, mutual understanding; it is not without reason that the famous poet E. Yevtushenko wrote:
Take care of all animals within nature,
Kill only the beasts within yourself.

Mark Ageev

Romance with cocaine

GYMNASIUM

BURKEWITZ REFUSED

One day at the beginning of October, I, Vadim Maslennikov (I was sixteen years old at the time), early in the morning, leaving for the gymnasium, forgot from the evening the envelope my mother had placed in the dining room with the money that needed to be deposited for the first half of the year. I remembered this envelope while already standing on the tram, when - from the accelerating speed - the acacia trees and the peaks of the boulevard fence from the needle-like flashing entered into a continuous stream, and the weight hanging on my shoulders pressed my back ever closer to the nickel-plated bar. My forgetfulness, however, did not bother me at all. Money could be brought into the gymnasium tomorrow, but there was no one in the house to steal it; Besides my mother, the only servant living in the apartment was my old nanny Stepanida, who had been in the house for more than twenty years, and whose only weakness, and perhaps even passion, was her incessant calls, like the clicking of sunflowers, whisperings, with the help of which, in the absence of interlocutors, she conducted She has long conversations with herself, and sometimes even arguments, occasionally interrupting herself with loud, loud exclamations, such as: “Well, yes!” or “Of course!” or “open your pocket wider!” At the gymnasium, I completely forgot about this envelope. On this day, which by no means happened often, the lessons were not learned, they had to be prepared partly during breaks, partly even when the teacher was in class, and this was a hot state of intense attention in which everything was assimilated so easily (even though and with the same ease, a day later, it was forgotten), which greatly contributed to shaking out everything extraneous from the memory. Then, when the big change began, when all of us, on the occasion of the cold, but dry and sunny weather, were released into the yard and on the bottom landing of the stairs, I saw my mother, then I only remembered about the envelope and about the fact that apparently she could not stand it and brought it him with you. The mother, however, stood aside in her bald fur coat, in a funny bonnet, under which gray hairs hung (she was already fifty-seven years old at that time), and with noticeable excitement, which somehow further enhanced her pitiful appearance, helplessly peered at the horde running past school students, some of whom looked at her, laughing, and said something to each other. Approaching, I wanted to slip by unnoticed, but my mother, seeing me and immediately lighting up with a gentle, but not cheerful smile, called me - and I, although I was terribly ashamed in front of my comrades, approached her. “Vadichka, boy,” she spoke in an old man’s dull voice, handing me an envelope and timidly, as if she were burning herself, with her little yellow hand touching the button of my overcoat; - You forgot the money, boy, and I think he’ll be scared, so I brought it. Having said this, she looked at me as if she was asking for alms, but in rage for the shame caused to me, I objected in a hateful whisper that these calf tendernesses are not for us and that if she couldn’t stand it and brought money, then let her pay herself. Mother stood quietly, listened in silence, guiltily and sadly lowering her old tender eyes, but I, running down the already empty stairs and opening the tight, noisily sucking air door, although I turned around and looked at my mother, however, did not do it because that I felt somewhat sorry for her, but only out of fear that she would cry in such an inappropriate place. Mother still stood on the upper platform and, sadly bowing her ugly head, looked after me. Noticing that I was looking at her, she waved her hand and the envelope at me as they do at the station, and this movement, so young and cheerful, only showed even more how old, ragged and pitiful she was.

In the courtyard, where several comrades approached me and one asked who this clown in a skirt was, with whom I had just been talking, I, laughing cheerfully, answered that she was an impoverished governess, that she had come to me with written recommendations , and, if you like, I’ll introduce her to her: they will be able to court her with some success. Having said all this, I felt, not so much by the words I said, but by the response of laughter that they evoked, that this was too much even for me and that I should not have said this. When, having paid the money, my mother came out and, without looking at anyone, hunched over, as if trying to become even smaller, as quickly as she could, clicking on her worn-out, completely crooked heels, walked along the asphalt path to the gate, I felt that I had my heart hurts for her.

This pain, which burned me so hotly in the first moment, lasted, however, very short-lived, and it clearly subsided, and that means my complete healing from this pain happened as if in two steps, when I, returning home from the gymnasium, entered the hallway and walked along the narrow corridor of our poor apartment, where there was a strong smell of the kitchen, to my room - this pain, although it had ceased to hurt, still somehow reminded me of how she was sick an hour ago; and further, when, having arrived in the dining room, I sat down at the table and my mother sat in front of me, pouring soup, this pain not only no longer bothered me, but it was difficult for me to even imagine that it could ever bother me.

But as soon as I felt relieved, many evil thoughts began to worry me. And the fact that such an old old woman needs to understand that she will only shame me with her clothes - and that there was no need for her to wander into the gymnasium with an envelope - and that she forced me to lie, that she deprived me of the opportunity to invite my comrades to her. I watched how she ate the soup, how, lifting the spoon with a trembling hand, she spilled some of it back into the plate, I looked at her yellow cheeks, at her carrot-colored nose from the hot soup, I saw how after each sip she licked off the fat with her whitish tongue, both sharply and hated her passionately. Feeling that I was looking at her, my mother, as always tenderly, looked at me with her fading brown eyes, put down her spoon and, as if forced by her gaze to say at least something, asked: is it delicious? She said this as if playing along with a child, while shaking her gray head at me with a questioning statement. “Ffkyusne,” I said, neither confirming nor denying, but mimicking her. I said this ffkyusne with a disgusting grimace, as if I was about to throw up, and our gazes - mine, cold and hating, - hers, warm, open and loving, met and merged. This went on for a long time, I clearly saw how the look of her kind eyes dimmed, became perplexed, then sorrowful - but the more obvious my victory became to me, the less tangible and understandable seemed that feeling of hatred for this loving and old man, by whose power this victory was achieved. This is probably why I couldn’t stand it, I was the first to lower my eyes and take a spoon and start eating. But when, internally reconciled, wanting to say something insignificant, I raised my head again, I said nothing and involuntarily jumped up. One of the mother's hands with a spoon of soup lay directly on the tablecloth. She rested her head on the palm of the other, supported by her elbow on the table. Her narrow lips, distorting her face, climbed onto her cheek. From brown hollows closed eyes Tears flowed like fans stretching out the wrinkles. And there was so much defenselessness in that yellow, old head, so much kindly bitter grief, and so much hopelessness from this disgusting old age that no one needed now - that I, still looking sideways at her, said in a suspiciously rough voice - well, don’t - Well, come on, there’s nothing to talk about, and I was about to add, “Mommy,” and maybe even come up and kiss her, when at that very moment, from the outside, from the corridor, the nanny, balancing on one felt boot, kicked the door with another and brought in the dish. I don’t know who this is for or why, but immediately I slammed my fist on the plate, and with the pain of my wounded hand and my trousers drenched in soup, finally convinced that I was right, the justice of which was somehow vaguely reinforced by the nanny’s extreme fright - I, threateningly Cursing, he went to his room.

Soon after this, the mother got dressed, went somewhere and returned home only in the evening. Hearing how she knocked straight from the hall along the corridor to my door, knocked and asked if it was possible, I rushed to the desk, hastily opened the book and, sitting down with my back to the door, said boringly, come in. Having crossed the room and hesitantly approached me from the side, and I, as if engrossed in a book, saw that she was still in a fur coat and in her funny black bonnet, my mother, taking her hand out from her bosom, put two crumpled ones on my table, as if bashfully wanting decrease, five-ruble notes. Then stroking my hand with her crooked hand, she said quietly: “Please forgive me, my boy.” You're good. I know. And, stroking my hair and thinking a little, as if she wanted to say something else, but without saying anything, my mother tiptoed out, quietly clicking the door behind her.

What is mother's love? M. Ageev

What is mother's love? This is a very strong feeling, because mothers are ready to give everything for the happiness of their child. Unfortunately, not each of us understands how much effort our mother puts into our education and upbringing.

I can see how strong maternal love is using the example of the text of the Russian writer M. Ageev. The author tells about the mother of a high school student. From sentence 4 we learn that Vlad’s mother gives everything so that her son can study and be no worse than others. The author shows how selfish he is towards his mother main character: indeed, in sentence 7 it is written about how, in rage from the “shame”, the hero objected to his mother in a “hating whisper”. Reading the text, I realized that mother's love is a strong, sacrificial feeling that needs to be treasured.

An example of sacrificial maternal love is shown by I.F. Pankin in the story “The Legend of Mothers.” We learn how mothers of sailors who are lost at sea sacrifice everything they hold dear to save them. Women give Neptune their strength, beauty, and vigilance in exchange for saving their sons. Reading this text, I come to the conclusion that there is nothing stronger than maternal love.
Talking about maternal love, I understand that this is a strong sacrificial feeling that needs to be protected. Appreciate your mothers.

Text by M. Ageev

“(6) Vadichka, boy,” she spoke in an old man’s dull voice, handing me an envelope that had been left at home and with her little yellow hand timidly, as if she was burning herself, touching the button of my overcoat, “you forgot the money, and I think he’ll be scared, so I brought it.”

(16) This pain, which burned me so hotly in the first moment, did not last, however, very long.

(According to M. Ageev)*

What is mother's love?

Maternal love is the boundless love of a mother for her child: she gives him her tenderness, kindness, affection. His mother always understands him, will support him in difficult times, and will never betray him. For him, she is the support of his whole life.

I believe that a mother's love is what the whole world rests on. Without it, we ourselves would not exist, people would become angry, unfriendly, and lonely. If a person acts badly towards his mother, then in the future he will realize that he acted badly and will begin to reproach himself. You should never say rude words to her, humiliate her, insult her...

The first argument in favor of my opinion can be the text of M. Ageev. Look how badly the boy treats his mother. Due to the fact that the mother came in terrible clothes, the son is ashamed of her, even says rudely: “These calf tendernesses are not for us, so if she brought money, then let her pay for it herself.” (5-7) He told his comrades that this is not his own mother, but an impoverished governess (13-14). Despite the humiliation, insults, and coldness of her son, the mother loves her child.

As a second argument confirming the thesis, I will take an example from life experience. Once I read a legend about two mounds. What struck me most was the son’s attitude towards his mother. He had a wife who did not love his mother. When the girl asked the hero to bring the heart of his mother, he was able to kill her, but, carrying her heart in his hand, he could not stand it, cried and regretted his terrible act. And the love of a mother who wished well for her son performed a miracle: “the heart came to life, the torn chest closed, the mother stood up and pressed her son’s curly head to her chest.” What struck me most about this legend was the boundless mother’s love: after everything her son did, she forgave him.

Thus, I proved that maternal love is a huge force, creative, creative, inspiring. She is capable of working miracles, reviving life, saving from dangerous diseases...

Vasilenko Svetlana, student of I.A. Suyazova

Text 8.2