“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.