Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland, translated from the Swedish by Jill Morgan Read Online Free

and not a bit like poor Charlie, who was so old and tired. At least I didn’t see any likeness at first, not before Miramis raised his beautiful head and looked at me. Then I saw that he had the same eyes as Charlie. Such faithful, faithful eyes—as horses have.
    I’d never ridden at all in my life. But now my father the King lifted me up on Miramis.
    â€œI don’t know if I dare,” I said.
    â€œMio, my son,” said my father the King. “Don’t you have a fearless heart?”
    Then I grasped the reins and rode through the Garden of Roses. I rode under the poplars, and they dropped silvery leaves in my hair. I rode faster and faster and faster and Miramis jumped over the tallest rose bushes easily and gracefully. Only once did he brush a hedge, scattering a shower of rose petals.
    Then Pompoo came and saw me riding. He clapped his hands and shouted, “Mio is riding on Miramis! Mio is riding on Miramis!”
    Pulling on the reins I stopped Miramis, and asked Pompoo if he’d like to ride, and of course he wanted to. Quickly he climbed up behind me and we rode into the green meadows outside the Garden of Roses. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.

    My father the King’s county is vast. Farawayland is the biggest country of all. It stretches north and south, and east and west. The island where my father the King has his palace is Greenfields Island. But it is only a small part of Farawayland. Only a little, little piece.
    â€œThe Land on the Other Side of the Water and Beyond the Mountains also belongs to our lord the King,” said Pompoo as we rode through the green meadows beyond the Garden of Roses.
    I was thinking of Ben while we rode swiftly through the sunshine. Poor Ben, think of him standing in the drizzling rain and darkness there on North Street while I rode around and was so happy on Greenfields Island. It was so pretty. The grass was soft and green, flowers lay everywhere, clear streams flowed down the hills and little woolly white lambs grazed in the grass.
    We met a shepherd boy playing on a small wooden flute. He played a strange melody which I thought I’d heard before, but I was certain that I hadn’t heard it on North Street.
    We stopped and talked to the shepherd boy. His name was Nonno, and I asked if I could borrow his flute for a little while. He said I could, and he taught me to play the melody.
    â€œI can make flutes for both of you, if you’d like,” said Nonno.
    We said we’d definitely like to have flutes. A stream flowed nearby, and the branches of a willow tree were leaning over the water. Nonno ran and cut a branch from the willow tree. We all sat down and splashed our feet in the water while Nonno carved wooden flutes for us. Pompoo learned to play the strange melody. Nonno told us that it was an old melody which had existed in the world before all the other melodies, and that shepherds had played it out in their pastures for thousands and thousands of years since then.

    We thanked him for making flutes for us and for teaching us the old melody. Then we climbed up on Miramis again and rode away. We heard Nonno playing his flute farther and farther and farther away.
    â€œWe must be careful with our flutes,” I said to Pompoo, “and if we ever become separated, we’ll play this old melody.”
    Pompoo held his arms tightly around me with his head leaning against my back, so he wouldn’t fall off the horse. “Yes, Mio,” he said, “we must be careful with our flutes, and if you hear my flute playing you’ll know that I’m calling you.”
    â€œYes,” I said, “and if you hear me playing, you’ll know that I’m calling you.”
    â€œYes,” said Pompoo, and I knew he was my best friend. Except for my father the King, of course. I loved my father the King more than anyone in the world. But Pompoo was a boy like myself, and now he was my best