Snow fell all night.
It fell very slowly.
One flake.
Then one more.
In the morning the yard was white.
The roof was white.
The bare branches were white too.
The little chicken came out first.
He shook his wings.
He took a few steps.
Small bamboo leaves stayed in the snow.
Then the little dog came out.
He ran one small circle.
Small plum blossoms stayed in the snow.
Then the little duck came out.
She walked slowly, side to side.
Small maple leaves stayed in the snow.
The little horse came out last.
He lifted one hoof.
Small curved moons stayed in the snow.
They had no brushes.
They had no paper.
They had no paint at all.
A few steps, and the picture was done.
They looked at what they made.
The chicken looked at the dog.
The dog looked at the duck.
The duck looked at the horse.
The horse looked at the chicken.
Each picture was lovely.
No two were the same.
The duck looked at her own picture.
She thought her maple leaves were best.
The dog looked at his own picture.
He thought his plum blossoms were best.
Each one thought his own was best.
Nobody said so out loud.
They made flowers, but not with hands.
They made them with their feet.
They walked around and around.
Soon the snow was full of shapes.
Some looked like flowers.
Some looked like leaves.
Some looked like little moons.
Then the sun came up.
It made the snow shine.
The snow grew soft.
The pictures faded a little.
The little painters did not worry.
They knew more snow would come.
A little wind came across the yard.
Snow dust drifted off the roof.
At noon they went home to eat.
The barn door was open.
A warm smell came out.
They ate rice and hot soup.
The bowls steamed.
The food was hot.
Steam rose from the stove.
After eating, they felt sleepy.
In the afternoon it snowed again.
This time the snow covered every picture.
Some pictures still showed a little.
Some were gone from sight.
By evening the yard was a clean white page.
Nobody had painted on it yet.
The wind was gentle.
The snow kept drifting down.
The sky turned dark.
The moon came up.
It was a small white moon.
Moonlight fell on the snow and made it shine.
But the pictures were gone now.
This time nobody came out to paint.
The little painters went back to their nests.
The nests were warm and dark.
The nests were lined with dry grass.
The grass was soft.
It smelled of dry hay.
The animals curled up small.
The chicken slept with his head tucked in.
The horse slept standing up.
That is how animals sleep in winter.
That is how the night went by.
The chicken slept.
The dog slept.
The duck slept.
The horse slept.
And the frog?
The frog was not outside.
He was in his hole, fast asleep.
He had gone to sleep in autumn.
He slept under the soft mud.
He would sleep the whole winter.
He would not be cold at all.
He would wake when the snow melted.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
It fell on the empty yard.
It fell on the roof and the trees.
The night was very quiet.
Only the snow made a sound.
It made almost no sound at all.
The stars came out above the snow.
They looked down at the white yard.
Nothing moved in the yard below.
Only the snow, falling slowly.
One lamp burned in the farmhouse.
Then that lamp went out too.
The moon crossed the whole sky.
It was in no hurry at all.
The little painters were warm inside.
They slept until the morning.
In the spring the snow would melt.
Then the yard would turn green.
But that was a long way off.
Tonight there was only snow.
In China, children learn a snow song: snow is falling, and a few small painters come to the yard.
That is the old story of The Little Painters in the Snow.
This is an old Chinese folktale.
It is a gentle Chinese fairy tale, one of the oldest Chinese bedtime stories for children.
Now it is time to close your eyes.
Good night, little painters.
Good night, little frog in your hole.
This is a very old Chinese bedtime story. It is not long, and it is very gentle. Best read slowly, with the lights low.
