The Plowboy

Once upon a time, there lived a poor boy, the poorest of the poor. His father had died, and his mother struggled to make ends meet, working tirelessly to earn a living. In the summer, she would wander the mountains with a basket, picking blueberries. When the basket was full, she would go down to the town and sell the berries. The boy went to school. In his bag, he carried only a broken slate board; he didn’t even have a primer. When the boy was born, his aunt, a well-off woman, had gifted him a calf. Seven years passed, the calf grew into a cow, but it never bore any calves.

One day, the boy was walking home from school, crying bitterly. His mother asked him:

“Why are you crying, my dear child?”

“I’m upset,” said the boy. “All my friends have primers, and they’ve already learned to read, but I don’t have one. Give me money for a primer!”

“I don’t have any money, my son,” replied his mother. “All my hope was in the cow. I thought it would grow, give birth to calves, and I would milk it, getting a pail of milk in the morning and evening. But what happened? The cow turned out to be barren. Late autumn has come, there are no berries left, even the blueberries are overripe. I have no way to get money. Any day now, deep snow will fall. I don’t know what we’ll do then! And what will we feed the cow? We have no hay, no straw. Take the cow to the forest, my child, find a thick tree and tie her to it. At least we’ll be rid of the cow.”

The boy drove the cow into the forest, tied her to a tree, and went home. He was already near the village when an old woman approached the cow. She was a healer and always lived in the forest, looking after the birds that wintered in their region. The old healer untied the cow and took her to her yard.

As the boy walked home, he suddenly saw a sparrow with a broken leg and a plucked wing stuck in a wheel rut. The sparrow was trying to get out but couldn’t fly away.

“Poor little bird, what will happen to it if a cart comes by?” thought the boy. “The wheel will crush it.”

The boy bent down, carefully picked up the little bird, and placed it inside his shirt. When he got home, he told his mother where he had left the cow and showed her the sparrow.

“Throw it to the cat,” said his mother.

“No, Mom, I’ll feed it crumbs until its leg heals and its wing feathers grow back. Then I’ll set it free.”

The boy took an old basket, lined it with flax and dry grass, and placed the sparrow inside. Every day, he fed the little bird crumbs and gave it water from a thimble. When there was no bread at home, the sparrow went hungry too.

Winter passed. The sparrow recovered, and on a warm spring day, it flew out of the open window. It flew straight to the forest, to the hut of the old healer. It landed on the old woman’s shoulder. At that moment, the old woman was combing two small calves with a comb.

“Where did you spend the winter, little one?” she asked the sparrow.

The sparrow told her how a poor boy had rescued it from the rut, fed it, and cared for it until its leg healed and its wing feathers grew back. Then it asked:

“Whose calves are these?”

“They belong to that cow lying in front of the hut.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I found her in the forest, tied to a tree. I was afraid a wolf might eat her, so I brought her here. I thought she could stay with me until her owner came. But no one came for her. In the winter, I fed her hay from the Tililey thickets. She ate that hay and gave birth to two calves.”

The sparrow fluttered up and began flying around the calves, tickling them with its wings. The calves jumped and played. The cow watched them, overjoyed.

That day, the boy said to his mother:

“Mom, I want to go to the forest and see what happened to our cow. I miss her.”

“Go, if you miss her,” said his mother.

The boy went to the forest. He searched for the cow all day but couldn’t find her anywhere. It grew dark. The boy began to cry—he was terribly afraid in the dark forest. Suddenly, he saw a light flickering between the trees. He walked toward the light and what did he see? A hut stood in the forest, with a yard in front of it, and in the yard lay the cow with two calves. The sparrow saw the boy and chirped:

“Grandma, come out quickly, my savior has come!”

“What savior?” asked the old woman.

“The boy, the cow’s owner.” The old woman welcomed the boy warmly, treated him to a milk dish, and let him sleep in the hut. The next morning, she woke him early.

“Go to the market,” she said. “Take the cow and the calves there. Sell the cow, but don’t sell the calves. With the money, buy yourself an iron-wheeled cart and an iron plow. Harness the calves to the cart. They may be small, but they’re strong—they’ll pull the cart.”

The boy obeyed the healer and did everything as she instructed. He returned home with an iron-wheeled cart, and on the cart was an iron plow. The calves pulled the cart effortlessly, as if it carried not an iron plow but a fly. Before the boy could even unharness the calves, he heard the village herald beating a drum.

“Listen, villagers!” shouted the herald. “Our king has a field, and on that field grows millet. This millet is no ordinary grain—it ripens into golden kernels. Whoever plows the king’s field in one day, before sunset, will be granted whatever he desires. But whoever takes on the task and fails to finish by sunset will have his head cut off by the king’s executioner.”

The next morning, the boy harnessed the calves to the cart and left the yard.

“Where are you going?” asked his mother.

“I’m going to plow the king’s field.”

“Don’t go, my son! The calves are too young—how can they plow a field? Look, their horns have barely sprouted—they’re tiny, like nuts. The soil on the king’s field is as hard as iron. And our king is cruel—he lures people to his field to destroy them.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” said the boy. “I have an iron plow.”

“He’ll cut off your head!”

“He won’t!”

The boy arrived at the field, unloaded the iron plow from the cart, and harnessed the calves to it. Just then, the evil king came to the field. He shouted at the boy from afar:

“What are you doing here, boy?”

“I’m plowing the field for millet. I’ll finish by evening.”

“Get out of here! This task is beyond your strength, and your calves’ too.”

“We’ll see,” said the boy. He urged the calves on, took hold of the plow handles, and began plowing the hard soil. The calves moved easily, chewing their cud as they went, while the boy walked behind the plow, whistling. He plowed row after row. By midday, the sun had passed its peak, and the boy had only one row left to plow. The king watched and realized that the boy would finish the field by evening. So, he sent an old witch to distract the plowman. The witch came to the field and called out to the boy:

“Wait, dear boy, rest a little! Look how high the sun is, and you only have one row left—you’ll have plenty of time to finish. Sit down, and I’ll tell you a story.”

The boy stopped the calves and sat in the furrow—he loved listening to stories. The witch began to tell a tale, sprinkling sleep powder into the boy’s eyes as she spoke. The boy fell asleep. Seeing this, the witch left.

The sun sank lower and lower, almost setting. Then one calf said to the other:

“The sun is setting, and we haven’t finished plowing. Our master will perish. What should we do?”

“Here’s what,” replied the other calf. “I’ll climb that mountain and butt the sun with my horn—it will return to noon. You wake the boy.”

The calves threw off their yoke, and one climbed the mountain while the other licked the sleeping boy’s hand. The boy woke up, looked at the sky, and saw the sun setting. He trembled with fear. But the calf had already climbed the mountain. It butted the sun with its little horn, and the sun returned to noon. Then the calf descended to the field.

The boy jumped up, harnessed the calves to the plow, finished the last row, and went to the king’s palace. He summoned the evil king and said:

“Well, King, fulfill your promise!” The king, trembling with rage, had no choice but to keep his word.

“Ask for whatever you want,” he said.

“I want,” replied the boy, “for you to renounce the throne, and when the millet ripens on the field, let it belong to the people. After all, the land is not yours—it belongs to the people.”

The king turned yellow with anger, but there was nothing he could do. He removed his crown, renounced the throne, and fled to the wild Tililey thickets. The boy went to the most skilled blacksmith and asked him to forge a steel sickle, so that with it, he could reap the golden harvest of the people’s field.

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The Plowboy

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