The Life of a Lonely Sapling

Rain was falling… A tiny young oak, having pushed its way out of the earth, trembled in wonder in the wind, gazing in awe at the vast world around it.
“Everything is so big, and I’m so small!” the green sprout exclaimed in surprise.
The trees standing not far away seemed like true giants. From every direction came the rustling of birches, maples, and aspens. The little oak would listen to their murmured conversation, then drift for a moment into its own thoughts.

“Who are these people?” it wondered. “Why do the birches speak so harshly of them? It’s a mystery.”
“How I wish I could ask them about it! But no one notices me. It’s such a pity. If only someone would teach me the ways of this strange, vast world. That would be so wonderful and exciting!”

A tall blade of grass beside the oak rustled, as if answering the sprout’s thoughts spoken aloud.
“They trample us, trample us—any moment now, they’ll crush us right underfoot.”

Hearing these words, the young oak shrank and trembled, pressing itself close to the ground, whispering plaintively, “Why? Why?”
“We don’t know!” the little ant replied, and her whisper carried away over the hill.

The oak sapling wept at the image that filled its mind—of being trodden down—and through its tears, it remembered how joyfully it had fallen to earth as an acorn, savoring that long-awaited flight toward an independent life. Then it had lain beneath the rustling crown of its father-oak, basking in the sun’s rays. And what had happened after that? Some laughing, unknown creature had picked it up and tucked it into a pocket. It had been dark there, like night, and, quivering with every jolt, the acorn had found a tiny hole and, brimming with curiosity, peered out. And then—another flight toward the white light.

It came to its senses on a small clearing. In the loose soil, it sent down roots and drank the moisture, striving to awaken its life force as quickly as possible, to grow, to taste the life of the great wide world.

“How thrilling it all was!” the little oak recalled. “And now it’s so damp and frightening!”

With deep admiration, it looked up at its neighbor, a maple whose very crown seemed to press against the gray cloud.
“I wonder what it feels like? Probably wet, but pleasant.”

Just then, the rain stopped for a moment, and a breeze blew past, enveloping the sapling in damp, rainy air that carried the forest scent of moss and wild strawberries. The oak felt its fear begin to fade, and a bud of joy in life began to open within it. Thoughts swirled, weaving beautiful images. It hadn’t seen much yet—but this very fantasy helped it conquer the fear it had felt the day before. When the rain began to fall again, the oak was already traveling in its inner world. So the first days and nights passed.

From the whispered conversations between the birches, it learned that people lived in a town not far from there. The forest telegraph was poor here—many trees were being cut down to build houses, so the news that reached them was often hazy and mysterious.

“But who are these people, really?” the sapling asked itself. “What do they look like?”
The young oak couldn’t guess that, back when it was an acorn, it had already seen its first human—a twelve-year-old girl who had picked it up. But it wouldn’t learn that until years later.

Time slipped by, day after day, night after night. Instead of a tiny sprout, there now stood a small tree, slender as a reed, swaying in the wind and fluttering its green leaves. Nearby, on the forest glade, several stumps of felled neighbors—aspens—gleamed yellow in the sun. Shivering with fear, the oak would remember that day for the rest of its life as a terrible, nightmarish dream: the day people came into the forest with axes…

The little tree lived in dread that it, too, would be cut down. It happened that autumn. Panic rose through the woods. “People are coming! People are coming!” the birches cried out, whirling in a chorus with the aspens and maples. People arrived on the glade carrying strange tools in their hands. They began to choose the aspens. And then… screams, terrible wails, and the tears of the trees. The oak wept, trembling, trying to withdraw into itself, and, shaken to the core by the sight, it came to hate people that day. One of them it would remember for all its days: a man with a great black “moss” growing on his face, wielding a gleaming object, heedless of the cries of the poor creatures in pain, mercilessly felling the trees…

Then came the cold winter. The wind tore the leaves from the trees and brought white snow. The snowflakes, pure as driven lace, lulled the little tree to sleep until the next spring.

…And now, remembering those dark days, the oak basked in the sunlight with tender affection, rejoicing in being alive. People often came here now. In the distance, beyond the hill, the edge of a human dwelling was visible where the forest had been cleared. Sometimes the forester would come to the tree; he admired the young oak and spoke to it as to a friend. He would say, “You’ll grow big, live two hundred years, while we old folk will be long gone.” The little tree grew fond of the forester for his kind heart and began to understand that people could be both good and bad. Every day, the oak waited for the old man and rejoiced at his arrival. In his absence, it listened to the cheerful and melancholy chatter of its neighbors.

The birch standing nearby would moan softly—the hares had stripped the bark from her last winter. She grieved deeply, rustling in the wind and lamenting the cruelty of the animals. The sympathetic trees would try to comfort her.

Little by little, the oak grew and gathered wisdom. Years flew by. The oak became large and spreading. The forester had long since stopped visiting the tree; much water had flowed under the bridge since then. All the old trees, its neighbors, had withered and disappeared. The former forest glade had turned into a wide field.

A hundred years had passed. Everything had changed. Tall grass, mixed with tiny blue field bellflowers, stretched into the distance, and there, far away, the buildings of the people gleamed white in a blue haze. The oak stood alone, tall, proudly straightening its trunk, rustling in the radiant sun, breathing in the scent of clover and other fragrant flowers. It savored all this, yet a strange sadness filled its soul. The oak knew it was lonely, with no one to talk to, no one to share its thoughts with. Its only companion was the grassy field, which couldn’t understand the tree but brought curious bits of gossip. The oak found it interesting, but it longed to see for itself what it had only heard about. Quite often, boys would walk past it. It watched them go—they were heading to the river to swim: there, on the far side of the meadow, a winding blue ribbon of water stretched out, vanishing behind a rise. The oak regretted not having grown taller; every extra centimeter would have let it see farther, into the distant horizon. Oh, if only it could become a boy or a girl and see all that was still unknown to it! The oak dreamed and wept with sorrow. And every early morning, before the sun rose, crystal droplets of dew, stirred by the mischievous breeze, would roll down like tears, dissolving into the green thicket of the grass…