"What is strange, dear mother?" asked Violet."Dear father, do not you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have 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-sensible way of looking at matters."Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow.Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer.We will bring her into the parlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can.Meanwhile, I will inquire among the neighbors; or, if necessary, send the city-crier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child."So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the 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 is true what I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl, and she cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind.Do not make her come into the hot room!""Yes, father," shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily was he in earnest, "this be nothing but our 'ittle snow-child! She will not love the hot fire!""Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father, half vexed, half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy."Run into the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer, now.I must take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her death-a-cold!""Husband! dear husband!" said his wife, in a low voice,--for she had been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than ever,--"there is something very singular in all this.You will think me foolish,--but--but--may it not be that some invisible angel has been attracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our children set about their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of his immorttality in playing with those dear little souls? and so the result is what we call a miracle.No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see what a foolishthought it is!"
"My dear wife," replied the husband, laughing heartily, "you are as much a child as Violet and Peony."And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept her heart full of childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and, looking at all matters through this transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths so profound that other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity.
But now kind Mr.Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking away from his two children, who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west-wind.As he approached, the snow-birds took to flight.The little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking her head, as if to say, "Pray, do not touch me!" and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow.Once, the good man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face, so that, gathering himself up again, with the snow sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as a snow-image of the largest size.Some of the neighbors, meanwhile, seeing him from their windows, wondered what could possess poor Mr.Lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift, which the west-wind was driving hither and thither! At length, after a vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger into a corner, where she could not possibly escape him.His wife had been looking on, and, it being nearly twilight, was wonder-struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all round about her; and when driven into the corner, she positively glistened like a star! It was a frosty kind of brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight.The wife thought it strange that good Mr.Lindsey should see nothing remarkable in the snow-child's appearance.
"Come, you odd little thing!" cried the honest man, seizing her by the hand, "I have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable in spite of yourself.We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on your frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick shawl to wrap yourself in.Your poor white nose, I am afraid, is actually frost-bitten.But we will make it all right.Come along in."And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all purple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house.She followed him, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow and sparkle was gone out of her figure; and whereas just before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star- gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw.As kind Mr.Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into his face,--their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run down their cheeks,--and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image into the house.
