Grandpa Baigal's fairy tales. About spring

The March Sun knows its spring business. The ice blanket that sheltered the anxiously sleeping Father Baigaal all winter is spreading at the seams. Grandfather is still asleep, although the water shines in bright rays through the holes-proparins. Winter, guarding the dream of the old man, a week as laid down on the sled their possessions and ready to go north. But looking at the dilapidated blanket, grunting and reluctantly, he pulls out his snow threads and at night stacks it in the pale light of the moon, singing with a whistling monotonous song. Seams and patches are unsightly, uneven. And very quickly spread under the bright sunlight.
One morning, spat on this useless activity, Winter will sit on old sledges. He will look at the mountain, sleeping Baigaal, light a pipe Bari-aash, shout at the snow deer in a harness. And the sledges, creaking crawls on the protalins-seamen, will take the old woman to the northern edges. The next day, Spring will arrive.