Winter came.
In the field, the wheat was small.
It was green.
Small and green.
A small patch here.
A small patch there.
Earth lay between them.
The earth was cold.
When the wind blew, the wheat shivered.
It seemed a little cold.
The wheat was very small.
The wheat said, “Winter is so long.”
The earth said, “Do not worry.”
The earth was warm underneath.
Grandfather stood at the edge of the field.
Grandfather touched the wheat with his hand.
Gently.
He liked the small green shoots.
Grandfather looked up at the sky.
The sky was grey.
The clouds were low.
Grandfather said, “Snow is coming.”
Grandfather said, “Snow is good.”
Grandfather said, “Snow is a blanket for the wheat.”
The child inside did not know yet.
That night, the snow really came.
One piece.
Two pieces.
Many pieces.
One after another.
Another, and another.
Too many to count.
The field turned white.
The snow fell gently.
It was not loud.
It was not noisy.
It was like feathers.
It fell on the field.
It fell on the wheat.
The wheat said, “Oh, so cold.”
The snow said, “Do not be afraid.”
The snow said, “I am gentle.”
Trust me.
The snow laid itself down, layer by layer.
The first layer covered the feet.
The second layer covered the waist.
The third layer covered the head.
Now the wheat was tucked in.
It was like a blanket.
Thick.
White.
All white.
The wheat hid underneath.
It was warm.
Warmer than before.
Like hiding in a mother’s arms.
In China, farmers have an old saying.
When winter snow gives the wheat three blankets, next year you sleep on a pillow of steamed bread.
Three layers of snow, and the wheat sleeps best of all.
So the wheat slept.
Grandfather said, “Sleep now. Sleep until spring.”
Under the snow, the wheat fell asleep.
Not one sound.
The dream came.
Softly.
The dream came down like snow.
The wheat had a dream.
In the dream it was spring.
In the dream the snow melted.
In the dream the wheat grew tall.
In the dream the whole field was gold.
In the dream a little ladybug rested on a leaf.
In the dream the wind was warm.
In the dream the wheat was safe.
Grandfather went back inside.
There was a small lamp in the room.
The lamp was orange.
The flame was small.
The flame was warm.
Grandmother poured him a bowl of hot soup.
The bowl warmed his hands.
The two of them sat by the lamp.
They did not talk.
They only listened to the snow.
Snow has a quiet sound.
Outside, the snow still fell gently.
It fell on the windowsill.
It fell on the roof.
It fell on the wheat field.
It fell on everything.
In the room, it was very quiet.
Very warm.
Nobody wanted to move.
The shadows on the wall listened to the snow too.
Everything was listening.
The night grew late.
The lamp grew sleepy.
Grandmother turned the lamp down low.
Now the house was dark and warm.
In the field, there was only snow.
In the sky, there was only the moon.
The moon was bright.
Under the snow, the wheat slept deeply.
It was in no hurry.
It had until spring.
Spring would come.
It knew.
Just as the snow knew it would melt.
Everything knew.
A wild rabbit ran across the snow.
It left a line of small prints.
Soon the snow covered the prints again.
The field was smooth again.
The little river by the field slept too.
The ice on the river was bright.
It shone a little.
The whole village slept.
Every house was dark.
The dog lay in its own bed.
The chicken stood on its own perch.
Both were warm.
Tomorrow, the snow would still be there.
The day after, the snow would still be there.
The snow would keep covering the wheat.
All the way to spring.
Day after day.
The wind blew gently over the field.
A thin layer of white on the snow.
Like a blanket corner, tucked in by someone.
The moon looked at all that white.
The moon gently laid a cloud over itself.
That is the old story of the snow blanket.
It is a gentle Chinese folktale.
It is also a Chinese fairy tale, and one of the oldest Chinese bedtime stories for children.
Now it is time to close your eyes.
Good night, little wheat.
Good night, snow.
This is a very old Chinese bedtime story. It is not long, and it is very gentle. Best read slowly, with the lights low.
