Once, in the freezing winter season,
I came out of the forest; there was a hard frost.
I look: slowly climbing the hill
Is a little horse pulling a cartload of brushwood.
And walking with dignity, in sedate calm,
Leading the horse by the bridle is a little man
In big boots, in a sheepskin coat,
In big mittens… and himself no bigger than a fingernail!
“Hello there, big fellow!” “Go on past!”
“My, you are stern, as I can see!
Where is the firewood from?” “From the forest, of course;
Father, hear him, is chopping, and I haul it away.”
(In the forest the woodcutter’s axe rang out.)
“And tell me, does your father have a big family?”
“The family is big, but there are two people,
Only two men in all: my father and I…”
“So that’s how it is! And what’s your name?” “Vlas.”
“And how old are you?” “The sixth has gone by…
Get on, you dead thing!” the tiny one shouted in a bass,
Pulled at the bridle and strode on faster.
The sun shone so on this picture,
The child was so comically small,
As if all this were made of cardboard,
As if I had walked into a children’s theater!
But the boy was a boy, alive, real,
And the sledge, and the brushwood, and the piebald horse,
And the snow, lying up to the village windows,
And the cold fire of the winter sun —
All, all of it was real and Russian,
With the brand of the sullen, deadening winter,
That is so painfully dear to the Russian soul,
That puts Russian thoughts into minds,