The Little Daughter Of The Snow
by
Warmer the sun shone, and warmer yet. The pines were green now. All the snow had melted off them, drip, drip, the falling drops of water making tiny wells in the snow under the trees. And the snow under the trees was melting too. Much had gone, and now there were only patches of snow in the forest–like scraps of a big white blanket, shrinking every day.
“Isn’t it lucky our blankets don’t shrink like that?” said Maroosia.
Old Peter laughed.
“What do you do when the warm weather comes?” he asked. “Do you still wear sheepskin coats? Do you still roll up at night under the rugs?”
“No,” said Maroosia; “I throw the rugs off, and put my fluffy coat away till next winter.”
“Well,” said old Peter, “and God, the Father of us all, He does for the earth just what you do for yourself; but He does it better. For the blankets He gives the earth in winter get smaller and smaller as the warm weather comes, little by little, day by day.”
“And then a hard frost comes, grandfather,” said Ivan.
“God knows all about that, little one,” said old Peter, “and it’s for the best. It’s good to have a nip or two in the spring, to make you feel alive. Perhaps it’s His way of telling the earth to wake up. For the whole earth is only His little one after all.”
That night, when it was story-time, Ivan and Maroosia consulted together; and when old Peter asked what the story was to be, they were ready with an answer.
“The snow is all melting away,” said Ivan.
“The summer is coming,” said Maroosia.
“We’d like the tale of the little snow girl,” said Ivan.
“‘The Little Daughter of the Snow,'” said Maroosia.
Old Peter shook out his pipe, and closed his eyes under his bushy eyebrows, thinking for a minute. Then he began.
The Little Daughter of the Snow
There were once an old man, as old as I am, perhaps, and an old woman, his wife, and they lived together in a hut, in a village on the edge of the forest. There were many people in the village; quite a town it was–eight huts at least, thirty or forty souls, good company to be had for crossing the road. But the old man and the old woman were unhappy, in spite of living like that in the very middle of the world. And why do you think they were unhappy? They were unhappy because they had no little Vanya and no little Maroosia. Think of that. Some would say they were better off without them.
“Would you say that, grandfather?” asked Maroosia.
“You are a stupid little pigeon,” said old Peter, and he went on.
Well, these two were very unhappy. All the other huts had babies in them–yes, and little ones playing about in the road outside, and having to be shouted at when any one came driving by. But there were no babies in their hut, and the old woman never had to go to the door to see where her little one had strayed to, because she had no little one.
And these two, the old man and the old woman, used to stand whole hours, just peeping through their window to watch the children playing outside. They had dogs and a cat, and cocks and hens, but none of these made up for having no children. These two would just stand and watch the children of the other huts. The dogs would bark, but they took no notice; and the cat would curl up against them, but they never felt her; and as for the cocks and hens, well, they were fed, but that was all. The old people did not care for them, and spent all their time in watching the Vanyas and Maroosias who belonged to the other huts.