The field near Shilda turned green, then bloomed, and in the end what the city residents took for salt ripened and, to tell the truth, most of all resembled thistles, nettles, in a word, like weeds.
One day, the whole world of Schildburgers went around their salt field: in front was the mayor, behind him were councilors, judges, and then the common people. They walked around the field on one side, walked around the other and decided that it was time to start the harvest. And they began to sharpen the sickle, harness the horses, fix the cart, and prepare the flails - they had to grind out the salt. However, as soon as they started the harvest, they immediately threw away the sickles. The salt turned out to be so sharp and strong that it burned our hands right up to the elbows. They should have put on gloves, but the Schildburgers were afraid that they would be laughed at - it was summer after all!
There were also wise men who suggested mowing the salt with a scythe, like grass for hay, but then another suggested that this should not be done in any way - the ear would fall off. Still others suggested: let's shoot down the salt with bullets from arquebuses. But here another obstacle arose: there were no sharp shooters among the residents of Shilda, and they did not want to invite outsiders. They were afraid that their secret of growing salt would be stolen. So they had to leave all the salt uncollected. And if before this venture there was little salt in Shilda, now there was absolutely nothing left: what they themselves did not eat, then, therefore, they sowed.
They should dry last year's snow on the stove and then use it instead of salt - it is also coarse, but there was no adviser at hand.
And none of the residents of Shilda could understand why salt bites so much? Either they used the wrong crop rotation, or they over-applied manure, or maybe they under-applied...
And they vowed to take even better care of the salt field.
I knew that nettles grew in that field, and the Schildburgers, mistaking it for salt, were greatly offended, but I remained silent: as they are buffoons, let them remain buffoons. In addition, another thought was wandering in my buffoonish little head: we don’t like—and Schildburgers are no exception—to have our mistakes pointed out to us or our stupidity pointed out. It is known that it is not the business of a donkey to scold a donkey with long ears!
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru