Part 3

"Oh, certainly," said Violet, as if it were very much a matter of course. "That colour, 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 now her lips are very red. 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 through the garden and rattling the parlour-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summon 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!"

"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 look all over the garden, and see everything and everybody 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 see 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 neighbours, 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 parlour; 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 neighbourhood the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white and delicate rose-colour, 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.

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?"

"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, surprised that she should need any further explanation, "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," declared 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 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 snowbirds fluttering about her head.

"Pray, what little girl may this 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 today, 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 is 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 had a plain, 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 parlour; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can."

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little 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.

"Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father, half-vexed, half-laughing. "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 of cold."

And so, with a most benevolent smile, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house.

She followed him, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and sparkle were 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 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, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away.

"After all, husband," said the mother, "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."

This 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 toward the window, and caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered 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 woolen 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 neighbours and find out where she belongs."

The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings. Without heeding the remonstrance of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlour 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 parlour 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 re-entered the parlour. "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 parlour by 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 common-sensible man. "We told you how it would be! What for did you bring her in?"

And the 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! (_Abridged._)

WINTER WOODS

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

James Russell Lowell.

THE VOICE OF THE PINE TREES

(Japanese Legend)

"And all the while The voice of the breeze As it blows through the firs That grow old together Will yield us delight."

In ancient days there lived a fisherman and his wife, and little daughter Matsue. There was nothing that Matsue loved to do more than to sit under the great pine tree. She was particularly fond of the pine needles that never seemed tired of falling to the ground. With these she fashioned a beautiful dress and sash, saying, "I will not wear these pine clothes until my wedding day."

One day while Matsue was sitting under the pine tree, she sang the following song:

"No one so callous but he heaves a sigh When o'er his head the withered cherry flowers Come fluttering down. Who knows?--the spring's soft showers May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."

While thus she sang Teogo stood on the steep shore of Sumiyoshi watching the flight of a heron. Up, up, it went into the blue sky, and Teogo saw it fly over the village where the fishfolk and their daughter lived.

Now Teogo was a youth who dearly loved adventure and he thought it would be very delightful to swim across the sea and discover the land over which the heron had flown. So one morning he dived into the sea and swam so hard and so long that the poor fellow found the waves spinning and dancing and saw the great sky bend down and try to touch him. Then he lay unconscious on the water; but the waves were kind to him after all, for they pressed him on and on till he was washed up at the very place where Matsue sat under the pine tree.

Matsue carefully dragged Teogo underneath its sheltering branches, and then set him down upon a couch of pine needles, where he soon regained consciousness and warmly thanked Matsue for her kindness.

Teogo did not go back to his own country, for, after a few happy months had gone by, he married Matsue and on her wedding morn she wore her dress and sash of pine needles.

When Matsue's parents died her loss only seemed to make her love for Teogo the more. The older they grew the more they loved each other. Every night when the moon shone, they went hand in hand to the pine tree and with their little rake they made a couch for the morrow.

One night the great silver face of the moon peered through the branches of the pine tree and looked in vain for the two sitting together on a couch of pine needles. Their little rakes lay side by side and still the moon waited for the slow steps of these pine tree lovers. But that night they did not come. They had gone home to an everlasting place on the River of Souls.

They had loved so well and so splendidly, in old age as well as in youth, that their souls were allowed to come back again and wander round the pine tree that had listened to their love for so many years.

When the moon is full they whisper and laugh and sing and draw the pine needles together, while the sea sings softly upon the shore:

"The dawn is near And the hoar-frost falls On the fir tree twigs; But its leaves dark green Suffer no change. Morning and evening Beneath its shade The leaves are swept away, Yet they never fail. True it is That these fir trees Shed not all their leaves; Their verdure remains fresh For ages long, As the Masaka's trailing vine; Even amongst evergreen trees-- The emblem of unchangeableness-- Exalted is their fame As a symbol to the end of time. The fame of the fir trees that Have grown old together."

THE PINE TREE MAIDEN

(Indian Legend)

In an Indian village which stood near the Big Sea Water lived a beautiful little girl whose name was Leelinau. Her chief delight was to wander among the pine trees of a sacred grove which bordered the great waters. Here she passed many hours watching the sunlight dance on the stems of the tall trees and listening to the soft music of the wind as it came up from the sea and played in the forest.

The child's desire to spend so much of her time alone in the grove made her little companions regard her with awe, and they sometimes whispered together about the meaning of her strange journeys to the deep woods.

"Leelinau goes to the forest to play with the Puckwudjinies. She dances with the fairy folk and talks to them in their own language," said the Indian children when they saw the little girl's figure hurrying toward the grove of pine trees.

Leelinau's parents took little notice of her strange attraction for the lonely forest. They thought it was a childish fancy which would vanish in a few years. But the little girl grew into a beautiful slender maiden and still she visited her retreat with increasing delight.

"When Leelinau goes to the forest the air is filled with the sweetest perfume and the trees nod their feathery plumes in welcome to her," whispered the youths and maidens of the village. "Some say she calls the pine trees by name and they answer her in a strange language which she understands."

One day it happened that an Indian hunter, who was a mighty chief, passed through the sacred grove. There, leaning against her favourite tree, a stately pine, he saw Leelinau, a dark-haired maiden marvellously beautiful. In a few days the chief sought her parents and laid before them rich gifts, saying that he wished to make the forest maiden his bride.

To the surprise of all the people in the village Leelinau took no joy in her approaching marriage to the great chief. To be sure, she made no complaint, for she was an obedient daughter. But each day, when she returned from her accustomed journey to the forest, she was sad and thoughtful. Sometimes she stood before her father's tepee and looked with wistful eyes toward her beloved grove.

At last the day arrived on which the great chief would claim her for his bride. The forest maiden dressed herself in her beautiful wedding robe and took her usual walk into the forest. Her parents were not surprised that she should wish to take a farewell look at the grove where she had spent so many happy hours, and which she was about to leave, for the great chief lived many miles away.

When she reached the forest she hastened to her beautiful pine tree. Clinging to the trunk she wept bitterly and whispered the story of her coming marriage to a war chief from whom her heart shrank in fear. When she had finished there was a soft rustling in the branches overhead and a voice said: "Leelinau! Leelinau! thou art my beloved! Wilt thou stay in the forest and be my bride?"

And she answered, "I will never leave my pine tree lover."

The sun stood high above the sacred grove and Leelinau had not returned to her father's lodge. Friends were sent to bring her to the village but they came back with the report that the maiden was not in the forest. The great chief and his warriors searched far and wide for the lost maiden. She had disappeared so completely that the keenest-eyed Indians could discover no trace of her. The chief departed without his bride and for a year no tidings of Leelinau came to the village.

It happened one calm evening when the sun was sinking into the Big Sea Water, that an Indian youth in a birch bark canoe was swiftly skimming along toward the shore bordered by the sacred grove. There, standing near the deep forest, was a familiar figure. It was Leelinau, the lost maiden. In his surprise and joy the youth shouted to her and she waved her hand to him in recognition. Then he noticed that she was not alone. By her side stood a handsome brave with a green plume standing high on his head. With all his might the young Indian quickened the speed of his canoe and in a few moments he sprang ashore. But where were Leelinau and the young brave! They had disappeared and not a trace of them was to be found on the lonely shore or in the forest.

The youth returned to the village and told his story. Reverently the people bowed their heads and whispered, "Leelinau will never come back to us. She is the bride of her favourite pine tree."

THE HOLLY

Janet Harvey Kelman

The Holly is our most important evergreen, and is so well known that it scarcely needs any description. It has flourished in this country as long as the Oak, and is often found growing under tall trees in the crowded forests, as well as in the open glades, where lawns of fine grass are to be found.

People say that the Holly, or Holm tree, as it is often called, is the greenwood tree spoken of by Shakespeare, and that under its bushy shelter Robin Hood and his merry men held their meetings in the open glades of Sherwood Forest. Sometimes it is called the Holly tree, because from the oldest time of which we have any record its boughs have been used to deck our shrines and churches, and in some parts of England the country people in December speak of gathering Christmas, which is the name they give to the Holly, or Holy tree. It is this evergreen which we oftenest use at Christmas-tide to decorate our churches, and very lovely the dark green sprays, with their coral berries, look when twined round the grey stone pillars.

The Holly is looked upon as a second-rate forest tree. It is never very large, and it usually appears as a thick, tall bush, with many branches reaching almost to the ground. Sometimes you find it with a slender, bare trunk, clothed with pale grey bark, and if you look closely at this bark you will see that it is covered with curious black markings, as if some strange writing had been traced on it with a heavy black pen.

This writing is the work of a tiny plant which makes its home on the Holly stem and spreads in this strange way.

The bark of the young Holly shoots and boughs is pale green and quite smooth.

The tree requires little sunshine, and it seems to keep all it gets as every leaf is highly polished and reflects the light like a mirror. These leaves grow closely on every branch; they are placed alternately on each side of the twigs, and are oval, with the edges so much waved that the leaves will not lie flat, but curl on each side of the centre rib.