THE OLD HAZEL TREE

 The old hazel tree basked in the first rays of spring sunlight and sadly recalled its life.

Many years ago, the head of the family brought home a small sapling and planted it in the corner of the garden, right by the fence.

"Why?" his wife asked in surprise. "We already have so little space. There's barely any room for flowers. And now—a whole bush!"

"Can’t we just go to the forest and pick some hazelnuts there?" the children chimed in.

"Let it stay," said the man. "It’ll please the eye, and in the fall we’ll gather our own hazelnuts. They’ll taste better than the wild ones—because we’ll have grown them ourselves."

The family didn’t argue. After all, everyone is allowed their little quirks.
And so the hazel tree stayed, growing in the very corner of the garden.
The spot, it seemed, turned out to be a lucky one: it grew larger and larger.
Sometimes the wife grumbled that it blocked sunlight from the vegetable beds, but it never went beyond grumbling.
No one hurt or disturbed it.

Years passed. The old master passed away, and the family visited the dacha less and less. The vegetable garden turned into a lawn, the house aged, and so did the garden—along with the hazel tree.

And then came a particularly gloomy spring. The hazel tree had grown so large that it was starting to feel the burden of its own branches.
Even the neighbors in the garden had begun making snide remarks.

In spring, the apple trees flaunted their snowy-white blooms:
"Look how beautiful we are! Do you have any flowers to show?"

The quince bushes proudly swayed their bright orange blossoms:
"We may be smaller, but we look stunning by the fence. Everyone admires us."

Even the baby tulips scattered on the lawn teased the old hazel tree.
And in autumn, things felt even worse.
The apple trees boasted their glossy fruit, the quince turned its fragrant bulbs to the sun, and even the rose by the house cast disdainful glances at the hazel.

But one day, the sound of an engine distracted it from its sorrowful thoughts.
A ginger car stopped at the gate. Out stepped the daughter of the old master, along with her family.

"What a lovely dacha we have!" she exclaimed. "Why don’t we come here more often? Let’s tidy things up and start using it as a peaceful escape from the city noise. First, we’ll need to cut back the hazel—it’s grown far too wild."

“Well, that’s it then,” thought the hazel tree, watching a man approach with a saw.

But… nothing terrible happened.
The new master carefully trimmed the old branches, and the hazel unexpectedly felt better—lighter, freer.
But the real miracle came a bit later.

The hostess looked thoughtfully at the trimmed branches and said:
“Of course, we could burn them in the stove. But what’s the point? There’s not enough wood to heat the house.
Let’s make something beautiful instead—something that will bring people joy for a long time.”

And so, in the skillful hands of the hostess and her best friend, the old hazel branches were transformed into marvelous things:
elegant earrings and pendants, bright buttons, handy coasters, and beautiful wall panels.

And you know what?
No one in the garden says anymore that the hazel tree is useless.
After all, isn’t bringing joy the most important thing in the world?