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.