"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 neighbour'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 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 be 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, 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.
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