Marcus Waterman illustration, 1864 edition
One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forthwith chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children askedleave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow.The elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of atender and modest disposition, and was thought to be verybeautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar withher, used to call Violet. But her brother was known by the styleand title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad andround little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine andgreat scarlet flowers. The father of these two children, acertain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent butexceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, andwas sturdily accustomed to take what is called the common-senseview of all matters that came under his consideration. With aheart about as tender as other people's, he had a head as hardand impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of theiron pots which it was a part of his business to sell. Themother's character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry init, a trait of unworldly beauty,--a delicate and dewy flower, asit were, that had survived out of her imaginative youth, andstill kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of matrimony andmotherhood.
So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought theirmother to let them run out and play in the new snow; for, thoughit had looked so dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of thegray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun wasshining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had no widerplay-place than a little garden before the house, divided by awhite fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two orthree plum-trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes just infront of the parlor-windows. The trees and shrubs, however, werenow leafless, and their twigs were enveloped in the light snow,which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there apendent icicle for the fruit.
"Yes, Violet,--yes, my little Peony," said their kind mother,"you may go out and play in the new snow."
Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollenjackets and wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks,and a pair of striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, andworsted mittens on their hands, and gave them a kiss apiece, byway of a spell to keep away Jack Frost. Forth sallied the twochildren, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at onceinto the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emergedlike a snow-bunting, while little Peony floundered out with hisround face in full bloom. Then what a merry time had they! Tolook at them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would havethought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for noother purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet andPeony; and that they themselves had been created, as thesnow-birds were, to take delight only in the tempest, and in thewhite mantle which it spread over the earth.
At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfulsof snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony'sfigure, was struck with a new idea.
"You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony," said she, "if yourcheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make animage out of snow,--an image of a little girl,--and it shall beour sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter long.Won't it be nice?"
"Oh yes!" cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he wasbut a little boy. "That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!"
"Yes," answered Violet; "mamma shall see the new little girl. Butshe must not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know,our little snow-sister will not love the warmth."
And forthwith the children began this great business of making asnow-image that should run about; while their mother, who wassitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could nothelp smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. Theyreally seemed to imagine that there would be no difficultywhatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. And, tosay the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be byputting our hands to the work in precisely such a simple andundoubting frame of mind as that in which Violet and Peony nowundertook to perform one, without so much as knowing that it wasa miracle. So thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that thenew snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material tomake new beings of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed at thechildren a moment longer, delighting to watch their littlefigures,--the girl, tall for her age, graceful and agile, and sodelicately colored that she looked like a cheerful thought morethan a physical reality; while Peony expanded in breadth ratherthan height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs assubstantial as an elephant, though not quite so big. Then themother resumed her work. What it was I forget; but she was eithertrimming a silken bonnet for Violet, or darning a pair ofstockings for little Peony's short legs. Again, however, andagain, and yet other agains, she could not help turning her headto the window to see how the children got on with theirsnow-image.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright littlesouls at their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observehow knowingly and skilfully they managed the matter. Violetassumed the chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while,with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer partsof the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made bythe children, as to grow up under their hands, while they wereplaying and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprisedat this; and the longer she looked, the more and more surprisedshe grew.
"What remarkable children mine are!" thought she, smiling with amother's pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proudof them. "What other children could have made anything so like alittle girl's figure out of snow at the first trial? Well; butnow I must finish Peony's new frock, for his grandfather iscoming to-morrow, and I want the little fellow to look handsome."
So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work againwith her needle as the two children with their snow-image. Butstill, as the needle travelled hither and thither through theseams of the dress, the mother made her toil light and happy bylistening to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kepttalking to one another all the time, their tongues being quite asactive as their feet and hands. Except at intervals, she couldnot distinctly hear what was said, but had merely a sweetimpression that they were in a most loving mood, and wereenjoying themselves highly, and that the business of making thesnow-image went prosperously on. Now and then, however, whenViolet and Peony happened to raise their voices, the words wereas audible as if they had been spoken in the very parlor wherethe mother sat. Oh how delightfully those words echoed in herheart, even though they meant nothing so very wise or wonderful,after all!
But you must know a mother listens with her heart much more thanwith her ears; and thus she is often delighted with the trills ofcelestial music, when other people can hear nothing of the kind.
"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet to her brother, who had gone toanother part of the garden, "bring me some of that fresh snow,Peony, from the very farthest corner, where we have not beentrampling. I want it to shape our little snow-sister's bosomwith. You know that part must be quite pure, just as it came outof the sky!"
"Here it is, Violet!" answered Peony, in his bluff tone,--but avery sweet tone, too,--as he came floundering through thehalf-trodden drifts. "Here is the snow for her little bosom. OViolet, how beau-ti-ful she begins to look!"
"Yes," said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; "our snow-sisterdoes look very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we couldmake such a sweet little girl as this."
The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful anincident it would be, if fairies, or still better, ifangel-children were to come from paradise, and play invisiblywith her own darlings, and help them to make their snow-image,giving it the features of celestial babyhood! Violet and Peonywould not be aware of their immortal playmates,--only they wouldsee that the image grew very beautiful while they worked at it,and would think that they themselves had done it all.
"My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortalchildren ever did!" said the mother to herself; and then shesmiled again at her own motherly pride.
Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination; and, ever andanon, she took a glimpse out of the window, half dreaming thatshe might see the golden-haired children of paradise sportingwith her own golden-haired Violet and bright-cheeked Peony.
Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, butindistinct hum of the two children's voices, as Violet and Peonywrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed tobe the guiding spirit, while Peony acted rather as a laborer, andbrought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little urchinevidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too!
"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet; for her brother was again at theother side of the garden. "Bring me those light wreaths of snowthat have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You canclamber on the snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I musthave them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister's head!"
"Here they are, Violet!" answered the little boy. "Take care youdo not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!"
"Does she not look sweetly?" said Violet, with a very satisfiedtone; "and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, tomake the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mammawill see how very beautiful she is; but papa will say, 'Tush!nonsense!--come in out of the cold!' "
"Let us call mamma to look out," said Peony; and then he shoutedlustily, "Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice'ittle girl we are making!"
The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out ofthe window. But it so happened that the sun--for this was one ofthe shortest days of the whole year--had sunken so nearly to theedge of the world that his setting shine came obliquely into thelady's eyes. So she was dazzled, you must understand, and couldnot very distinctly observe what was in the garden. Still,however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun andthe new snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden, thatseemed to have a wonderful deal of human likeness about it. Andshe saw Violet and Peony,--indeed, she looked more at them thanat the image,--she saw the two children still at work; Peonybringing fresh snow, and Violet applying it to the figure asscientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model. Indistinctlyas she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought to herselfthat never before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made, norever such a dear little girl and boy to make it.
"They do everything better than other children," said she, verycomplacently. "No wonder they make better snow-images!"
She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it aspossible; because twilight would soon come, and Peony's frock wasnot yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad,pretty early in the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, wenther flying fingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at workin the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she couldcatch a word. She was amused to observe how their littleimaginations had got mixed up with what they were doing, andcarried away by it. They seemed positively to think that thesnow-child would run about and play with them.
"What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!" saidViolet. "I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold!Sha'n't you love her dearly, Peony?"
"Oh yes!" cried Peony. "And I will hug her, and she shall sitdown close by me and drink some of my warm milk!"
"Oh no, Peony!" answered Violet, with grave wisdom. "That willnot do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our littlesnow-sister. Little snow people, like her, eat nothing buticicles. No, no, Peony; we must not give her anything warm todrink!"
There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legswere never weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the otherside of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly andjoyfully,--"Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has beenshining on her cheek out of that rose-colored cloud! and thecolor does not go away! Is not that beautiful!"
"Yes; it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony, pronouncing the threesyllables with deliberate accuracy. "O Violet, only look at herhair! It is all like gold!"
"Oh certainly," said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it werevery much a matter of course. "That color, you know, comes fromthe golden clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She is almostfinished now. But her lips must be made very red,--redder thanher cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red if we both kissthem!"
Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if bothher children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth.But, as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough,Violet next proposed that the snow-child should be invited tokiss Peony's scarlet cheek.
"Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!" cried Peony.
"There! she has kissed you," added Violet, "and now her lips arevery red. And she blushed a little, too!"
"Oh, what a cold kiss!" cried Peony.
Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west-wind, sweepingthrough the garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded sowintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-panewith her thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, whenthey both cried out to her with one voice. The tone was not atone of surprise, although they were evidently a good dealexcited; it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced atsome event that had now happened, but which they had been lookingfor, and had reckoned upon all along.
"Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and sheis running about the garden with us!"
"What imaginative little beings my children are!" thought themother, putting the last few stitches into Peony's frock. "And itis strange, too that they make me almost as much a child as theythemselves are! I can hardly help believing, now, that thesnow-image has really come to life!"
"Dear mamma!" cried Violet, "pray look out and see what a sweetplaymate we have!"
The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to lookforth from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky,leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness amongthose purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winterso magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle,either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady couldlook all over the garden, and see everything and everybody in it.And what do you think she saw there? Violet and Peony, of course,her own two darling children. Ah, but whom or what did she seebesides? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure ofa girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks andringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the twochildren! A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on asfamiliar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as ifall the three had been playmates during the whole of their littlelives. The mother thought to herself that it must certainly bethe daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet andPeony in the garden, the child had run across the street to playwith them. So this kind lady went to the door, intending toinvite the little runaway into her comfortable parlor; for, nowthat the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out of doors,was already growing very cold.
But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on thethreshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to comein, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almostdoubted whether it were a real child after all, or only a lightwreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about thegarden by the intensely cold west-wind. There was certainlysomething very singular in the aspect of the little stranger.Among all the children of the neighborhood, the lady couldremember no such face, with its pure white, and delicaterose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the foreheadand cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of white,and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable womanwould put upon a little girl, when sending her out to play, inthe depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiveronly to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world onthem, except a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless,airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not theslightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly overthe snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in itssurface; while Violet could but just keep pace with her, andPeony's short legs compelled him to lag behind.
Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placedherself between Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each,skipped merrily forward, and they along with her. Almostimmediately, however, Peony pulled away his little fist, andbegan to rub it as if the fingers were tingling with cold; whileViolet also released herself, though with less abruptness,gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands.The white-robed damsel said not a word, but danced about, just asmerrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not choose to playwith her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk andcold west-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, andtook such liberties with her, that they seemed to have beenfriends for a long time. All this while, the mother stood on thethreshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like aflying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like alittle girl.
She called Violet, and whispered to her.
"Violet my darling, what is this child's name?" asked she. "Doesshe live near us?"
"Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laughing to think that hermother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, "this is ourlittle snow-sister whom we have just been making!"
"Yes, dear mamma," cried Peony, running to his mother, andlooking up simply into her face. "This is our snow-image! Is itnot a nice 'ittle child?"
At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through theair. As was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But--andthis looked strange--they flew at once to the white-robed child,fluttered eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, andseemed to claim her as an old acquaintance. She, on her part, wasevidently as glad to see these little birds, old Winter'sgrandchildren, as they were to see her, and welcomed them byholding out both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried toalight on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs,crowding one another off, with an immense fluttering of theirtiny wings. One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom;another put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all thewhile, and seemed as much in their element, as you may have seenthem when sporting with a snow-storm.
Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for theyenjoyed the merry time which their new playmate was having withthese small-winged visitants, almost as much as if theythemselves took part in it.
"Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, "tell me the truth,without any jest. Who is this little girl?"
"My darling mamma," answered Violet, looking seriously into hermother's face, and apparently surprised that she should need anyfurther explanation, "I have told you truly who she is. It is ourlittle snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony willtell you so, as well as I."
"Yes, mamma," asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimsonlittle phiz; "this is 'ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one?But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!"
While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, thestreet-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peonyappeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawndown over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands.Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happylook in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he hadbeen busy all the day long, and was glad to get back to his quiethome. His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children,although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise, atfinding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, andafter sunset too. He soon perceived the little white strangersporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath,and the flock of snow-birds fluttering about her head.
"Pray, what little girl may that be?" inquired this very sensibleman. "Surely her mother must be crazy to let her go out in suchbitter weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy whitegown and those thin slippers!"
"My dear husband," said his wife, "I know no more about thelittle thing than you do. Some neighbor's child, I suppose. OurViolet and Peony," she added, laughing at herself for repeatingso absurd a story, "insist that she is nothing but a snow-image,which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all theafternoon."
As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spotwhere the children's snow-image had been made. What was hersurprise, on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace ofso much laborno piled up heap ofsnow!--nothing whatever, save the prints of little footstepsaround a vacant space!
"This is very strange!" said she.
"What is strange, dear mother?" asked Violet. "Dear father, donot you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and Ihave made, because we wanted another playmate. Did not we,Peony?"
"Yes, papa," said crimson Peony. "This be our 'ittle snow-sister.Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!"
"Poh, nonsense, children!" cried their good, honest father, who,as we have already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensibleway of looking at matters. "Do not tell me of making live figuresout of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay outin the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into theparlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk,and make her as comfortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will inquireamong the neighbors; or, if necessary, send the city-crier aboutthe streets, to give notice of a lost child."
So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going towardthe little white damsel, with the best intentions in the world.But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the hand,earnestly besought him not to make her come in.
"Dear father," cried Violet, putting herself before him, "it istrue what I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl,and she cannot live any longer than while she breathes the coldwest-wind. Do not make her come into the hot room!"
"Yes, father," shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, somightily was he in earnest, "this be nothing but our 'ittlesnow-child! She will not love the hot fire!"
"Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father, halfvexed, half laughing at what he considered their foolishobstinacy. "Run into the house, this moment! It is too late toplay any longer, now. I must take care of this little girlimmediately, or she will catch her death-a-cold!"
"Husband! dear husband!" said his wife, in a low voice,--for shehad been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was moreperplexed than ever,--"there is something very singular in allthis. You will think me foolish,--but--but--may it not be thatsome invisible angel has been attracted by the simplicity andgood faith with which our children set about their undertaking?May he not have spent an hour of his immorttality in playing withthose dear little souls? and so the result is what we call amiracle. No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see what a foolish thoughtit is!"
"My dear wife," replied the husband, laughing heartily, "you areas much a child as Violet and Peony."
And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kepther heart full of childlike simplicity and faith, which was aspure and clear as crystal; and, looking at all matters throughthis transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths so profoundthat other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity.
But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking awayfrom his two children, who still sent their shrill voices afterhim, beseeching him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herselfin the cold west-wind. As he approached, the snow-birds took toflight. The little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking herhead, as if to say, "Pray, do not touch me!" and roguishly, as itappeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow. Once, thegood man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face, so that,gathering himself up again, with the snow sticking to his roughpilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as a snow-imageof the largest size. Some of the neighbors, meanwhile, seeing himfrom their windows, wondered what could possess poor Mr. Lindseyto be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift, whichthe west-wind was driving hither and thither! At length, after avast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger into acorner, where she could not possibly escape him. His wife hadbeen looking on, and, it being nearly twilight, was wonder-struckto observe how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how sheseemed to shed a glow all round about her; and when driven intothe corner, she positively glistened like a star! It was a frostykind of brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight.The wife thought it strange that good Mr. Lindsey should seenothing remarkable in the snow-child's appearance.
"Come, you odd little thing!" cried the honest man, seizing herby the hand, "I have caught you at last, and will make youcomfortable in spite of yourself. We will put a nice warm pair ofworsted stockings on your frozen little feet, and you shall havea good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your poor white nose, Iam afraid, is actually frost-bitten. But we will make it allright. Come along in."
And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, allpurple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentlemantook the snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house.She followed him, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow andsparkle was gone out of her figure; and whereas just before shehad resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with acrimson gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull andlanguid as a thaw. As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps ofthe door, Violet and Peony looked into his face,--their eyes fullof tears, which froze before they could run down theircheeks,--and again entreated him not to bring their snow-imageinto the house.
"Not bring her in!" exclaimed the kind-hearted man. "Why, you arecrazy, my little Violet!--quite crazy, my small Peony! She is socold, already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite ofmy thick gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?"
His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long,earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger.She hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could nothelp fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet's fingerson the child's neck. It looked just as if, while Violet wasshaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with herhand, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away.
"After all, husband," said the mother, recurring to her idea thatthe angels would be as much delighted to play with Violet andPeony as she herself was,--"after all, she does look strangelylike a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!"
A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child, and againshe sparkled like a star.
"Snow!" repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guestover his hospitable threshold. "No wonder she looks like snow.She is half frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will puteverything to rights!"
Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions,this highly benevolent and common-sensible individual led thelittle white damsel--drooping, drooping, drooping, more and moreout of the frosty air, and into his comfortable parlor. AHeidenberg stove, filled to the brim with intensely burninganthracite, was sending a bright gleam through the isinglass ofits iron door, and causing the vase of water on its top to fumeand bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry smell was diffusedthroughout the room. A thermometer on the wall farthest from thestove stood at eighty degrees. The parlor was hung with redcurtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warmas it felt. The difference betwixt the atmosphere here and thecold, wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at oncefrom Nova Zembla to the hottest part of India, or from the NorthPole into an oven. Oh, this was a fine place for the little whitestranger!
The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug,right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.
"Now she will be comfortable!" cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing hishands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you eversaw. "Make yourself at home, my child."
Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as shestood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove strikingthrough her like a pestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfullytoward the windows, and caught a glimpse, through its redcurtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars glimmeringfrostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. Thebleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning herto come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, beforethe hot stove!
But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.
"Come wife," said he, "let her have a pair of thick stockings anda woollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give hersome warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet andPeony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see,at finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will goaround among the neighbors, and find out where she belongs."
The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl andstockings; for her own view of the matter, however subtle anddelicate, had given way, as it always did, to the stubbornmaterialism of her husband. Without heeding the remonstrances ofhis two children, who still kept murmuring that their littlesnow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took hisdeparture, shutting the parlor-door carefully behind him. Turningup the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from thehouse, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he wasrecalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, and the rapping of athimbled finger against the parlor window.
"Husband! husband!" cried his wife, showing her horror-strickenface through the window-panes. "There is no need of going for thechild's parents!"
"We told you so, father!" screamed Violet and Peony, as here-entered the parlor. "You would bring her in; and now ourpoor--dear-beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!"
And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears;so that their father, seeing what strange things occasionallyhappen in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lesthis children might be going to thaw too! In the utmostperplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She couldonly reply, that, being summoned to the parlor by the cries ofViolet and Peony, she found no trace of the little white maiden,unless it were the remains of a heap of snow, which, while shewas gazing at it, melted quite away upon the hearth-rug.
"And there you see all that is left of it!" added she, pointingto a pool of water in front of the stove.
"Yes, father," said Violet looking reproachfully at him, throughher tears, "there is all that is left of our dear littlesnow-sister!"
"Naughty father!" cried Peony, stamping his foot, and--I shudderto say--shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. "Wetold you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?"
And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door,seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon,triumphing in the mischief which it had done!
This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yetwill occasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself atfault. The remarkable story of the snow-image, though to thatsagacious class of people to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it mayseem but a childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of beingmoralized in various methods, greatly for their edification. Oneof its lessons, for instance, might be, that it behooves men, andespecially men of benevolence, to consider well what they areabout, and, before acting on their philanthropic purposes, to bequite sure that they comprehend the nature and all the relationsof the business in hand. What has been established as an elementof good to one being may prove absolute mischief to another; evenas the warmth of the parlor was proper enough for children offlesh and blood, like Violet and Peony,--though by no means verywholesome, even for them,--but involved nothing short ofannihilation to the unfortunate snow-image.
But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of goodMr. Lindsey's stamp. They know everything,--oh, to besure!--everything that has been, and everything that is, andeverything that, by any future possibility, can be. And, shouldsome phenomenon of nature or providence transcend their system,they will not recognize it, even if it come to pass under theirvery noses.
"Wife," said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, "see what aquantity of snow the children have brought in on their feet! Ithas made quite a puddle here before the stove. Pray tell Dora tobring some towels and mop it up!"
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