Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE SNOW IMAGE
by
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Contents
The Snow Image: A Childish Miracle The Great Stone Face Ethan Brand The Canterbury Pilgrims The Devil in Manuscript My Kinsman, Major Molineux
THE SNOW-IMAGE:
A CHILDISH MIRACLE
One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth withchilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave oftheir mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The elderchild was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modestdisposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, andother people who were familiar with her, used to call Violet. But herbrother was known by the style and title of Peony, on account of theruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybodythink of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. The father of these twochildren, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was anexcellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer inhardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is called thecommon-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 hardand impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the ironpots which it was a part of his business to sell. The mother'scharacter, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait ofunworldly beauty,--a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that hadsurvived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amidthe dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood.
So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their mother tolet them run out and play in the new snow; for, though it had looked sodreary and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a verycheerful aspect, now that the sun was shining on it. The children dweltin a city, and had no wider play-place than a little garden before thehouse, divided by a white fence from the street, and with a pear-treeand two or three plum-trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes justin front of the parlor-windows. The trees and shrubs, however, were nowleafless, and their twigs were enveloped in the light snow, which thusmade a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a pendent icicle forthe fruit.
"Yes, Violet,--yes, my little Peony," said their kind mother, "you maygo out and play in the new snow."
Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollen jacketsand wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, and a pair ofstriped gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens ontheir hands, and gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keepaway Jack Frost. Forth sallied the two children, with ahop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into the very heart of ahuge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow-bunting, whilelittle Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom. Thenwhat a merry time had they! To look at them, frolicking in the wintrygarden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm hadbeen sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything forViolet and Peony; and that they themselves had beer created, as thesnow-birds were, to take delight only in the tempest, and in the whitemantle which it spread over the earth.
At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls ofsnow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony's figure, wasstruck with a new idea.
"You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony," said she, "if your cheekswere not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out ofsnow,--an image of a little girl,--and it shall be our sister, andshall 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 alittle boy. "That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!"
"Yes," answered Violet; "mamma shall see the new little girl. But shemust not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know, our littlesnow-sister will not love the warmth."
And forthwith the children began this great business of making asnow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was sittingat the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smilingat the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed toimagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a livelittle girl out of the snow. And, to say the truth, if miracles areever to be wrought, it will be by putting our hands to the work inprecisely such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in whichViolet and Peony now undertook to perform one, without so much asknowing that it was a miracle. So thought the mother; and thought,likewise, that the new snow, just fallen from heaven, would beexcellent material to make new beings of, if it were not so very cold.She gazed at the children a moment longer, delighting to watch theirlittle figures,--the girl, tall for her age, graceful and agile, and sodelicately colored that she looked like a cheerful thought more than aphysical reality; while Peony expanded in breadth rather than height,and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs as substantial as anelephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed her work.What it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet forViolet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony's short legs.Again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not helpturning her head to the window to see how the children got on withtheir snow-image.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little soulsat their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe howknowingly and skilfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed thechief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with her owndelicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of thesnow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by thechildren, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing andprattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this; and thelonger she looked, the more and more surprised she grew.
"What remarkable children mine are!" thought she, smiling with amother's pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud ofthem. "What other children could have made anything so like a littlegirl's figure out of snow at the first trial? Well; but now I mustfinish Peony's new frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, andI want the little fellow to look handsome."
So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with herneedle as the two children with their snow-image. But still, as theneedle travelled hither and thither through the seams of the dress, themother made her toil light and happy by listening to the airy voices ofViolet and Peony. They kept talking to one another all the time, theirtongues being quite as active as their feet and hands. Except atintervals, she could not distinctly hear what was said, but had merelya sweet impression that they were in a most loving mood, and wereenjoying themselves highly, and that the business of making thesnow-image went prosperously on. Now and then, however, when Violet andPeony happened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as ifthey had been spoken in the very parlor where the mother sat. Oh howdelightfully those words echoed in her heart, even though they meantnothing so very wise or wonderful, after all!
But you must know a mother listens with her heart much more than withher ears; and thus she is often delighted with the trills of celestialmusic, when other people can hear nothing of the kind.
"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to anotherpart of the garden, "bring me some of that fresh snow, Peony, from thevery farthest corner, where we have not been trampling. I want it toshape our little snow-sister's bosom with. You know that part must bequite pure, just as it came out of the sky!"
"Here it is, Violet!" answered Peony, in his bluff tone,--but a verysweet tone, too,--as he came floundering through the half-troddendrifts. "Here is the snow for her little bosom. O Violet, howbeau-ti-ful she begins to look!"
"Yes," said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; "our snow-sister doeslook very
lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could make sucha sweet little girl as this."
The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incidentit would be, if fairies, or still better, if angel-children were tocome from paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and helpthem to make their snow-image, giving it the features of celestialbabyhood! Violet and Peony would not be aware of their immortalplaymates,--only they would see that the image grew very beautifulwhile they worked at it, and would think that they themselves had doneit all.
"My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children everdid!" said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her ownmotherly 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 seethe golden-haired children of paradise sporting with her owngolden-haired Violet and bright-cheeked Peony.
Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistincthum of the two children's voices, as Violet and Peony wrought togetherwith one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit,while Peony acted rather as a laborer, and brought her the snow fromfar and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a properunderstanding of the matter, too!
"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet; for her brother was again at the otherside of the garden. "Bring me those light wreaths of snow that haverested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on thesnowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make someringlets for our snow-sister's head!"
"Here they are, Violet!" answered the little boy. "Take care you do notbreak 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 thebrightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see howvery beautiful she is; but papa will say, 'Tush! nonsense!--come in outof the cold!'"
"Let us call mamma to look out," said Peony; and then he shoutedlustily, "Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice 'ittlegirl we are making!"
The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of thewindow. But it so happened that the sun--for this was one of theshortest days of the whole year--had sunken so nearly to the edge ofthe world that his setting shine came obliquely into the lady's eyes.So she was dazzled, you must understand, and could not very distinctlyobserve what was in the garden. Still, however, through all thatbright, blinding dazzle of the sun and the new snow, she beheld a smallwhite figure in the garden, that seemed to have a wonderful deal ofhuman likeness about it. And she saw Violet and Peony,--indeed, shelooked more at them than at the image,--she saw the two children stillat work; Peony bringing fresh snow, and Violet applying it to thefigure as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model.Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought toherself 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, verycomplacently. "No wonder they make better snow-images!"
She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it aspossible; because twilight would soon come, and Peony's frock was notyet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty earlyin the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers.The children, likewise, kept busily at work in the garden, and stillthe mother listened, whenever she could catch a word. She was amused toobserve how their little imaginations had got mixed up with what theywere doing, and carried away by it. They seemed positively to thinkthat the snow-child would run about and play with them.
"What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!" saidViolet. "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 downclose by me and drink some of my warm milk!"
"Oh no, Peony!" answered Violet, with grave wisdom. "That will not doat 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 werenever weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of thegarden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,--"Lookhere, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out ofthat rose-colored cloud! and the color does not go away! Is not thatbeautiful!"
"Yes; it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony, pronouncing the threesyllables with deliberate accuracy. "O Violet, only look at her hair!It is all like gold!"
"Oh certainly," said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very mucha matter of course. "That color, you know, comes from the goldenclouds, 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 herchildren were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as thisdid not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposedthat 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 now her lips are veryred. 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 throughthe garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded so wintry cold,that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbledfinger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried out to herwith one voice. The tone was not a tone of surprise, although they wereevidently a good deal excited; it appeared rather as if they were verymuch rejoiced at some event that had now happened, but which they hadbeen looking for, and had reckoned upon all along.
"Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she isrunning 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! Ican hardly help believing, now, that the snow-image has really come tolife!"
"Dear mamma!" cried Violet, "pray look out and see what a sweetplaymate we have!"
The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forthfrom the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however,a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and goldenclouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But there wasnot 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 seeeverything and everybody in it. And what do you think she saw there?Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children. Ah, but whomor what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me, there was asmall figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeksand ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the twochildren! A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on asfamiliar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all thethree had been playmates during the whole of their little lives. Themother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of oneof the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, thechild had run across the street to play with them. So this kind ladywent to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into hercomfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, theatmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold.
But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on thethreshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, orwhether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubtedwhether it were a real child after all, or only a light wreath of thenew-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by theintensely cold west-wind. There
was certainly something very singularin the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of theneighborhood, the lady could remember no such face, with its purewhite, and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing aboutthe forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely ofwhite, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable womanwould put upon a little girl, when sending her out to play, in thedepth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only tolook at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except avery 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 lefthardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pacewith her, and Peony's short legs compelled him to lag behind.
Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herselfbetween Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrilyforward, and they along with her. Almost immediately, however, Peonypulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers weretingling with cold; while Violet also released herself, though withless abruptness, gravely remarking that it was better not to take holdof 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 playwith her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and coldwest-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took suchliberties with her, that they seemed to have been friends for a longtime. All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering howa little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how asnow-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 shelive near us?"
"Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laughing to think that hermother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, "this is our littlesnow-sister whom we have just been making!"
"Yes, dear mamma," cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking upsimply into her face. "This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice 'ittlechild?"
At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. Aswas very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But--and this lookedstrange--they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerlyabout her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her asan old acquaintance. She, on her part, was evidently as glad to seethese little birds, old Winter's grandchildren, as they were to seeher, and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, theyeach and all tried to alight on her two palms and ten small fingers andthumbs, crowding one another off, with an immense fluttering of theirtiny wings. One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; anotherput its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all the while, andseemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them whensporting with a snow-storm.
Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyedthe merry time which their new playmate was having with thesesmall-winged visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took partin 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 hermother's face, and apparently surprised that she should need anyfurther explanation, "I have told you truly who she is. It is ourlittle snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tellyou so, as well as I."
"Yes, mamma," asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimsonlittle 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, thestreet-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peonyappeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down overhis ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was amiddle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushedand frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all the day long, andwas glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at thesight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering aword 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 littlewhite stranger sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancingsnow-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 bitterweather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown andthose thin slippers!"
"My dear husband," said his wife, "I know no more about the littlething than you do. Some neighbor's child, I suppose. Our Violet andPeony," she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story,"insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they have been busyabout in the garden, almost all the afternoon."
As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where thechildren's snow-image had been made. What was her surprise, onperceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!--noimage at all!--no piled up heap of snow!--nothing whatever, save theprints of little footsteps around a vacant space!
"This is very strange!" said she.
"What is strange, dear mother?" asked Violet. "Dear father, do not yousee 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. Isshe not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!"
"Poh, nonsense, children!" cried their good, honest father, who, as wehave already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensible way oflooking 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 amoment longer. We will bring her into the parlor; and you shall giveher a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as youcan. 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 thelittle white damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violetand Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besoughthim not to make her come in.
"Dear father," cried Violet, putting herself before him, "it is truewhat I have been telling you! This is our little snow-girl, and shecannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind. Donot make her come into the hot room!"
"Yes, father," shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily washe in earnest, "this be nothing but our 'ittle snow-child! She will notlove the hot fire!"
"Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father, half vexed,half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. "Run intothe house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer, now. I musttake care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch herdeath-a-cold!"
"Husband! dear husband!" said his wife, in a low voice,--for she hadbeen looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed thanever,--"there is something very singular in all this. You will think mefoolish,--but--but--may it not be that some invisible angel has beenattracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our children setabout their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of hisimmortality in playing with those dear little souls? and so the resultis what we call a miracle. No, no! Do not laugh at me; I see what afoolish thought it is!"
"My dear wife," replied the husband, laughing heartily, "you are asmuch a child as Violet and Peony."
And in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept herheart full of childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure andclear as crystal; and, looking at all matters through this transparentmedium, she sometimes saw truths so profound that other people laughedat them as nonsense and absurdity.
But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking away from histwo children,
who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseechinghim 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 whitedamsel, also, fled backward, shaking her head, as if to say, "Pray, donot touch me!" and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through thedeepest of the snow. Once, the good man stumbled, and floundered downupon his face, so that, gathering himself up again, with the snowsticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintryas 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 avast 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 thesnow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow allround about her; and when driven into the corner, she positivelyglistened like a star! It was a frosty kind of brightness, too, likethat of an icicle in the moonlight. The wife thought it strange thatgood Mr. Lindsey should see nothing remarkable in the snow-child'sappearance.
"Come, you odd little thing!" cried the honest man, seizing her by thehand, "I have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable inspite of yourself. We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings onyour frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick shawl to wrapyourself in. Your poor white nose, I am afraid, is actuallyfrost-bitten. But we will make it all right. Come along in."
And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, allpurple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman tookthe snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house. She followedhim, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow and sparkle was goneout 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 ledher up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into hisface,--their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run downtheir cheeks,--and again entreated him not to bring their snow-imageinto the house.
"Not bring her in!" exclaimed the kind-hearted man. "Why, you arecrazy, my little Violet!--quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold,already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thickgloves. 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. Shehardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not helpfancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet's fingers on thechild's neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out theimage, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had neglectedto smooth the impression quite away.
"After all, husband," said the mother, recurring to her idea that theangels would be as much delighted to play with Violet and Peony as sheherself was,--"after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! Ido believe she is made of snow!"
A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child, and again shesparkled like a star.
"Snow!" repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over hishospitable threshold. "No wonder she looks like snow. She is halffrozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything torights!"
Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, thishighly benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little whitedamsel--drooping, drooping, drooping, more and more out of the frostyair, and into his comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg stove, filled to thebrim with intensely burning anthracite, was sending a bright gleamthrough the isinglass of its iron door, and causing the vase of wateron its top to fume and bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry smell wasdiffused throughout the room. A thermometer on the wall farthest fromthe stove stood at eighty degrees. The parlor was hung with redcurtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as itfelt. The difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the cold, wintrytwilight out of doors, was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla tothe hottest part of India, or from the North Pole into an oven. Oh,this was a fine place for the little white stranger!
The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug, rightin front of the hissing and fuming stove.
"Now she will be comfortable!" cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands andlooking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. "Makeyourself at home, my child."
Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she stood onthe hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through herlike a pestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully toward thewindows, and caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of thesnow-covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, and all thedelicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind rattled thewindow-panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth. But therestood 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 awoollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warmsupper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse yourlittle friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in astrange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbors, andfind 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 givenway, as it always did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband.Without heeding the remonstrances of his two children, who still keptmurmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, goodMr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlor-door carefullybehind him. Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emergedfrom the house, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he wasrecalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, and the rapping of athimbled finger against the parlor window.
"Husband! husband!" cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken facethrough the window-panes. "There is no need of going for the child'sparents!"
"We told you so, father!" screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-enteredthe parlor. "You would bring her in; and now our poor--dear-beau-ti-fullittle snow-sister is thawed!"
And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; sothat their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen inthis every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children mightbe going to thaw too! In the utmost perplexity, he demanded anexplanation of his wife. She could only reply, that, being summoned tothe parlor by the cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of thelittle white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap of snow,which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon thehearth-rug.
"And there you see all that is left of it!" added she, pointing to apool of water in front of the stove.
"Yes, father," said Violet looking reproachfully at him, through hertears, "there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!"
"Naughty father!" cried Peony, stamping his foot, and--I shudder tosay--shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. "We told youhow it would be! What for did you bring her in?"
And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed toglare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in themischief which it had done!
This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet willoccasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself at fault. Theremarkable story of the snow-image, though to that sagacious class ofpeople to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it may seem but a childishaffair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moralized in variousmethods, greatly for their edification. One of its lessons, forinstance, might be, that it behooves men, and especially men ofbenevolence, to consider well what they are about, and, before actingon their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they comprehendthe nature and all the relations of the busine
ss in hand. What has beenestablished as an element of good to one being may prove absolutemischief to another; even as the warmth of the parlor was proper enoughfor children of flesh and blood, like Violet and Peony,--though by nomeans very wholesome, even for them,--but involved nothing short ofannihilation 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!--everythingthat has been, and everything that is, and everything that, by anyfuture possibility, can be. And, should some phenomenon of nature orprovidence transcend their system, they will not recognize it, even ifit come to pass under their very noses.
"Wife," said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, "see what a quantityof snow the children have brought in on their feet! It has made quite apuddle here before the stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some towels andmop it up!"