Cucumbers and Conceit

Women know very well that there are men with so much conceit they'll hold a cucumber in their hand as if it were a charter for bravery. At the autumn fair in Kamianka there was one cart the men approached with a rooster's swagger and left red-faced and silent, clutching a bag of cucumbers tight under one arm. The whole fair knew why. Some whispered - a witch. But there was no magic in it at all.

There was only Maryna, her sharp tongue, and a queue of men who walked onto the skewer all by themselves. First up was Panko. He picks the biggest cucumber, twirls it under his nose and asks with a wink: will it wilt by evening, because the mistress of the house must be kept satisfied, so she doesn't go looking elsewhere. Maryna didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow. She says: for a good mistress the main thing isn't size.

The main thing is that he gets it home without bragging to the whole fair along the way about what's in his trousers, which is a thimbleful as it is. The crowd around them roared. Panko counted out his coppers in silence. Next came young Levko. Wanting to show he's no boy anymore. He asks if she has one with a good crunch, because he's a sturdy lad and the girls fancy him. Maryna measured him with a look and says: take a half-brined one.

A fresh one is firm, but your nature, son, is soft. And crunch it will - only not in your teeth, but in the girls', when they get to chewing you over. Levko went red and bolted so fast he nearly left his trousers behind. Then they nudged old Semen forward. Grey beard, long experience - he thought he'd out-shame her. He asks for a cucumber that will make his wife remember her youth. Maryna sighs: grandpa, for that one cucumber won't do.

You'll also need to chop some wood, fetch water and heat the stove. The cucumber is only the appetizer, and love lives in calluses, not just below the belt. The old man was the first to burst out laughing, and he took a whole ten. Up comes the neighbour Odarka: give me some without the menfolk's chatter, I've got pickling to do. Maryna fairly perked up: for women I pick firm ones, on the shorter side - they know what to do in the barrel to get the juice running.

The men I give the long thin ones. Let them carry them home and be pleased. While a man measures the road in length, a woman already knows that in brine the main thing is firmness. Everyone laughed, even those who were playing serious and hiding their eyes. Especially those who were hiding their eyes... By noon there were only a few cucumbers and a couple of stem ends left on Maryna's cloth.

The men were no longer coming for cucumbers, but to watch who she'd send off next with red ears and a full bag. They pretended to ask about brine while readying their jokes, knowing in advance they'd lose. Because every one of them thought: I've come with a witty word, I'll walk away the victor. And he usually walked away with a full bag, empty conceit, and the thought that he ought to wear wider trousers.

That's how it goes in life. Whoever haggles with his pride shouldn't be surprised when he gets his change in the same goods, below the belt. A sharp tongue with a kind smile sells better than the greenest cucumber. And a man's pride is like dew: it glitters until the sun bears down. The moral is simple: don't wave a cucumber at a woman who can twirl words better than you.