, 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
further explanation, "I have told you truly who she is. It is our
little snow-image