In a small village on the edge of the vast Russian steppe, there once lived a woman called Olga Maximova Nikolaiova and her husband Igor. Now Igor was a huge bear of a man with a beard as tough as an old broom and Olga Maximova was always a little bit afraid of him. Right from the time she was a bride.
And as the days and weeks went by and she cleaned and cooked and milked the goats and fed the chickens, Olga Maximova grew a little more afraid. For instead of growing happier, Igor seemed to get more sullen by the day. Olga Maximova watched him go out with his scythe at dawn and return at dark with a face like thunder.
And in all this time he hardly spoke a word to man or beast and neither whistled or sang or danced. He who had once been the finest dancer in all the district and had swung Olga Maximova into the air to gaze at the stars.
All through the sultry heat of the long summer and all through the endless night of winter, Olga Maximova longed for a little child.
"A little child would bring the joy back to his heart," whispered Olga Maximova to the stars.
"A little child would save my heart from breaking," whispered Olga Maximova to the birds.
"A little child would bring happiness to all who cared for it," whispered Olga Maximova to the trees.
