It had been nearly three months since Maradino had seen green. Day after day he gazed from the windows of his father's home, waiting for the torrent of snow to cease.
After many weeks of cold, Maradino grew impatient. Who was the winter to decide how long to stay and when to go? Shouldn't a wise fellow, say, Maradino himself, for instance, make such an important decision? It was settled: Maradino himself would clear winter from the land, and its denizens would laud him as a hero.
He swathed himself in furs and, broom in had, set to the task of sweeping every last snowflake into the bin. He worked for many long hours, but whatever progress he made would be quickly reserved by a constant, gentle powdering from above.
Maradino wailed; Maradino stamped! He glared into the grey-white sky above him, pointed a finger straight into its colorless mass and swore: 'You will pay for this.'