am called Solovey. Vasya smiled. “Nightingale. A little name for a great horse. How did you get it?” I was foaled at twilight, he said gravely. Or perhaps I was hatched; I cannot remember. It was long ago. Sometimes I run, and sometimes I remember to fly. And thus am I named. Vasya stared. “But you are not a bird.” You do not know what you are; can you know what I am? retorted the horse. I am called Nightingale, and does it matter why? Vasya had no answer. Solovey had finished her
