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A walk to the river

I woke up early; the darkness of the night faded and
the greyish gloom of twilight was seeping through the
window. At times like this you feel comfortable lying
twisted among the sheets. Far from it! I heard a soft per-
sistent tapping on the window. It would be nothing, but
for the eighth floor. I cautiously drew aside the curtain
to see Snezhik’s flaming blue eyes looking through the
window, his pink nose was pressed up against the glass.
‘What’s up? It’s night. I’m sleepy,’ I whispered re-
proachfully into the slightly ajar casement pane.
‘ Sleepyhead, you.’ Snezhik snorted scornfully. ‘ With
all this going on, you only want to sleep!’
‘What is it, Snezhik?’
‘Nothing much. Your life is so short and you let your-
self sleep so long. You miss a lot. That’s too bad. Have
you ever seen a river being wrapped up in winter?’
‘No, dear, never,’ I said with a deep sigh.
‘I knew it, come see it.’
‘But, Snezhik, it’s dark,’ I wailed. ‘Dark and cold.’
‘While you are so hard to wake up, slowpoke, the sun

may be up; the day is going to be sunny. Here’s what a
friend of mine said: “ Frost and sunshine – lovely morn-
ing.”
‘So you used to know Pushkin, did you?’ I laughed,
throwing off sweet sleep.
‘Why, yes! Surely, he didn’t want to kiss me like some-
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