Court records describe a brief season in an unnamed ancient kingdom when officials levied a tax on snowmen. Collectors patrolled the squares with abaci and felt lined tongs, counting buttons, noses, and hats as billable features. Receipts bore a damp stamp that sometimes froze to the parchment before anyone could leave the square.
The policy looked simple on wax: One button, one unit. One carrot, two units. A top hat meant premium status and a tidy surcharge. Children learned the term taxable adornment before they could tie a scarf. Street vendors began selling certified economy twigs with a brochure that promised low profile arms.
Resistance arrived overnight and tidy as snowfall. Streets filled with orderly ranks of snow citizens, each wearing a knitted protest scarf in tasteful colors. Branch arms formed polite barricades. Carrot noses pointed toward the palace in unanimous silence, and a single top hat changed hands whenever an official approached, which made the census uncooperative.
Collectors reported measurable complications. Abaci stuck between sums. Stamps froze mid press and left a ring of ice on the clerk’s thumb. Coal buttons rolled off ledgers and lined up like little coins that refused to stack. A broom leaned against the palace steps with a note that read “inventory in flux, do not sweep.”
Officials thawed toward compromise. Families received an allowance for two smiles per household. Garlands counted as seasonal deductions. Any snowman that melted into a useful puddle, such as one that watered an herb bed, was forgiven by spring. “We found compliance improved dramatically when the sun handled collections,” said a palace scribe.
The statute expired with the weather. By thaw, the law had vanished from postings, leaving a trail of coal buttons leading to the river like unspent currency. In the archives, a single receipt survives with a frozen stamp and a smudge of carrot, evidence that even the most ambitious tax code can be undone by April.
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