on its banks. Then tell me after that if anything, if any miracle, is not possible in this khata of God's which we call the wide world.
Everything is possible. Take, for instance, an adventure that happened to a friend of mine, the miller from Novokamensk. If no one has told you the story already, I will tell it to you now, only please don't make me swear that every word is true. I won't swear to a thing, for though I got it from the miller himself, I don't know to this day whether it really happened to him or not.
But whether it's true or not, I shall tell it to you as I heard it.
One evening the miller was returning from vespers in Novokamensk, which was about three versts, not more, from his mill. For some reason the miller was a little out of temper, though he himself could not have said why. Everything had gone well in the church, and our miller, who could shout with the best, had read the prayers so loudly and so fast that the good people had been astonished.
"How he does bawl, that son of a gun!" they had exclaimed with the deepest respect. "You can't understand one word he says. He's a regular wheel, he is; he turns and spins and you know he has spokes in him, but you can't see a single one, no matter how closely you look. His reading sounds like an iron wheel rumbling over a stony road; you can't catch a word of it to save your life."
