In our village there was an old, old man, Pímen Timoféich. He was ninety years old. He was living at the house of his grandson, doing no work. His back was bent: he walked with a cane and moved his feet slowly.
He had no teeth at all, and his face was wrinkled. His nether lip trembled; when he walked and when he talked, his lips smacked, and one could not understand what he was saying.
We were four brothers, and we were fond of riding. But we had no gentle riding-horses. We were allowed to ride only on one horse—the name of that horse was Raven.
One day mamma allowed us to ride, and all of us went with the valet to the stable. The coachman saddled Raven for us, and my eldest brother was the first to take a ride. He rode for a long time; he rode to the threshing-floor and around the garden, and when he came back, we shouted:
“Now gallop past us!”
My elder brother began to strike Raven with his feet and with the whip, and Raven galloped past us.
After him, my second brother mounted the horse. He, too, rode for quite awhile, and he, too, urged Raven on with the whip and galloped up the hill. He wanted to ride longer, but my third brother begged him to let him ride at once.
My third brother rode to the threshing-floor, and around the garden, and down the village, and raced uphill to the stable. When he rode up to