He had sprouted out of a seed so long ago that nobody in this forest could not say when it was exactly. While those who had been witness to this, we haven’t had here: someone became furniture, someone – just a wood and gave their coal and ash to the benefit of people, someone just died from the disease and fell down and turned into food for living.
He wasn’t peevish, sullen or snobbish despite his more than respectable age. He knew and remembered so many things, even half of what wouldn’t fit in all the books that would make of him (but, thank God, before this, nobody thought). And he would glad to pass the time and refresh the memory, telling his stories to somebody, but nobody would listen to him: trees around or talking leaves, or sleeping when chat was nothing; birds… they ain seemed always talking; and people just walked past him, admired him, photographed next to him and no one even couldn’t imagine that the tree can tell whatever story.