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

It's getting colder and colder. More and more nature froze. And therefore, often with great labor(this was due to weather conditions) had to light up the stove. Once Nikolai found a flaccid hedgehog preparing ... story, - said Vladimir. - Yes, - Anatoly confirmed. “It’s hard to believe that our father was so awkward and sloppy in the past. You know, in the future I also want to become as big a person as our father is. Of course I'll try not to repeat it children's ...

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

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With one impulse. One - sweeping away everything in its path, but often leaving behind ruins - a throw to the goal. A fusion of brilliant technique and personal labor... Destructive power created over the centuries. By labor, awareness of lone geniuses and the mentality of Eastern peoples. Knowledge of strength, movement and energy! And only a few legendary craftsmen - the most gifted in this area ...

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He received cash in the procurement office - for the purchase of pigs from the population. In the morning, as agreed, at half past six I drove for Peter on the lawn, on which then worked, and went to the office. He received the money and said to me: - "Come on, take me home, I'll have breakfast, otherwise I didn't have time ... the float never jerked." He tells me; - "And who told you that here now, something is being caught with a bait." Told to him that he was a guest on Friday with Peter, and he had a full trough of live hybrids, he said that here ...

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Granny and Petrik

On a warm spring day, grandmother took her grandson with her to the forest. Getting ready for the trip, 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 hair nest on the 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.

Grandma, - he whispered, - did she bring a hair each time and build such a big nest?

Yes, a hair's breadth, - answered the grandmother. - This is a hardworking bird. Petrik thought about it. After a minute he said:

Grandma, can I carry the food basket myself? And I will carry your coat. Can?

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Everyone should

Mom and little Petrik got on the train. They go to a distant southern city, to the shore of the warm sea - to have a rest. Mom makes a bed on the shelf for herself and on a separate shelf for Petrik. The boy is having dinner: he is eating a delicious roll, chicken leg and an apple. Swaying gently, they lull the carriages. Petrik lay down on a soft bed and asks:

Mom, you said that the train was driven by a train driver. Who drives the train at night? Is he walking on his own?

The train driver also drives the train at night.

How? - Petrik is surprised. - Doesn't he sleep at night?

Doesn't sleep, son.

We are sleeping, and he is not sleeping? All night? - Petrik is even more surprised.

Yes, the driver does not sleep all night. If he fell asleep even for a minute, the train would have crashed and we would have died.

But how is this so? - Petrik cannot understand. - After all, he wants to sleep?

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

And should I? - asks Petrik.

And you should.

What am I supposed to do?

To be human, ”Mom 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 about work correctly

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

Divided the bushes among the students. Each got four trees.

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

The girls agree and come together to water the trees.

It is very easy to water the first mountain ash for Mariika, the second is a little more difficult, the third is difficult, and the fourth has very little strength left.

But 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 needs to water eight trees. Eight sprinklers of water must be carried from the well.

The girl got down to work. 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 tree barely had enough strength.

“This is what it is,” thought Mariyka, having finished her work. “Now I know how to make my job easier. You have to think: I have to water twelve trees. Then it will be quite easy to water eight.

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

While watering, all the time she thought of only one thing: today I have to water twelve trees.

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

Vasily Sukhomlinsky

Not lost, but found

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

Go, son, in the field, measure a plot with an area of ​​one hundred feet up and down and a hundred across and dig up.

The son went into the field, measured the plot and began to dig. And he did not know how to dig yet. It was difficult at first, until I got used to digging and adapted to the shovel.

By the end, the work went better and better. But when the son drove the shovel into the ground to turn over the last handful of soil, the shovel broke.

The son returned home, but his soul is restless: what will the father say for the broken shovel?

Forgive me, father, - said the son. - I made a loss on the farm. The shovel is broken.

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

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

It means that you have not lost, but found.

What have I found, father?

Desire to work. This is the most expensive find.

One widow's son grew up. Yes, so handsome, even the neighbors could not stop looking at him. And there is nothing to say about the mother. Doesn't let him move his hand and foot. All by herself. He carries firewood-water, plows-reaps-mows, grabs the work on the side - patent boots and a sonorous accordion for his son. The mother's son grew up. Curls are curled in gold forged. The scarlet lips laugh of themselves. Handsome. Groom. And the bride is not. Not one goes for him. Turn away. What kind of miracles? And there are no miracles here. The matter is simple. The son grew up with a strange grass in the labor field. With arms - armless, with legs - legless. No hay mowing, no wood chopping. Neither forge nor plow. No baskets to weave, no courtyard of revenge, no cows to graze. I threw straw and fell from the cart. I caught fish - I got into the pond, they barely pulled it out. I carried firewood - it hurt my stomach. Who would call such a comrade? Round dances do not invite to drive. Work as a partner is not accepted. They call it Mama's god, a patent leather boot. A round inept, they tease with a sit-down on the blockade. They call it a barren flower. Small children laugh too. How does it feel to him? The guy was homesick, sobbed. So he sobbed - a brick oven and she sighed. The oak walls of the hut, too, took pity on them. The floor creaked wistfully. The ceiling frowned, turned black, thoughtful. Sorry! And he sheds tears in three streams, says: - Why did you love me so much, mother? Why did you, my dear, groom me in idleness, nurtured me in laziness, raised me in ineptitude? Where am I now with my white, wimpy, clumsy hands? Mother grew cold and died. And there is nothing to answer. The son splashed 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 live further. Doesn't find a place during the day. Only there are no tears in the world that do not cry out, such grief that does not open up, such a thought that cannot be thought of. It is not for nothing that they say that in a difficult hour the oven understands that the walls help, the ceiling judges, the floorboards creak wisely. They creaked what he needed, consoled him. Tears dried up, they gave good advice. The son put on his father's heavy boots, put on his work clothes and went across the white world to make up for idle years - to grow again. It was not easy for a tall guy with help to walk, at twenty-one years old to make acquaintance with an ax, to learn to beat a nail into a wall, his hands were white, weak, and inept at tanning in the wind. They only know the fierce frost and the hot sun, with what labors the curly-haired son came to the point. I returned home as a master. He married a weaver, also not one of the last craftswomen. The old mother fell in love with her as her own, especially when she gave birth to her grandchildren. Before that, they grew pretty, even if they were removed on a card and put in a frame. Their grandmother loved them madly, she only nurtured them wisely. Not like a son. It used to be that the pitying old woman's heart bleed when the elder grandson was going to cut firewood in the bitter frost. The heart of the old woman repeats: "Don't 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 labor." It used to be that the granddaughter's little eyes stick together, the little hands can hardly twist the spindle, and the grandmother says to her: "Oh, what a fine-weaver grows here, agile, relentless, and unyielding to sleep-sleep!" To overwhelm the girl, kiss her dexterous hands on her 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 flaws and notice good things. Yes, not just like that, but with dear grandmother's affection, with a rare fire word, the girl's soul will illuminate and warm. In vain, it used to be, the most beloved, youngest grandson does not caress. He pays for his work. It is not a great deal of work to bring a cup or to bring a basket of coals to the samovar, but for a four-year-old even this is measured for work. How about something like this at the table with the whole family not to say: "We have a working person growing. The broom is serving. He brings coals. The samovar is on guard. She feeds the cat. "And the one, red to his ears with joy, sits and bothers and thinks:" What other thing can I do to be honored with my grandmother? " And their curls curl to their face, and the expensive ribbon in the braid flaunts on merit, and patent boots are on fire. People of labor ovary. Craftsmen. To grandmother. Labor power came to our state. Mother did not live to see these bright days. Grandmother. ”She didn’t die.” When the eldest grandson was awarded for blast furnace work, the furnacemen asked him: “Who have you become a hero, curly,? From my grandmother. At work she nurtured me, in labor raised me. From her and the fire in me. And the granddaughter-weaver to the elder brother in the singing: "And my thread does not break from her - the chintz laughs. She taught me to spin the ringing thread. solar weft (crosswise threads of fabric) into my labor warp (longitudinal threads of fabric) gagged. And the youngest grandson - a grain grower - selected the most viable, wisest grandmother's words and smelled them deeply in human memory with bright fairy tales. He smelled deeply so that they would not forget. They did not forget, but they told others. They retold and lit an unquenchable labor flame in living young souls.

Vasilyeva Nadezhda

A story about interesting people.

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7th grade student

MOU "OOSH p. Anisovsky"

Teacher: Rybro Lyubov Vyacheslavovna

Composition "Man of Labor"

Tells us the commandment of Christ

"Work tirelessly"

Labor on earth is the basis for everything,
Life on earth is crowned with work.
Genrikh Akulov

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

Glorious is the 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 from courage, endurance, hard work.In the Russian people, from early childhood, the child was accustomed to work. Proverbs and sayings were used as the rules of labor behavior: “Look at the trees in fruits, but look at people in deeds”, “Patience and labor will grind everything”, “Under a lying stone and water does not flow”, “Bitter work, but sweet bread”.

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 coziness in the house. We help as much as we can, and this is our joy.

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

Our village is small, but very beautiful and unique. Here live enthusiastic people who have worked for a long time in the fur farm: minks, rabbits, and black-brown foxes were raised here. All of them: zootechnicians, veterinarians, workers - were animal breeders.

My grandfather, Nikolai Vasilievich Khlusov, since 1972, together with my grandmother Marina Dmitrievna, worked at the Anisovsky fur farm. Grandfather was a senior livestock technician, grandmother worked as a mink breeder. True, it even sounds interesting - "mink brewer" ?! 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 for permanent place residence people from different corners country. And the names of the workers of the fur farm thundered 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. In 1980, grandmother was awarded the sign "Winner of the Socialist Competition", in 1985 she was awarded the title of "Drummer of Communist Labor", in 1982, grandmother for successes achieved in development National economy was awarded a bronze medal by the VDNKh committee of the USSR, in 1986 she was again awarded a bronze medal.

Everyday painstaking work is behind these dry lines of listing the awards. My grandmother took care of the animals both in cold weather and in the heat: she fed them, watered them, helped to vaccinate them, so minks are very whimsical animals. Grandpa made sure that the animals received required amount vitamins so that their diet is strictly observed, because the quality of the fur depended on this.

I listen to their stories, amazed and amazed at how our Russian people are able to love their work and be loyal 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. shiny. At this time in the village work

Was organized around the clock. it

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 slaughterhouse, work was in full swing: there, mink furs were gradually processed.

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

Everyone is happy with the result of the work - the fur is 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 the director of the fur farm Zotov Ivan Ivanovich, the chief veterinarian Filippova Zinaida Pavlovna, the chief animal technician Danilova Tatyana Vladimirovna and many others. Many are no longer alive ...

My grandfather, Nikolai Khlusov, with a brigade of mink breeders.

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

I was interested: how did it all start? My grandparents told me a lot, I found a lot in old newspapers. It turns out that in 1931 from the village. Robbery brought over 300 heads of outbred rabbits across the Volga. They built primitive cages for them and called this farm a rabbit state farm. This is where our village began its chronology. At the end of the 30s, the population of the village was just over 100 people. People lived in dugouts and barracks. There was only one well for the whole village. All work on the farm was done by hand. There was no school. Children walked 3 kilometers to the station. Anisovka.

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

The history of the village has many glorious pages, wonderful people... Workers and specialists were awarded medals and certificates. In 1981, the collective of the fur farm was awarded a high award - the Challenge Red Banner. The Anisovsky fur farm was listed on the All-Union Board of Honor at the Exhibition of Economic Achievements in Moscow.

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

Mom always says that it is not a place that paints a person. A person must work as his soul and conscience tells him to. And they should always be clean and light. On another it is impossible. All members of my family have always worked honestly, did not take into account their 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 support from his family. In our family, everyone supports each other.
I cannot 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, rebuild it, do everything to make our village live and prosper. I believe that it is our duty to return the former glory to our small homeland.

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

Children in the grove.

They had to pass by a beautiful shady grove. It was hot and dusty on the road, but cool and fun in the grove.

- Do you know what? - said the brother to his sister. - We still have time for school. The school is now stuffy and boring, but the grove must be very fun. Hear how the birds are screaming there! And the squirrel, how much squirrel jumps along the branches! Shouldn't we go there, sister?

The sister liked her brother's proposal. The children threw the alphabet into the grass, held hands and hid between the green bushes, under the curly birches.

In the grove, for sure, it was fun and noisy. The birds flapped incessantly, sang and screamed; squirrels jumped on 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,” answered the beetle, “but I don’t have time: I have to get myself lunch.

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

- I have no time to play with you, - answered the bee, - 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 was in a hurry 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.

The dove said:

- Build a nest for my little kids.

A gray bunny ran to the stream to wash its face. The white strawberry flower also had no time to take care of children. He took advantage of the fine weather and was in a hurry to prepare his juicy, tasty berry in time.

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 over the stones, a stream ran through the grove.

- You really, right, have nothing to do? The children told him. - Play with us!

- How! I have nothing to do? - the brook rumbled angrily. - Oh, you lazy children! Look at me: I work day and night and do not know a moment's rest. Aren't I singing people and animals? Who but 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 first to school, 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 sat, it seemed, very calmly and from nothing to do she whistled a wonderful song.

- Hey you, funny sang! The boy shouted at the robin. - You really, it seems, has 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 am so tired that I cannot raise my wings; and even now I am lulling my lovely children with a song. What were you doing today, you little sloths? They didn’t go to school, they didn’t learn anything, you run around the grove, and even prevent others from doing business. Better go where you were sent, and remember that it is only pleasant for the one to relax and play, who has worked and did everything that was obliged to do.

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

Pashkin's treasure. Author: Anton Paraskevin

It was long ago, when there was a century-old forest on the site of our village. Then the carpenter Avdey lived on a farm near the lake. He was called a great master in the area. He was a first-hand carpenter. His whole life was measured by craft. How many golden pine logs he cut, took out, fitted with an ax and put into the frame. If they were to be measured, it would be enough for many miles. And they called him great because he put his love into every rail, corner and into the resinous groove. A house came out bright and light, and misfortunes, adversity and dashing ravages bypassed it.

For the whole volost Avdey was a carpenter to all the carpenters. He was no longer young - seventy had passed, however, he kept his eye and hand precisely, as in his younger years. The master did not like idleness and idle conversations, only one evil comes from them, but he could talk with an ax endlessly, read his whole life he told him to every minute. An ax, he will understand everything, endure, forgive and show with beauty surprisingly. The villagers often asked Avdey: where did he get such skill and wisdom. And he always answered: “The Lord is my helper, from Him I have everything: strength, intelligence, patience and beauty. Any deed without God is a vain labor, a hassle, and it will not benefit anyone ”. The master went to church regularly, observed fasting, honored holy days and consecrated his carpentry tool in the church every year.

Once the volost foreman summoned him and said: “We decided to build a church in a neighboring village; without a holy church, our people become idle, prone to all kinds of lewdness. The treasury allocated us five hundred rubles for this sacred cause. Needed good masters to build the temple to glory. Already many carpenters have volunteered to create God's building, but only you cannot do it here. Will you go to the artel for the elder? " Well, Avdey agreed. And the volost foreman advises: "Choose a plot in the state forest and start cutting down the forest ahead of time, otherwise autumn is not far off, the roads will quickly become limp."

The master went to look for the plot and went out to the lake itself, and above him the ship's pines rustle, sonorous, the bark on them is with a golden tint, and not far away there is a spruce-reddish tree spreading, the trunk is in a girth. He admired the drill forest, looked, and near the lake a gang of guys were having fun. Sings, walks and dances. And they are ruled by Pashka, nicknamed Zvonok - a well-known reveler and joker in the district. His parents died, leaving him a farm with an economy, so he let all the stuff go to the tavern. Wherever you go, you will hear everywhere about his revelry, which is why they called the guy the Bell. Avdey felt sorry for him, such a fellow disappears - tall, stately, handsome in face, and his hands are like hooks, for whatever he takes, all of them fall. Like a root-inversion in the forest - dumpy, powerful, but no one needs it. Pashka walks in a satin shirt, plays on a balalaika, sings ditties, and all his friends dance. Avdey pondered. He thought he thought, his mind tensed and decided on an opportunity: "But a guy can turn out to be a good artel worker, only God give me patience."

He went up to the gang, Pashka called out:

- Well, brother, are we going for a walk?

- Let's take a walk, grandfather Avdey, - Pashka laughed and struck the strings even louder. And his friends are laughing, on the pavement they beat out shots with their boots.

Avdey grab the balalaika:

- Wait, - he says, - there is a case.

- What else is the matter on such a holiday? - Pashka laughs.

Avdey took him aside:

- Business, - he says - lavish. You, I see, are a hunter to gulba, so the lafa climbs into your hands by itself.

- What kind of lafa? - Pashka's face became serious.

And the master to him:

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

- Oh, and you are a cunning old man, - Pashka sighed. - Is there a catch here? Every Fedot is oppression in its own way. You lived your life, did not grieve for the treasure, and now you 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. Previously, I did not need the treasure when I was young and healthy, but now it is just right for me. I kept it for a rainy day. I can't climb all the pines in my years. And you, Pashka, if you don’t want to cut down the forest, then I’ll find another helper for myself. Not worse than you. And you go, take a walk, today your pie is overstaying, and tomorrow you will sip a carrot. Money is not snow, but it melts in a thin pocket.

Pashka thought about it and agreed.

- When will we start cutting down? - asks.

- Yes, we'll start one of these days, the postponement is not going well.

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

- And from the felling we will cut the church in Zaozerye. - Avdey grinned and pointed with his hand to a high hillock beyond the stretch.

And when the grain suffering subsided, the carpenter began to gather the craftsmen. Collected about twelve people. All the masters are of the first rank, they are craftsmen in their field. Avdey walks through the forest, looks closely at each pine tree and listens, as if he is not on the plot, but at the bride's bride: he evaluates and remembers each tree. One part of the artel workers knocks down the forest, and the other puts it on wheels and carries it to Zaozerye, in a word, his helpers are wonderful.

Master Pashka says:

- You, boy, do not rush, the logs must first be cut off, and then I will quickly find the treasure, not a single rotten thing will hide from me in the tree, and not something that is 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 lake bank. And what an overview around, the soul is already happy. So the brook runs nearby to the reach, and every step, there is a hollow with a krynichka, they ring like a century-old harp, a life-giving, unique melody. Avdey began to show Pashka how to cut the logs. Sleeves rolled up, the ax lifts neatly, easily, cheerfully, and the blows are laid prudently and tightly. Yellow shavings are curly under the ax. "So lovingly and chase you off, as if you were shearing a golden lamb, and a little to the side, so you hurt him, did you enlighten?" Pashka nods his head, obeys, and he asks everything about the treasure, not to put that log with the treasure in the frame. “You,” says grandfather Avdey, “tap every arshin, but don't be mistaken, otherwise all the work will go to waste, because gold is in no hurry to pray.”

Time passed. The temple grew before our eyes as a large, beautiful, sonorous frame, it was impossible to take your eyes off. But there was still no treasure. “Take your time, - the master reassured the young man, - only fifty logs have been laid, he will not go anywhere from us”. And Pashka has already begun to get used to carpentry work and to learn its wonderful secrets, not open to everyone. It seems like the same forest, but each pine has its own character. In one, the chips are soft, like a tow, and in the other, they are completely different, and the ax sounds differently. And he cut lovingly, carefully, as Avdey taught - as if he were shearing a golden lamb. And already about the treasure he asked less often, and more and more about the secrets of the carpentry. The ax became in the hands of the young man, light and obedient, like a jolly-spatula in the hands of the hostess, with whom she kneads the dough.

Autumn came imperceptibly. She draped the summer with a gentle wind, like a broadcloth in a house, in anticipation of guests. Cold winds began to crowd under the lakeside, blurring his bluish-purple gaze. Avdey went to town several times and brought either an ax made of Moscow steel, or a long carpenter's drill with chisels. The work of the artels was making good progress, now they completed the foundation of the temple, the middle tier and took up the upper sails. Even the first-class masters began to respect Pashka as a sharp and diligent student. "A guy becomes a man, a lot will come out of him."

By the time of the Intercession, the temple was completed. It stood on a hillock, sparkling with silver domes, and delighted the heart. And inside was a feast for the eyes. Grandfather Avdey himself was surprised. Such a joy in my soul - not to express. To which Pashka was snappy, and then remarked: "When you go into it, it seems like a light lights up in your soul." The artel workers began to dissolve the logs on the pavements and pave the floor. And again Avdey teaches his disciple. “You,” he says, “don’t tear your belly, you won’t take it by force. An ant, for example, carries too much of a load, but no one says thanks to him, but a bee carries a grain of honey, but pleases God and people as well ”. When the church was covered with paving, an altar was installed and a carved iconostasis with decoration was made according to church rules, he called Pashka aside and said: “I found that log with a gold treasure, yes, my dear, I did. And you helped me with this. Only here's the thing, brother, it turned out ... When I went to the city for the instrument, you put it in the wall, in the wall that is at noon. It is the sixth from the bottom, and the hollow from the corner is exactly four arshins ”. And he shows the young man that cherished village and that place with a nest box. “Today,” he says, “a priest comes from the city with a church choir, he will consecrate the temple and serve the first Liturgy, you must come.”

Pashka pondered 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 it’s a pity, having turned a resinous log with a chisel, to spoil such beauty! And let the work of the whole artel go to waste. And then how to close the hole? “How not to close it up, all the same the mark will remain - the mark of my self-interest for many years to come. And the artel men will immediately notice, Avdey will tell them everything, and their 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 linen and went to church for service. “When the Liturgy is over and everyone has dispersed, I will tell the church elder that I have not finished all the work, but that I will remain alone - I will cut the treasure out of that log,” he decided.

There were many people in the temple. Everyone is smartly dressed: women in satin shawls and new bundles, men in weekend caftans and cowhide boots. It was warm from a multitude of burning candles and two stoves with chimneys running through the upper windows. The good fellow stood in the right half of the vestibule, with his eyes he counted out the sixth log from the bottom, then measured four arshins from the corner and suddenly saw that the icon of the saint was located in the counted place Nicholas of God Wonderworker. But in the morning she was gone. It is true that the priest brought it from the city and hung it on this very place. Pashka was annoyed and waited. In sparkling vestments, the priest led the service. He was assisted by a deacon in a long silvery robe. “Let us pray in peace to the Lord,” 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 it became so easy and calm in his soul that he for a moment forgot about his intention.

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

Only once, when I saw my deceased mother in a dream, did I feel something similar. Those were tears of repentance, the joys of light and life. At first, the young man seemed to be ashamed of them, but then, noticing that very few people were paying attention to him, sobbing, he went up to a wide candlestick, bent down to a can for candle stubs and lowered his bundle into it - a hammer with a chisel.

And when the service ended and all the villagers venerated the holy cross and began to disperse, the church head asked loudly: "Who has forgotten his instrument?" Pashka did not answer. He walked home and thought that today he found his treasure, which was a thousand times more expensive than gold. He was miraculous and inexhaustible. And let the gold lie. It's in a safe place. Maybe in the hard times of the church it will come in handy.