READING-LITERATURE: Third Reader by Harriette Taylor Treadwell
The Snow-Image
One day after a great snowstorm, Violet and Peony asked to run out to play in the
snow. The children's playground was a little garden in front of the house, with
two or three plum trees, and some rose-bushes in it. The trees and shrubs were
covered with snow and icicles.
"Yes, you may go out and play in the snow," said their mother, and she
bundled them up in woolen jackets, put comforters round their necks, and mittens
on their
hands. Then she gave them each a kiss and out went the two children
with a hop, skip and jump, into the very heart of a big snow-drift. Violet soon
came out like a snow bunting, while Peony floundered out with his round face in
full bloom.
"You look like a snow-image, Peony," said Violet, "if your cheeks were not so
red. Let us make a snow-image—an image of a little girl, and she shall be our
little sister. She 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 parlor, for our little snow-sister, will not
love the warmth."
So the children began making a snow-image. They seemed to think they could
make a live little girl out of the snow.
There was a busy hum of children's
voices as Violet and Peony worked
together. Violet seemed to be the leader, while Peony brought her the snow from
far and near.
"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet, for her brother was at the other side of the
garden, "bring me those wreaths of snow on the lower branches of the pear tree.
You can climb on the snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them
to make ringlets for our snow-sister's head."
In a moment the little boy cried, "Here they are, Violet. Take care you do
not break them. How pretty!"
"Does she not look sweet?" said Violet, "and now we must have some little
shining bits of ice, to make her eyes bright. 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. Then he shouted, "Mamma! Mamma!
Look out and see what a nice little girl we are making."
The mother put down her work, looked
out of the window, and saw the two
children at work. "They do everything better than other children," said she, "no
wonder they make pretty snow-images!"
"What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!" said Violet. "I
hope Papa will not be afraid she will give us a cold. Won't you love her dearly,
Peony?"
"Yes," cried Peony, "and I will hug her, and she shall sit down close to me
and drink some of my warm milk."
"Oh, no, Peony!" answered Violet, gravely, "that will not do at all. Warm
milk will not be good for our little sister. Snow people 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, "Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her
cheeks out of the rose colored cloud, and the color does not go away. Is not
that beautiful?"
"Yes, it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony. "O Violet, look at her hair; it is
like gold."
"That color, you know, comes from the golden clouds we see up in the sky,"
said Violet. "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."
The mother heard two little smacks, as if both children were kissing the
snow-image on its frozen mouth. This did not seem to make the lips quite red
enough,
so Violet proposed that the snow-child should kiss Peony's cheek.
"Come, little snow-sister, kiss me!" cried Peony.
"There she has kissed you," said Violet, "and now her lips are very red. She
blushed a little, too."
"Oh, what a cold kiss!" cried Peony.
Just then the pure west wind came sweeping through the garden and rattled the
parlor windows. It sounded so cold that the mother was about to call 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."
"Dear Mamma!" cried Violet, "look out and see what a sweet playmate we have."
The mother looked and there she saw a small white figure with rosy cheeks and
golden ringlets, playing about the garden with the two children. Violet and
Peony
played with her, as if the three had been playmates all their lives. The
mother thought it must be a neighbor's child who had run across the street to
play with them. So she went to the door to invite the little runaway into her
warm parlor.
As she looked she wondered if it was a real child after all, or only a wreath
of snow blown hither and thither by the cold west wind, for there was something
very strange about the child. Among all the children of the neighborhood the
mother could remember no such lovely face with golden ringlets tossing about the
forehead and cheeks. The child's white dress fluttered in the breeze, and her
small feet had nothing on them but a pair of white slippers. Nevertheless she
danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left no print on its
surface. Violet could just keep pace with her, while Peony's short legs kept him
behind.
Once the strange child placed herself between Violet and Peony and, taking a
hand of each, skipped merrily forward. But
Peony pulled away his little fist and
began to rub it as if his fingers were tingling with cold, and Violet drew away
her hand, saying it was better not to take hold of hands.
The white figure said not a word, but danced about as merrily as before. If
Violet and Peony would not play with her, she could find just as good a playmate
in the cold west wind which kept blowing her all about the garden.
All this while the mother stood at the door, wondering how the little girl
could look so much like a flying snowdrift, or a snowdrift could look so very
like a little girl.
She called Violet and whispered to her, "Violet, my darling, what is this
child's name? Does she live near us?"
"Why Mamma," answered Violet, "this is our little snow-sister whom we have
just made!",
"Yes," cried Peony, "this is our snow-image! Is it not a nice little child?"
At this instant a flock of snowbirds came fluttering through the air. They
flew at once to the white-robed child and fluttered about her head. They seemed
to claim her as an old friend. She was as glad to see these little birds as they
were to see her, and she welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Thereupon
they all tried to alight on her two hands, crowding one another off, with a
great fluttering of their wings. One dear little bird nestled close to her and
another put its bill to her lips.
Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight, for they enjoyed the
merry
time their playmate was having as much as if they were taking part in it.
"Violet," said her mother, "tell me the truth, who is this little girl?"
"My darling Mamma," answered Violet, "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," said Peony, "this is our little snow-child. Is she not a nice
one? But Mamma, her hand is very cold!"
Just then the street gate opened and the father appeared with a fur cap drawn
down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. His eyes
brightened at the sight of his wife and children, but he was surprised to find
the whole family in the open air. Then he saw a little white stranger sporting
to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath, with a flock of snowbirds
fluttering about her head.
"What little girl may that be?" asked their father. "Her mother must be crazy
to
let her go out in such bitter weather with only that thin white gown and
those thin slippers!"
"My dear husband," said his wife, "I know nothing about the little thing. She
is some neighbor's child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony insist that she is
only a snow-image, which they have been making in the garden."
"Father, do you see how it is? This is our snow-image which Peony and I have
made, because we wanted another playmate. Did we not, Peony?" said Violet.
"Yes, Papa," said Peony. "This be our little snow-sister. Is she not
beau-ti-ful? But she gave such a cold kiss!"
"Nonsense, children," cried their father. "Come, wife, this little stranger
must not stay out here in the cold a moment longer. We will take her into the
parlor and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk. Meanwhile I will
give notice among the neighbors of a lost child."
So saying, he went toward the white
figure. But Violet and Peony seized him
by the hand and begged 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 can only live in the
cold west wind. Do not make her come into the hot room."
"Yes, Father," shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, "this be nothing but
our little snow-child. She will not love the hot fire."
"Nonsense, children, nonsense!" cried the father. "Run into the house this
moment. It is too late to play any longer now. I must take care of this little
girl or she will catch her death of cold."
The father entered the garden, breaking away from his two children. They sent
their shrill voices after him, begging him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy
herself in the cold west wind. As he came near, the snow-birds took flight and
the little white figure flew backwards, shaking her head as if to say, "Do not
touch me!"
Once the good man stumbled and fell. Some of the neighbors saw him from their
windows and wondered why he was running about his garden after a snowdrift,
which the west wind was driving hither and thither. At length he chased the
little stranger into a corner, where she could not get away from him.
"Come, you odd little thing!" cried he, seizing her by the hand, "I have
caught you at last. We will put a nice pair of warm stockings on your little
feet, and you shall be wrapped in a shawl. Your poor white nose is frostbitten,
but we will make it all right. Come along in."
The little white figure followed him sadly, for all her glow and sparkle was
gone. She looked as dull and limp as a thaw. As the father led her up the steps
to the door Violet and Peony looked into his face. Their eyes were full of
tears, and again they begged him not to bring the little snow-image into the
house.
"Not bring her in!" cried the kind-hearted man. "Why, you are crazy, my
little
Violet—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold that her hand has
almost frozen mine. Would you have her freeze to death?"
"After all," said the mother, who had been looking at the child earnestly,
"she does look 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 the father, "no wonder she looks like snow! She is half
frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will make everything right."
Then he led the little white figure out of the frosty air into the warm
parlor. A stove filled with coal sent a bright gleam through the room. The
parlor was hung with red curtains and covered with a red carpet and looked just
as warm as it felt.
The father placed the child on the hearth rug in front of the stove.
"Now she will be warm," said he, rubbing his hands and looking about
pleasantly. "Make yourself at home, my child."
The little white maiden looked sad and drooping, as she stood on the hearth
rug. Once she glanced toward the windows and saw the white roofs outside. The
cold wind rattled the window panes as if it were telling her to come out. But
there stood the snow-child drooping before the hot stove.
The father saw nothing amiss. "Come, wife," said he, "let her have a pair of
thick stockings and a woolen shawl and give her some warm supper as soon as the
milk boils. Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend and I will go among the
neighbors to find out where she belongs."
Without listening to his two children, who still kept saying that their
little snow-sister did not like the warmth, the father went out, shutting the
door carefully behind him. Turning up the collar of his coat he left the house.
He had barely reached the gate when he was recalled by the scream of Violet and
Peony, and a rapping on the window.
"Husband, husband!" cried his wife,
"there is no need of looking for her
parents."
"We told you so, Father!" cried Violet and Peony, as he re-entered the
parlor. "You would bring her in, and now poor, dear, beautiful little
snow-sister is thawed!"
The father felt anxious lest his children might thaw, too, and he asked his
wife to explain. She said, "I was called to the par lor by the cries of Violet
and Peony. I found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it was a heap of
snow which melted on the hearth rug. 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, through her tears, "that is all that is left of
our dear little snow-sister."
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— Arranged from Nathaniel Hawthorne
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