By Hans Christian Andersen
(…)
And she saw the storks take their flight—every one of them—and she stretched her hands out after them. She looked up at the nests that stood empty; in one the tall cornflower had grown up, in another the yellow charlock, as if the nest were only meant for a shelter and fence for them, and up came the sparrows.
“Twit, what’s gone with the gentlefolk? Why, they can’t bear the wind blowing on ’em, so they’ve left the country! A pleasant journey to ’em.” Yellower and yellower grew the leaves in the wood: one after another they fell. The storms of Autumn were sounding; it was late in harvest-time. And on the yellow fallen leaves lay the Queen of the Year, gazing with gentle eyes toward the shining stars, and her husband stood by her. A gust of wind whirled up the leaves—they fell to earth again, and she was gone. Only a butterfly, the last of the year, was fluttering through the chilly air. And the wet mists came and the icy blast, and the long dark nights. The King of the Year stood there with snow-white hair, but he knew it not, he thought it was the snowflakes that fell from the clouds. A thin covering of snow lay far and wide over the green fields.
And the church bells rang out for Christmas.
“The birthday bells are ringing,” said the King of the Year. “Soon will the new King and Queen be born, and I shall have won my rest like her—rest in the shining star.”
And in the fresh green fir-wood, where the snow lay, the Angel of Christmas stood, blessing the young trees that were to deck his feast.
“Joy in the house and beneath the green boughs,” said the old King of the Year—a few weeks had aged him into a snow-white veteran. “The time hastens on towards my rest, and the young couple of the year will soon take the sceptre and crown.”
“Still the power is yours,” said the Angel of Christmas, “the power and not the rest. Let the snow lie and keep the young seed warm all about you. Learn to endure that homage should be paid to another while yet you are the Prince: learn to be forgotten and yet go on living. The time of your freedom will come when the Spring comes.”
“When will the Spring come?” Winter asked.
“It will come when the stork comes.”
And with white locks and snow-white hair, Winter sat, cold as ice, old and bent, yet strong as the winter wind and the hardness of ice, high up on the snowdrift of the upland, gazing southward ever, just as the Winter before had sat and gazed. The ice cracked, the snow creaked, the skaters circled on the bright lakes, and ravens and crows stood sharply out against the white background. There was no stir of wind, and in the still air Winter clenched his fists, and the ice grew fathoms thick between shore and shore.
Then out came the sparrows from the town again and asked: “Who’s that old man over there?” And the raven sat there again—or a son of his, which comes to the same—and told them: “That’s Winter, the old man from last year. He’s not dead, as the Almanacks say, but regent for the Spring who’s coming.”
“When is the Spring coming?” said the sparrows. “When it does, we shall have a good time, and better management. The old one is no good at all.”
And in silent thought Winter beckoned to the black leafless wood, where every tree showed clear the beautiful form and curve of its branches; and in their winter slumber the icy mists of the clouds lowered themselves. The Ruler was dreaming of the days of his youth and of his manhood; and towards dawn the whole forest stood fair with hoar frost. It was Winter’s dream of Summer. The sunshine melted the snow from the branches.
“When is the Spring coming?” asked the sparrows.
“Spring!” It came sounding like an echo from the upland where the snow lay. The sun shone out, warmer and warmer, the snow shrank, the birds twittered: “Spring is coming!”
And aloft through the air the first stork came flying; a second followed; a fair child sat on the back of each, and they lighted down upon the green field, and they kissed the earth, and they kissed the old silent man, and like Moses on the Mount he vanished, borne away by the misty cloud.
The Story of the Year was finished.
“That’s all very fine and large,” said the sparrows, “and it’s also extremely pretty; but it doesn’t agree with the Almanack, so it must be wrong.”
Source: H. C. Andersen. Forty-Two Stories. 1930 (translated by M.R. James)
Contos da Carochinha 
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