The Cart That Gathered a Procession

He climbed up into the storeroom and felt around in the corner for the pot of grease. He went outside, smeared both wheels thick, gave them a spin with his hands. Silence. Not a sound. The man felt himself a master of invisible deeds. He washed his hands and went to bed with a clear conscience and the thought of how grandly he would roll past the inn tomorrow.

In the morning he harnessed the horse and set off for the mill. The cart rolls along softly, without a single creak, as if on a cloud. He sits up straight, gazing proudly. But at the very first wattle fence he noticed a strange thing. Behind his cart, at a dignified pace, trailed the neighbor's dog. Behind it, two more. And bringing up the rear of the procession - somebody else's pig.

He stopped, looked at the wheels, and understood everything. In the dark he had grabbed not the tar but the pot of last year's lard drippings his wife had been saving for pancakes. The wheels gleamed and perfumed the whole street, and the animals followed him as if behind a festive parade. He had to stop and pay his tribute to the street.

Afterwards the miller spent a long while wiping his wheels down with old sackcloth, and the driver only waved his hand. That's how it goes: a man is ready to mount a secret operation in the middle of the night, just so he won't have to ask for a drop of tar by day. But life will bring it all out into the open anyway - and wag its tail to boot.