It was a chilly morning.
Some people gathered in a graveyard.
The town miller had died.
The miller's three sons stood by the grave.
Their names were Francis, Batista, and Carabas.
"I'll miss Father," Francis said.
Batista nodded. "I will too."
Carabas wiped away a tear.
"I'm glad he lived a nice long life."
Later the brothers went to the mill.
"Father was quite poor," Batista said.
"He only owned this mill and a donkey."
"I'm taking the mill," Francis said.
"You?" Batista cried.
"I'm the oldest," Francis said.
"I'll take over Father's business.
And I'll make money grinding flour."
"Well, I'm taking the donkey," Batista said.
"I can use it to carry goods to the market."
"Let's go into business together," Francis said.
"I'll grind flour, and you take it to the market."
Batista smiled. "Perfect!"
"What about me?" Carabas asked quietly.
Batista shrugged. "Father didn't own anything else."
"I don't get anything?" Carabas asked.
"That's not fair."
Francis shrugged. "You're the youngest."
Just then a cat pounced on a mouse.
"Oh!" Batista said.
"I forgot about Father's cat, Puss."
Francis grinned. "Carabas, you can have Puss."
Francis and Batista laughed.
Carabas sighed.