Snowflake

SNOWFLAKE

A delightful story of the life of Snowflake, who was “all stars and arrows, squares and triangles of ice and light”. Through Snowflake’s special role in the pattern of creation and life, Paul Gallico has given us a simple allegory on the meaning of life, its oneness and ultimate safety.

Books by Paul Gallico

THE SNOW GOOSE
THE LONELY
JENNIE
TRIAL BY TERROR
THE SMALL MIRACLE
SNOWFLAKE
THE FOOLISH IMMORTALS
LOVE OF SEVEN DOLLS
LUDMILA
THOMASINA
THE STEADFAST MAN
A Life of St. Patrick

MRS ’ARRIS GOES TO PARIS
THE HURRICANE STORY
MRS ’ARRIS GOES TO NEW YORK
TOO MANY GHOSTS
CONFESSIONS OF A STORY-TELLER
SCRUFFY

First published in Great Britain by

MICHAEL JOSEPH LTD
52 Bedford Square
London, W.C.
1
OCTOBER 1952

© 1952 by Paul Gallico

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.

ISBN: 0-7181-0343-2

For

PAULINE

T
HE Snowflake was born on a cold, winter’s day far up in the sky, many miles above the earth.

Her birth took place in the heart of a grey cloud that swept over the land driven by icy winds.

It all came about from one moment to the next. At first there was only the swollen cloud moving over the tops of the mountains. Then it began to snow. And where but a second before there had been nothing, now there was Snowflake and all her brothers and sisters falling from the sky.

Falling, falling, falling! As gently as lying in a cradle rocked by the wind, drifting downward like a feather, blown this way and that, Snowflake found herself floating in a world she had never known before.

Snowflake could not think when it was she had been born, or how. It had seemed almost like waking up from a deep sleep. An instant before she had been nowhere; now she was here, turning, gliding, sailing, falling, down, down, down.

She thought to herself: “Here I am. But where did I come from? And what was I then? Where have I been? Whither am I going? Who made me and all my brothers and sisters all about me? And why?”

There was no answer to these questions. For the wind in the sky blows without sound, the sky itself is still; the very earth below is hushed when the snow begins to fall.

Looking about her, Snowflake could see hundreds upon hundreds of other flakes tumbling down as far as the eye could reach. And they were silent too.

It was strange, Snowflake thought, to see so many of her brothers and sisters, newborn like herself, on every side, and yet to feel so alone.

No sooner had she thought this when it seemed as though she became aware that all about her there was a kind of dear and tender love, the feeling as of some one caring, that filled her through and through with warmth and sweetness.

And now Snowflake no longer felt lonely. Secure and happy she gave herself up to the comfort and joy that came with the knowledge that she was loved.

Yet, she was no nearer the secret of her being, or who it was had created her, or for what purpose, and whence came this deep and comforting affection. She wished she knew so that she could return some of the love she felt flowing from Him to her and which made her feel so content and safe at this moment. Perhaps she would find out more about Him when she came to the end of her journey.

As dawn began to come to the dark world through which Snowflake was tumbling on her long journey to the earth, the sky turned first the blue colour of steel, then grey, then pearl, and looking at herself as she tumbled over and over, fragile and airy as the wind that blew her, Snowflake knew that she was beautiful.

She was made up of hundreds and hundreds of pure, shining crystals, like fragments of glass or spun sugar.

She was all stars and arrows, squares and triangles of ice and light, like a church window; she was like a flower with many shining petals; she was like lace and she was like a diamond. But best of all, she was herself and unlike any of her kind. For while there were millions of flakes, each born of the same storm, yet each was different from the other.

Snowflake felt grateful to the One who had given her such beauty and wished she knew how it came about that in an instant He was able to create them all, each one as lovely as a jewel and yet no two of them alike. How great a One must He be to devote such love and patience to perfect one and at the same time so many snowflakes.

It had been bitterly cold high up where she had been born, blown by the freezing wind, but after she had been falling for what seemed like a long time, Snowflake felt that it was growing warmer and the air more still.

She was no longer tossed and tumbled but instead dropped more slowly and softly. And this was a lovely feeling, a gentle, dreamy sinking, always slower and slower as though her long journey might be about to come to an end.

Which indeed it was.

Soon Snowflake could make out objects below her, dark tops of mountains and slopes of snow, forests of trees standing up straight and on the side of a hill a village with houses and barns and a church with a round steeple shaped like an onion.

Her brothers and sisters clung to whatever they touched, rocks, branches, rooftops, fences and even the ragged eyebrows of an old man out for an early walk. But Snowflake landed gently with hardly a jar in a field on the mountainside just outside the village, and the journey was over.