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Work progressed slowly, but the bright face of the Buddha was already recognizable in the warm piece of wood, which the old monk held in his rough hands. He sang something to himself, humming softly, so that only the spirits of the river could hear the song that flowed from his mouth.

      The grass rustled, and the novice approached the old monk. In his wicker basket he had a poor crop, just enough to cook a lean soup, which should be ready before noon. The boy stared attentively at the steadily moving hands of the old monk. He watched on with a smile on his face, watching the work of a skilled carver, and he could already make out the contours of the future statue. "Your carving knife behaves like it has a life of its own, teacher," he said, watching as the wood shavings fell gently to rest on the grass.

      "How skillful your actions are – they are perfect. Your hands do not experience fatigue and your eye does not miss a single crease in our spiritual mentor's robes. Someday I will reach the highest level of skill, and my art will be the equal of yours."

      The Monk sighed, stopped working and looked at the bright glare on the surface of the river running by. Here and there large fish burst through the silvery surface, hunting for unwary insects. The Monk held out the almost finished carving and shook his head.

      "We will never reach perfection! We are committed to try to achieve it and take the steps needed, but they are endless. Look at the flowers and herbs that you have gathered. They are almost perfect, nothing more, but the nature of things is such that no matter how much we try to improve, there is always room for improvement."

      "In our inherent desire to learn and develop, we always want to become something bigger and better. If we yield to this tendency to self-improvement, our life becomes a chain of incessant achievements and satisfaction. The path to perfection is endless. Just like this river."

      "But it falls into the great sea," the boy replied, carefully looking at the shiny surface of the river.

      "You're right, my boy," said the Monk, patting the boy on the cheek. "Just as my mind and soul and experience will soon join the ocean. Then your time will come, and it will be your turn to enjoy all this priceless knowledge."

      He rose with difficulty, and the ghostly spirits of the water in the bay disappeared into the rushes. He went to the riverbank, observing the colored stones rounded by the river with a satisfaction, in a way that only a river could, imbuing them with pattern and meaning. Carefully, he lowered the statue of the Buddha into the water. He gently pushed it away, and the river's current picked up the priceless gift, and carried it away to the vast expanses, toward infinite perfection.

      A fly in the ointment… or is it the other way round!

      Look around: a gentle breeze makes fabulous fairytale like flowers sway, a gurgling brook fills the air with a crystal clear sound, and the air is full of the scent of honey and meadow grasses. Let's go over to one of the flowers and look inside one of its buds. Who do you see in there?

      A fat man with drooping cheeks. His fat little body is colorfully and tightly dressed. His rounded legs are dressed in stockings and soft shoes with curled toes and bells on the ends. A pointed cap sits on his head, and his yellow wings are folded behind him. He lies in the center of the bud with a long straw pushed deep into the heart of the flower, and he is drinking nectar.

      Without looking up from his work, he squints at us with narrow eyes, his pointed ears twitching irritably. He waves us away nervously, clearly demanding that we leave immediately and don't interfere with him, which we were happy to do – it was a disgusting spectacle!

      Yes, you guessed it: we are in elf country, and this one was not the most pleasant example. If you look closely, you will see men in bright colorful costumes scurrying around in the air like bees, and the ringing of the bells on their shoes was making all the noise, not the murmur of the brook.

      In the country of the elves, as in our own world, there is a class system. Some work hard, sweating to collect nectar and fresh dew. They exchange it with the bees in return for honey. Some elves work on strategic plans for the cultivation of new meadows of honey flowers. There are elves that work specifically in trade on a special exchange.

      Of course, there are the elite – the most intelligent elves with the brightest minds, who ensure safe conditions for supplies of nectar and honey, which is quite capable of undermining the economy of some foreign elven powers.

      So, our story is about them. No, not that fat man, we have just seen in the bud of a beautiful flower. He is nothing to do with the elite; he's just an ignorant lazy man. I'll tell you the story of two of the richest elves in this fabulous fairytale country.

      They were masters of their craft, and thousands of ordinary elves worked for them. As I already said, their reserves of nectar and honey exceeded all their possible needs. Every morning these Elves powdered their wings with gold dust, thus indicating that they belonged to the elite. When they fly (of course, they could fly, and if you imagine that they were like balls of fat, you would be mistaken. A daily game of squash kept their magical bodies in good shape, and their wings were bright and strong), and so when they flew, sunbeams shimmered around their wings.

      Every economy is vulnerable to ups and downs, and elven country is no exception. There was a terrible drought in this fairytale country, and as the whole economy was dependent on nectar producing flowering plants, the elven country began to experience a brutal economic crisis. Stocks of nectar and honey melted away before their eyes, and in the end our fabulously rich elves were ruined.

      For the first time they had no control over their situation, and didn't have a single gram of honey or nectar left, and the workers were scattered in all directions. The bailiff had seized their homes and the nasty man even brushed off the remains of gold powder from their wings to cover their debts. What a horrible situation!

      One of the former wealthy elves fell into a terrible depression, and shed his tears day and night, remembering his untold riches. He pitied himself and cursed fate, the drought, and all the other elves into the bargain. He even cut the ringing bells from his shoes so that the cheerful ringing of the bells wouldn't distract him from his dark thoughts. But what did the second character in this fairytale do?

      Assessing the situation and looking around, he smiled, happy and relieved. With a groan, he stretched out his small wings and buzzed them, which had become a lot lighter without the gold powder on them, and finally laughed heartily in happiness! The bailiff, who at this very moment was carrying away the last bag of precious seeds from our character's house, looked at him curiously and asked: "What are you so happy about? I am taking away the last wealth you have left and you have just become a pauper!"

      Our fairytale elf replied: "I finally got rid of the last restraints that kept me from chasing my dreams! All my life I wanted to grow sweet grapes and make the best wine in all of fairyland, but my financial commitments to the affairs of the empire did not allow me to quit. So, I am grateful for these events!" Again he laughed merrily, and ringing his bells, he rushed up into the air.

      The bailiff followed him with his slanting eyes, and used his magical sight to determine the direction of his flight – just in case. Then following his habit of work, he shrugged his shoulders in disbelief and hobbled of f back to his office, dragging along a bag of precious seeds.

      A wise old caterpillar, similar to the one in the fairy tale "Alice in Wonderland" (and maybe even the same one), gurgled muddy water in a hookah, and firing a puff of smoke from its mouth, it uttered: "How you perceive the current situation, how you react to it, then that is what affects the result! Some become happy, and some unhappy in the same situation."

      The caterpillar laughed raucously and breathing in another breath of smoke, he went into a coughing fit, spat out some bitter saliva, and accidentally got it on the dirty jacket of the first elf, who was trudging past, shedding bitter tears.

      "Yes, random mishaps do not happen by accident," said the wise caterpillar and thoughtfully tucked the mouthpiece of the hookah into its green mouth.

      East is east…

      Oh, the East! Turkish delight, belly dancing, the heat, melons, Sultans, viziers, beautiful women, and fairy tales like "A Thousand and One Nights"… By the way; today I have another fairy tale ripe for the telling.

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