Father Frost

Father Frost

At the edge of a village, beside the forest, lived an old man with his wife and three girls. One girl, Marfusya, was his own daughter, while the other two were his wife’s daughters.

Marfusya rose before everyone else. She lit the stove, carried water, fed the chickens, and kneaded the dough. She was not afraid of work, but she was often sad because her stepmother always found another chore for her, even when everything had already been done.

“Sweep the floor again.”

“Sort the grain.”

“Bring in more firewood.”

But to her own daughters the stepmother said:

“Rest, my darlings. You’ll have plenty of time to get tired later.”

The old man saw the unfairness, but he was too quiet and rarely dared to argue with his wife. That, too, was a mistake.

One winter morning, the stepmother woke in a foul mood. So much snow had fallen overnight that the fences looked like white waves.

“Take Marfusya into the forest,” she told her husband. “Let her sit there and learn not to be so quiet and obedient. Perhaps the forest will make her braver.”

The old man went pale.

“In weather like this? No. It’s dangerous.”

But his wife began to quarrel, accuse, and insist. The old man argued for a long time, but in the end he made another mistake: he allowed his fear of conflict to overcome his good sense.

He seated Marfusya in the sleigh, wrapped her in a sheepskin coat, and drove toward the forest. He went slowly, looking back again and again.

“My daughter, I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said. “Let’s turn back.”

Marfusya was frightened too, but she saw that the snowstorm was already covering the road.

“Papa, there’s a big pine tree ahead. I’ll shelter beneath it while you hurry home, then come back for me. Just don’t be long.”

The old man promised and drove away, determined to return for his daughter as quickly as he possibly could.

Marfusya sat beneath the pine. The wind stirred the treetops, the snow creaked, and the cold slowly began to creep through her mittens.

Suddenly, high among the fir trees, she heard:

Crack! Snap! Crunch!

It sounded as though someone were leaping from branch to branch and tapping the trees with an icy staff.

Marfusya looked up.

On a snow-covered branch sat a small grey-haired old man in a white fur coat. His beard sparkled like frost on a window, and with every breath, tiny silver stars flashed in the air.

It was Father Frost, the winter master of the forest.

He leaned down and asked:

“Are you warm, girl?”

Marfusya wanted to say that she was not cold at all, but she decided not to pretend.

“I am cold, Grandfather,” she answered politely. “But it’s calmer beneath the pine than out in the wind. I’m managing.”

Father Frost was surprised. Many people either complained and demanded warmth from him, or insisted they were not cold even while their teeth were chattering.

He jumped down to a lower branch.

Crack! Crunch!

The air grew colder still.

“And now, are you warm, girl?”

Marfusya rubbed her hands.

“Even colder. But I’m glad I met you. Perhaps you know somewhere I can wait until the storm passes?”

Father Frost smiled into his grey beard.

“I do.”

He tapped his staff against the snow. Beneath the roots of the pine, a tiny door appeared where there had been none before.

Behind it was a warm forest cottage. A fire burned in the stove, a woolen blanket lay on a bench, and a pot of hot fruit drink stood on the table.

“Come in,” said Father Frost. “Anyone who speaks the truth without rudeness and keeps a kind heart even in a difficult moment deserves help.”

Marfusya warmed herself, drank some of the hot fruit drink, and fell asleep on the bench.

By morning, the snowstorm had ended. Father Frost brought her a warm coat, new boots, and a small chest.

“There are no royal treasures in here,” he said. “Just warm cloth, thread, a few silver coins, and good needles. You know how to work, so you can make more from these than someone else might make from a mountain of gold.”

Marfusya thanked him.

Just then, bells jingled among the trees.

The old man was coming back for his daughter. He had not slept all night. He had waited until the road was safer, then set out again before dawn.

When he saw Marfusya alive, well, and wrapped in a warm new coat, he nearly wept with relief.

“Forgive me, my daughter. I should have protected you from the beginning. I should never have allowed anyone to put you in danger.”

“The important thing is that you came back,” Marfusya replied. “But never do that again.”

“Never,” the old man said firmly.

When they returned home, the stepmother saw the new coat and the little chest and immediately became curious.

“Where did all that come from?”

Marfusya told her about Father Frost.

The stepmother heard only the part about the gifts.

“If he gave Marfusya presents, he’ll give my daughters twice as much!” she decided.

The old man objected.

“I will not take anyone else into the forest.”

Then the stepmother’s daughters themselves declared:

“We’ll go! We want chests full of jewels.”

Their mother dressed them warmly, gave them a basket of pies, and led them herself to the edge of the forest, near the familiar pine. She was certain it would be simple: they would sit there for a little while, meet Father Frost, and return with riches.

Before long, the sound came from above the trees:

Crack! Crack! Crunch!

Father Frost appeared on a branch.

“Are you warm, girls?”

“Can’t you see? We’re cold!” the older sister snapped.

“Hurry up and give us the presents,” added the younger one. “Gold, preferably.”

Father Frost raised his eyebrows.

“And why should I give you presents?”

“Because Marfusya got some. That means we should get them too.”

“So you came not because you need help, but because you expect a reward you haven’t earned?”

The girls fell silent, displeased.

Father Frost did not become angry. He simply waved one mitten.

A gust of snow whirled around the sisters and, in the blink of an eye, carried them straight back to their own yard. They landed softly in a great haystack beside the barn.

Tufts of straw sat on their heads, and instead of chests of gold, each of them was holding an ordinary wooden snow shovel.

“What kind of presents are these?” cried the older sister indignantly.

From beyond the fence came Father Frost’s voice:

“Anyone who wants warmth should help make the home warmer. Anyone who wants prosperity should learn to work. And anyone who wants respect should begin by respecting others.”

Marfusya did not laugh at her sisters. She brought them hot tea.

At first, the stepmother wanted to scold everyone, but then she looked at her daughters and at Marfusya, who was still helping them despite everything, and suddenly felt ashamed.

That evening, for the first time, the family had a real conversation.

The old man admitted that he had stayed silent when he should have defended a child. The stepmother admitted that she had been unfair. Her daughters agreed that they had become used to receiving everything without effort.

Things did not change in an instant. No one woke up the next morning as a completely different person. But from then on, they divided the work among everyone. One carried water, another fed the birds, a third kneaded the dough. The old man stopped hiding from difficult conversations, and the stepmother learned to ask instead of command.

From the cloth Father Frost had given her, Marfusya sewed warm mittens for the whole family.

When the next winter came, the familiar sound was heard again near the forest:

Crack! Crunch!

Marfusya stepped onto the porch and saw a flash of silver on a branch.

“Are you warm, girl?” called a cheerful voice.

She laughed.

“I am warm, Father Frost. Truly warm this time. Because there is more kindness in our home.”

At once, marvelous icy flowers blossomed across the windowpanes.

At once, marvelous icy flowers blossomed across the windowpanes.