Over valley, over hill,Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,Driving all the white flock forth,From the far folds of the north.Blow, wind, blow,Weird melodies you play,Following your flocks that goAcross the world today.Hither, thither, up and down,Every highway of the town,Huddling close the white flocks allGather at the shepherd’s call.Blow, wind, blow,Upon your pipes of joy,All your sheep the flakes of snowAnd you their shepherd boy.Frank Dempster Sherman.
Over valley, over hill,Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,Driving all the white flock forth,From the far folds of the north.Blow, wind, blow,Weird melodies you play,Following your flocks that goAcross the world today.Hither, thither, up and down,Every highway of the town,Huddling close the white flocks allGather at the shepherd’s call.Blow, wind, blow,Upon your pipes of joy,All your sheep the flakes of snowAnd you their shepherd boy.Frank Dempster Sherman.
Over valley, over hill,Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,Driving all the white flock forth,From the far folds of the north.
Blow, wind, blow,Weird melodies you play,Following your flocks that goAcross the world today.
Hither, thither, up and down,Every highway of the town,Huddling close the white flocks allGather at the shepherd’s call.
Blow, wind, blow,Upon your pipes of joy,All your sheep the flakes of snowAnd you their shepherd boy.Frank Dempster Sherman.
(Russian Legend)
Once upon a time there lived a peasant named Ivan and his wife, Marie. They were very sad because they had no children. One cold winter day the peasant and his wife sat near a window in their cottage and watched the village children playing in the snow. The little ones were busily at work making a beautiful snow maiden.
Ivan turned to his wife and said, “What a good time the children are having. See, they are making a beautiful snow maiden. Come, let us go into the garden and amuse ourselves in the same way. We will make a pretty little snow image.”
They went into the garden which lay back of their cottage.
“My husband,” said Marie, “we have nochildren, what do you say to our making for ourselves a child of snow?”
“A very good idea!” said the husband. And he at once began to mold the form of a little body, with tiny feet and hands. His wife made a small head and set it upon the shoulders of the snow image.
A man who passed by the garden stopped for a moment and looked at the peasants who were so strangely occupied. After a moment’s silence he said to them, “May God help you.”
“Thank you,” said Ivan.
“God’s blessing, indeed, is always good,” nodded Marie.
“What are you making?” asked the stranger.
Ivan looked up and said, “We are making a little snow maiden.” Then he went on with his work, forming the nose, chin, and eyes.
In a few moments the snow child was finished, and Ivan looked at her in great admiration. Suddenly, he noticed that the mouth and eyes opened, the cheeks and lips took on a rosy hue, and in a few moments the astonished peasant saw standing before him a living child.
“Who are you?” he asked, filled with wonder at seeing a little girl instead of a snow image.
“I am Snow White, your little daughter,” said the child. Then she threw her arms lovingly around the man and his wife, who both began to cry for joy.
The delighted parents took Snow White into the cottage, and before long the news ran through the village that a little daughter had come to live with Ivan and Marie.
Of course the village children came to play with Snow White. She was such a charming little girl, with a very white skin, eyes as blue as the sky, and lovely golden hair. To be sure, her cheeks were not so rosy as those of her companions, but she was so bright and gentle that everyone loved her very much indeed.
The winter passed very quickly and Snow White grew so fast that by the time the trees were veiled in the green buds of spring she was as tall as a girl of twelve or thirteen years.
During the winter months the snow maiden had been very joyous and happy, but when the mild, warm days of spring came sheseemed sad and low-spirited. Her mother, Marie, noticed the change and said to her, “My dear little girl, why are you sad? Tell me, are you ill?”
“No, mother, dear, I am not ill,” said Snow White. But she no longer seemed to enjoy playing out of doors with the other children; she stayed very quietly in the cottage.
One lovely spring day the village children came to the cottage and called out, “Come, Snow White! Come! We are going into the woods to gather wild flowers. Come with us.”
“Yes, do go, my dear!” said mother Marie. “Go with your little friends and gather spring flowers. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the outing.”
Away went the happy children to the woods. They gathered the lovely wild flowers and made them into bouquets and coronets, and when the afternoon sun began to sink in the western sky they built a big bonfire. Gayly they sang little songs, merrily dancing around the bright, crackling blaze.
“Let each one dance alone,” called out one of the little girls.
“Snow White, watch us for a little while,and then you, too, will know how to dance alone.”
Away whirled the happy little children, dancing freely round and round the bonfire. In a little while Snow White joined them.
When the gay little people were out of breath and the dancing grew slower and slower, some one called out, “Where is Snow White?”
“Snow White, where are you?” shouted the other children, but nowhere could they find their little companion.
They ran home and told Ivan and Marie that Snow White had disappeared while dancing round the bonfire. The villagers made a thorough search for the little maiden, but they never found her, for while she was dancing around the bonfire she had slowly changed into a little white vapour and had flown away toward the sky, where she changed into a delicate snowflake.
Oho! have you seen the Frost King,A-marching up the hill?His hoary face is stern and pale,His touch is icy chill.He sends the birdlings to the South,He bids the brooks be still;Yet not in wrath or crueltyHe marches up the hill.He will often rest at noontime,To see the sunbeams play;And flash his spears of icicles,Or let them melt away.He’ll toss the snowflakes in the air,Nor let them go nor stay;Then hold his breath while swift they fall,That coasting boys may play.He’ll touch the brooks and rivers wide,That skating crowds may shout;He’ll make the people far and nearRemember he’s about.He’ll send his nimble, frosty Jack—Without a shade of doubt—To do all kinds of merry pranks,And call the children out;He’ll sit upon the whitened fields,And reach his icy handO’er houses where the sudden coldFolks cannot understand.The very moon, that ventures forthFrom clouds so soft and grand,Will stare to see the stiffened lookThat settles o’er the land.And so the Frost King o’er the hills,And o’er the startled plain,Will come and go from year to yearTill Earth grows young again—Till Time himself shall cease to be,Till gone are hill and plain:Whenever Winter comes to stay,The hoary King shall reign.Mary Mapes Dodge.
Oho! have you seen the Frost King,A-marching up the hill?His hoary face is stern and pale,His touch is icy chill.He sends the birdlings to the South,He bids the brooks be still;Yet not in wrath or crueltyHe marches up the hill.He will often rest at noontime,To see the sunbeams play;And flash his spears of icicles,Or let them melt away.He’ll toss the snowflakes in the air,Nor let them go nor stay;Then hold his breath while swift they fall,That coasting boys may play.He’ll touch the brooks and rivers wide,That skating crowds may shout;He’ll make the people far and nearRemember he’s about.He’ll send his nimble, frosty Jack—Without a shade of doubt—To do all kinds of merry pranks,And call the children out;He’ll sit upon the whitened fields,And reach his icy handO’er houses where the sudden coldFolks cannot understand.The very moon, that ventures forthFrom clouds so soft and grand,Will stare to see the stiffened lookThat settles o’er the land.And so the Frost King o’er the hills,And o’er the startled plain,Will come and go from year to yearTill Earth grows young again—Till Time himself shall cease to be,Till gone are hill and plain:Whenever Winter comes to stay,The hoary King shall reign.Mary Mapes Dodge.
Oho! have you seen the Frost King,A-marching up the hill?His hoary face is stern and pale,His touch is icy chill.He sends the birdlings to the South,He bids the brooks be still;Yet not in wrath or crueltyHe marches up the hill.
He will often rest at noontime,To see the sunbeams play;And flash his spears of icicles,Or let them melt away.He’ll toss the snowflakes in the air,Nor let them go nor stay;Then hold his breath while swift they fall,That coasting boys may play.
He’ll touch the brooks and rivers wide,That skating crowds may shout;He’ll make the people far and nearRemember he’s about.He’ll send his nimble, frosty Jack—Without a shade of doubt—To do all kinds of merry pranks,And call the children out;
He’ll sit upon the whitened fields,And reach his icy handO’er houses where the sudden coldFolks cannot understand.The very moon, that ventures forthFrom clouds so soft and grand,Will stare to see the stiffened lookThat settles o’er the land.
And so the Frost King o’er the hills,And o’er the startled plain,Will come and go from year to yearTill Earth grows young again—Till Time himself shall cease to be,Till gone are hill and plain:Whenever Winter comes to stay,The hoary King shall reign.Mary Mapes Dodge.
King Winter sat upon his iceberg throne, and waving his scepter, a huge icicle, called for all the Snow Fairies and Frost Fairies to draw near, as he wished to see them.
“Tell me, Snow Fairies,” said King Winter, “what have you been doing of late; have you made anybody happy by your work?”
“Oh, yes,” they all said at once, “we had the jolliest time last night putting white dresses on the trees, white spreads over the grasses, white caps on all the fence posts, and making things look so strange that when the children came out in the morning they just shouted and laughed, and soon threw so much snow over each other that they were dressed in white, too, and seemed Snow Fairies like ourselves. They, too, wanted to make curious canes, castles, and other things with the snowas we had done. Sleds were brought out and when the sleighbells commenced their music it seemed that everybody was made glad by our work.”
“Well done,” said King Winter, “now away to your work again.”
In a twinkling the Snow Fairies were up in a purple cloud-boat throwing a shower of snowflake kisses down to King Winter to thank him for giving them work to do.
“Now, Frost Fairies,” said King Winter, turning to a glittering band who wore some of his own jewels, “what have you done to make anybody glad?”
“We have made pictures upon the windows and hung your jewels upon the trees for the people to look at, and covered the skating ponds,” said Jack Frost, the leader.
“That is good,” said King Winter. “You and the Snow Fairies seem to be making the world glad now, but pretty soon we must leave the work, and the good sunbeams will put our things away; they will hide the snowballs, and crack the skating ponds so that the ice may float downstream. Now I would like to makesomething that will keep long after we are gone away. Queen Summer is gone but her harvest of hay and grain is in the barns. Queen Autumn is gone but her harvest of apples and potatoes is in the cellars; now I want to leave a harvest, too.”
“But the sunbeams are away most of the time now,” said Jack Frost. “Can anything grow without them?”
“My harvest will grow best without them,” said King Winter, “and I’ll just hang up a thick cloud curtain and ask them to play upon the other side while my harvest grows. Mr. North Wind will help, and if all you Frost Fairies do your liveliest work my harvest will soon be ready.”
North Wind soon came with bags of cold air which he scattered hither and thither, while the Frost Fairies carried it into every track and corner, wondering all the while what the harvest would be. But after two days’ work they found out; for horses were hitched to sleds and men started for the lakes and rivers, saying, “The ice has frozen so thick that it is a fine time to fill the ice-houses.”Saws and poles were carried along, and soon huge blocks of ice were finding places upon the sleds ready for a ride to some ice-house where they would be packed so securely in sawdust that King Winter’s harvest would keep through the very hottest weather.
“Then the ice-men can play that they are we,” said a Frost Fairy, “scattering cold all about to make people glad.”
Old King Winter’s on his throneIn robes of ermine white;The crown of jewels on his headNow glitters bright with light.The little flakes of snow and hail,And tiny pearls of sleet,Are with the wild winds dancingAll round his magic feet.His beard is white, his cheeks are red,His heart is filled with cheer;His season’s best some people say;Thebestof all the year.Anna E. Skinner.
Old King Winter’s on his throneIn robes of ermine white;The crown of jewels on his headNow glitters bright with light.The little flakes of snow and hail,And tiny pearls of sleet,Are with the wild winds dancingAll round his magic feet.His beard is white, his cheeks are red,His heart is filled with cheer;His season’s best some people say;Thebestof all the year.Anna E. Skinner.
Old King Winter’s on his throneIn robes of ermine white;The crown of jewels on his headNow glitters bright with light.
The little flakes of snow and hail,And tiny pearls of sleet,Are with the wild winds dancingAll round his magic feet.
His beard is white, his cheeks are red,His heart is filled with cheer;His season’s best some people say;Thebestof all the year.Anna E. Skinner.
Harriet Louise Jerome
It was intensely cold. Heavy sleds creaked as they scraped over the jeweled sounding board of dry, unyielding snow; the signs above shop doors shrieked and groaned as they swung helplessly to and fro; and the clear, keen air seemed frozen into sharp little crystalline needles that stabbed every living thing that must be out in it. The streets were almost forsaken in mid-afternoon. Business men hurried from shelter to shelter; every dog remained at home; not a bird was to be seen or heard. The sparrows had been forced to hide themselves in crevices and holes; the doves found protected corners and huddled together as best they could; many birds were frozen to death.
A dozen or more doves were gathered close under the cornice of the piazza of a certainhouse, trying with little success to keep warm. Some small sparrows, disturbed and driven from the cozy place they had chosen, saw the doves and came flying across the piazza.
“Dear doves,” chirped the sparrows, “won’t you let us nestle near you? Your bodies look so large and warm.”
“But your coats are frosted with cold. We cannot let you come near us, for we are almost frozen now,” murmured the doves sadly.
“But we are perishing.”
“So are we.”
“It looks so warm near your broad wings, gentle doves. Oh, let us come! We are so little, and so very, very cold!”
“Come,” cooed a dove at last, and a trembling little sparrow fluttered close and nestled under the broad white wing.
“Come,” cooed another dove, and another little sparrow found comfort.
“Come! Come!” echoed another warm-hearted bird, and another, until at last more than half the doves were sheltering small, shivering sparrows beneath their own half-frozen wings.
“My sisters, you are very foolish,” said the other doves. “You mean well, but why do you risk your own beautiful lives to give life to worthless sparrows?”
“Ah! they were so small, and so very, very cold,” murmured the doves. “Many of us will perish this cruel night; while we have life let us share its meager warmth with those in bitter need.”
Colder and colder grew the day. The sun went down behind the clouds suffused with soft and radiant beauty, but more fiercely and relentlessly swept the wind around the house where the doves and sparrows waited for death.
An hour after sunset a man came up to the house and strode across the piazza. As the door of the house closed heavily behind him, a little child watching from the window saw something jarred from the cornice fall heavily to the piazza floor.
“Oh, papa,” she cried in surprise, “a poor frozen dove has fallen on our porch!”
When he stepped out to pick up the fallen dove the father saw the others under thecornice. They were no longer able to move or to utter a cry, so he brought them in and placed them in a room where they might slowly revive. Soon more than half of the doves could coo gratefully, and raise their stiffened wings. Then out from beneath the wing of each revived dove fluttered a living sparrow.
“Look, papa!” cried the child. “Each dove that has come to life was holding a poor little sparrow close to her heart.”
They gently raised the wings of the doves that could not be revived. Not one had a sparrow beneath it.
Colder and fiercer swept the wind without, cutting and more piercing grew the frozen, crystalline needles of air, but each dove that had sheltered a frost-coated sparrow beneath her own shivering wings lived to rejoice in the glowing gladsome sunshine of the days to come.
Out of the Bosom of the Air,Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,Over the woodlands brown and bare,Over the harvest-fields forsaken,Silent, and soft, and slow,Descends the snow.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Out of the Bosom of the Air,Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,Over the woodlands brown and bare,Over the harvest-fields forsaken,Silent, and soft, and slow,Descends the snow.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Out of the Bosom of the Air,Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,Over the woodlands brown and bare,Over the harvest-fields forsaken,Silent, and soft, and slow,Descends the snow.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Nathaniel Hawthorne
One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave 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 a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used to call Violet.
But her brother was known by the title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers.
“Yes, Violet—yes, my little Peony,” said their kind mother; “you may go out and play in the new snow.”
Forth sallied the two children, with ahop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow bunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom.
Then what a merry time they had! To look at them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had been created, as the snowbirds were, to take delight only in the tempest and in the white mantle which it spread over the earth.
At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was struck with a new idea.
“You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of snow—an image of a little girl—and it shall be our 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 was but a little boy. “That will be nice! And mamma shall see it.”
“Yes,” answered Violet; “mamma shall see the new little girl. But she must not make her come into the warm parlour, for, you know, our little snow-sister will not love the warmth.”
And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was knitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight—those bright little souls at their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skillfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure.
It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this, and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised she grew.
Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest but indistinct hum of the two children’s voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, while Peony acted rather as a labourer and brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too.
“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet; for her brother was at the other side of the garden. “Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the snow-drift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister’s head!”
“Here they are, Violet!” answered the little boy. “Take care you do not breakthem. Well done! Well done! How pretty!”
“Does she not look sweet?” said Violet, with a very satisfied tone; “and now we must have some little shining bits of ice to make the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will 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 shouted, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out and see what a nice ’ittle girl we are making!”
“What a nice playmate she will be for us all winter long!” said Violet. “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 sit down close by me and drink some of my warm milk.”
“Oh, no, Peony!” answered Violet, with grave wisdom. “That will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. Little snow-people like her eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we must not give her anything warm to drink!”
There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were never weary, had gone again to the other side of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully, “Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-coloured cloud! And the colour does not go away! Is not that beautiful?”
“Yes, it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. “O Violet, only look at her hair! It is all like gold!”
“Oh, certainly,” said Violet, as if it were very much a matter of course. “That colour, you know, comes from the golden clouds that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be made very red, redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red if we both kiss them!”
Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her 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 to kiss Peony’sscarlet cheek. “Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony.
“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and now her lips are very 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 sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlour-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice:
“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with us!”
“What imaginative little beings my children are!” thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony’s frock. “And it is strange, too, that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! I can hardly help believing now that the snow-image has really come to life!”
“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look out and see what a sweet playmate we have!”
The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent.
But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look 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 see besides? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children!
A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little lives. The mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of oneof the neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them.
So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlour; for, now that 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 the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child, after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west wind.
There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the neighbourhood the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white and delicate rose-colour, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks.
And as for her dress, which was entirely ofwhite, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl when sending her out to play in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them except a very thin pair of white slippers.
Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the 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 legs compelled him to lag behind.
All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.
She called Violet and whispered to her.
“Violet, my darling, what is this child’s name?” asked she. “Does she live near us?”
“Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, laughing to think that her mother did notcomprehend so very plain an affair, “this is our little snow-sister whom we have just been making!”
“Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up simply into her face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice ’ittle child?”
“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 her mother’s face, surprised that she should need any further explanation, “I have told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well as I.”
“Yes, mamma,” declared Peony, with much gravity in his crimson little 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, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with afur cap drawn down over 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 in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise at finding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset, too.
He soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath and the flock of snowbirds fluttering about her head.
“Pray, what little girl may this be?” inquired this very sensible man. “Surely her mother must be crazy, to let her go out in such bitter 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 the little thing than you do. Some neighbour’s child, I suppose. Our Violetand Peony,” she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story, “insist that she is nothing but a snow-image which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon.”
As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the children’s snow-image had been made. What was her surprise on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labour!—no image at all!—no piled-up heap of snow!—nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space!
“This is very strange!” said she.
“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 is our ’ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!”
“Pooh, nonsense, children!” cried their good honest father, who had a plain, sensible way of looking at matters. “Do not tell me ofmaking 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 parlour; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can.”
So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little 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.
“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!” cried the father, half-vexed, half-laughing. “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 of cold.”
And so, with a most benevolent smile, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house.
She followed him, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and sparkle were gone out of her figure; and, whereas just before she hadresembled 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.
“Not bring her in!” exclaimed the kind-hearted man. “Why, you are crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold already that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?”
His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping 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, “after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!”
A puff of the west wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled like a star.
“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is half frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to rights.”
This 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 his hands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. “Make yourself at home, my child.”
Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden as she stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a pestilence. Once she threw a glance toward the window, and caught a glimpse,through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs and the stars glimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window-panes as if it were summoning her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove!
But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.
“Come, wife,” said he, “let her have a pair of thick stockings and a woolen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbours and find out where she belongs.”
The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings. Without heeding the remonstrance of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlour door carefully behind him.
Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony and the rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlour window.
“Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face through the window panes. “There is no need of going for the child’s parents!”
“We told you so, father!” screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-entered the parlour. “You would bring her in; and now our poor—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 occasionally happen in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too. In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She could only reply that, being summoned to the parlour by cries of Violet 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, pointing to a pool of water, in front of the stove.
“Yes, father,” said Violet, looking reproachfully at him through her tears, “there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!”
“Naughty father!” cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—I shudder to say—shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. “We told you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?”
And the 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! (Abridged.)
The snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.James Russell Lowell.
The snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.James Russell Lowell.
The snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlockWore ermine too dear for an earl,And the poorest twig on the elm treeWas ridged inch deep with pearl.James Russell Lowell.
(Japanese Legend)
“And all the whileThe voice of the breezeAs it blows through the firsThat grow old togetherWill yield us delight.”
“And all the whileThe voice of the breezeAs it blows through the firsThat grow old togetherWill yield us delight.”
“And all the whileThe voice of the breezeAs it blows through the firsThat grow old togetherWill yield us delight.”
In ancient days there lived a fisherman and his wife, and little daughter Matsue. There was nothing that Matsue loved to do more than to sit under the great pine tree. She was particularly fond of the pine needles that never seemed tired of falling to the ground. With these she fashioned a beautiful dress and sash, saying, “I will not wear these pine clothes until my wedding day.”
One day while Matsue was sitting under the pine tree, she sang the following song: