The Firebird and Other Russian Fairy Tales by Arthur Ransome Page B

road with the children.”
    Nothing the old people said could change her mind.
    â€œI am the little daughter of the Snow,” she replied to everything, and she ran out into the yard into the snow.
    How she danced and ran about in the moonlight on the white frozen snow!
    The old people watched her and watched her. At last they went to bed; but more than once the old man got up in the night to make sure she was still there. And there she was, running about in the yard, chasing her shadow in the moonlight and throwing snowballs at the stars.
    In the morning she came in, laughing, to have breakfast with the old people. She showed them how to make porridge for her, and that was very simple. They had only to take a piece of ice and crush it up in a little wooden bowl.
    Then after breakfast she ran out in the road, to join the other children. And the old people watched her. Oh, proud they were, I can tell you, to see a little girl of their own out there playing in the road! They fairly longed for a sledge to come driving by, so that they could run out into the road and call to the little snow girl to be careful.
    And the little snow girl played in the snow with the other children. How she played! She could run faster than any of them. Her little red boots flashed as she ran about. Not one of the other children was a match for her at snowballing. And when the children began making a snow woman, a Baba Yaga, you would have thought the little daughter of the Snow would have died of laughing. She laughed and laughed, like ringing peals on little glass bells. But she helped in the making of the snow woman, only laughing all the time.
    When it was done, all the children threw snowballs at it, till it fell to pieces. And the little snow girl laughed and laughed, and was so quick she threw more snowballs than any of them.
    The old man and the old woman watched her, and were very proud.
    â€œShe is all our own,” said the old woman.
    â€œOur little white pigeon,” said the old man.
    In the evening she had another bowl of ice-porridge, and then she went off again to play by herself in the yard.
    â€œYou’ll be tired, my dear,” says the old man.
    â€œYou’ll sleep in the hut to-night, won’t you, my love,” says the old woman, “after running about all day long?”
    But the little daughter of the Snow only laughed. “By frosty night and frosty day,” she sang, and ran out of the door, laughing back at them with shining eyes.
    And so it went on all through the winter. The little daughter of the Snow was singing and laughing and dancing all the time. She always ran out into the night and played by herself till dawn. Then she’d come in and have her ice-porridge. Then she’d play with the children. Then she’d have ice-porridge again, and off she would go, out into the night.
    She was very good. She did everything the old woman told her. Only she would never sleep indoors. All the children of the village loved her. They did not know how they had ever played without her.
    It went on so till just about this time of year. Perhaps it was a little earlier. Anyhow the snow was melting, and you could get about the paths. Often the children went together a little way into the forest in the sunny part of the day. The little snow girl went with them. It would have been no fun without her.
    And then one day they went too far into the wood, and when they said they were going to turn back, little snow girl tossed her head under her little fur hat, and ran on laughing among the trees. The other children were afraid to follow her. It was getting dark. They waited as long as they dared, and then they ran home, holding each other’s hands.
    And there was the little daughter of the Snow out in the forest alone.
    She looked back for the others, and could not see them. She climbed up into a tree; but the other trees were thick round her, and she could not see farther than when she was on the