The Red-Eyed Miller

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had an only son. When the boy grew up, he began to help his father with the household chores. One day, the father loaded a cart full of sacks of wheat and sent his son to the mill to grind the wheat into flour.

- Which mill should I go to?

- The water mill.

- You know there are quite a few water mills around.

- Choose any one, but beware of the red-eyed miller. The young man took the reins and slowly made his way to the mill. As he approached, the miller came out to meet him, covered from head to toe in flour, and kindly invited him in:

- Come on in, unload your sacks.

- Isn't there a lot of people at the mill?

- No one's here, let's unload the sacks and start grinding the flour. As the young man got closer to the miller, he noticed that the miller's eyes were red, as if scalded.

- No, I don't want to grind flour with a red-eyed miller, - said the young man and turned towards another mill.

But the miller overtook him and appeared again at the second mill.

- Hello, miller.

- Hello, young man.

- Is the mill busy?

- Yes, it's packed.

"Ugh, trouble! - thought the young man. - It's crowded, and this miller is also red-eyed."

- Well, in that case, I'll go to another mill.

However, the miller overtook him again and appeared at the third mill.

- How's it going, miller? Is it busy?

- What do you think? The mill is packed with sacks. "By the time we grind the wheat, my eyes will pop out of my head, - the young man thought to himself. - And this miller is also red-eyed. I'd better go back to the first one, at least there's no crowd, and I'll get the flour faster."

He turned the cart around and soon arrived at the first mill.

- I've come back, miller. The other mills are packed, and all the millers are red-eyed.

- Alright, young man, pour the grain into the hopper while there's no one here. After some time, the sacks stood side by side, full to the brim with flour.

- Now, - said the miller, - let's bake a loaf and have a meal.

- Alright.

- Bring a cartload of firewood, and I'll knead the dough in the meantime.

The young man went to fetch the firewood, and the red-eyed miller brought out a huge kneading trough, big enough to hold an entire sack of flour, poured in water, and began kneading the dough. The young man brought the firewood, they lit the fire, baked the loaf, and when they took it out of the oven, the miller said:

- Now, young man, let's tell tales. Whoever tells a tale that the other doesn't believe, will take the loaf.

The young man agreed, and the miller began his tale:

- I remember when I was just a little boy, my father was a gardener. One day, he planted a watermelon seed, and the vines grew so huge that they stretched across the entire country, from the Dniester to the Prut, from Mogilev in the north to the Danube in the south. Everyone who passed by ate their fill of watermelons, and there was still plenty left. Once, a passerby lost his knife in the vines; he searched for a day, then another, and a third, until he met my father.

- Hey, what are you looking for?

- I lost my knife.

- When?

- Three days ago.

- And you've been searching for three days?

- Yes.

- Oh, you! I once lost a herd of horses, and I didn't even search for three days, and you're so upset over a measly knife!

- Is that the whole tale?

- That's it.

- Well, what's so special about it? Maybe it really happened.

- Well, then let's hear what you have to say.

- I remember when I was a little boy, my father had many beehives. He knew all his bees by name, called each one by name. One day, he noticed that a bee named Fornoya was missing; she was gone for a day, then another, then a third, and so on for several days. He waited and waited, but the bee didn't return. The poor thing had been caught by the servants of a nobleman and yoked to a plow. She returned to my father all worn out, with a sore neck from the yoke. My father was saddened and began to ask one wise woman after another how to heal the bee.

Finally, an old woman taught him to feed the bee with walnut kernels soaked in sweet milk. My father got the walnut and the sweet milk, gave it to the bee, but the bee choked. The walnut got stuck in her throat and wouldn't come out. In the warmth and dampness, the walnut sprouted roots and began to grow. It grew and grew, sprouting from the bee's head, and turned into a large, thick walnut tree; there were so many walnuts on it that the branches bent under their weight. When the walnuts ripened, they began to emerge from their green husks, but black crows flew in and started pecking at them, destroying them. My father and I began to chase the crows, throwing clods of earth at them, but the clods got stuck between the branches. We threw so many clods that a whole field spread out on top of the tree. My father climbed up, plowed the land, and sowed wheat. When it was time to harvest, we both climbed up to gather the wheat quickly before the rain and hail could ruin it. We harvested all the wheat, gathered it, I climbed down, and my father stayed to tie one last sheaf. He tied the sheaf, placed it on the stack, and was about to follow me. He wove a long, thick rope from straw and began to descend, but the rope wasn't long enough; he was left hanging a few fathoms above the ground. He couldn't move, stuck between heaven and earth. Our bees flew by, saw him, and began to circle around him. They circled and circled, then began to build honeycombs, more and more. My father became heavy with honey, the straw rope broke, and he fell to the ground, turning into a large puddle of honey. People began to come with all sorts of containers to collect honey. Among them was your father with a huge pot. But by the time he arrived, all the honey was gone. He searched and searched, and suddenly saw the tip of my father's sandal. He grabbed the sandal, rejoiced, and found a little honey left in it. He thought, at least I can bring a little something for my son, that is, you, to enjoy.

- Nonsense, that couldn't have happened. - You didn't believe my tale.

- Ah, you should have said it was a tale, then...

- Then, that means I win the loaf.

The red-eyed miller realized he had been outwitted, but there was nothing he could do. The young man loaded the flour and the loaf onto the cart and went on his way.

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The Red-Eyed Miller

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