Story. fair man

The students, despite the personal interests of each, are a rather amorphous mass. It is not easy to stir it up for public actions. Political activists and agitators of various stripes are racking their brains over this problem. Whether they are paid money for the fact that hundreds of people break away from their studies and go to the squares with other people's words and slogans, or whether they are such lively people, I don’t know. I try to stay away from them: the abnormal gleam in my eyes is alarming.

In 2003, after the US attack on Iraq, these ideological guys began to incite the students of our university - and the group where I was the curator, to stigmatize the Pentagon on the main square of Voronezh. I felt annoyed that the responsibility for foreign policy miscalculations was shifted onto the shoulders, in fact, of children; if adult uncles in the government are afraid to crack their fist on the negotiating table, then there is no need to make buffoons out of provincial students. It's not fair, it's not nice. But, at the same time, I saw that my “sponsors” want to do good: woke up souls beautiful impulses . And I decided to help them - and those who really needed help. In short, instead of the “Shame on the Bush Administration!” we went to the orphanage.

I phoned the boarding school administration; my guys hung a colorful poster next to the schedule calling for help for the kids. Many responded - both students and teachers. We went to the children in three cars - they were carrying gifts. It was both happy and scary.

We appeared at the door of the boarding school at the agreed time, but they didn’t let us in right away: “Wait a minute.” Dejectedly shifting under the windows, we drew attention to the UAZ ambulance around the corner. Such a rarity had not been seen before: the car was beaten-killed. How are these monsters released onto city streets? Soon, however, everything was explained.

The doors swung open, and a crowd rolled out into the yard like a dirty, holey ball: orderlies in dressing gowns of an indescribable color, stern cleaning ladies with mop sticks, disheveled tutors. In the very center of this tangle, a 13-14-year-old teenager was dangling, because of which, apparently, all the fuss flared up. He was wearing the same dirty dressing gown as the orderlies, only with long sleeves thrown crosswise and tied behind his back: a straitjacket. He hobbled sinusoidally on bent legs, eyes rolled up and focused on nothing. “For half an hour they chased him along the corridors until they injected him,” one cleaner groaned to another, “now again for two months in a psychiatric hospital.” So that's where the broken-down UAZ comes from: the "fool" is in our country. N-yes...

A minor patient was stuffed into psycho locomotive, which did not want to start for a long time. When the yard was empty, they finally paid attention to us: painfully serious guys with big bags. “Have you come with gifts? Come in!" We went already without much joy - with fear.
We were led through long corridors to a large empty hall: “Wait, now they will bring the younger group. Are you with kids?"
HOW the kids are being led, we heard: first, a child's squeak and squeal, and then an obscene bend in a rough female voice. On the way, they explained to the children with cursing: DO NOT TAKE GIFTS IN HANDS - the educators will then distribute everything themselves!

A motley flock of twenty 5-7 year old fawns appeared in the hall. Seeing me in the inevitable tie and suit uniform and smartly grown-up guys, the kids were immediately taken aback and, like puppies, tightly huddled together. In the eyes - curiosity and anxiety. I have never seen such truly instinctive behavior in small people. Only the teacher, a fat red-cheeked aunt, was not taken aback:
"So what did you bring us?"

And then, without introducing us, forgetting about the children, she reached into our bags: “Yeah, this is food, these are stationery, these are toys,” very good- and here are the clothes. She began to take out one thing after another, looked at it, and suddenly with undisguised disappointment: “Didn’t they tell you that we only accept new things for our children? We love them!"- the last phrase with a clear challenge. “Yes, this is from our younger brothers and sisters, all unworn and washed, like new. Look how your kids are dressed! Isn't that right for them?!" my students were outraged. "Okay, let's figure it out," grumbled the aunt. Indeed, the children were dressed terribly, as in films about the Great Patriotic War.

The reason for the educator's red cheeks was immediately determined: from her a mile away reeked of fumes. We grumbled in bewilderment, she suddenly became embarrassed and left for her shift - a thin, benevolent woman. In her presence, the children were liberated, and we began to get acquainted. To break down the barrier of understanding, I took off my tie and put it in my pocket; the kids are daring. But all the same, their alertness did not completely disappear: as soon as we turned to them with a general question, they immediately huddled into a flock, looking for each other's eyes with their eyes. Stupid wolves...

Remembering an overheard order do not take gifts , we immediately began to put toys into children's little hands almost by force: it was clear that later THESE children would not get them. By the way the fuss began, how the boys grabbed dolls, and the girls grabbed cars, I realized that kids are not spoiled for toys. They pressed plush animals to their chests, lisped touchingly with them - perhaps only today they found THEIR OWN friend ... Some people were going to the nursery - to hide an unexpected, unexpected treasure under the pillow. And one five-year-old boy sat down on the floor and began to intently hammer police cars against each other with the words: “Death! Death! Death!"
To the question Why are you doing this?- he replied: “May all the cops die inside!”
We were dumbfounded ... “What do you want,” the thin teacher sighed, “I was born in prison. Here, the majority have parents - some refused, some in prison. Yes, and our boarding school is a real colony, only there is no barbed wire. Heart sank...

Another shock for us was the "sweet table" arranged for the kids. The children did not know how to eat bananas, but they tried to sculpt from marshmallows. We explained what and how, it turned out - delicious, liked it.

Then - the presentation. My guys launched a dramatization and involved children in it. Seven years have passed, and I still remember that puppy delight with which the little one played theater! There is hardly a greater meaning of life in the world than SUCH a sparkle in children's eyes!

I talked to the teacher. “Yes, children are different,” she complained, “there are very difficult, unyielding, and there are such intelligent, talented ones that it takes you straight away. At least Sonya and Misha are just kids, but they already read fluently, and argue just like adults. And, most importantly, they are kind, they love everyone. I looked at the red-haired girl with huge brown eyes and the frail dark-haired boy: “What will happen to them after the boarding school?”

“And what will happen,” she answered, “at best, vocational school, we have an incomplete school. It's a shame for smart kids - there is absolutely no road for them. It's unfair." "Unfair," I agree. Immediately, a plan is ripening in my head to at least partially correct this injustice.

Having played enough and fed the kids, we say goodbye. We promise to come. One of the boys can't stand it and asks me: "Uncle, are they your children?" It's about students. We laugh: "kids" are only seven years younger than "dad".

Yes, - I say, - my children, students.
- And who are these students? - I see, no one knows, and everyone is interested.
- These are the guys who have studied at school and study further.
- Is it possible to study further?
- Yes, you certainly may. To know more, to work at an interesting job.
Minute silence. Bed bugs are on to something. One suddenly sums up:
“So they are very rich.”
I'm amazed, "Why?"
- Because you can't just study after school.

We leave. It's kind of a pain in the ass.
On the street, I put on a tie: I'm going back to work right now to carry out my plan. Our university has specialized classes in the city. We need to convince the management to take smart kids from the boarding school there. At least one or two a year. I drive with determination.

But negotiations I quickly - and fail miserably. Education at the university and specialized classes is paid, and there are so many who want it. Why risk with an unknown free contingent?

So that kid was right: they can't just go to school after school. Oh, to adopt you, baby, but I myself huddled in a hostel ...

We went to the children many more times - at the call of the heart. Then I decided to change my life - and stopped being a teacher. Now I rarely wear tie-strings: I'm sick of it. Again I visited with my - already former - students in a boarding school. I would like to believe that the tradition has taken root, and other students will still visit the children without me. From those MY, third-year guys, even then, after the first trip, I received a postcard for the New Year with the signature: "Your children."

Of course guys, you are my children.
I remember all of you!

- 2 -

The train slowly, like a ship, leaves the platform. Almost five hours ahead. I usually while away the road by reading. And now I unfolded the newspaper, but I can’t get a grasp of it because of the annoying rumble from behind. Some peasant goes bankrupt, bonfires what the world stands for the government, which brought everyone up to the handle, beetles insolent oligarchs, complains about the hardships of his life. A couple of female voices readily agree: “And don’t say!” Having inflamed himself to catharsis, the peasant utters: “One injustice! There is no place for a decent person anywhere!” I turn around with curiosity: I have not yet seen a decent person, SO publicly attesting himself.

A man is like a man, about forty or under forty. Thin, high cheekbones, reddish mustache and stubble. Knitted hat strayed on protruding ears. The eyes are small, dull: you see, you feel sorry for yourself. But something familiar... No, it can't be. But honest man He also carefully examines me and, meeting his eyes, hastily turns away - and again, with intensely-strained inspiration, prophesies. So - he, Eared. Learned…

In the fifth grade, I once quarreled with my classmate: he insultingly called names. We decided to meet after class one on one. We studied on the second shift, winter, after the sixth lesson it was dark outside the window. In a remote school yard, a surprise awaited me: instead of the offender, five high school students with aluminum ski poles moved towards me. "It's not fair, you bastards!" - all I shouted, flying, like Sergei Bubka, over a hefty fence. Suddenly So I wanted to live that I took this height and sprinted a kilometer to the house. So it turned out that my offender is an insider in the school gang.

My quiet life ended, and humiliation and fears began. At school, every day I received cuffs from high school students, and after school I hid - and made my way home through black yards, which I never used to walk around. It was said: "Catch - kill." Big Eared sneered the most, three years older than me and a head taller. I was an excellent student-intellectual - due to such, any rubbish usually asserts itself. This gang always walked around the school and around the city in a bunch. And the world was not nice to me.

The worst thing about fear is its length. The protracted fear suppresses, blows with doom. My phobia, fortunately, did not last forever. In the middle of the lesson, I, the duty officer, was sent for a magazine in the teachers' room. I went down the empty stairs, singing an aria of Figaro "The boy is frisky, curly ..." At the word "enamored" someone's heel hit me on top of the back of the head, and I flew head over heels down. I didn’t have to wallow for a long time: two archangel picked up under the armpits and dragged upstairs, under the attic. They broke their hands. And then Eared appeared. “Hold tight and don’t hit me in the face,” he commanded, “otherwise they’ll drag him.” "Let go, it's not fair - three on one, unfair!" - I broke out. "Not fair? - Eared grinned, spat in my face and with all his strength gave me in the stomach, - And is it fairer? My eyes darkened, my ears stuffed up, and I felt nauseated from the pain and humiliation. "Hold on tight!" - he barked again - I kept kicking and getting out - and began to beat my legs, tibia bones with his heavy boots. Beat for a long time. When the archangels let me go, I collapsed like a wreck. Having wallowed me in a heap of lime and finally threatening to kill me if I told anyone, the trinity ran away. Their faces were sweaty, brutal, sadistic.

Because of the wild pain, I barely made it home. Late in the evening, my father returned from work. It was stupid to hide something. He did not begin to argue: "Tomorrow we will go to school together."

He dragged me by the arm to school. We walked slowly - our bruised, swollen legs ached - and we were late for the lesson. In the deserted corridor we came across ... Eared! And what a frightened face, God, how fast he runs! But not faster than my father. My father pinned him in a corner, I hobbled along. Eared was already whimpering (as tall as his father!): “I didn’t want ... It’s them ... they ...” I waited for my father to disperse in lectures - he is a master at this - but he uttered only one word: “Bastard”. Then he nodded to me. I got it. He spat in Eared's eye, cracked him in the ribs a couple of times: HE DID NOT RESIST, EVEN SHED A TEAR, - to beat him was somehow disgusting.
So it all ended.

Now I occasionally meet members of that old school shobla, who, of course, strongly do not recognize me. They all look the same: prematurely aged, unkempt, degraded - in a word, miserable.
I wonder if these decent people , like Eared, that life treated them unfairly? Who do they blame for this injustice?

midnight vision

I have heard many times and read more than once that he "disappeared" - the "just man" disappeared, and disappeared not only completely without a trace, but there is not even a hope of finding him again in Russia. It was hard, and at the same time I didn't want to believe it. Perhaps the matter depends a great deal on those who seek and are unable to find a "just man"... I was reminded of the old vaudeville "Quiet Night in Shcherbakov Lane". There, I remember, there was a verse that

And in Shcherbakov Lane

Found a good man.

So, the author of this play was able to find " good man"Even in such a small and musty alley, is it possible that there is no just person in all of Russia? What kind of justice is required from a" just person "? It is required that he" at the sight of social injustice find in himself courage and determination in public tell people: "You are wrong and you are walking the path of error: this is where justice is."

I am quoting this passage from an article by a public body that need not be named. I vouch for one thing: that the words I have quoted are printed and that they seemed to very many deeply true; but I had a prejudice against them. I believed that a just person still survived somewhere, and I really soon met him. I saw him in the struggle with the whole society, which he sought to defeat alone and did not grow shy.

This was last summer. I left Petersburg with a devout friend who lured me to see a big religious celebration. The journey was neither long nor tiring: on a chilly evening we boarded a carriage in St. Petersburg, and the next morning we were already there. Half an hour later, my pious friend had already quarreled with the cathedral psalmist, who showed him some kind of disrespect, and in the evening, when my companion sat down in the room we occupied to write a complaint against the psalmist in Petersburg, I, accompanied by one frivolous artist, who arrived here "to read the scenes ", went to get some fresh air and, by the way, to see: how are people alive here?

In St. Petersburg, at these hours, all decent people live, as you know, "at garden buffets", and here it turned out to be the same, and therefore we ended up without any misunderstanding in the public garden, where my acquaintance artist was supposed to show his talents.

He was not new here and knew many people, and many people knew him.

The garden where we arrived was quite large for a provincial town, but more like a boulevard through passage. However, share entrances to it on the occasion of the paid concert and performance that took place that evening were closed. The paying public entered only through one middle passage, made in a concave semicircle. At the gate there were board booths for selling tickets, there were several policemen and several onlookers who were unable to enter the garden due to lack of money.

In front of this entrance to the garden there was a small front garden - it is not known why it was grown and fenced here. He treated the garden like a dresser to a bathhouse.

The artist passed on a "special right", and I took a ticket, and we entered the gate to the sounds of the Skobelev march, followed by a "cheers" and again a new demand for the same march.

There were a lot of people, and they all huddled more on a small lawn, on one side of which there was a wooden restaurant built in the form of a pagan temple. On the sides of it, on one side, a plank summer theater was erected, where a performance was now going on, and then my Petersburg reader was supposed to read; on the other, a "shell" in which a military band was placed, performing that Skobel march.

The society apparently belonged to various strata: there were officials, officers of an army regiment, merchants and "gray people - of a petty-bourgeois rank." In more prominent places, the merchant was crowded, and in the distance, the regimental clerk with a special lady crowded in a cloud.

Flimsy little tables with dirty napkins were set very often one next to the other and everyone was resolutely occupied. People unanimously made a public demonstration of how they are alive. Tea, beer and prostrate were in great demand. Only in one place did I notice a man who was more respectable: in front of him stood a bottle of champagne with cognac and a kettle of boiling water for punch. There were several empty glasses near him, but he sat alone.

This guest had a remarkable appearance, which caught the eye. He was of enormous stature, with dense black vegetation, over which gray hair was already flowing both in his head and in his beard, and he was dressed extremely pretentiously, colorfully and tastelessly. He wore a colored blue linen shirt with high, stiffly starched carriage collars; the neck is casually tied with a white foulard with brown polka dots, a Manchester jacket is on the shoulders, and on the chest is an extremely massive gold chain with a diamond and many charms. He was also shod in an original way: he had such open shoes on his feet that they could rather be mistaken for shoes, and between them and the pantaloons bright red stripes of motley silk socks sparkled, as if he had combed his legs until they bled.

He was sitting at the largest table, which was located in the best place - under a large, old linden tree, and seemed to be in a state of excitement.

The artist who accompanied me, at the sight of this original, squeezed my hand slowly and spoke:

Ba-ba-ba! Here's a surprise!

Who is that?

This, mother, is a first-class suject.

In what sense?

In the most curious way. This is Martyn Ivanovich - a woodcutter, a merchant, a wealthy man and an eccentric. In common parlance among his people, he is called "Martyn the Righteous" - he likes to tell the truth to everyone. He, like Ersh Ershovich, is known in all Russian rivers and seas. And he is not without education - he knows a lot of Griboyedov and Pushkin by heart, and as soon as he drinks, he goes to draw from "Woe from Wit" or from Gogol. Yes, he is just for us and in shock - he is already sitting without a hat.

It got hot.

Not; he always has another bottle under his hat, in case no more is served from the buffet.

The artist called to a running footman and asked:

Does Martin Ivanovich have a bottle under his hat?

How, sir ... covered.

Well, then, ready, and soon there will be a presentation of some of the most unexpected and highest justice! - I need to see him.

The artist went to Martyn Ivanovich, and I wandered after him and observed their meeting from afar.

The artist stopped in front of Martin and, taking off his hat, said with a smile:

Honor your justice.

Martin Ivanovich, in response to this, held out his hand to him and, immediately throwing him onto an adjacent empty chair, answered:

But I don’t want to,” my friend said, but at that moment there was already a glass of punch in front of him, and Martin again repeated the same saying:

- "Please," said Sobakevich.

No, really, I can't - I have to read now.

Martin threw the punch on the ground and recited some sort of Nozdrev phrase.

I didn't like it: I understood why everyone fled from this antique. The original was really original, but only it seemed to me that not only Sobakevich was sitting in it, but also Konstantin Kostanjoglo, who cooks fish husks. Only Kostanjoglo has now drunk and, out of habit, the whole world is haunting even more disgustingly. He said that "all of us are scoundrels"; and when the audience again demanded the Skobelev march, he suddenly stood up for no reason and shushed.

What is he? I asked a friend who had left him.

Shifted a bit of justice. Anyway, it's time for the theatre.

I went out with a friend and took shelter in his bathroom. They sang, read, and again went out into the garden.

The performance was over. The audience thinned considerably and, dispersing, still demanded the Skobelev march. We found a table without difficulty, but, fortunately or unluckily, we again got caught by the "visa view" with our Martyn Ivanovich. During our absence, he still managed to increase his sensitivity, and his justice, apparently, required him to openly prove himself. He no longer sat, but stood and recited, but not poetry, but a prose passage, which really obliged him to recognize in him a very significant erudition for a man of his environment. He felt for memory places from Zakharov's laudatory word to Catherine, which is in the "Discourse on the old and new style."

- "Suvorov, Yekaterina said, punish!" - Like a stormy whirlwind, he soared from the Turkish borders that he strafed; like a falcon fell down on prey. .. and..."

But at this time the audience again demanded the "Skobel March", and during the performance of this piece by the orchestra, it became not audible that Martyn Ivanovich was broadcasting; only when the march was over did it resound again:

- "It is necessary to honor the forefathers and make it inconvenient for yourself to think highly!"

What is this person up to? I asked a friend.

And truth, truth, my lord, he seeks justice.

What is she to him now?

He needs it: he is righteous, and his face shows the rightness. Now he will reveal it! Look, look! finished the narrator. And I saw that Martyn Ivanovich suddenly took off from his seat and, with unfaithful, but quick steps, rushed towards an elderly man in military uniform who was passing by.

Martyn Ivanovich caught up with this stranger (who turned out to be the bandmaster of the orchestra playing), immediately grabbed him from behind by the collar and shouted:

"No, you won't hide from me," said Nozdryov.

The bandmaster smiled in embarrassment, but asked him to leave.

No, I won't leave you," replied Martin Ivanovich. - You exhausted me! - And he moved it to the table and shouted: - Drink for the insult of offended forefathers and the stupefaction of posterity!

Who have I offended?

Whom? Me, Suvorov and all fair people!

And did not think, and did not have.

And why are you itching the Skobelev march all evening?

The public demands.

You tortured me with this injustice.

The public demands.

Despise the public if it is unfair.

What is the injustice here?

Why don't you play the Suvorov March?

The public does not require.

And you enlighten her. Play Skobelev once, and play Suvorov twice, because he fought more. Yes! And now I'm letting you go with this: go and now thunder the march to Suvorov.

I can not.

There is no Suvorov march.

How is there no march to Suvorov? "Suvorov, Yekaterina said, punish! He soared, fell, squandered, conquered, Europe shuddered! .." And he has no march!

The public does not require.

Yeah... so I'll show her!

And Martyn Ivanovich suddenly let go of the conductor, stood on the table and shouted:

Public! you are unfair, and... for that you are a pig!

Everything was noisy and moving, and near the table from which Martin the Just was speaking, the bailiff appeared and began to demand that the orator immediately descend to the ground. Martin didn't leave. He fought back with his feet and loudly continued to reproach everyone for the injustice to Suvorov and finished with a challenge, throwing one shoe from his foot instead of a glove. The guards who came to the rescue grabbed him by the legs, but did not stop the confusion: a second shoe flew in the air, the table overturned, dishes rattled, cognac and water splashed, and a scuffle began ... At the buffet, by someone's order, the lights were instantly extinguished, everyone rushed to the exit , and the musicians on the stage discordantly played the final: "How glorious is our Lord in Zion."

My friend and I joined a small group of curious people who were in no hurry to run away and were waiting for the denouement. We all huddled around the place where the police were subduing the outgoing Martin Ivanovich, who courageously defended his cause, shouting:

- "Catherine rekla: Suvorov, punish ... He soared, fell, squandered, shuddered."

And he fell silent, either because he was tired, or something else prevented him.

In the current darkness it was difficult to see who was harassing whom, but the voice of the just man was heard again:

Not souls: I myself go for justice.

Not here they prove justice, - the bailiff answered him.

I'm not talking to you, but to the whole society!

Welcome to the precinct.

Please!

And I'll go. Hands off! Nothing to hug me. Nothing can be for me for Suvorov-Rymniksky!

Gentlemen, step aside - besiege.

I'm not afraid ... Why is there no march for Suvorov?

Complain to the magistrate.

And I'll complain! Suvorov more!

The judge will understand.

Your judge is a fool! Where the hell can he figure it out.

Well! .. It's all in the protocol.

And I'm not afraid of your judge and I'm going! shouted Martin. He parted the policemen with his hands and walked with long strides towards the exit. He had no shoes on - he walked in his colorful socks ...

The police did not lag behind him and tried to surround him.

From the ranks of the remaining public, someone shouted:

Martin Ivanovich, look for your boots... put on your shoes.

He stopped, but then he waved his hand and went on again, shouting:

Nothing... If I am a just person, I should be so. Justice always walks without boots.

At the gates Martin was put into a cab and driven off with a police officer.

The audience went to everyone where they need to go.

But he, however, really reasoned fairly, - he said, overtaking us, one stranger to another.

In what way?

As you wish - after all, Suvorov fought more than Skobelev - why don’t they really play the march for him.

There is no position.

Here is the injustice.

And you shut up - none of our business. Maybe the world owes him something, but you don’t, and there’s nothing to be just.

A friend pulled my hand and whispered:

And if you want to know - this is the real truth!

When I was undressing in my room, two passers-by walked along the corridor, talking quietly; at the next door they began to say goodbye and exchanged another word:

But as you wish, there was justice in his drunken delirium!

Yes, she was, but the devil is in her.

And they wished each other good night.

Tiger - sit in the pit, Maun Pou - work in the field

Burmese tale

Once upon a time in a village there lived a peasant named Maun Pou. And not far from his field in the forest lived a tiger, with whom Maun Pou became very friends.
One day, the title decided to kill a cow from the village of Maun Pou.
- Buddy Maun Pou! he began to say. - When you return home from the field in the evening, take me with you.
But Maun Pou refused:
- No, buddy! I won't take this case. My fellow villagers are already so angry with you because you used to drag their cows.
“Well then,” replied the tiger. - If you don't want to, don't. I can go myself.
No matter how Maun Pou, who was afraid for his friend, tried to persuade him to stay away from the village, the tiger did not listen. That night he went to the village, killed a cow there and dragged her into the forest.
When in the morning the villagers missed one cow, they decided to catch the tiger and set up a trap on the road that led to the village. And the next night the tiger fell into this trap.
The peasants decided to starve the tiger to death. They did not kill him, but simply left him in the pit, piling it on top with a log.
Seven days passed, Maun Pou felt sorry for his friend. When no one was around, Maun Pou made his way to the trap, rolled off the log and released the tiger into the wild.
As soon as the tiger sensed freedom, he immediately prepared to rush to Maun Pou: after all, he had not eaten for seven days and was mad with hunger.
- Stop, fool! cried Maun Pou. - It's me, your friend! I saved your life! Is it possible to destroy your benefactor?
- Oh, buddy! said the tiger. - It seems to me that in the world of people, gratitude is not held in high esteem! Why should I spare you?
They argued and decided to find out whether it is customary for people to repay good for good. Mount Pou and the tiger set off to look for an answer.
First on the way they came across the skull of a cow. Maun Pou approached him and asked:
- Listen, cow skull! I took pity on the tiger and set it free. And now he wants to eat me. Is it fair?
The skull of a cow looked at him with empty eye sockets and said:
You people don't know what gratitude is. Look at me! When I was a cow's head, the cow fed and watered the people. And then she got old, and people slaughtered her and skinned her. Here it is - human gratitude. So eat, tiger, this man!
Then Maun Pou and the tiger saw a big banyan tree, and Maun Pou spoke to him:
- Oh banyan tree with green wet leaves! Judge us! I saved this tiger's life, and he wants to eat me. Decide - is it fair?
- People always pay ingratitude for kindness! the banyan replied. - Here's my example. Many people find shelter and shade under my foliage. How are they paying me? They break and cut branches! Therefore, tiger, eat this man!
Maun Pou with the tiger went further and met the hermit. Maun Pou told the hermit how it all happened, and the hermit advised:
- Here, in the forest, lives a very wise and learned rabbit. Go to him and he will judge you fairly.
Maun Pou went to look for the wise rabbit. Soon he found him and asked:
- O wise rabbit! Resolve our dispute. I took pity on this tiger and set him free, and as soon as he got out of the trap, he decided to eat me. We have come to you as a great judge. May your wisdom show us who is right and who is wrong here.
- Well, friends, - answered the wise rabbit. - But it's not so easy. I need to see on the spot how everything was, and only then can I decide fairly. Let's go without delay to that place.
When they came to the trap, the wise rabbit asked:
“So where were you, big-fanged tiger, when Maun Pou came here?”
- I was in this trap, wise rabbit! the tiger replied.
“Something I can’t understand how you fit in there,” continued the rabbit. - Well, show me how you sat there so that it becomes clear to me.
The tiger jumped into the trap to show how he was sitting there. At the same moment, the wise rabbit ordered Maun Pou to nail the trap with a log.
“Listen, long-tailed one,” he turned to the tiger. - I figured out how to decide fairly. Let everything remain as it was: you remain in the trap, and let Maun Pou go to work in his field. A man cannot be friends with a tiger.
So the wise rabbit decided, and since then people have begun to say: "Tiger - sit in the pit, Maun Pou - work in the field."

Expression by Bernhard Retz

German Schwank from Facetius by Heinrich Bebel

Once we talked about the position of people and estates, about how far everyone is from their foundations, from ancient piety. And, when some began to say that peasants live much more honestly than people of any other class, Bernhard Retz, my guest, noticed that bathhouse attendants seemed to him fairer and better than others, because they give heat in the bathhouse equally and rich and poor.

Answer left Guest

This folk history is about a good girl who lived during the Song Dynasty about a thousand years ago. The girl was not only poor, but also lame. On top of that, she lost her parents at an early age, and therefore, in order to survive, she was forced to beg from the villagers.
A river flowed at the edge of the village, which the villagers had to ford when collecting firewood or cultivating the land on the other side of the river. During the rainy seasons, the river was often impassable. The villagers were used to this problem, but the little girl had a different opinion.
Every day, she collected stones and piled them on the river bank. She said she would like to help build a stone bridge to make it easier for people to cross the river. At first, adults laughed at her idea.
But when, over time, they saw that the pile of stones had grown, they changed their minds. Local residents joined the little girl and began to help her collect stones.
Soon the pile of stones on the bank of the river became very large, and the villagers invited a builder. The little girl helped build the bridge, spending all her time on it.

Just as the bridge was about to be completed, an accident occurred and the little girl was seriously injured. She survived, but lost sight in both eyes. Despite this, she continued to help in any way she could, and the villagers sighed about the injustice of heaven to a good girl.
As the villagers celebrated the completion of the bridge, they all felt sorry for the good girl - poor, lame, and blind - who had inspired them to build. Be that as it may, the little girl did not feel sad for herself. She smiled broadly, feeling sincere happiness for the villagers.
Suddenly a thunderstorm came, as if to wash away all the dust from the new bridge. Thunderclaps were followed by flashes of lightning, and people were shocked when they discovered that a good little girl had died as a result of a lightning strike. They couldn't understand why heaven was so cruel to a good girl.
It so happened that the respected Imperial Judge Bao Zheng was passing by. The villagers stopped Bao and told him the story of the good girl. They asked him why heaven was so unfair? Judge Bao was unable to answer. Saddened by the story, he wrote the following words: "Do no evil, do no good."
The night before, a son was born to the Emperor. The child was crying and no one knew what to do. The emperor invited the judge to a private meeting. Bao examined the newborn and marveled at his healthy skin. Picking up the newborn's pen, Bao was amazed to see the words "Do no evil, do no good" written on it, the exact words he wrote after hearing the story of the little girl. His face became agitated. He tried hastily to erase the words from the newborn's hand, and they immediately disappeared.
Seeing that the birth mark had disappeared from his son’s pen, the Emperor became upset and feared that Bao had erased lucky sign his son. Bao then told the Emperor the story of the little girl, and the spelling of those exact words that made him feel uncomfortable. The emperor was puzzled, and ordered Bao to seek an explanation in the underworld (hell).
With the help of a shaman, Judge Bao entered the underworld. King afterlife told him the truth. The soul of that little village girl committed great sins, and the Gods arranged for her to pay off her karma in three lives: the first life is poor, lonely and lame; the second life is blind; and the third is death by lightning. The girl was born lame and poor, but she was so kind to others that the Gods decided to reduce the time of retribution for their sins in two lives. Thus, she was made blind. Despite this, the little girl did not complain, and continued to think of others first. The gods then reduced her payback time to one life, and as a result, she was struck by lightning. The King of the Underworld asked Judge Bao, "Don't you think it's good to pay off the karma of three lives in one?" Now this soul has accumulated enough virtue to be reborn as a prince.
Judge Bao, whose job it is to bring justice to the people, has now been shown a new meaning of justice that he did not know before. Of one thing he was sure: He could give the Emperor a good explanation.