Tymish, Who Read Minds but Didn't See the Pumpkins

Tymish was a fine-looking lad in our village, sharp of tongue and so sure of himself that if a goose had honked at him he'd have said: "See, even she confirms my wisdom." Most of all he loved to boast that he could read a woman's thoughts before the woman herself had finished thinking them. Everyone laughed, and he thought they believed him. And so one day he wandered into the yard of Solomiia, the quiet weaver.

Autumn, the smell of damp leaves and cold smoke. Solomiia was just carrying pumpkins into the house. Tymish leaned on the wattle fence and squinted: Solomiia, I can see what you're thinking. She wiped her brow with her sleeve and answered calmly: Then read. Only in this yard thoughts don't stroll about without work. Here's the deal - guess right, and I'll treat you to a pie. Guess wrong - you do one job.

Tymish fairly bloomed, for he was certain girls thought of nothing but him. He looked into her eyes and declared with confidence: You're thinking about me and the Sunday dances. Solomiia sighed and pointed at the pile of firewood: I was thinking where the axe was, because the wood won't walk into the shed by itself. Chop. Tymish was thrown, but he took the axe. Chopped it, stacked it. Comes back again, wiping sweat from his brow.

Well, he says, now I see it for certain - you're thinking about my broad shoulders. Solomiia didn't even lift her eyes from her threads: I was thinking that Syvukha the goat is chewing the edge of my linen this very minute. Tie her up and bring some water. Tymish was red by now, his hands blistered, but pride wouldn't let him quit. He tied up the goat, hauled water in pails. The sun was sinking, and still he read and read.

He'd already cleaned the pumpkins and propped up the fence. All that remained was to work out when she would finally think about love. Toward evening Tymish sat down on a log, worn out. He looks at Solomiia, and she's bringing him a pie on an embroidered towel. He says: Well, now I've guessed it. You're thinking I make a fine man about the house. She smiled: I was thinking that a pie won't bake from a man's pride, but from hard-worked hands it comes out very tasty indeed.

Eat, you've earned it. Tymish chewed and said nothing, and something warm was spreading through his chest. That's how it goes with people. We read in others only what we've dreamed up for ourselves. And we see what's real only when our hands are a bit dirty and our heart is quiet. Because love isn't when they praise you to the skies with words - it's when someone carries firewood with you in silence and feeds you pie. So read fewer thoughts, and do more together.