Once upon a time a strong and powerful Tzar ruled in a country far
away. And among his servants was a young archer, and this archer had a
horse--a horse of power--such a horse as belonged to the wonderful men
of long ago--a great horse with a broad chest, eyes like fire, and
hoofs of iron. There are no such horses nowadays. They sleep with the
strong men who rode them, the bogatirs, until the time comes when
Russia has need of them. Then the great horses will thunder up from
under the ground, and the valiant men leap from the graves in the
armour they have worn so long. The strong men will sit those horses of
power, and there will be swinging of clubs and thunder of hoofs, and
the earth will be swept clean from the enemies of God and the Tzar. So
my grandfather used to say, and he was as much older than I as I am
older than you, little ones, and so he should know.
Well, one day long ago, in the green time of the year, the young
archer rode through the forest on his horse of power. The trees were
green; there were little blue flowers on the ground under the trees;
the squirrels ran in the branches, and the hares in the undergrowth;
but no birds sang. The young archer rode along the forest path and
listened for the singing of the birds, but there was no singing. The
forest was silent, and the only noises in it were the scratching of
four-footed beasts, the dropping of fir cones, and the heavy stamping
of the horse of power in the soft path.
"What has come to the birds?" said the young archer.
He had scarcely said this before he saw a big curving feather lying in
the path before him. The feather was larger than a swan's, larger than
an eagle's. It lay in the path, glittering like a flame; for the sun
was on it, and it was a feather of pure gold. Then he knew why there
was no singing in the forest. For he knew that the fire-bird had flown
that way, and that the feather in the path before him was a feather
from its burning breast.