A gloomy woodcutter drove an ax into the trunk of a thick, old oak tree. Chips flew out from under the steel blade. With precise movements, like a machine, he stabbed the ax at once with a dull thud. Gray slightly closed eyes looked tired, but decisively. Muscular arms with hands covered with rough skin, like gloves, clutched an ax. The foliage of the oak tree trembled under the blows, and then it began to bend, falling under its own weight, emitting a creaking sound similar to a scream. The ax fell silent for a couple of seconds, then sounded again, cutting through the remains of crumpled wood sticking out of the stump. When the job was finished, the woodcutter didn’t even break a sweat. He went to the next tree, a young aspen, there would be no problem with that. The tree fell very quickly next to the oak. The woodcutter just continued doing what he always did.
Having cut down several dozen more trees, he sat down on one of the fresh stumps. I took out an old block with many chips and walked along the blade of the ax more out of habit than out of necessity. He hit the stump with his handle and continued working.
The spruce fell very quickly. Approaching the next tree, the woodcutter struck. The ax bounced back with force, so that the woodcutter lost his balance from surprise. Taking better aim, he tried again. The ax seemed to hit a stone, only slightly scratched the bark and bounced off again. The woodcutter looked up. A tall pine tree stood in front of him, proudly reaching into the sky.
“And they didn’t take people like that,” the woodcutter wheezed.
Taking the ax more comfortably, he began to chop. Time after time the ax bounced off. Time after time, with a stony expression on his face, he hit one point, where the scratch gradually became larger. The woodcutter chopped until dark. He was sweating, his hands were shaking, in the light of the moon it was clear that the ax blade was covered with gouges and became dull. Collapsed on the grass and catching his breath, he began to sharpen it. He had already come across such trees. The rare ones are no match for the rest, which can be cut down in a dozen or two hits. They had a goal, they clung to life with all their might, fought against him. But he won’t give up, he can’t give up while all these trees are still left.
Looking around, he saw many stumps. They were visible as white dots in the darkness and went to the horizon and much further. He cut down millions of trees. There was a thicket ahead. If you climb to the highest of them, there will still be nothing ahead but more trees. The woodcutter used to wonder when it would end. He can only get the answer when only rotting stumps remain. After all, this pine tree is just one of many. The woodcutter needed no more than five minutes to rest. Getting up, he went to the tree, which had already gaped open with a wound in the night, and set to work. With the first rays of dawn, the pine tree collapsed with a groan. A faint smile slipped on the woodcutter’s weathered, overgrown, tired face. He went to the next tree. "Just one of many. Maybe it would be easier to work with a scythe?»
Somehow there hasn’t been literature for a https://casino-and-friend.uk/ long time, or I overslept. Thanks for the story.
Who is the woodcutter and who are those trees – I can’t imagine. Or maybe it’s not so scary?
This is the first time I’ve heard about a story about a mower, because I haven’t read more than one story about mowers. And this is definitely not a reference.
