Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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a log. With a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, Alexander Semyonovich
turned his head towards the burdock in surprise. There had not been a sound
from the pond for two days. The rustling stopped, and above the burdock the
smooth surface of the pond flashed invitingly with the grey roof of the
changing hut. Some dragon-flies darted to and fro in front of Alexander
Semyonovich. He was about to turn off to the wooden platform, when there was
another rustle in the burdock accompanied this time by a short hissing like
steam coming out of an engine. Alexander Semyonovich tensed and stared at
the dense thicket of weeds.
At that moment the voice of Feight's wife rang out, and her white
blouse flashed in and out through the raspberry bushes. "Wait for me,
Alexander Semyonovich. I'm coming for a swim too."
His wife was hurrying to the pond, but Alexander Se-myonovich's eyes
were riveted on the burdock and he did not reply. A greyish olive-coloured
log had begun to rise out of the thicket, growing ever bigger before his
horrified gaze. The log seemed to be covered with wet yellowish spots. It
began to straighten up, bending and swaying, and was so long that it reached
above a short gnarled willow. Then the top of the log cracked, bent down
slightly, and something about the height of a Moscow electric lamp-post
loomed over Alexander Semyonovich. Only this something was about three times
thicker that a lamp-post and far more beautiful because of its scaly
tattooing. Completely mystified, but with shivers running down his spine,
Alexander Semyonovich looked at the top of this terrifying lamp-post, and
his heart almost stopped beating. He turned to ice on the warm August day,
and everything went dark before his eyes as if he were looking at the sun
through his summer trousers.
On the tip of the log was a head. A flattened, pointed head adorned