wee snow-birds, white snow-birds,

white snow-birds, wee snow-birds,

through fields skim along!

winter was on the mountains, but his face was hidden by thick clouds that lay in wait, ready to burst and let loose all the evil that was in them.

now and again, the clouds parted a little. but that was only for a moment; and, when it happened, the snow-clad peaks glittered in the sun till you could look at nothing else and could hardly bear to look at them. and, even when the storm flew wildest over the valley and the river foamed and the trees cracked and broke and fell, even then the clouds lay thick and close before the face of winter.

sometimes, some of them dissolved into mists, which swept down upon the valley and filled it quite. but they were different mists from those which spring laid over the land. no violets came from them; in their lap were no crops and no longing and no life. they were as cold as if there were no sun at all behind them.

sometimes, it rained, in a dense and endless downpour, day after day. the blast dashed the rain into the eyes of the hare and the stag, till they had to hide where best they could and turn their tails to the wind. the little brown mice could hardly put their noses outside their door; and the sparrows sat rumpled and disconsolate under the leafless bushes. but the crows rocked undaunted on the tallest twigs and held their beaks straight to the wind, so that it should not blow up under their feathers.

sometimes, it snowed as well. but it was a stupid, sluggish snow, which melted the moment that it touched the ground.

at night, the wind hooted in the mountain-clefts and the owl in the wood. the withered leaves ran round and rustled like ghosts. the boughs of the trees swayed sadly to and fro, to and fro.

and, whether it snowed or rained or only misted, whether it were day or night, the valley lay ever in a horrid sludge and just as many clouds hung lurking in the mountains. the withered blades of grass eddied hopelessly in the meadow. the waves flowed bleak and cold in the river.

then, one night, it froze.

the slush on the ground hardened into a thin crust, which the stag stuck his hoof through, but the hare ran safely across it. the hedgehog shivered in his dreams, the ivy-flowers faded, the puddles got ice upon them.

and, next morning early, a thin layer of snow fell over the land. the sun shone again, but far and cold; and the clouds drifted away.

the prince of winter sat on the mountains: an old man, with white hair and beard. his naked breast was shaggy, shaggy his legs and hands. he looked strong and wild, with cold stern eyes.

but he was not angry, as when spring drove him from the valley and when autumn did not go quickly enough. he looked out over the kingdom[146] calmly, for now he knew that it was his. and, when he found anything dead or empty or desolate, he plucked at his great white beard and gave a harsh and satisfied laugh.

but all that lived in the land was struck with terror when it looked into his cold eyes.

the trees shook in their thick bark and the bushes struck their branches together in consternation. the mouse became quite snow-blind, when she peeped outside the door; the stag looked mournfully over the white meadow:

“my muzzle can still break through the ice, when i drink,” he said. “i can still scrape the snow to one side and find a tuft of grass. but, if things go on like this for another week, then it’s all up with me.”

the crows and the chaffinch and the sparrow and the tit had quite lost their voices. they thought of the other birds, who had departed in time, and knew not where to turn in their distress. at last, they set out in a row to carry their humble greeting to the new lord of the land:

“here come your birds, o mightiest of all princes!” said the crow and stood and marked time in the white snow. “the others left the country as soon as you announced your coming, but we have remained to submit us to your sway. now be a gracious lord to us and grant us food.”

“we bow before your highness!” said the chaffinch.

“we have so longed for you!” said the tit and put his head on one side.

and the sparrow said the same as the others, in a tone of deep respect.

but the prince of winter laughed at them disdainfully:

“ha, you time-serving birds!” he said. “now you fawn upon me. in summer’s time, you amused yourselves merrily; in autumn’s you ate yourselves stout and fat; and, as soon as spring strikes up, you will dance to his piping like the others. i hate you and your screaming and squalling and the trees you hop about in. you are all here to defy me; and i shall do for you if i can.”

then he rose in all his strength:

“i have my own birds and now you shall see them.”

he clapped his hands and sang:

wee snow-birds, white snow-birds,

white snow-birds, wee snow-birds,

through fields skim along!

to jubilant spring i grudge music of no birds,

to summer no song.

come, winter’s mute messengers, swift birds and slow birds,

white snow-birds, wee snow-birds,

till the valley be soft as down for your nesting

of numberless ice-eggs by frosty rims spanned!

now rushing, now resting,

white snow-birds, wee snow-birds,

skim soft through the land!

and winter’s birds came.

suddenly, it darkened and the air became full of little black specks, which descended and turned into great white snowflakes. they fell over the ground, more and more, in an endless multitude; all white and silent, they lay side by side and layer upon layer. the carpet over the land grew ever thicker.

the crows and the others took shelter in the forest, while the snow fell, and gazed dejectedly over the valley. there was now not a blade of grass, nor yet a stone to be seen: everything was smooth and soft and white. only the trees stood out high in the air; and the river flowed through the meadow, black with anger.

“i know how to crush you!” said the prince of winter.

and, when evening came, he told the wind to go down. then the waves became small and still, winter stared at them with his cold eyes and the ice built its bridge from bank to bank. in vain the waves tried to hum spring’s song. there was no strength in their voices. in vain they called upon summer’s sun and autumn’s cool breezes. there was none that heard their complaint; and they had to submit to the yoke.

next morning, there was nothing left of the river but a narrow channel; and, when one more night had passed, the bridge was finished. again the prince of winter called for his white birds; and soon the carpet was drawn over the river, till it was no longer possible to see where land began and water ended.

but the trees strutted ever so boldly out of the deep snow; and the crows screamed in their tops. the firs and pines had kept all their leaves and were so green that it was quite shocking to behold. wherever they stood, they acted as a protection against the frost and a shelter against the snow; and the chaffinch and the other small birds found a hospitable refuge under their roofs.

the prince of winter looked at them angrily:

“if i could but cow you, if i could but break you!” he said. “you defy me and you irritate me. you stand in the midst of my kingdom keeping guard for summer and you give shelter to the confounded screechers and screamers who disturb the peace of my land. my ice cannot penetrate to your pith and kill you. if i had only snow enough to bury you, so that, at least, you did not offend my eyes!”

but the trees stood strong under winter’s wrath and waved their long branches:

“you have taken from us what you can,” they said. “farther than that your power does not go. we will wait calmly for better times.”

when they had said this, winter suddenly set eyes upon tiny little buds round about the twigs. he saw the walnut’s spikes, that smacked of spring. he saw the little brown mice trip out for a run in the snow and disappear again into their snug parlours before his eyes. he distinctly heard the hedgehog snoring in the hedge; and the crows kept on screaming in his ears. through his own ice, he saw the noses of the frogs stick up from the bottom of the pond.

he was seized with frenzy:

“do i dream or am i awake?” he shouted and tore at his beard with both hands. “are they making a fool of me? am i the master or not?”

he heard the anemones breathe peacefully and lightly in the mould, he heard thousands of grubs bore deep into the wood[156] of the trees as cheerfully and imperturbably as though summer were in the land. he saw the bees crawl about in their busy hive and share the honey they had collected in summer and have a happy time. he saw the bat in the hollow tree, the worm deep down in the ground; and, wherever he turned, he saw millions of eggs and grubs and chrysalids, well guarded and waiting confidently for him to go away.

then he leapt down into the valley and raised his clenched fists to heaven. his white hair and beard streamed in the wind, his lips trembled, his eyes glittered like ice.

he stamped on the ground and sang in his loud, hoarse voice:

roar forth, mine anger, roar and rouse

what breathes below earth’s girder!

by thousands slay them—bird and mouse,

and fish and frog and leaf and louse!

in deadly fog the valley souse!

build me a royal pleasure-house

of ice and snow, where storms carouse

with death and cold and murder!

he shouted it over the land.

the ice broke and split into long cracks. it sounded like thunder from the bottom of the river. it darkened, as when summer’s thunder-storms used to gather over the valley, but worse still, for then you could perceive that it would all pass by, but now there was no hope to be seen.

then the storm broke loose.

the gale roared so that you could hear the trees fall crashing in the forest. the ice was split in two and the huge floes heaped up into towering icebergs, while the water froze together again at once. the frost bit as deep into the ground as it could go and bit to death every living thing that it found in the mould. the snow fell and drifted over meadow and hill; sky and earth were blended into one.

this lasted for many days; and those were hard times.

the sparrows did not know at last if they were alive or dead; the crows crept into the pine-forest, silent with hunger and fear. the stag had not found a single tuft of grass for two days past and now leapt belling through the wood, tortured with starvation. the mice crept together in their parlours and froze; the chaffinch froze to death; the hare lay dead in the meadow; the fox ate the hare’s remains and was very thankful to do so.

and, when the weather subsided at last, things were not a whit better.

it was more piercingly cold than ever. the snow lay all around in huge drifts; and, where the snow had been blown away, the ground was hard as stone. every single puddle was frozen to the bottom; the lake was frozen, the river was frozen; and the stag had to swallow snow to slake his thirst.

want reigned on every side.

the hedgehog had shrunk until there was room for two in the hole which was once too small for him. the crows fought like mad, if they found as much as an old shrivelled berry forgotten in the bushes. the fox skulked about with an empty stomach and evil eyes. but the little brown mice discovered with dismay that they were nearly come to the bottom of their store-room, for they had eaten very hard to keep warm in the bad days.

the prince of winter stood in the valley and looked upon all this with content. he went into the forest, where the snow was frozen to windward right up to the tops of the smooth beech-trunks; but on the boughs of the fir-trees it lay so thick that they were weighed right down to the ground.

“you may be summer’s servants,” he said, scornfully, “but still you have to resign yourselves to wearing my livery. and now the sun shall shine on you; and i will have a glorious day after my own heart.”

he bade the sun come out; and he came.

he rode over a bright blue sky; and all that was still alive in the valley raised itself towards him and looked to him for warmth. there was a yearning and a sighing deep in the ground and deep in the forest and deep in the river:

“call spring back to the valley! give us summer again! we are yearning! we are yearning!”

but the sun had but a cold smile in answer to their prayers. he gleamed upon the hoar-frost, but could not melt it; he stared down at the snow, but could not thaw it.

the valley lay dead and silent under its white winding-sheet. scarcely even the crows screamed in the forest.

“that’s how i like to see the land,” said winter.

and the day came to an end, a short, sorry day, swallowed up helplessly in the great, stern night, in which a thousand stars shone cold over the earth. the snow creaked under the tread of the stag; the sparrow chirped with hunger in his sleep. the ice thundered and split into huge cracks.

the prince of winter sat on his mountain throne again and surveyed his kingdom and was glad. his great, cold eyes stared, while he growled in his beard:

proud of speech and hard of hand,

a cruel lord to follow,

winter locks up sea and land,

blocks up every hollow.

summer coaxes, sweet and bland,

flowers in soft vigour;

at winter’s harsh and grim command,

they die of ruthless rigour.

short and cold is winter’s day,

long and worse night’s hours;

few birds languish in his pay

and yet fewer flowers.

the days wore on and winter reigned over the land.

the little brown mice had eaten their last nut and were at their wits’ end as to the future. the hedgehog was reduced to skin and bone; the crows were nearly giving in. the river lay dead under the ice.

then suddenly there came the sound of singing:

play up! play soon!

keep time! keep tune!

ye wavelets blue and tender!

keep time! keep tune!

burst ice and rime

in equinoctial splendour!

up leapt winter and stared with his hand over his brows.

down below in the valley stood the prince of spring, young and straight, in his green garb, with the lute slung over his shoulder. his long hair waved[166] in the wind, his face was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling, his eyes were dreamy and moist.