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 its surface;while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony's short legscompelled him to lag behind.
Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herselfbetween Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrilyforward, and they along with her. Almost immediately, however, Peonypulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingerswere tingling with cold; while Violet also released herself, thoughwith less abruptness, gravely remarking that it was better not to takehold of hands. The white-robed damsel said not a word, but dancedabout, just as merrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not chooseto play with her, she could make just as good a playmate of thebrisk and cold west wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden,and took 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 our littlesnow-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 it nota 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- and thislooked 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 by holdingout both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to alight on hertwo palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one anotheroff, with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. One dear littlebird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another put its bill to herlips. They were as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much intheir element, as you may have seen them when sporting with asnow-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 they themselvestook 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 will tellyou 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 drawn downover his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr.
Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look inhis wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy allthe day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyesbrightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he couldnot help uttering a word or two of surprise, at finding the wholefamily in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset too. Hesoon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in thegarden, like a dancing snow-wreath, and the flock of snow-birdsfluttering about 14 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 today, with only that flimsy white gown,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. Our Violetand Peony," she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd astory, "insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they havebeen busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon."As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot wherethe children's snow-image had been made. What was her surprise, onperceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!-no image at all!- no piled-up heap of snow!- nothing whatever, savethe prints of little footsteps around 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.
