Write a story about your work. Children's stories about labor

Everything is colder and colder. More and more nature froze. And so often with great labor(this was due to weather conditions) had to melt the stove. One day, Nikolai found a sluggish hedgehog preparing... story Vladimir said. - Yes, - Anatoly confirmed. - It's hard to believe that our father in the past was so clumsy and sloppy. You know, in the future I also want to become as big a man as our father is. Of course I'll try not to repeat it children's ...

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The whimsical tales of the "wonderful German" - The Nutcracker and the Lord of the Fleas (1822) - became standards children's classics, stunning children's imagination with bizarre plot moves and charming mysticism. Important role in the formation of an American (and then ... a brave sailor. In the essay Candle from the Holy Sepulcher, consisting of parable short stories about Jesus Christ, Selma Lagerlöf told O children's years of Jesus in the short stories The Baby of Bethlehem, Flight into Egypt, In Nazareth and In the Temple. The real world...

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One impulse. One - sweeping away everything in its path, but often leaving behind ruins - a throw to the goal. Fusion of brilliant technology and personal labor... Destructive power created through the ages. Labor, awareness of lone geniuses and the mentality of the Eastern peoples. Knowledge of force, movement and energy! And only some of the legendary masters - the most gifted in this area...

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He received cash from the procurement office - for the purchase of pigs from the population. In the morning, as agreed, at half past seven I called for Peter on the lawn, on which then labored and went to the office. He received the money and said to me: - "Let's bring me home, I'll have breakfast, otherwise I didn't have time ... the float never twitched." He tells me; - "And who told you that here now, something is being caught by the bait." told to him that he was visiting Peter on Friday, and he had a full trough of live hybrids, he said that here ...

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Grandma and Petrik

On a warm spring day, the grandmother took her grandson with her to the forest. Getting ready for the road, she gave Petrik a basket of food and a flask of water. Petrik was a lazy boy, and soon the burden seemed heavy to him. Then the grandmother carried the basket of food herself.

In the forest, they sat down under a bush to rest. Soon a small bird flew to a nearby tree. She carried a hair in her beak.

Petrik quietly, so as not to frighten the bird, got up and saw a large hairy nest on a tree.

And the bird quickly flew away and soon returned to the nest with a hair in its beak. Petrik opened his eyes wide in surprise.

Grandmother,” he whispered, “did she really bring a hair every time and built such a big nest?

Yes, by a hair, - answered the grandmother. - This is a hardworking bird. Petrik thought. A minute later he said:

Grandma, can I carry the basket of food myself? And I'll carry your coat. Can?

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Every person should

Mom and little Petrik got on the train. They go to a distant southern city, to the shore of the warm sea - to rest. Mom makes a bed on a shelf for herself and on a separate shelf for Petrik. The boy has dinner: he eats a delicious bun, a chicken leg and an apple. Gently swaying, the wagons are lulled to sleep. Petrik lay down on a soft bed and asked:

Mom, you said that the driver is driving the train. And who drives the train at night? Does he go by himself?

At night, the driver also drives the train.

How? Petrik is surprised. Does he not sleep at night?

Don't sleep, son.

We sleep, but he does not sleep? All night? Petrik is even more surprised.

Yes, the driver stays up all night. If he had fallen asleep even for a minute, the train would have crashed and we would have died.

But how is it so? - Petrik cannot understand. - Does he want to sleep?

I want to, but he has to drive the train. Every person must. Look out the window, you see: there is a tractor driver plowing the land in the field. It's night, and the man is working, do you see how the spotlight illuminates the field? Because he has to work at night.

And should I? - asks Petrik.

And you should.

What should I?

To be human, my mother replied. - It is most important. Work. Respect and honor elders. Despise laziness and negligence. Love your native land.

Petrik could not sleep for a long time.

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Think right about work

Fifth graders planted a lot of rowan bushes. Someday a whole grove will grow. In the meantime, you need to water the bushes, take care of them.

They divided the bushes among the students. Each got four trees.

Mariyka and Olya are sitting at the same desk. And their rowan bushes are nearby.

The girls agree and come together to water the trees.

Watering the first mountain ash is very easy for Mariyka, the second is a little more difficult, the third is difficult, and the fourth has very little strength left.

But then Olya fell ill, and the pioneer leader asked Mariyka:

Water Olya's trees too. She's your friend.

Mariyka sighed heavily, took the bucket and went to the rowan grove. She kept thinking: now she has eight trees to water. Eight sprinklers of water must be carried from the well.

The girl got to work. I watered one tree, the second, the third. And here's the strange thing: the work seemed easy to her. Already on the sixth tree it became more difficult. The seventh tree was very difficult to water, and the eighth was barely strong enough.

“That's it,” thought Mariyka, having finished her work. Now I know how to make the job easier. You have to think: I have to water twelve trees. Then eight will be very easy to water.

So she did the next day. Getting ready for work, she kept thinking: I need to water twelve trees. Pull twelve buckets of water out of the well and take it to the rowan grove.

While watering, she kept thinking only about one thing: I have to water twelve trees today.

Watered eight - and did not feel tired. “The most difficult thing is to teach yourself to think correctly about work,” Mariyka recalled the teacher's words.

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Not lost but found

When the son was twelve years old, his father gave him a new spatula and said:

Go, son, into the field, measure a plot of a hundred feet along and a hundred across, and dig up.

The son went into the field, measured the area and began to dig. He didn't know how to dig yet. It was difficult at first, until I got used to digging and adapted to the shovel.

By the end, things got better and better. But when the son plunged the shovel into the ground to turn over the last handful of soil, the shovel broke.

The son returned home, but his heart was restless: what would his father say for a broken shovel?

Forgive me, father, - said the son. - I made a loss in the economy. The shovel broke.

Have you learned to dig? Was it difficult or easy for you to dig at the end?

I learned, and it was easier to dig at the end than at the beginning.

So, you have not lost, but found.

What did I find, father?

Willingness to work. This is the most valuable find.

One widow had a son. Yes, so handsome, even the neighbors could not stop looking at him. And there is nothing to say about the mother. He won't let him move his arms or legs. All by herself. He carries firewood, water, plows, reaps, mows, on the side he grabs a job - patent leather boots and a sonorous accordion earns his son. The mother's son grew up. Curls of forged gold curl. Scarlet lips laugh by themselves. Handsome. Groom. But the bride is not. None of them follow him. They turn away. What are miracles? And there are no miracles here. The matter is simple. A stranger's grass in the labor field, the son grew up. With hands - armless, with legs - legless. Neither mow hay nor cut firewood. Neither forge nor plow. No baskets to weave, no court of revenge, no cows to graze. He threw straw - he fell off the cart. I caught fish - I landed in the pond, they barely pulled it out. He carried firewood - his stomach hurt. Who would call such a friend? Round dances are not invited. Working as a partner is not accepted. They call me a mother's god, a varnished boot. Round neumelnik teased on the mound as a sit-in. They call it an empty flower. The little kids are laughing too. What is it like for him? The guy got bored, sobbed. So he sobbed - a brick oven and she sighed. The oak walls of the hut and those pityed. Paul creaked sadly. The ceiling frowned, blackened, thoughtful. Regret! And he pours tears into three streams, saying: - Why did you love me so much, mother? Why did you care for me, my dear, in idleness, nursed me in laziness, raised me in clumsiness? Where am I now with my hands white, curly, inept? Mother became cold, died. And there is nothing to answer. The son poured out the pure truth in her face with bitter tears. The mother understood that her blind love turned into filial misfortune. The son does not sleep at night - he does not know how to continue to live. Can't find a place during the day. Only there are no such tears in the world that do not cry out, such grief that does not open, such a thought that does not come to mind. No wonder they say that in a difficult hour the oven understands, the walls help, the ceiling judges, the floorboards creak with the mind. They creaked what he needed, consoled him. Tears dried up, good advice was given. The son put on his father's heavy boots, put on his work clothes and went around the world to make up for idle years - to grow anew. It was not easy for a tall lad to walk in the shepherds, at twenty-one to make acquaintance with an axe, to learn to beat a nail into a wall, his hands were white, dull, inept to tan in the wind. They only know the severe frost and the hot sun, with what labors the curly-haired son has come to the point. He returned home as a master. He married a weaver, also not one of the last craftswomen. Her old mother loved her like her own, especially when she gave birth to her grandchildren. Before that, they grew up handsome, even if you shoot it on a card and put it in a frame. Their grandmother loved them madly, she only nurtured them wisely. Not like a son. The pitiful old woman's heart used to bleed when the eldest grandson was going to cut firewood in the bitter cold. The heart of the old woman keeps repeating: "Do not let it, have pity, it will chill." And she: "Go, dear grandson-hero! Dubey in the wind. Argue with the frost. Support your father's labor glory with your work." At the granddaughter, it used to be that her eyes stick together, her little hands barely turn the spindle, and her grandmother: “Oh, what a fine spinner we have, it grows agile, but tireless, and stubbornly sleepy!” To pardon the girl, to kiss her deft hands on the finger, and the old woman is looking for a flaw in the yarn. Either the fineness in the thread is uneven, or the slack overcomes. He will point out the flaws and notice the good. Yes, not just like that, but with dear grandmother's caress, with a rare fiery word, the girl's soul will be illuminated and warmed. In vain, it happened, he would not caress his most beloved, smaller grandson. Complains about work. It's not a big job to serve a cup or bring a basket of coals to the samovar, but for a four-year-old, even this is measured for work. How can you not say about this at the table with the whole family: "We have a smaller working man is growing. Broom gives. Brings the coals. The samovar is guarding. He feeds the cat. "And he, red to the ears with joy, sits and shakes his mustache and thinks:" What else can I do to be in honor of my grandmother? grandchildren. And their curls curl to their faces, and an expensive ribbon in a braid flaunts according to merit, and patent leather boots burn on business. People are busy with labor. Skilled workers. To grandmother. Labor power has come to our state. Mother did not live to see these bright days - grandmother. Only she didn’t die. When the eldest grandson was rewarded for blast-furnace work, the forges asked him: "Who did you become a hero, curly-haired fellow? Where does such a blast-furnace fever come from in you? And he sighed a little, and answered:" From my grandmother. She fostered me in work, raised me in labor. From her, the fire in me. And the granddaughter-weaver sang along to her older brother: - And my thread doesn’t break from her - chintz laughs. She taught me how to spin ringing threads. She sunny weft (cross threads of fabric) into my labor warp (longitudinal threads of fabric) wove. And the youngest grandson - a grain grower - selected the most similar, wisest grandmother's words and deeply smelled them in people's memory with bright tales. Deeply smelled, so as not to be forgotten. Do not forget and tell others. They retold and lit an unquenchable labor flame in the living young souls.

Vasilyeva Nadezhda

A story about interesting people.

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7th grade student

MOU "OOSH p. Anisovsky"

Teacher: Rib Lyubov Vyacheslavovna

Composition "Man of Labor"

Tells us the commandment of Christ

"Work tirelessly"

Labor on earth is the basis of everything,
Life on earth crowns work.
Heinrich Akulov

Many guys, dreaming of adulthood, are looking for some kind of ideal to follow, choose a person they want to be like. Most often, show business stars, heroes of television parties, scandals, and advertising act as such an ideal. But the true heroes live among us - these are our parents, grandparents. Day after day, they modestly do their job: they teach, heal, build, transport, sell, clean, feed - they do everything without which we cannot live.

Glorious man of labor. These words can be safely applied to every member of my family. I'm proud of my family. I have someone to learn courage, perseverance, diligence.The Russian people taught the child to work from early childhood. Proverbs and sayings acted as the rules of labor behavior: “Look at the trees in their fruits, and look at the people in their deeds”, “Patience and work will grind everything”, “Under a lying stone and water does not flow”, “Work is bitter, but bread is sweet”.

My sister and I do not need to be convinced that we need to work, because we see how my parents work conscientiously, and also lovingly create comfort in the house. We help in any way we can, and we are happy to do so.

Winter evening. Day off. Warm quiet summer evening... How I love this time! With bated breath, my sister Olya and I listen to the stories of grandmother Khlusova Marina Dmitrievna and grandfather Nikolai Vasilyevich about our youth, about the people with whom they had a chance to work.

Our village is small, but very beautiful and unique. Enthusiastic people live here, who worked at the fur farm for a long time: minks, rabbits, black-brown foxes were raised here. All of them: livestock specialists, veterinarians, workers were fur breeders.

My grandfather, Khlusov Nikolai Vasilievich, since 1972, together with my grandmother Marina Dmitrievna, worked at the Anisovsky fur farm. Grandfather was a senior livestock specialist, grandmother worked as a mink breeder. True, it even sounds interesting - “mink breeder” ?! But how they loved their job! Our village grew before their eyes: new houses, a kindergarten, a school were built. Every year, dozens of families celebrated housewarming. They came to the village permanent place residence people from different corners country. Yes, and the names of the workers of the fur farm rattled far beyond the borders of our region. I am proud of. What is my grandfather for Good work was awarded a silver medal by the VDNKh Committee of the USSR. Grandmother in 1980 was awarded the badge "Winner of Socialist Competition", in 1985 she was awarded the title of "Shock Worker of Communist Labor", in 1982 grandmother for progress made in development National economy Committee of VDNKh of the USSR was awarded a bronze medal, in 1986 she was again awarded a bronze medal.

Behind these dry lines of listing awards is everyday painstaking work. Grandmother looked after the animals both in frost and in heat: she fed them, watered them, helped to vaccinate them, so minks are very whimsical animals. Grandfather made sure that the animals received required amount vitamins, so that their diet was strictly observed, because the quality of the fur depended on it.

I listen to their stories, I am surprised and amazed at how our Russian people know how to love their work and be devoted to it! After all, so many subtleties of this profession had to be known and conscientiously applied in work! The final result of the whole team depended on this. The whole village. And the result of labor began to reap late autumn when the slaughter of animals began.

By this time, when the frosts began, the fur of the minks became thick,

My grandfather is sorting. brilliant. At this time in the village work

Was organized around the clock. This

A kind of harvest. All residents of the village understood that at this time it was necessary to bring the work of the entire team to the end. At the fur farm in the slaughter shop, work was in full swing: mink furs were processed there in stages.

Even the usual work of the house of culture changed, kindergarten: the children were taken from the kindergarten late in the evening, and in the House of Culture (who would have thought now!) the skins were sorted. My grandfather can talk for hours about how the skins were sorted! He knows so much about it! He still has magazines, books, brochures on fur farming.

Everyone is satisfied with the result of the work - the fur turned out to be of high quality.

The work was not easy. But so many interesting people, carried away by a common cause, surrounded grandfather and grandmother! These are Ivan Ivanovich Zotov, director of the fur farm, Zinaida Pavlovna Filippova, chief veterinarian, Tatyana Vladimirovna Danilova, chief livestock specialist, and many others. Many are no longer alive...

My grandfather, Khlusov Nikolai Vasilyevich, with a team of mink breeders.

My grandmother, Khlusova Marina Dmitrievna (left), sorting fur.

I was wondering how it all started? My grandparents told me a lot, I found a lot in old newspapers. It turns out that in 1931 from the village. Robbery was brought across the Volga 300 heads of mongrel rabbits. They built primitive cages for them and called this farm a rabbit farm. From here our village began its chronology. At the end of the 1930s, the population of the village was just over 100 people. People lived in dugouts and barracks. There was only one well in the whole village. All work on the farm was done by hand. There was no school. The children walked for 3 kilometers to the station. Anisovka.

In 1941 a club for 60 people was built. During the Great Patriotic War it became a hospital. Since 1956, the state farm has bred only one breed of chinchilla rabbits, constantly improving it. Since 1956, the ode to the rabbit state farm has been called the Anisovsky fur farm, since the state farm began to breed minks and silver fox.

There are many glorious pages in the history of the village, its wonderful people. Workers and specialists were awarded medals and certificates. In 1981, the staff of the fur farm was awarded a high award - the challenge Red Banner. Anisovsky fur farm was listed on the All-Union Board of Honor at VDNKh in Moscow.

Grandfather and grandmother tell how quickly the economy developed, how people rejoiced at the good results of their work.

Mom always says that it is not the place that makes the person beautiful. A person must work as his soul and conscience tells him. And they should always be clean and bright. On another it is impossible. All members of my family always worked honestly, did not consider personal time, fulfilled, overfulfilled the plan, as my grandmother says. Happiness, probably, is in love for your work, for the place where you were born and live. A person is happy only when his work brings him joy and satisfaction, when there is family support. Everyone in our family supports each other.
I can’t say that I have already decided where I will go after graduation. I still have time to think. But I know for sure that I will return to my native village and will be among those who will raise it, rebuild it, do everything so that our village lives and prospers. I believe that it is our duty to restore the former glory to our small homeland.

The fact that study is the same kind of work that not only people work, but animals.

Children in the grove.

They must have been passing by a beautiful shady grove. It was hot and dusty on the road, but cool and cheerful in the grove.

— Do you know what? brother said to sister. “We still have time to go to school. The school is stuffy and boring now, but it must be a lot of fun in the grove. Listen to the birds chirping there! And the squirrel, how many squirrels jump on the branches! Shall we go there, sister?

The sister liked the brother's proposal. The children threw the alphabets into the grass, joined hands and hid among the green bushes, under the curly birch trees.

In the grove, for sure, it was fun and noisy. The birds fluttered incessantly, singing and shouting; squirrels jumped on the branches; insects scurried about in the grass.

First of all, the children saw the golden bug.

“Play with us,” the children said to the beetle.

“I would love to,” replied the beetle, “but I don’t have time: I have to get myself dinner.”

“Play with us,” the children said to the yellow furry bee.

- I have no time to play with you, - the bee answered, - I need to collect honey.

- Will you play with us? the children asked the ant.

But the ant had no time to listen to them: he dragged a straw three times his size and hurried to build his cunning dwelling.

The children turned to the squirrel, suggesting that she also play with them; but the squirrel waved its bushy tail and replied that it must stock up on nuts for the winter.

Dove said:

I am building a nest for my little children.

A gray bunny ran to the stream to wash its muzzle. The white strawberry flower also had no time to take care of children. He took advantage of the fine weather and hurried to prepare his juicy, tasty berry by the deadline.

The children got bored because everyone was busy with their own business and no one wanted to play with them. They ran to the stream. Murmuring on the stones, the stream ran through the grove.

“You really don’t have anything to do, do you?” the children told him. - Come play with us!

- How! I have nothing to do? the stream murmured angrily. Oh, you lazy kids! Look at me: I work day and night and do not know a moment of rest. Am I not singing people and animals? Who, besides me, washes clothes, turns mill wheels, carries boats and puts out fires? Oh, I have so much work that my head is spinning! added the brook, and began to murmur over the stones.

The children became even more bored, and they thought that it would be better for them to go to school first, and then, on their way from school, go into the grove. But at that very time the boy noticed a tiny beautiful robin on a green branch. She seemed to be sitting very calmly, whistling a merry song out of nothing to do.

- Hey, you merry sing-along! the boy shouted to the robin. “You seem to have absolutely nothing to do; play with us.

- How, - the offended robin whistled, - I have nothing to do? Haven't I been catching midges all day to feed my little ones? I'm so tired I can't lift my wings; and now I lull my dear children with a song. What did you do today, little sloths? They didn’t go to school, they didn’t learn anything, they run around the grove, and even interfere with other people’s work. Better go where you were sent, and remember that it is only pleasant for him to rest and play, who has worked and done everything that he had to do.

The children felt ashamed: they went to school and although they came late, they studied diligently.

Pashkin treasure. Author: Anton Paraskevin

It was a long time ago, when a centuries-old forest stood on the site of our village. At that time the carpenter Avdey lived on a farm near the lake. They called him the great master in the district. He was a first hand carpenter. His whole life was measured by craft. How many golden pine logs he hewed, nursed, adjusted with an ax and put into a log house. If they were measured, it would be enough for many miles. And they called him great because he put his love into every tile, corner and resinous groove. The house came out bright, bright, and its troubles, misfortunes and dashing ruins bypassed it.

Avdey was a carpenter for a whole volost for all carpenters. He was no longer young - seventy had passed, however, both the eye and the hand kept the accuracy, as in his younger years. The master did not like idleness and idle talk, only one evil comes from them, but he could talk with an ax endlessly, read him all his life to every minute. An ax, he will understand everything, endure, forgive and show beauty to surprise. The villagers of Avdey often asked: where did he get such skill and wisdom. And he always answered: “The Lord is my helper, from Him I have everything: strength, understanding, patience and beauty. Any business without God is a futile work, an oversight, and it will not bring any benefit to anyone. The master regularly went to church, kept fasts, honored holy days and consecrated his carpentry tool in the temple every year.

Once a volost foreman calls him to him and says: “We decided to build a temple in a neighboring village, without a holy church our people become idle, prone to all kinds of indecency. The treasury gave us five hundred rubles for this holy cause. Need good masters to build a temple to glory. Many carpenters have already volunteered to create God's building, but only you can't do it without you. Will you go to the artel for the elder? Well, Avdey agreed. And the volost foreman advises: “Choose a plot in the state-owned forest and start felling the forest ahead of time, otherwise autumn is just around the corner, the roads will quickly turn sour.”

The master went to look for a plot and went out to the lake itself, and above it the pines of the ship rustled, sonorous, the bark on them with a golden hue, and not far away - a red spruce forest, a trunk in girth. He admired the timber, looked, and near the lake a gang of guys had fun. Sings, walks and dances. And they are led by Pashka, nicknamed Bell - a well-known reveler and joker in the district. His parents died, leaving him a farm with a household, so he let all the good stuff go to the tavern. Wherever you go, everywhere you hear about his revelry, that's why they called the guy the Bell. Avdey felt sorry for him, such a fine fellow disappears - tall, stately, handsome in face, and his hands are like hooks, for whatever he takes, all of them fall. Like a root-eversion in the forest - thick, powerful, but no one needs. Pashka walks in a satin shirt, plays the balalaika, sings ditties, and all his friends dance. Avdey thought. He thought, thought, tensed his mind and decided on an opportunity: “But a good artel worker can turn out from a guy, just God give me patience.”

He approached the gang, Pashka called out:

- Well, brother, are we walking?

“Let’s take a walk, grandfather Avdey,” Pashka laughed and hit the strings even louder. And his friends are laughing, on the pavement they are knocking out shots with their boots.

Avdey grab the balalaika:

"Wait," he says, "there's something to be done."

What else is there to do on a holiday like this? Pasha laughs.

Avdey took him aside:

“The case,” he says, “is a lady's business. You, I see, are a hunter to a slaughter, so the lafa itself climbs into your hands.

- What kind of lafa? Pashka hardened his face.

And the master to him:

I have a big secret. My father, leaving for the war, hid the golden treasure in a pine hollow in this allotment. He did not return from the war, and that treasure remained in a living cache. Since then, many years have passed, the hollow is overgrown, but the treasure is untouched. If we dump this plot, we will definitely find it. Then take half. With that kind of money, you can walk until old age.

“Oh, you are a cunning old man,” Pashka sighed. - Isn't there a catch here? Every Fedot oppresses in his own way. You lived your life, didn’t grieve for the treasure, and now come to me with a secret?

- Yes, I forgot this pine tree, Pashka, I completely forgot, I thought it was in that one, but I didn’t find a hollow there, I thought it was in this one, and again I was mistaken. Before, I didn’t need a treasure when I was young and healthy, but now it’s just right for me. I kept it for a rainy day. I can't climb all the pine trees at my age. And you, Pashka, if you don’t want to cut down the forest, then I’ll find myself another helper. No worse than you. And you go, take a walk, today you had a pie as a guest, and tomorrow you will sip carrots. Money is not snow, but melts in a thin pocket.

Pashka thought and agreed.

- When do we start cutting? he asks.

- Yes, we’ll start in a few days, the deposit is not going well.

- And where will the fall go, grandfather Avdey, state-owned forest?

- And we will cut down the church from the dump in Zaozerye. Avdey grinned and pointed with his hand to a high hillock behind the pool.

And when the grain harvest subsided, the carpenter began to gather craftsmen. Gathered twelve people. All craftsmen are top-notch, craftsmen in their field. Avdey walks through the forest, looks at and listens to each pine tree, as if he were not in the plot, but at the bride's bride: each tree evaluates and remembers. One part of the artel workers fells the forest, and the other puts it on wheels and carries it to Zaozerye, in a word, his helpers are famous for it.

Master Pashka says:

- You, boy, do not rush, first you need to hew the logs, and then I will quickly find the treasure, not a single rotten thing will hide from me in the tree, and not just a hollow. Therefore, prepare, brother, the steelyard - to divide the gold.

And he himself taps on the trunks and counts the flight rings on the stumps.

The place for the church was chosen high, beautiful and bright, above the lakeside. And what a review around, as much as the soul rejoices. So the stream next to it runs to the reach, and every step, then a hollow with a chimney, they ring, like centuries-old harps, with a life-giving, unique melody. Avdey began to show Pashka how to hew logs. The sleeves are rolled up, the ax is raised neatly, easily, cheerfully, and the blows are placed prudently and tightly. Yellow shavings curl under the ax. “Here so lovingly and drive the cut, as if shearing a golden lamb, but a little to the side, so you hurt him, did you understand?” Pashka nods his head, obeys, but he himself asks everything about the treasure, not to put that log with the treasure in a log house. “You,” says grandfather Avdey, “tap out every arshin, but don’t make a mistake, otherwise all the work will go down the drain, because gold is not in a hurry to pray.”

Time passed. The temple grew before our eyes as a large, beautiful, sonorous frame, it was impossible to look away. But there was no treasure. “Don’t rush,” the master reassured the young man, “they just laid fifty logs, he won’t get away from us anywhere.” And Pashka had already begun to get used to carpentry work and to learn its marvelous secrets, not open to everyone. It seems the same forest, and each pine has its own character. One chip is soft, like a tow, and the other is completely different, and the ax sounds differently. And he hewed lovingly, carefully, as Avdey taught, as if shearing a golden lamb. And he asked about the treasure less often, and more and more about the carpenter's secrets. The ax in the hands of the young man became light and obedient, like a merry-shovel in the hands of the hostess, with which she kneads the dough.

Autumn has come unnoticed. She curtained the summer with a canopy of resilient winds, as they hang a furnace kut in a house with cloth in anticipation of guests. Cold winds began to crowd under the lake stretch, clouding his bluish-purple gaze. Avdey went to the city several times and brought either an ax made of Moscow steel or a long carpenter's gimlet with chisels. The work of the artel workers was progressing well, they had already completed the foundation of the temple, the middle tier and took up the upper sails. Pashka began to be respected even by first-class masters as a sharp-witted and diligent student. "The guy becomes a man, he will be good."

By the Intercession, the temple was completed. He stood on a hillock, sparkling with silver domes, and gladdened the heart. And inside was a feast for the eyes. Grandfather Avdey himself was surprised. Such a joy in the soul - not to express. To which Pashka was broken, and then he remarked: “When you enter it, it’s like a light lights up in your soul.” Artel workers began to dissolve the logs into bridges and pave the floor. And again Avdey teaches his student. “You,” he says, “don’t tear your belly, you won’t take it by force. Here an ant, for example, drags a load beyond its strength, but no one thanks him, and a bee carries honey bit by bit, but pleases both God and people. When the temple was paved, an altar was installed and a carved iconostasis was made with decoration according to church rules, he calls Pashka aside and says: “I found that log with a golden treasure, yes, my dear, I found it. And you helped me with this. But here's the thing, brother, it happened ... When I went to the city for an instrument, you put it in the wall, in that wall that is at noon. It is sixth from the bottom in a row, and the hollow from the corner is exactly four arshins. And he shows the young man that cherished tree and that place with a hollow. “Today,” he says, “a priest with a church choir is coming from the city, he will consecrate the temple and serve the first Liturgy, you must come.”

Pashka thought for a long time what to do. On the one hand, it is clear - the treasure is at his fingertips, come and take it, but only what a pity, having turned a resinous log with a chisel, to spoil such beauty! Yes, and let the work of the entire artel down the drain. And then how do you close the hole? “Yes, no matter how you close it, the mark will still remain - the mark of my self-interest for many years to come. And the artel workers will immediately notice, Avdey will tell them everything, and trust in me will disappear. But still, whatever happens later, gold is gold, it opens all doors, warms all hearts. Pashka took a wide chisel with a hammer, wrapped them in canvas and went to the temple for service. “When the Liturgy is over and everyone has dispersed, I will tell the church warden that I have not finished all the work, but I will be left alone - I will cut down the treasure from that log,” he decided.

There were many people in the temple. All are smartly dressed: women in satin shawls and new knits, men in weekend caftans and cowhide boots. It was warm from many burning candles and two stoves with chimneys led out through the upper windows. The good fellow stood in the right half of the porch, counted the sixth log from the bottom with his eyes, then measured four arshins from the corner and suddenly saw that the icon of the saint was in the counted place Nicholas of God Miracle Worker. But in the morning she wasn't there. It is true that the priest brought it from the city and hung it just in this place. Pashka was annoyed and began to wait. In a sparkling vestment, the priest led the service. He was assisted by a deacon in a long silver robe. “Let us pray to the Lord in peace,” the choir sang, so beautifully, spiritually and sublimely that Pashka listened and froze. It seemed to him that an unknown force was lifting him up, to the very domes, and his soul became so light and calm that for a moment he forgot about his intention.

Then he again remembered the treasure, looked at the icon of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker, on which sunlight fell from the window, and suddenly felt the stern, loving look of the saint. And everything was in him: spiritual firmness and affection, condemnation and forgiveness, and a revelation unknown to the young man until now. And the choir at that time sang the Cherubic Hymn. Pashka could not stand it, and tears rolled down from his eyes. He never cried like that, even in distant childhood so candid and pure.

Only once, when I saw my dead mother in a dream, did I feel something similar. Those were tears of repentance, the joy of light and life. At first, the young man seemed to be ashamed of them, but then, noticing that few people paid attention to him, sobbing, he went up to a wide candlestick, leaned over to a tin for candle ends and lowered his bundle into it - a hammer with a chisel.

And when the service ended and all the villagers kissed the holy cross and began to disperse, the church elder asked loudly: “Who forgot his instrument?” Pasha didn't answer. He was walking home and thought that today he had found his treasure, which was a thousand times more expensive than gold. He was invincible and inexhaustible. And let the gold lie. It's in a safe place. Maybe in a difficult time of the church it will come in handy.