There was a lame mare in one village. No, she wasn't lame before. She was a very strong, hardy, obedient and kind beauty. She never refused to help anyone, never kicked, never persisted. She was especially fond of children. Sometimes two or three children were put on her back, and even after a hard day she rolled them around the yard until the babies were removed by the strong hands of the owner. Everyone in this village loved her. One day, the mare was badly injured. And she began to limp. So much so that it became clear: now she is no longer an employee. In such cases, everyone knows what usually happens... But the villagers, remembering how hardworking and kind the mare was, decided to let her live next to them. Either with the hope that she would recover after all, or because people used to be kinder and remembered that kindness should be paid for with kindness.
That's how the mare stayed in the village, moving from yard to yard. Where they will feed her, where they will give her a bed for the night, and where even she will cuddle the children on her back. Sometimes the mare went to the edge of the village, to the watermill, where she picked up the spilled grain from the sacks. The miller was a good-natured man. He did not drive the mare away, but even sometimes treated her to a piece of delicious sugar. Some time passed, and the owner began to notice the following. When the grain on the ground was running out, knowing where the rest was, the mare gradually began to pull at the ends of the straps that tied the bags and drag the grain out. No one thought of punishing a quick-witted animal. On the contrary, her ability to make such a thing has been turned into local fun. As soon as the Miller brought new grain for grinding, he immediately loudly called the mare. And the two of them, to the surprise of all onlookers, untied the bags... After a while, the mare was gone. In memory, the Miller buried his beloved next to the mill on the riverbank. And he even put up a cross, to which he nailed all four horseshoes, for which the local priest scolded him. Like, the beast fell, not the man. The Miller obeyed the priest. The cross was removed. Instead, he put an oak post, and hung an eight-spoke wheel on a nail. No matter how the wheel turned, in most positions the spokes showed a cross.
They say that when the war began, the miller's only son, going to the front, fortunately received one of the mare's shoes from his father. The son returned home safe and sound. The only bullet that struck the soldier hit the horseshoe that was in his backpack. Time has wiped out the mare's grave, and the riverbank has changed, there has been no Miller for a long time, only an old mill in ruins does not let people forget about the lame mare.