 | The snow-image |  |
THE SNOW-IMAGE:
A CHILDISH MIRACLE.
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 style and 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. The father of these two children, a certain
Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent
but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in
hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what
is called the common-sense view of all matters that
came under his consideration. With a heart about as
tender as other people's, he had a head as hard and
impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one
of the iron pots which it was a part of his business to
sell. The mother's character, on the other hand, had a
strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty, — a
out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive
amid the dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood.
So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying,
besought their mother to let them run out and play
in the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary
and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it
had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun was
shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had
no wider play-place than a little garden before the
house, divided by a white fence from the street, and
with a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees overshadowing
it, and some rose-bushes just in front of the
parlor windows. The trees and shrubs, however, were
now leafless, and their twigs were enveloped in the light
snow, which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with
here and there a pendent 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
woollen jackets and wadded sacks, and put comforters
round their necks, and a pair of striped gaiters on each
little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their hands,
and gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep
away Jack Frost. Forth sallied the two children, with
a hop-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 had they! To look at them, frolicking in the wintry
garden, you would have thought that the dark and
provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony; and that
they themselves had been created, as the snow-birds
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?”
“O, 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 parlor; 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 sitting at the window and over-heard
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.
And, to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought,
it will be by putting our hands to the work in precisely
such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in
which Violet and Peony now undertook to perform one,
thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that the new
snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material
to make new beings of, if it were not so very cold.
She gazed at the children a moment longer, delighting
to watch their little figures, — the girl, tall for her age,
graceful and agile, and so delicately colored that she
looked like a cheerful thought, more than a physical
reality, — while Peony expanded in breadth rather than
height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs, as
substantial as an elephant, though not quite so big.
Then the mother resumed her work. What it was I
forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for
Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony's
short legs. Again, however, and again, and yet other
agains, she could not help turning her head to the window,
to see how the children got on with their snow-image.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those
bright little souls at their tasks! Moreover, it was
really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skilfully
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.
“What remarkable children mine are!” thought she,
smiling with a mother's pride; and smiling at herself,
too, for being so proud of them. “What other children
out of snow, at the first trial? Well; — but now I must
finish Peony's new frock, for his grandfather is coming
to-morrow, and I want the little fellow to look handsome.”
So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at
work again with her needle as the two children with
their snow-image. But still, as the needle travelled
hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the
mother made her toil light and happy by listening to the
airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kept talking to
one another all the time, their tongues being quite as
active as their feet and hands. Except at intervals, she
could not distinctly hear what was said, but had merely
a sweet impression that they were in a most loving
mood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and that
the business of making the snow-image went prosperously
on. Now and then, however, when Violet and
Peony happened to raise their voices, the words were as
audible as if they had been spoken in the very parlor,
where the mother sat. O, how delightfully those words
echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so
very wise or wonderful, after all!
But you must know a mother listens with her heart,
much more than with her ears; and thus she is often
delighted with the trills of celestial music, when other
people can hear nothing of the kind.
“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet to her brother, who
had gone to another part of the garden, “bring me some
of that fresh snow, Peony, from the very furthest corner,
where we have not been trampling. I want it to shape
must be quite pure, just as it came out of the sky!”
“Here it is, Violet!” answered Peony, in his bluff
tone, — but a very sweet tone, too, — as he came floundering
through the half-trodden drifts. “Here is the
snow for her little bosom. O, Violet, how beau-ti-ful
she begins to look!”
“Yes,” said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; “our
snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not quite know,
Peony, that we could make such a sweet little girl as
this.”
The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and
delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, or, still
better, if angel-children were to come from paradise, and
play invisibly with her own darlings, and help them to
make their snow-image, giving it the features of celestial
babyhood! Violet and Peony would not be aware
of their immortal playmates, — only they would see 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
mortal children ever did!” said the mother to herself;
and then she smiled again at her own motherly pride.
Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination;
and, ever and anon, she took a glimpse out of the window,
half dreaming that she might see the golden-haired
children of paradise sporting with her own
golden-haired
Violet and bright-cheeked Peony.
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;
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
again 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 break them. Well done! Well
done! How pretty!”
“Does she not look sweetly?” 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 lustily, “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 of the window. But it so happened that the
sun — for this was one of the shortest days of the whole
year — had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world
that his setting shine came obliquely into the lady's eyes.
So she was dazzled, you must understand, and could not
very distinctly observe what was in the garden. Still,
however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the
sun and the new snow, she beheld a small white figure
human likeness about it. And she saw Violet and
Peony, — indeed, she looked more at them than at the
image, — she saw the two children still at work; Peony
bringing fresh snow, and Violet applying it to the figure
as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model.
Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother
thought to herself that never before was there a snow-figure
so cunningly made, nor ever such a dear little
girl and boy to make it.
“They do everything better than other children,” said
she, very complacently. “No wonder they make better
snow-images!”
She sat down again to her work, and made as much
haste with it as possible; because twilight would soon
come, and Peony's frock was not yet finished, and grandfather
was expected, by railroad, pretty early in the
morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her flying
fingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at work in
the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she
could catch a word. She was amused to observe how
their little imaginations had got mixed up with what
they were doing, and were carried away by it. They
seemed positively to think that the snow-child would run
about and play with them.
“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! Shan't you love her dearly,
Peony?”
“O, yes!” cried Peony. “And I will hug her, and
she shall sit down close by me, and drink some of my
warm milk!”
“O 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 on a pilgrimage
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-colored cloud!
and the color 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!”
“O, certainly,” said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it
were very much a matter of course. “That color, 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's scarlet
cheek.
“Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony.
“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and
too!”
“O, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony.
Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west wind,
sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlor
windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mother
was about to tap on the window-pane with her thumbled
finger, to summon the two children in, when they both
cried out to her with one voice. The tone was not a
tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good
deal excited; it appeared rather as if they were very
much rejoiced at some event that had now happened,
but which they had been looking for, and had reckoned
upon all along.
“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
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 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 one of the neighbors, 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
parlor; 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 neighborhood, the lady
could remember no such face, with its pure white, and
delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about
the forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which
was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was
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.
Once, in the course of their play, the strange child
placed herself between Violet and Peony, and taking a
hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they along
with her. Almost immediately, however, Peony pulled
away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers
were tingling with cold; while Violet 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 as
merrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not choose
to play with her, she could make just as good a playmate
of the brisk and cold west wind, which kept blowing her
all about the garden, and took such liberties with her,
that they seemed to have been friends for a long time.
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 not comprehend 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?”
At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting
through the air. As was very natural, they avoided
Violet and Peony. But, — and this looked strange, —
they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered
eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and
seemed to claim her as an old acquaintance. She, on
her part, was evidently as glad to see these little birds,
old Winter's grandchildren, as they were to see her, and
welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Here-upon,
they each and all tried to alight on her two palms
and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one another
off, with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. One
dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another
put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all the
while, and seemed as much in their element, as you may
have seen them when sporting with a snow-storm.
Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight;
for they enjoyed the merry time which their new playmate
was having with these small-winged visitants,
almost as much as if they themselves 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 her mother's face, and apparently surprised
that she should need any further explanation, “I have
which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell
you so, as well as I.”
“Yes, mamma,” asseverated 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 a fur 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 the 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 snow-birds fluttering about her head.
“Pray, what little girl may that 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
to-day, 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 neighbor's
child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony,” she added,
laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story,
“insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they
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 labor! — 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 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 immortality 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 foolish thought 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
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
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.
“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, almost awe-stricken 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 her hand,
away.
“After all, husband,” said the mother, recurring to
her idea that the angels would be as much delighted to
play with Violet and Peony as she herself was, “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.”
Without further talk, and always with the same best
intentions, this highly benevolent and common-sensible
individual led the little white damsel — drooping, drooping,
drooping, more and more — out of the frosty air,
and into his comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg stove,
filled to the brim with intensely burning anthracite, was
sending a bright gleam through the isinglass of its iron
door, and causing the vase of water on its top to fume
and bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry smell was
diffused throughout the room. A thermometer on the
wall furthest from the stove stood at eighty degrees.
The parlor was hung with red curtains, and covered
with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it felt.
The difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the cold,
wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once
from Nova Zembla to the hottest part of India, or from
the North Pole into an oven. O, this was a fine place
for the little white stranger!
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 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 wistfully toward the windows, and
caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snowcovered
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 woollen 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 neighbors, and find out where she
belongs.”
The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the
shawl and stockings; for her own view of the matter,
however subtle and delicate, had given way, as it
always did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband.
Without heeding the remonstrances of his two children,
who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister
departure, shutting the parlor 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 parlor 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 reëntered the parlor. “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 parlor by the 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 she was 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
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 yet will occasionally happen, where common-sense
finds itself at fault. The remarkable story of the
snow-image, though to that sagacious class of people to
whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it may seem but a
childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moralized
in various methods, greatly for their edification.
One of its lessons, for instance, might be, that it
behooves men, and especially men of benevolence, to
consider well what they are about, and, before acting on
their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they
comprehend the nature and all the relations of the business
in hand. What has been established as an element
of good to one being may prove absolute mischief to
another; even as the warmth of the parlor was proper
enough for children of flesh and blood, like Violet and
Peony, — though by no means very wholesome, even for
them, — but involved nothing short of annihilation to
the unfortunate snow-image.
But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise
men of good Mr. Lindsey's stamp. They know everything
— oh, to be sure! — everything that has been, and
everything that is, and everything that, by any future
possibility, can be. And, should some phenomenon of
nature or providence transcend their system, they will
noses.
“Wife,” said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, “see
what a quantity of snow the children have brought in on
their feet! It has made quite a puddle here before the
stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some towels and sop it
up!”
| The snow-image | |