in the bay window of the sitting-room, and
looked out at the thickly falling snow. Already the ground was whitely
carpeted, and the low-branched peach trees just outside the parsonage
windows were beginning to bow down beneath their burdens.

"Isn't it beautiful, Prudence?" whispered Fairy. "Isn't it beautiful?
Oh, I love it when it snows."

"Yes, and you love it when the sun shines, too," said Prudence, "and
when it rains, and when the wind is blowing. You have the soul of a
poet, that's what is the matter with you. You are a nature-fiend, as
Carol would say."

Fairy turned abruptly from the window. "Don't talk for a minute,
Prue,--I want to write."

So Prudence stood quietly in the window, listening to the pencil
scratching behind her.

"Listen now, Prue,--how is this?" Fairy had a clear expressive voice,
"a bright voice," Prudence called it. And as she read her simple lines
aloud, the heart of Prudence swelled with pride. To Prudence, Fairy
was a wonderful girl.

"Good night, little baby earth, going to sleep,
Tucked in your blankets, all woolly and deep.
Close your tired eyelids, droop your tired head,
Nestle down sweetly within your white bed.
Kind Mother Sky, bending softly above,
Is holding you close in her bosom of love.
Closely she draws the white coverlets warm,
She will be near you to shield you from harm.
Soon she will set all her candles alight,
To scatter the darkness, and save you from fright.
Then she will leave her cloud-doorway ajar,
To watch you, that nothing your slumbers may mar.
Rest, little baby earth, rest and sleep tight,
The winter has come, and we bid you good night."

Fairy laughed, but her face was flushed. "How is that?" she demanded.

"Oh, Fairy," cried Prudence, "it is wonderful! How can you think of
such sweet little things? May I have it? May I keep it? Oh, I think
it is perfectly dear--I wish I could do that! I never in the world
would have thought of baby earth going to sleep and Mother Sky tucking
her in white blankets.--I think you are just wonderful, Fairy!"

Fairy's eyes were bright at the praise, but she laughed as she
answered. "You always think me and my scribbles perfection,
Prue,--even the love verses that shocked the Ladies' Aid. You are a
bad critic. But doesn't the snow make you think--pretty things,
Prudence? Come now, as you stood at the window there, what were you
thinking?"

"I was just wondering if Conni