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Father and son short story PDF Book – My Old Man By Ernest Hemingway – Free Download
My Old Man is a short story written by the famous American author Ernest Hemingway. It was first published in 1923 and is still loved by many readers today. This is a father and son short story about love, trust, and loss.
The story is told by a young boy who travels with his father, a horse rider. They move from one place to another for horse races. The boy loves his father very much and wants to be like him. But life is not always easy. The story shows how the boy learns about the real world through his father’s life.
This version of the story is written in simple English for beginners. It is made for people who are learning English and want to enjoy classic stories. The language is easy to understand, but the feelings in the story are still strong and beautiful.
If you are looking for a touching father and son short story, this is a great place to start. You can learn English and enjoy a powerful story at the same time.
This story was rewritten by LearnEnglish-new.com for English learners. Enjoy reading the story and improve your English skills!
My Old Man
By Ernest Hemingway
Contents
Chapter One: Life with My Father
Chapter Two: A New Life in France
Chapter Three: The Fall of Gillford
Chapter One
Life with My Father
When I was a boy, I lived with my father. I called him Dad or sometimes my old man. He was a jockey—a man who rides horses in races. We lived in Milan, a big city in Italy. He took me with him everywhere. We stayed in small hotels, rode in trains, and always moved to where the horse races were.
Dad was small and thin, but strong. He worked hard. He would wake up early in the morning and train horses. Sometimes I helped him. He wore many sweaters and a big rubber shirt to sweat and lose weight for the races. When we walked together, people would say, “There goes Joe and his kid.”
I liked being with him. I loved watching the races. I liked the smell of the horses, the shouting crowds, and the fast running. My dad loved it too, but he also looked tired. He always tried to win, and he wanted to be the best.
One day, we were in San Siro, near Milan. My dad had a horse to ride, and I was proud to watch him. But something happened. People started saying bad things about him. A man named Holbrook looked at my dad and said, “You son of a…” and walked away. I didn’t understand what was wrong.
Dad didn’t say much. He just looked at me and smiled. “You’ll see a lot of things in this world, Joe,” he said.
A few days later, we left Milan. Dad said it was time to move to Paris.
In Paris, everything was new. The city was big and busy. We stayed in a small hotel and ate in little cafés. My dad met other men who worked with horses—trainers, owners, jockeys. They all talked about races and money.
We moved again to a place called Maisons-Laffitte. It was outside of Paris and full of horse people. I liked it there. There were big trees, quiet roads, and the sound of horses everywhere. My dad started working at the racetrack there. He wanted to ride again. He had a horse called Gillford, and he loved that horse.
He trained every day. He worked hard and told me, “Joe, this horse is special.”
I believed him. I always believed him.
Chapter Two
A New Life in France
At Maisons-Laffitte, Dad worked with horses every day. He had a new horse called Gillford. Gillford was brown and strong. My dad said, “He’s a jumper, Joe. A good one.” I believed him. I wanted Gillford to win. I wanted my dad to be happy.
We spent our days near the racetrack. Dad made friends with other jockeys and horse owners. He started riding again. He looked proud when he wore his racing clothes. I felt proud too.
Sometimes we went to the races in Paris. My dad liked to sit outside the Café de la Paix and watch people walk by. “This is life, Joe,” he’d say with a smile. I sat with him and listened to his stories. He told me about races in Egypt, America, and Italy. He told me about his younger days—when he was fast and strong, and people respected him.
At night, we talked about the races. He’d ask me, “What do you think of that horse today?” I didn’t know much, but I liked being part of it all. My dad also bet on horses. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. When he lost, he looked tired and quiet. But when he won, he laughed and said, “We’re lucky today, Joe!”
One day, he won a big race. He made a lot of money. He was happy. He bought me a Sportsman magazine, and we had ice cream. He looked at me and said, “Joe, I’m doing this all for you. Someday, we’ll go back to America. You’ll go to school. You’ll be someone.”
But I didn’t want to leave. I liked France. I liked the racetracks, the horses, the busy cafés, and the people who knew my dad. He was someone here. People called him “Joe’s old man” and smiled when they saw us together.
Then came a big race at a place called St. Cloud. A beautiful horse named Kzar was the favorite. Everyone thought Kzar would win. But my dad said, “Watch out for Kircubbin. That horse is fast.”
My dad made a big bet on Kircubbin. I was nervous. He said, “Trust me, Joe. This is our chance.”
We went up to the stands to watch the race. The crowd was huge. Horses lined up. The race began. At first, Kzar was in the lead. But near the end, Kircubbin came fast and strong. People screamed. Kircubbin passed the others and won!
Dad smiled and shouted, “We did it, Joe!”
I was happy too, but I saw some men look at us strangely. Some of them whispered. I didn’t know what they were saying. But I didn’t care. My dad had picked the winner. He was right.
That night, we sat at a café. He looked tired but proud. “One day, Joe, you’ll understand how hard life can be. But today was good.”
I looked at him and smiled. I felt safe. I felt proud.
Chapter Three
The Fall of Gillford
After the big win with Kircubbin, people started to talk about my dad again. Some respected him. Others said he was just lucky. But Dad didn’t care. He only cared about Gillford, his own horse.
He loved Gillford. He said, “Joe, this horse will make us proud.” He trained him every day. Gillford was strong, fast, and smart. My dad looked happier than ever.
One day, Dad entered Gillford in a big race called Prix du Marat in Auteuil, near Paris. It was a hard race—over long distances with big jumps. I was excited. Dad bought me new glasses so I could see better from the stands.
On race day, the weather was rainy. The ground was wet and slippery. I sat in the stands and watched as my dad rode Gillford out. He wore his black racing jacket. I saw him smile and wave at me. I waved back.
The race started. The horses ran fast. I saw Gillford jump with the others. He looked good. But as the race went on, things got dangerous. Horses began falling. Some slipped. Some ran into each other.
Suddenly, I couldn’t see my dad. The horses jumped a big water fence, and everything became a blur. Then, I saw a horse fall hard. I saw a man fly off the horse and hit the ground.
It was my dad.
He didn’t move.
I ran from the stands. I pushed through the crowd, trying to get to him. I saw blood on his face and dirt on his clothes. He was lying still. Very still.
Two men carried him on a stretcher. I followed them, crying. A doctor checked his heart. Then he looked at me and shook his head. My dad was dead.
I sat beside him. I held his hand. I couldn’t believe it. My old man, the strongest man I knew, was gone. People whispered around me. I heard one man say, “He had it coming.”
Another said, “The crook got what he deserved.”
I didn’t understand. I just cried. I loved my dad.
A kind man named George Gardner, a jockey, came and sat next to me. He put his arm around me and said, “Don’t listen to them, Joe. Your old man was one swell guy.”
That day changed everything. I lost my dad. I lost my best friend.
I didn’t care about races anymore. I didn’t care about horses or winning. All I wanted was to be with him again.
I sat there for a long time, holding his hand, hoping it was just a bad dream.
But it wasn’t.
Chapter Four
What People Say
After my dad died, everything felt different. I stayed in Maisons-Laffitte, but the days were quiet now. The racetrack didn’t feel the same. The horses still ran, but I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to cheer. I just missed my old man.
People talked about him. Some said good things. Some said bad things.
“He bet too much money,” one man said.
“He was just unlucky,” said another.
A man I didn’t know said, “He fooled people and got what he deserved.”
Those words hurt me. I wanted to shout, “You don’t know him!” But I stayed quiet.
Only George Gardner, the jockey, was kind. He sat with me after the funeral. He looked me in the eyes and said,
“Joe, your old man was a good man. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
I nodded, but it was hard. I wanted to believe George, but I also remembered all the whispers, all the strange looks people gave us before the race. I didn’t understand it all, but I knew something was wrong—something more than just the fall.
After some time, I left Maisons-Laffitte. I took the train back to Paris. I walked past the Café de la Paix, where Dad used to sit and smile. I sat at the same table and watched the people walk by, just like he did.
I thought about his life. He loved horses. He loved winning. He loved me. Maybe he made mistakes. Maybe he made bad choices. But he tried. He worked hard. He wanted a better life for me.
I looked at the street, full of noise and light. I closed my eyes and remembered his voice:
“Joe, one day, you’ll understand how hard life can be.”
And now, I did.
Wherever I go, I’ll always remember him riding with the wind in his face, shouting at the track, smiling with pride when he won, and holding my hand when we walked through the streets of Paris.
My old man.
He wasn’t perfect.
But he was mine.
And I loved him.
— THE END –
The Original Version of the Story: americanliterature.com
