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 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.
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.Hereupon, 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 furtherexplanation, "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," 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 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 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.
