Yesterday, as I was walking in the yard downstairs towards sunset, I suddenly heard a bitter groan behind me. I turn around, it's the old ash tree moaning so loudly.
- 'Well, we'll have a closer look at that now,' I say, 'you don't see a groaning ash tree every day anyway.
I certainly didn't see it now either. As I got closer, I noticed that it wasn't the ash tree that was moaning, but my friend Gyurka. His face was as red as a poppy, his forehead beaded with sweat, and he was blowing so hard he could have driven a windmill.
- What are you doing here, Gyurka? - I asked him.
- I wrestle with wood, he says.
I'm such a serious person that I don't even laugh when someone eats coffee with a fork, but I couldn't stop laughing at this one.
- 'It's like an ant wrestling with a goalpost tree, Gyurka,' I wiped my eyes.
- "That's quite different," Gyurka shook his head seriously. - "Ants don't have the same craft as I do.
But I've got my eye on that again.
- "Uccu poppy, you have a trade now?", I raised my hat in respect. - So what is your craft?
- 'I'm a kneader,' Gyurka said, his chest puffed out lightly, looking at me as if he was about to knead me.
- "Stop, hey," I say to him, "I'm not made of iron. Tell me, have you at least worked with iron?
- "I haven't worked that yet," the master ironworker confessed, a little sadly. - But I have kneaded scones out of mud.
- "That's a nice job too," I admitted.Only then you're a Gyurka the shingle-digger, not a Gyurka the iron-digger.
- "I'll be one yet," Gyurka said confidently, and with that he leaned against the tree again. "I'm testing my strength, for it takes a lot of strength to work with iron.
- Why should there be so many? - I shrugged. - It's not such a difficult craft.
- "It's heavy, because there's nothing heavier than iron in the world," Gyurka pushed the tree, panting.
- "There's more than that," I said. - A hundredweight of feathers is heavier than a hundredweight of iron.
But already Gyurka was laughing so hard that both my ears were ringing.
- What's so funny? - I asked him.
- Well, the fact that you don't even know that much, uncle. A hundredweight of iron is heavier than a hundredweight of feathers. I know that, because I'm a very clever iron worker.
- 'Well, I see,' said I, 'I'm talking sense to you, then, my boy, you iron-wielder. I have a beautiful unshafted knife without iron. I'll give it to you if you can carry a lace pen across the yard.
The master ironworker was deep in thought. He wondered if the feathered shed door would fit in the hands of an ironworker. At the last minute, he slapped the palm of my hand.
- So where is the famous knife?
- "Well, mate, you'll have to serve it first," I took the big powerhouse by the arm and led him into the kitchen.
Well, I didn't have to go next door to get the pen, because the Etel maid was looting it on the doorstep. She was about to fill a small beard door with it, and even tried to stuff it down to make more room, but I snatched the beard door out of her hand.
- That's enough for our iron-wielding, Etel. I'm afraid he won't make it to the gate.
- Come on, uncle! - ran the turkey-poison from his little friend, and with that he picked up the bearded door and carried it out like nothing.
He took it to the middle of the yard, but then I called after him:
- Take a rest, Gyurka my boy, I see you can hardly stand that handful of feathers!
- "What?" said Gyurka, angrily, and, making a big fuss of himself, he started to run with the door like a canoe. But he was beating so fast that by the third step there was not a feather left in the door. The whole thing spread so wide that even the dog Bodri was feathered, and even got on the roof.
The master ironworker covered his mouth and I patted him on the shoulder.
- Well, Gyurka, to whom shall I give the unshafted knife without its iron?
I'll give it to whoever picks up the press pen first.
