there were few things Friskarina liked better than a gambol in the
snow; so, as soon as she had finished her breakfast, and had warmed
herself well at the fire, off she set, full drive, into the garden,
pattering hither and thither, that she might have the pleasure of
making as many footmarks as possible, and jumping up at the flakes
that came tumbling down from the laurel-leaves. Never was there such a
merry little cat! At last the thought struck her--the poor cottage
cat--did she like the snow, too? and Friskarina longed to know whether
she could come out that morning: perhaps she meant to sit by the fire
all day. By degrees, Friskarina recollected that she went to sleep the
night before with a plan in her head. So she ran down the lawn
towards the garden door, hoping to find it again open. Alas! the
ill-natured gardener had shut it quite fast. However, Friskarina was
not easily daunted; a cat of genius is never without resources. She
turned her eyes towards a thick trailing of ivy that grew up the wall,
and she began to wonder whether cousin Glumdalkin would be likely to
spy her out if she climbed up the ivy-tree, and so got over the wall
that way. She considered, however, that on such a morning as that,
Glumdalkin would be sure to be on the hearth-rug, with her nose as
close to the fender as possible, not troubling her head in the least
about the world out of doors.

So, making a vigorous spring, Friskarina was soon half-way up the
ivy-tree, shaking down a shower of white flakes every jump she made.
At length she was fairly at the top of the wall. It was a terrible
height from the ground, and there was no ivy on the other side to help
her down by.

So she sat down to rest, and look about her a minute. The miserable
cottages looked still _more_ miserable than they had done the day
before--the snow lay thick on their roofs--no smoke issued from their
chimneys--no one seemed stirring about them. Nothing could well be
more desolate.

Suddenly, the door of one of them opened, and an old woman came out,
followed by Friskarina's new friend, the unhappy cat. Such an old
woman Friskarina had never beheld, nor imagined, before. She was not a
bit like the Lady Dumbellinda, the princess's governess, the only old
lady Friskarina had ever seen, for _she_ was very fat, and had very
rosy cheeks, and very smooth hair, in set curls that never seemed to
get out of order; and she had very fine velvet gowns, and beautiful
clothes.