The brothers found it too crowded to live together in their father’s house and they ordered Ivan to fell timber to build themselves new houses.
The Devilkin rushed into the wood and crept into the knots of the trees to prevent Ivan from felling them.
Ivan had cut a tree in the right way so that it should fall on to a clear space, but the tree seemed to be possessed, and fell over where it was not wanted, and got entangled among the branches. Ivan lopped them off with his bill-hook and at last, with great difficulty, brought down the tree. He began to fell another and the same thing was repeated. He struggled and struggled and succeeded only after great exertion. He began on a third and the same thing happened. Ivan had intended to fell fifty trees at least, and he had not managed more than ten, and night was coming on. Ivan was exhausted, and the steam rose from him and floated through the wood like a mist; yet still he would not give up. He felled another tree and his back began to ache so that he could not go on. He stuck his axe into the trunk of a tree and sat down to rest.
When the Devilkin realized that Ivan had ceased to work, he rejoiced. “He is worn out at last,” he thought; “now I can rest too.” And he sat himself astride on a branch, exulting.
Ivan rose, took out his axe, flourished it aloft, and brought it down so heavily that the tree came down with a crash. The Devilkin had no time to disentangle his legs; the branch broke and pinned down his paw.
Ivan began to clear the tree and behold! there was a live Devilkin. Ivan was amazed.
“You horrid little wretch! You here again!”
“I am not the same one,” the Devilkin said. “I belong to your brother Taras.”
“Whoever you may be, you shall share the same fate.” And Ivan raised the axe to bring it down on its head, but the Devilkin began to plead.
“Don’t kill me,” he said, “and I’ll do whatever you want me to.”