WINTER

 "Winter! A triumphant farmer tries the path in the snow on the wood-sled..."
 Pushkin did not say anything for nothing, for rhyme or no reason. Anyone who knows the village life immediately understands why the farmer is triumphant, sensing the snow and a horse dragging a trot. Some children delight in the peasant making a path in the snow, but in his horse is something good-natured, cunning, and connected with the triumphant peasant. Where is he heading, and why? It is not necessary to be aware of every minute. Maybe for firewood...
   Recall too the poem of Nekrasov: "And marching importantly, in calm staid, a horse by the bridle is led a little peasant ..." Here the poet explained to us all, to the point, what kind of mittens he wears, but the excellent plot details compensate extravagance. Perhaps a Pushkin farmer went for hay. And probably for spruce needles, which will be cut down for the litter to cattle, saving straw. The smell of snow, the unusual condition of the feet (cold, rugged boots or soft, warm felt boots - there's a difference?), a new way to ride without cart shaking and creaking, and hundreds of other more minor further details - all this makes the rider is triumphant.
   Winter labour is unlike summer one; you don't have to rush. Raspberries, as they say, will not fall off. Weather doesn't speed. Mosquitoes, ticks, mosquitoes, and horseflies don't bug you. You don't sweat… Frost invigorates, and the body is asking for some action. And action is where to display, especially in the forest.
    Women get together in an old house or barn to scutch flax. The job is dusty and unpleasant, but working together is more cheerful. They sing, tell stories, and gossip a bit. The men transport hay, cut wood and take out timber. The day is short; it only takes a round trip once, and darkness falls. Unharness the horse. Such exercise is not a burden for a horse and man but fun. Both have rest. Gain strength for a new spring.
    In winter, if wood and hay are taken care of, all other work is around the cattle and the house. Many do carpentry and tinkering, try out other crafts, and go fishing and hunting. As at any other time, there are a lot of holidays. And if you overstay in different villages with relatives, friends, or anyone else, you have to invite people reciprocally. Soak rye for malt and brew beer.
    Our winter is long, so there are a lot of things you can do. Not even past the Shrovetide, a grandmother checks a hen: is there an egg by chance? Cows fawn. Women are prepared to arrange weaving looms to weave canvases. Most players in "knuckle-bones" clean up a barn, so on the first day, which falls warm, put the game. Once again, spring from a distance creeps into the village, whistling blue ice crust in the wind. Became blue the boundless sky- another year had passed. It passed unnoticed.
    New kids are born in the village, and some of the old are tidied by Mother Earth. Took them away… But life goes on, as the sun goes its course every day. It has made its great circle in the sky, and peasant life, too, has made its annual cycle. Annual cycles roll year after year, but nothing is repeated in human life. Plowman starts the furrow every spring with excitement, as if for the first time. A reaper cuts the first of a handful of rye each time with excitement. Almost all work tasks for the rural resident are intertwined with nature, and nature is full of rhythm: one follows another, and all are connected inextricably. A man has always felt their unity with nature. So, in alliance with it, he created himself and the high beauty of his soul, as reflected in the work culture.