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.
In the winter the children in their little sheepskin coats....
"Like ours?" said Vanya and Maroosia together.
"Like yours," said old Peter.
In their little sheepskin coats, he went on, played in the crisp snow.
They pelted each other with snowballs, and shouted and laughed, and
then they rolled the snow together and made a snow woman--a regular
snow Baba Yaga, a snow witch; such an old fright!
And the old man, watching from the window, saw this, and he says to
the old woman,--
"Wife, let us go into the yard behind and make a little snow girl; and
perhaps she will come alive, and be a little daughter to us."
"Husband," says the old woman, "there's no knowing what may be. Let us
go into the yard and make a little snow girl."
So the two old people put on their big coats and their fur hats, and
went out into the yard, where nobody could see them.
And they rolled up the snow, and began to make a little snow girl.
Very, very tenderly they rolled up the snow to make her little arms
and legs. The good God helped the old people, and their little snow
girl was more beautiful than ever you could imagine. She was lovelier
than a birch tree in spring.
Well, towards evening she was finished--a little girl, all snow, with
blind white eyes, and a little mouth, with snow lips tightly closed.
"Oh, speak to us," says the old man.
"Won't you run about like the others, little white pigeon?" says the
old woman.
And she did, you know, she really did.
Suddenly, in the twilight, they saw her eyes shining blue like the sky
on a clear day. And her lips flushed and opened, and she smiled. And
there were her little white teeth. And look, she had black hair, and
it stirred in the wind.
She began dancing in the snow, like a little white spirit, tossing her
long hair, and laughing softly to herself.
Wildly she danced, like snowflakes whirled in the wind. Her eyes
shone, and her hair flew round her, and she sang, while the old people
watched and wondered, and thanked God.