A Saghálinian by Vladimir Korolenko

The fire on the hearth had died out; but the yourt was still as warm as an oven. The ice on the windows was melting, and we came to the conclusion that it must be growing warmer outside, for in severe frosts the ice does not melt even from the inside, no matter how warm the yourt may be. Hence we did not replenish the fire, and I went out to close the chimney.

I found that the fog had disappeared and the air had grown softer. In the north, over the brow of the dark, heavily wooded hills, rose faint, fleecy clouds, hurrying swiftly across the sky. One might imagine an invisible giant gently sighing in the dark, cold night; his broad chest pouring forth its steaming breath, to be wafted across the sky and vanish at last in the blue ether. There was a faint playing of the Northern Lights.