The Story of the Year

								
It was near the end of January, and a terrible fall of snow was
pelting down, and whirling through the streets and lanes; the
windows were plastered with snow on the outside, snow fell in masses
from the roofs. Every one seemed in a great hurry; they ran, they
flew, fell into each other's arms, holding fast for a moment as long
as they could stand safely. Coaches and horses looked as if they had
been frosted with sugar. The footmen stood with their backs against
the carriages, so as to turn their faces from the wind. The foot
passengers kept within the shelter of the carriages, which could
only move slowly on in the deep snow. At last the storm abated, and
a narrow path was swept clean in front of the houses; when two persons
met in this path they stood still, for neither liked to take the first
step on one side into the deep snow to let the other pass him. There
they stood silent and motionless, till at last, as if by tacit
consent, they each sacrificed a leg and buried it in the deep snow.
Towards evening, the weather became calm. The sky, cleared from the
snow, looked more lofty and transparent, while the stars shone with
new brightness and purity. The frozen snow crackled under foot, and
was quite firm enough to bear the sparrows, who hopped upon it in
the morning dawn. They searched for food in the path which had been
swept, but there was very little for them, and they were terribly
cold. "Tweet, tweet," said one to another; "they call this a new
year, but I think it is worse than the last. We might just as well
have kept the old year; I'm quite unhappy, and I have a right to be
so."

"Yes, you have; and yet the people ran about and fired off guns,
to usher in the new year," said a little shivering sparrow. "They
threw things against the doors, and were quite beside themselves
with joy, because the old year had disappeared. I was glad too, for
I expected we should have some warm days, but my hopes have come to
nothing. It freezes harder than ever; I think mankind have made a
mistake in reckoning time."

"That they have," said a third, an old sparrow with a white
poll; "they have something they call a calendar; it's an invention
of their own, and everything must be arranged according to it, but
it won't do. When spring comes, then the year begins. It is the
voice of nature, and I reckon by that."

"But when will spring come?" asked the others.

"It will come when the stork returns, but he is very uncertain,
and here in the town no one knows anything about it. In the country
they have more knowledge; shall we fly away there and wait? we shall
be nearer to spring then, certainly."

"That may be all very well," said another sparrow, who had been
hopping about for a long time, chirping, but not saying anything of
consequence, "but I have found a few comforts here in town which,
I'm afraid, I should miss out in the country. Here in this
neighborhood, there lives a family of people who have been so sensible
as to place three or four flower-pots against the wall in the
court-yard, so that the openings are all turned inward, and the bottom
of each points outward. In the latter a hole has been cut large enough
for me to fly in and out. I and my husband have built a nest in one of
these pots, and all our young ones, who have now flown away, were
brought up there. The people who live there of course made the whole
arrangement that they might have the pleasure of seeing us, or they
would not have done it. It pleased them also to strew bread-crumbs for
us, and so we have food, and may consider ourselves provided for. So I
think my husband and I will stay where we are; although we are not
very happy, but we shall stay."

"And we will fly into the country," said the others, "to see if
spring is coming." And away they flew.

In the country it was really winter, a few degrees colder than
in the town. The sharp winds blew over the snow-covered fields. The
farmer, wrapped in warm clothing, sat in his sleigh, and beat his arms
across his chest to keep off the cold. The whip lay on his lap. The
horses ran till they smoked. The snow crackled, the sparrows hopped
about in the wheel-ruts, and shivered, crying, "Tweet, tweet; when
will spring come? It is very long in coming."

"Very long indeed," sounded over the field, from the nearest
snow-covered hill. It might have been the echo which people heard,
or perhaps the words of that wonderful old man, who sat high on a heap
of snow, regardless of wind or weather. He was all in white; he had on
a peasant's coarse white coat of frieze. He had long white hair, a
pale face, and large clear blue eyes. "Who is that old man?" asked the
sparrows.

"I know who he is," said an old raven, who sat on the fence, and
was condescending enough to acknowledge that we are all equal in the
sight of Heaven, even as little birds, and therefore he talked with
the sparrows, and gave them the information they wanted. "I know who
the old man is," he said. "It is Winter, the old man of last year;
he is not dead yet, as the calendar says, but acts as guardian to
little Prince Spring who is coming. Winter rules here still. Ugh!
the cold makes you shiver, little ones, does it not?"

"There! Did I not tell you so?" said the smallest of the sparrows.
"The calendar is only an invention of man, and is not arranged
according to nature. They should leave these things to us; we are
created so much more clever than they are."

One week passed, and then another. The forest looked dark, the
hard-frozen lake lay like a sheet of lead. The mountains had
disappeared, for over the land hung damp, icy mists. Large black crows
flew about in silence; it was as if nature slept. At length a
sunbeam glided over the lake, and it shone like burnished silver.
But the snow on the fields and the hills did not glitter as before.
The white form of Winter sat there still, with his un-wandering gaze
fixed on the south. He did not perceive that the snowy carpet seemed
to sink as it were into the earth; that here and there a little

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