Author Unknown,
Adapted by Bill Russo
for the Christmas Series
"Family Friendly holiday tales
and bedtime stories".

The Beggar at the Window on Christmas Eve

A folk tale from ages ago – or perhaps it is from just last year.  At any rate, the message delivered in this little story of 1800 words is as new as tomorrow and as timeless as the heavens.  Here now is the narrative of the ragged little boy who peered into people’s windows on the night before Christmas……

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, on the night before Christmas, a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of Boston, or maybe it was New York – perhaps Chicago. It was a very big city, whatever its name.

There were many people on the street, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, and even gray-haired grandfathers and grandmothers, all of whom were hurrying home with bundles of presents for each other and for their little ones. Fine carriages rolled by, express wagons rattled past, even old carts were pressed into service, and all things seemed in a hurry and glad with expectation of the coming Christmas morning.

From some of the windows bright lights were already beginning to stream until it was almost as bright as day. But the little child seemed to have no home, and wandered about listlessly from street to street.

No one took any notice of him except perhaps Jack Frost, who bit his bare toes and made the ends of his fingers tingle. The north wind, too, seemed to notice the child, for it blew against him and pierced his ragged garments through and through, causing him to shiver with cold.  Home after home he passed, looking with longing eyes through the windows, in upon the glad, happy children, most of whom were helping to trim the Christmas trees for the coming day.

“Surely,” said the child to himself, “where there is so much gladness and happiness, some of it may be for me.” So with timid steps he approached a large, elegant house. Through the windows, he could see a tall and stately Christmas tree already lighted. Many presents hung upon it. Its green boughs were trimmed with gold and silver ornaments.

 Slowly he climbed up the broad steps and gently rapped at the door. It was opened by a large man, who appeared to be a butler or some other servant of the house.

He had a kindly face, although his voice was deep and gruff. He looked at the little child for a moment, then sadly shook his head and said, “Go down off the steps. There is no room here for such as you.” He looked sorry as he spoke; possibly he remembered his own little ones at home, and was glad that they were not out in this cold and bitter night.

Through the open door a bright light shone, and the warm air, filled with fragrance of the Christmas pine, rushed out from the inner room and greeted the little wanderer with a kiss. As the child turned back into the cold and darkness, he wondered why the footman had spoken thus, for surely, thought he, those little children would love to have another companion join them in their joyous Christmas festival. But the little children inside did not even know that he had knocked at the door.

The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly forward, saying to himself, “Is there no one in this great city who will share the Christmas with me?” Farther and farther down the street he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in nearly every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and balls and tops and other dainty toys hung upon them.

In one window the child noticed a little lamb made of soft white wool. Around its neck was tied a red ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one of the children. The little stranger stopped before this window and looked long and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of all was he drawn toward the white lamb. At last creeping up to the window-pane, he gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window and looked out into the dark street where the snow had now begun to fall. She saw the child, but she only frowned and shook her head and said, “Go away and come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you now.”

Back into the dark, cold streets he turned again. The wind was whirling past him and seemed to say, “Hurry on, hurry on, we have no time to stop. ‘Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry to-night.”

Again and again the little child rapped softly at door or window-pane.  At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might have some ugly disease which her darlings would catch; another father said he had only enough for his own children and none to spare for beggars.  Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not to trouble other folks.

The hours passed; later grew the night, and colder grew the wind, and darker seemed the street. Farther and farther the little one wandered.  There was scarcely any one left upon the street by this time, and the few who remained did not seem to see the child, when suddenly ahead of him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shone through the darkness into the child’s eyes. He looked up smilingly and said, “I will go where the small light beckons, perhaps they will share their Christmas with me.”

Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the street and went straight up to the window from which the light was streaming. It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared not for that. The light seemed still to call him in.

From what do you suppose the light came? Nothing but a tallow candle which had been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain nor shade to the small, square window and as the little child looked in he saw standing upon a neat wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree.

The room was plainly furnished but it was very clean. Near the fireplace sat a lovely faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and an older child beside her. The two children were looking into their mother’s face and listening to a story. She must have been telling them a Christmas story, I think. A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.

The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane. So sweet was the mother’s face, so loving seemed the little children, that at last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door. The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. “What was that, mother?” asked the little girl at her side.

“I think it was someone tapping on the door,” replied the mother. “Run as quickly as you can and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one waiting in this storm.” “Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping against the window-pane,” said the little girl. “Do please go on with our story.”

Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door.  “My child, my child,” exclaimed the mother, rising, “that certainly was a rap on the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in the cold on our beautiful Christmas Eve.”

The child ran to the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the

ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head

and almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the

warm, bright room.

“You poor, dear child,” was all she said, and

putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. “He is

very cold, my children,” she exclaimed. “We must warm him.” “And,”

added the little girl, “we must love him and give him some of our

Christmas, too.”

“Yes,” said the mother, “but first let us warm him—“

The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and her own little ones warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed the child’s face. She gathered the three little ones in her arms and the candle and the fire light shone over them. For a moment the room was very still.

By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother, “May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it looks?” “Yes,” said the mother. With that she seated the child on a low stool beside the fire, and went herself to fetch the few simple ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children’s Christmas tree.

They were soon so busy that they did not notice the room had filled with a strange and brilliant light. They turned and looked at the spot where the little wanderer sat. His ragged clothes had changed to garments white and beautiful; his tangled curls seemed like a halo of golden light about his head; but most glorious of all was his face, which shone with a light so dazzling that they could scarcely look upon it.

In silent wonder they gazed at the child. Their little room seemed to grow larger and larger, until it was as wide as the whole world, the roof of their low house seemed to expand and rise, until it reached to the sky.

With a sweet and gentle smile the wonderful child looked upon them for a moment, and then slowly rose and floated through the air, above the treetops, beyond the church spire, higher even than the clouds themselves, until he appeared to them to be a shining star in the sky above.

At last he disappeared from sight. The astonished children turned in hushed awe to their mother, and said in a whisper, “Oh, mother, it was the Christ-Child, was it not?” And the mother answered in a low tone, “Yes.”

And it is said in the North End of Boston and the South Side of Chicago and even all around the world; that each Christmas Eve the little Christ-Child wanders through some town or village, and those who receive him and take him into their homes and hearts have given to them this celestial vision which is denied to others.

The End

Christmas Scarecrow, Your Name Should be Rodney Dangerfield!

Introduction and annotation by
Bill Russo
as part of a series of vintage
family friendly Christmas Tales
and Bedtime Stories.

 

Scarecrow, your name should be Rodney Dangerfield. You "Don’t get no respect".

Pity the poor stick man.  He has to work hard all summer for no pay.  He’s given the worst of hand-me-down rags for clothes.  The most horrible slight of all, is that in winter when he should be having a warm, comfortable rest; he’s left all by himself in a desolate field with the rotting remains of corn stalks or whatever else he risked life and limb for. 

Take snowmen.  They don’t work.  They are a lazy lot, simply standing around doing nothing while everybody else has to shovel the walkways and plow the streets. They are totally ornamental, having no useful function, and yet they get a song named after them?  I’m certain you remember the tune.  It’s called “Frosty the Snowman”. 

Well people of the world - what about the scarecrows?  Where’s their ode?  Oh wait a minute, there is a tribute to scarecrows.  Mary Wilkins of Randolph, Massachusetts (1852-1930) wrote a charming little fantasy about a one year old bird battler named Jimmy Scarecrow. Much of her work dealt with fantasy and the supernatural.

In the story that follows, she gave life to her stick man and created an interesting little 2,000 word holiday tale that she titled:

Jimmy Scarecrow’s Christmas

By Mary Eleanor Wilkens, written in the late 1880’s, possibly for Harper’s Magazine which published a good deal of her work.

 

Jimmy Scarecrow led a sad life in the winter. Jimmy’s greatest grief was his lack of occupation. He liked to be useful, and in winter he was absolutely of no use at all.

He wondered how many such miserable winters he would have to endure. He was a young Scarecrow, and this was his first one. He was strongly made, and although his wooden joints creaked a little when the wind blew he did not grow in the least rickety. Every morning, when the wintry sun peered like a hard yellow eye across the dry corn-stubble, Jimmy felt sad, but at Christmas time his heart nearly broke.

On Christmas Eve Santa Claus came in his sledge heaped high with presents, urging his team of reindeer across the field. He was on his way to the farmhouse where Betsey lived with her Aunt Hannah.

Betsey was a very good little girl with very smooth yellow curls, and she had a great many presents. Santa Claus had a large wax doll-baby for her on his arm, tucked up against the fur collar of his coat. He was afraid to trust it in the pack, lest it get broken.

When poor Jimmy Scarecrow saw Santa Claus his heart gave a great leap.  “Santa Claus! Here I am!” he cried out, but Santa Claus did not hear him.

“Santa Claus, please give me a little present. I was good all summer and kept the crows out of the corn,” pleaded the poor Scarecrow in his choking voice, but Santa Claus passed by with a merry halloo and a great clamour of bells.

Then Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble and shook with sobs until his joints creaked. “I am of no use in the world, and everybody has forgotten me,” he moaned. But he was mistaken.

The next morning Betsey sat at the window holding her Christmas doll-baby, and she looked out at Jimmy Scarecrow standing alone in the field amidst the corn-stubble.

“Aunt Hannah?” said she. Aunt Hannah was making a crazy patchwork quilt, and she frowned hard at a triangular piece of red silk and circular piece of pink, wondering how to fit them together. “Well?” said she.

“Did Santa Claus bring the Scarecrow any Christmas present?”

“No, of course he didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a Scarecrow. Don’t ask silly questions.”

“I wouldn’t like to be treated so, if I was a Scarecrow,” said Betsey, but her Aunt Hannah did not hear her. She was busy cutting a triangular snip out of the round piece of pink silk so the piece of red silk could be feather-stitched into it.

It was snowing hard out of doors, and the north wind blew. The Scarecrow’s poor old coat got whiter and whiter with snow. Sometimes he almost vanished in the thick white storm. Aunt Hannah worked until the middle of the afternoon on her crazy quilt. Then she got up and spread it out over the sofa with an air of pride.

“There,” said she, “that’s done, and that makes the eighth. I’ve got one for every bed in the house, and I’ve given four away. I’d give this away if I knew of anybody that wanted it.”

Aunt Hannah put on her hood and shawl, and drew some blue yarn stockings on over her shoes, and set out through the snow to carry a slice of plum-pudding to her sister Susan, who lived down the road.  Half an hour after Aunt Hannah had gone Betsey put her little red plaid shawl over her head, and ran across the field to Jimmy Scarecrow. She carried her new doll-baby smuggled up under her shawl.

“Wish you Merry Christmas!” she said to Jimmy Scarecrow.

“Wish you the same,” said Jimmy, but his voice was choked with sobs, and was also muffled, for his old hat had slipped down to his chin.  Betsey looked pitifully at the old hat fringed with icicles, like frozen tears, and the old snow-laden coat. “I’ve brought you a Christmas present,” said she, and with that she tucked her doll-baby inside Jimmy Scarecrow’s coat, sticking its tiny feet into a pocket.

“Thank you,” said Jimmy Scarecrow faintly.

“You’re welcome,” said she. “Keep her under your overcoat, so the snow won’t wet her, and she won’t catch cold, she’s delicate.”

“Yes, I will,” said Jimmy Scarecrow, and he tried hard to bring one of his stiff, outstretched arms around to clasp the doll-baby.

“Don’t you feel cold in that old summer coat?” asked Betsey.

“If I bad a little exercise, I should be warm,” he replied. But he shivered, and the wind whistled through his rags.

“You wait a minute,” said Betsey, and was off across the field.

Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble, with the doll-baby under his coat and waited, and soon Betsey was back again with Aunt Hannah’s crazy quilt trailing in the snow behind her.

“Here,” said she, “here is something to keep you warm,” and she folded the crazy quilt around the Scarecrow and pinned it.

“Aunt Hannah wants to give it away if anybody wants it,” she explained.  “She’s got so many crazy quilts in the house now she doesn’t know what to do with them. Good-bye—be sure you keep the doll-baby covered up.” And with that she ran cross the field, and left Jimmy Scarecrow alone with the crazy quilt and the doll-baby.

The bright flash of colors under Jimmy’s hat-brim dazzled his eyes, and he felt a little alarmed. “I hope this quilt is harmless if it IS crazy,” he said. But the quilt was warm, and he dismissed his fears.  Soon the doll-baby whimpered, but he creaked his joints a little, and that amused it, and he heard it cooing inside his coat.

Jimmy Scarecrow had never felt so happy in his life as he did for an hour or so. 

But after that the snow began to turn to rain, and the crazy quilt was soaked through and through: and not only that, but his coat and the poor doll-baby. It cried pitifully for a while, and then it was still, and he was afraid it was dead.

It grew very dark, and the rain fell in sheets, the snow melted, and Jimmy Scarecrow stood halfway up his old boots in water. He was saying to himself that the saddest hour of his life had come, when suddenly he again heard Santa Claus’ sleigh-bells and his merry voice talking to his reindeer. It was after midnight, Christmas was over, and Santa was hastening home to the North Pole.

“Santa Claus! dear Santa Claus!” cried Jimmy Scarecrow with a great sob, and that time Santa Claus heard him and drew rein.

“Who’s there?” he shouted out of the darkness.

“It’s only me,” replied the Scarecrow.

“Who’s me?” shouted Santa Claus.

“Jimmy Scarecrow!”

Santa got out of his sledge and waded up.

 “Have you been standing here ever since corn was ripe?” he asked pityingly, and Jimmy replied that he had.

“What’s that over your shoulders?” Santa Claus continued, holding up his lantern.

“It’s a crazy quilt. And what are you holding under your coat?"

“The doll-baby that Betsey gave me, and I’m afraid it’s dead,” poor Jimmy Scarecrow sobbed.

“Nonsense!” cried Santa Claus. “Let me see it!” And with that he pulled the doll-baby out from under the Scarecrow’s coat, and patted its back, and shook it a little, and it began to cry, and then to crow. “It’s all right,” said Santa Claus. “This is the doll-baby I gave Betsey, and it is not at all delicate. It went through the measles, and the chicken-pox, and the mumps, and the whooping-cough, before it left the North Pole. Now get into the sledge, Jimmy Scarecrow, and bring the doll-baby and the crazy quilt. I have never had any quilts that weren’t in their right minds at the North Pole, but maybe I can cure this one.  Get in!” Santa chirruped to his reindeer, and they drew the sledge up close in a beautiful curve.

“Get in, Jimmy Scarecrow, and come with me to the North Pole!” he cried.

“Please, how long shall I stay?” asked Jimmy Scarecrow.

“Why, you are going to live with me,” replied Santa Claus. “I’ve been looking for a person like you for a long time.”

“Are there any crows to scare away at the North Pole? I want to be useful,” Jimmy Scarecrow said, anxiously.

“No,” answered Santa Claus, “but I don’t want you to scare away crows.  I want you to scare away Arctic Explorers. I can keep you in work for a thousand years, and scaring away Arctic Explorers from the North Pole is much more important than scaring away crows from corn. Why, if they found the Pole, there wouldn’t be a piece an inch long left in a week’s time, and the earth would cave in like an apple without a core! They would whittle it all to pieces, and carry it away in their pockets for souvenirs. Come along; I am in a hurry.”

“I will go on two conditions,” said Jimmy. “First, I want to make a present to Aunt Hannah and Betsey, next Christmas.” "You shall make them any present you choose. What else?"

“I want some way provided to scare the crows out of the corn next summer, while I am away,” said Jimmy.

“That is easily managed,” said Santa Claus. “Just wait a minute.”

Santa took his stylographic pen out of his pocket, went with his lantern close to one of the fence-posts, and wrote these words upon it:

NOTICE TO CROWS

Whichever crow shall hereafter hop, fly, or flop into this field during the absence of Jimmy Scarecrow, and therefrom purloin, steal, or abstract corn, shall be instantly, in a twinkling and a trice, turned snow-white, and be ever after a disgrace, a byword and a reproach to his whole race.

Per order of Santa Claus.

“The corn will be safe now,” said Santa Claus, “get in.” Jimmy got into the sledge and they flew away over the fields, out of sight, with merry halloos and a great clamor of bells.

The next morning there was much surprise at the farmhouse, when Aunt Hannah and Betsey looked out of the window and the Scarecrow was not in the field holding out his stiff arms over the corn stubble. Betsey had told Aunt Hannah she had given away the crazy quilt and the doll-baby, but had been scolded very little.

“You must not give away anything of yours again without asking permission,” said Aunt Hannah. “And you have no right to give anything of mine, even if you know I don’t want it. Now both my pretty quilt and your beautiful doll-baby are spoiled.”

That was all Aunt Hannah had said. She thought she would send John after the quilt and the doll-baby next morning as soon as it was light.

But Jimmy Scarecrow was gone, and the crazy quilt and the doll-baby with him. John, the servant-man, searched everywhere, but not a trace of them could he find. “They must have all blown away, mum,” he said to Aunt Hannah.

“We shall have to have another scarecrow next summer,” said she.

But the next summer there was no need of a scarecrow, for not a crow came past the fence-post on which Santa Claus had written his notice to crows. The cornfield was never so beautiful, and not a single grain was stolen by a crow, and everybody wondered at it, for they could not read the crow-language in which Santa had written.

“It is a great mystery to me why the crows don’t come into our cornfield, when there is no scarecrow,” said Aunt Hannah.

But she had a still greater mystery to solve when Christmas came round again. Then she and Betsey had each a strange present. They found them in the sitting-room on Christmas morning. Aunt Hannah’s present was her old crazy quilt, remodelled, with every piece cut square and true, and matched exactly to its neighbor.

“Why, it’s my old crazy quilt, but it isn’t crazy now!” cried Aunt Hannah, and her very spectacles seemed to glisten with amazement.

Betsey’s present was her doll-baby of the Christmas before; but the doll was a year older. She had grown an inch, and could walk and say, “mamma,” and “how do?” She was changed a good deal, but Betsey knew her at once. “It’s my doll-baby!” she cried, and snatched her up and kissed her.

But neither Aunt Hannah nor Betsey ever knew that the quilt and the doll were Jimmy Scarecrow’s Christmas presents to them.

The end

The Author, Mary E. Wilkins, was raised in the staunch New England religious style of Orthodox Congregationalists. Though she was born in 1852, it’s fair to say that the type of religion she learned was nearly unchanged from the severe dogma of the pilgrims and puritans who landed in Provincetown in 1620.

Her upbringing was strict and her schooling was even more stringent as she was educated at a ‘female’ seminary in Western Massachusetts.  A pretty enough young lady, Mary could have set her cap for any of a thousand young men in her town, but she remained an ‘old maid’ until finally marrying for the first and only time at the age of 50.

Mary at age 50, in 1902, just before her marriage. 

 

Ill fate matched her with an alcoholic, non-practicing medical doctor who was later committed to a State Hospital for the Insane.  Worse yet, he was wealthy and when he died, he left all his money to his chauffeur.  To his widow he bequeathed - you guessed it, one stinkin’ dollar!  How the will was not challenged and how someone certified to be of ‘unsound mind’ could have even made a will, is unknown. 

But Mary soldiered on and made a pretty good name for her-self in the 1880s and 1890s.  She became a New England celebrity and was the first winner of the William Dean Howells Medal for Distinction in Fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.  

Bizarro Scrooge - Ann the Washer Woman

Introduction by Bill Russo



In episode 137 of Seinfeld, the cast members meet their complete polar opposites: Bizarro Jerry, Bizarro Kramer, Bizarro George and Bizarro Newman.  The writers of the long running sit-com lifted the idea directly from the pages of a Superman Comic in which the man of steel meets his complete opposite.

Most of us probably will never encounter the bizarro version of ourselves, but there is a chance that somewhere in the world there exists a 'reverse doppleganger' for everyone.  

When I first read today's featured classic tale, I instantly thought of Ebenezer Scrooge - before he had his run-in with a trio of ghosts. The thought struck me that if ever there was a perfect polar opposite to Scrooge - A Bizzaro Scrooge - it is Ann the washerwoman, the hero of the fascinating little 3,000 word vintage narrative that follows: 

Ann’s Big Christmas

By Olive Thorne Miller

“I just realized what tomorrow is!  It’s Christmas Day and I clean forgot all about it,” said old Ann, the washerwoman, pausing in her work and holding the flatiron suspended in the air. “Much good it’ll do us,” growled a discontented voice from the coarse bed in the corner.

“We haven’t much extra, to be sure,” answered Ann cheerfully, bringing the iron down onto the shirt before her, “but at least we’ve got enough to eat, and a good fire, and that’s more than some have, not a thousand miles from here either.”

“We might have plenty more,” said the fretful voice, “if you didn’t think so much more of strangers than you do of your own folk’s comfort, keeping a houseful of beggars, as if you was a lady!”

“Now, John,” replied Ann, taking another flatiron from the fire, “you’re not half so bad as you pretend. You wouldn’t have me turn them poor creatures into the streets to freeze, now, would you?”

“It’s none of our business to pay rent for them,” grumbled John. “Every one for himself, I say, these hard times. If they can’t pay you’d ought to send ‘em off; there’s plenty as can.”

“They’d pay quick enough if they could get work,” said Ann. “They’re good honest people, every one, and paid me regular as long as they had a cent. But when hundreds are out of work in the city, what can they do?”

“That’s none o’ your business, you can turn ‘em out!” growled John.

“And leave the poor children to freeze as well as starve?” said Ann.  “Who’d ever take ‘em in without money, I’d like to know? No, John,” bringing her iron down as though she meant it, “I’m glad I’m well enough to wash and iron, and pay my rent, and so long as I can do that, and keep the hunger away from you and the child, I’ll never turn the poor souls out, leastways, not in this freezing winter weather.”  “An’ here’s Christmas,” the old man went on whiningly, “an’ not a penny to spend, an’ I needin’ another blanket so bad, with my rhumatizm, and I haven’t had a drop of tea for I don’t know how long!”

“I know it,” said Ann, never mentioning that she too had been without tea, and not only that, but with small allowance of food of any kind, “and I’m desperate sorry I can’t get a bit of something for Katey. The child never missed a little something in her stocking before.”

“Yes,” John struck in, “much you care for your flesh an’ blood. The child hasn’t had a thing this winter.”

“That’s true enough,” said Ann, with a sigh, “an’ it’s the hardest thing of all that I’ve had to keep her out o’ school when she was doing so beautiful.”

“And her feet all on the ground,” growled John.

“I know her shoes is bad,” said Ann, hanging the shirt up on a line that stretched across the room, and was already nearly full of freshly ironed clothes, “but they’re better than the Parker children’s.”

“What’s that to us?” almost shouted the weak old man, shaking his fist at her in his rage.

“Well, keep your temper, old man,” said Ann. “I’m sorry it goes so hard with you, but as long as I can stand on my feet, I won’t turn anybody out to freeze, that’s certain.”

“How much’ll you get for them?” said the miserable old man, after a few moments’ silence, indicating by his hand the clean clothes on the line.

“Two dollars,” said Ann, “and half of it must go to help make up next month’s rent. I’ve got a good bit to make up yet, and only a week to do it in, and I won’t have another cent till day after to-morrow.”

“Well, I wish you’d manage to buy me a little tea,” whined the old man;

“seems as if that would go right to the spot, and warm up my old bones a bit.”

“I’ll try,” said Ann, revolving in her mind how she could save a few pennies from her indispensable purchases to get tea and sugar, for without sugar he would not touch it.

Wearied with his unusual exertion, the old man now dropped off to sleep, and Ann went softly about, folding and piling the clothes into a big basket already half full. When they were all packed in, and nicely covered with a piece of clean muslin, she took an old shawl and hood from a nail in the corner, put them on, blew out the candle, for it must not burn one moment unnecessarily, and, taking up her basket, went out into the cold winter night, softly closing the door behind her.

The house was on an alley, but as soon as she turned the corner she was in the bright streets, glittering with lamps and happy people. The shop windows were brilliant with Christmas displays, and thousands of warmly dressed buyers were lingering before them, laughing and chatting, and selecting their purchases. Surely it seemed as if there could be no want here.

As quickly as her burden would let her, the old washerwoman passed through the crowd into a broad street and rang the basement bell of a large, showy house.

“Oh, it’s the washerwoman!” said a flashy-looking servant who answered the bell; “set the basket right  here. Mrs. Keithe can’t look them over to-night. There’s company in the parlour—Miss Carry’s Christmas party.”

“Ask her to please pay me—at least a part,” said old Ann hastily. “I don’t see how I can do without the money. I counted on it.”

“I’ll ask her,” said the young woman, turning to go upstairs; “but it’s no use.”

Returning in a moment, she delivered the message. “She has no change to-night; you’re to come in the morning.”

“Dear me!” thought Ann, as she plodded back through the streets, “it’ll be even worse than I expected, for there’s not a morsel to eat in the house, and not a penny to buy one with. Well—well—the Lord will provide, the Good Book says, but it’s mighty dark days, and it’s hard to believe.”

Entering the house, Ann sat down silently before the expiring fire. She was tired, her bones ached, and she was faint for want of food.

Wearily she rested her head on her hands, and tried to think of some way to get a few cents. She had nothing she could sell or pawn, everything she could do without had gone before, in similar emergencies. After sitting there some time, and revolving plan after plan, only to find them all impossible, she was forced to conclude that they must go to bed without any supper.

Her husband grumbled, and Katey—who came in from a neighbor’s—cried with hunger, and after they were asleep old Ann crept into bed to keep warm, more disheartened than she had been all winter.

If we could only see a little way ahead! All this time—the darkest the house on the alley had seen—help was on the way to them. A kind-hearted city missionary, visiting one of the unfortunate families living in the upper rooms of old Ann’s house, had learned from them of the noble charity of the humble old washerwoman. It was more than princely charity, for she not only denied herself nearly every comfort, but she endured the reproaches of her husband, and the tears of her child.

Telling the story to a party of his friends this Christmas Eve, their hearts were troubled, and they at once emptied their purses into his hands for her. And the gift was at that very moment in the pocket of the missionary, waiting for morning to make her Christmas happy.  Christmas morning broke clear and cold. Ann was up early, as usual, made her fire, with the last of her coal, cleared up her two rooms, and, leaving her husband and Katey in bed, was about starting out to try and get her money to provide a breakfast for them. At the door she met the missionary.

“Good-morning, Ann,” said he. “I wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ann cheerfully; “the same to yourself.”

“Have you been to breakfast already?” asked the missionary.

“No, sir,” said Ann. “I was just going out for it.”

“I haven’t either,” said he, “but I couldn’t bear to wait until I had eaten breakfast before I brought you your Christmas present—I suspect you haven’t had any yet.”

Ann smiled. “Indeed, sir, I haven’t had one since I can remember.”

“Well, I have one for you. Come in, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Too much amazed for words, Ann led him into the room. The missionary opened his purse, and handed her a roll of bills.

“Why—what!” she gasped, taking it mechanically.

“Some friends of mine heard of your generous treatment of the poor families upstairs,” he went on, “and they send you this, with their respects and best wishes for Christmas. Do just what you please with it—it is wholly yours. No thanks,” he went on, as she struggled to speak. “It’s not from me. Just enjoy it—that’s all. It has done them more good to give than it can you to receive,” and before she could speak a word he was gone.

What did the old washerwoman do?

Well, first she fell on her knees and buried her agitated face in the bedclothes. After a while she became aware of a storm of words from her husband, and she got up, subdued as much as possible her agitation, and tried to answer his frantic questions.

“How much did he give you, old stupid?” he screamed; “can’t you speak, or are you struck dumb? Wake up! I just wish I could reach you! I’d shake you till your teeth rattled!”

His vicious looks were a sign, it was evident that he only lacked the strength to be as good as his word. Ann roused herself from her stupor and spoke at last.

“I don’t know. I’ll count it.” She unrolled the bills and began.

“O Lord!” she exclaimed excitedly, “here’s ten-dollar bills! One, two, three, and a twenty-that makes five—and five are fifty-five—sixty—seventy—eighty—eighty-five—ninety—one hundred—and two and five are seven, and two and one are ten, twenty—twenty-five—one hundred and twenty-five! Why, I’m rich!” she shouted. “Bless the Lord! Oh, this is the glorious Christmas Day! I knew He’d provide. Katey! Katey!” she screamed at the door of the other room, where the child lay asleep. “Merry Christmas to you, darlin’! Now you can have some shoes! and a new dress! and—and—breakfast, and a regular Christmas dinner! Oh! I believe I shall go crazy!”

But she did not. Joy seldom hurts people, and she was brought back to everyday affairs by the querulous voice of her husband.

“Now I will have my tea, an’ a new blanket, an’ some tobacco—how I have wanted a pipe!” and he went on enumerating his wants while Ann bustled about, putting away most of her money, and once more getting ready to go out.

“I’ll run out and get some breakfast,” she said, “but don’t you tell a soul about the money.”

“No! they’ll rob us!” shrieked the old man.

“Nonsense! I’ll hide it well, but I want to keep it a secret for another reason. Mind, Katey, don’t you tell?”

“No!” said Katey, with wide eyes. “But can I truly have a new frock, Mommy, and new shoes—and is it really Christmas?”

“It’s really Christmas, darlin’,” said Ann, “and you’ll see what mommy’ll bring home to you, after breakfast.”

The luxurious meal of sausages, potatoes, and hot tea was soon smoking on the table, and was eagerly devoured by Katey and her father. But Ann could not eat much. She was absent-minded, and only drank a cup of tea.  As soon as breakfast was over, she left Katey to wash the dishes, and started out again.

She walked slowly down the street, revolving a great plan in her mind.

“Let me see,” she said to herself. “They shall have a happy day for once. I suppose John’ll grumble, but the Lord has sent me this money, and I mean to use part of it to make one good day for them.”

Having settled this in her mind, she walked on more quickly, and visited various shops in the neighborhood. When at last she went home, her big basket was stuffed as full as it could hold, and she carried a bundle besides.

“Here’s your tea, John,” she said cheerfully, as she unpacked the basket, “a whole pound of it, and sugar, and tobacco, and a new pipe.”

“Give me some now,” said the old man eagerly; “don’t wait to take out the rest of the things.”

“And here’s a new frock for you, Katey,” old Ann went on, after making John happy with his treasures, “a real bright one, and a pair of shoes, and some real wool stockings; oh! how warm you’ll be!”

“Oh, how nice, Mommy!” cried Katey, jumping about. “When will you make my frock?”

“To-morrow,” answered the mother, “and you can go to school again.”

“Oh, goody!” she began, but her face fell. “If only Molly Parker could go too!”

“You wait and see,” answered Ann, with a knowing look. “Who knows what Christmas will bring to Molly Parker?”

“Now here’s a nice big roast,” the happy woman went on, still

unpacking, “and potatoes and turnips and cabbage and bread and butter and coffee and—“

“What in the world! You goin’ to give a party?” asked the old man between the puffs, staring at her in wonder.

“I’ll tell you just what I am going to do,” said Ann firmly, bracing herself for opposition, “and it’s as good as done, so you needn’t say a word about it. I’m going to have a Christmas dinner, and I’m going to invite every blessed soul in this house to come. They shall be warm and full for once in their lives, please God! And, Katey,” she went on breathlessly, before the old man had sufficiently recovered from his astonishment to speak, “go right upstairs now, and invite every one of ‘em from the fathers down to Mrs. Parker’s baby to come to dinner at three o’clock; we’ll have to keep fashionable hours, it’s so late now; and mind, Katey, not a word about the money. And hurry back, child, I want you to help me.”

To her surprise, the opposition from her husband was less than she expected. The genial tobacco seemed to have quieted his nerves, and even opened his heart. Grateful for this, Ann resolved that his pipe should never lack tobacco while she could work.

But now the cares of dinner absorbed her. The meat and vegetables were prepared, the pudding made, and the long table spread, though she had to borrow every table in the house, and every dish to have enough to go around.

At three o’clock when the guests came in, it was really a very pleasant sight. The bright warm fire, the long table, covered with a substantial, and, to them, a luxurious meal, all smoking hot. John, in his neatly brushed suit, in an armchair at the foot of the table, Ann in a bustle of hurry and welcome, and a plate and a seat for everyone.

How the half-starved creatures enjoyed it; how the children stuffed and the parents looked on with a happiness that was very near to tears; how old John actually smiled and urged them to send back their plates again and again, and how Ann, the washerwoman, was the life and soul of it all, I can’t half tell.

After dinner, when the poor women lodgers insisted on clearing up, and the poor men sat down by the fire to smoke, for old John actually passed around his beloved tobacco, Ann quietly slipped out for a few minutes, took four large bundles from a closet under the stairs, and disappeared upstairs. She was scarcely missed before she was back again.

Well, of course it was a great day in the house on the alley, and the guests sat long into the twilight before the warm fire, talking of their old homes in the fatherland, the hard winter, and prospects for work in the spring.

When at last they returned to the chilly discomfort of their own rooms, each family found a package containing a new warm dress and pair of shoes for every woman and child in the family.

“And I have enough left,”’ said Ann the washerwoman, to herself, when she was reckoning up the expenses of the day, “to buy my coal and pay my rent till spring, so I can save my old bones a bit. And sure John can’t grumble at their staying now, for it’s all along of keeping them that I had such a blessed Christmas day at all.”

The End

 Harriet Mann Miller (25 June 1831 – 25 December 1918) who often wrote as Olive Thorne Miller was born to write.  She took up the craft as a small child.  After her marriage, she put aside her writing during four pregnancies and for some years after, as she raised her children.

But as they grew towards self sufficiency she resumed her career which spawned 24 complete books and close to 1,000 acclaimed articles on ornithology and other subjects. 

Besides being an acknowledged expert naturalist and ornithologist, she wrote children’s books and short stories. 

"Christmas Under the Snow" - like the Blizzard of 78

Christmas Under the Snow

By Olive Thorne Miller

It’s back to 1904 in this 3000 word chestnut from Harriet Mann Miller, writing as Olive Thorne Miller. She tells of the prairie in winter and a family being hopelessly snowbound at Christmas.

The concept of literally having your house buried by snow is foreign to most people.  If you know someone who lived through the great Northeast Blizzard of 1978 that closed down Massachusetts and much of New England, New York, and New Jersey for more than a week in the early part of February that winter – ask them about it. 

Single story homes were invisible due to the depth of the heavy snow.  People in houses with two floors, were only able to see out of the second floor windows. All street level doors were smothered by a frozen wall of ice and snow.  The people whose doors opened outward spent many weary hours just trying to get them open more than a crack.

Parking lots looked like white oceans.  The roofs of the cars were three feet under the waves of the frosted white sea. The cars were buried and would remain so for several days.  It didn’t matter though, because the authorities ordered that the roads were to be closed. The streets were impossible to navigate with a regular car, but even those people who had snow plows and such, were instructed not to leave their driveways. 

It was a horrible period.  Food was short. Many homes had no heat. Electricity was off for days.  It was the worst week of their life for many people – and yet it also was, in many ways, the best week of their lives.

In hard times, the true and generous nature of people often shines through.  Such is the case in the following story, “Christmas Under the Snow”.  

It was just before Christmas, and Mr. Barnes was starting for the nearest village. The family was out at the door to see him start and give him the last charges.

“Don’t forget the Christmas dinner, papa,” said Willie.

‘”Specially the chickens for the pie!” put in Nora.

“An’ the waisins,” piped up little Tot, standing on tiptoe to give papa a good-bye kiss.

“I hate to have you go, George,” said Mrs. Barnes anxiously. “It looks to me like a storm.”

“Oh, I guess it won’t be much,” said Mr. Barnes lightly; “and the youngsters must have their Christmas dinner, you know.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Barnes, “remember this, George: if there is a bad storm don’t try to come back. Stay in the village till it is over. We can get along alone for a few days, can’t we, Willie?” turning to the boy who was giving the last touches to the harness of old Tim, the horse.

“Oh, yes! Papa, I can take care of mamma,” said Willie earnestly.

“And get up the Christmas dinner out of nothing?” asked papa, smiling.

“I don’t know,” said Willie, hesitating, as he remembered the proposed dinner, in which he felt a deep interest.

“What could you do for the chicken pie?” went on papa with a roguish look in his eye, “or the plum-pudding?”

“Or the waisins?” broke in Tot anxiously.

“Tot has set her heart on the raisins,” said papa, tossing the small maiden up higher than his head, and dropping her all laughing on the door-step, “and Tot shall have them sure, if papa can find them in town.  Now good-bye, all! Willie, remember to take care of mamma, and I depend on you to get up a Christmas dinner if I don’t get back. Now, wife, don’t worry!” were his last words as the faithful old horse started down the road.

Mrs. Barnes turned one more glance to the west, where a low, heavy bank of clouds was slowly rising, and went into the little house to attend to her morning duties.

“Willie,” she said, when they were all in the snug little log-cabin in which they lived, “I’m sure there’s going to be a storm, and it may be snow. You had better prepare enough wood for two or three days; Nora will help bring it in.”

“Me, too!” said grave little Tot.

“Yes, Tot may help too,” said mamma.

This simple little home was a busy place, and soon everyone was hard at work. It was late in the afternoon before the pile of wood, which had been steadily growing all day, was high enough to satisfy Willie, for now there was no doubt about the coming storm, and it would probably bring snow; no one could guess how much, in that country of heavy storms.

“I wish the village was not so far off, so that papa could get back to-night,” said Willie, as he came in with his last load.

Mrs. Barnes glanced out of the window. Broad scattering snowflakes were silently falling; the advance guard, she felt them to be, of a numerous host.

“So do I,” she replied anxiously, “or that he did not have to come over that dreadful prairie, where it is so easy to get lost.”

“But old Tim knows the way, even in the dark,” said Willie proudly. “I believe Tim knows more’n some folks.”

“No doubt he does, about the way home,” said mamma, “and we won’t worry about papa, but have our supper and go to bed. That’ll make the time seem short.”

The meal was soon eaten and cleared away, the fire carefully covered up on the hearth, and the whole little family quietly in bed. Then the storm, which had been making ready all day, came down upon them in earnest.

The bleak wind howled around the corners, the white flakes by millions and millions came with it, and hurled themselves upon that house. In fact, that poor little cabin alone on the wide prairie seemed to be the object of their sport. They sifted through the cracks in the walls, around the windows, and under the door, and made pretty little drifts on the floor. They piled up against it outside, covered the steps, and then the door, and then the windows, and then the roof, and at last buried it completely out of sight under the soft, white mass.

And all the time the mother and her three children lay snugly covered up in their beds fast asleep, and knew nothing about it.

The night passed away and morning came, but no light broke through the windows of the cabin. Mrs. Barnes woke at the usual time, but finding it still dark and perfectly quiet outside, she concluded that the storm was over, and with a sigh of relief turned over to sleep again. About eight o’clock, however, she could sleep no more, and became wide awake enough to think the darkness strange. At that moment the clock struck, and the truth flashed over her.

Being buried under snow is no uncommon thing on the wide prairies, and since they had wood and cornmeal in plenty, she would not have been much alarmed if her husband had been home. But snow deep enough to bury them must cover up all landmarks, and she knew her husband would not rest till he had found them. To get lost on the trackless prairie was fearfully easy, and to suffer and die almost in sight of home was no unusual thing, and was her one dread in living there.

A few moments she lay quiet in bed, to calm herself and get control of her own anxieties before she spoke to the children.

“Willie,” she said at last, “are you awake?”

“Yes, mamma,” said Willie; “I’ve been awake ever so long; isn’t it most morning?”

“Willie,” said the mother quietly, “we mustn’t be frightened, but I think—I’m afraid—we are snowed in.”

Willie bounded to his feet and ran to the door. “Don’t open it!” said mamma hastily; “the snow may fall in. Light a candle and look out the window.”

In a moment the flickering rays of the candle fell upon the window.  Willie drew back the curtain. Snow was tightly banked up against it to the top.

“Why, mamma,” he exclaimed, “so we are! and how can papa find us? and what shall we do?”

“We must do the best we can,” said mamma, in a voice which she tried to make steady, “and trust that it isn’t very deep, and that Tim and papa will find us, and dig us out.”

By this time the little girls were awake and inclined to be very much frightened, but mamma was calm now, and Willie was brave and hopeful.  They all dressed, and Willie started the fire. The smoke refused to rise, but puffed out into the room, and Mrs. Barnes knew that if the chimney were closed they would probably suffocate, if they did not starve or freeze.

The smoke in a few minutes choked them, and, seeing that something must be done, she put the two girls, well wrapped in blankets, into the shed outside the back door, closed the door to keep out the smoke, and then went with Willie to the low attic, where a scuttle door opened onto the roof.

“We must try,” she said, “to get it open without letting in too much snow, and see if we can manage to clear the chimney.”

“I can reach the chimney from the scuttle with a shovel,” said Willie.

“I often have with a stick.”

After much labour, and several small avalanches of snow, the scuttle was opened far enough for Willie to stand on the top round of the short ladder, and beat a hole through to the light, which was only a foot above. He then shovelled off the top of the chimney, which was ornamented with a big round cushion of snow, and then by beating and shovelling he was able to clear the door, which he opened wide, and Mrs. Barnes came up on the ladder to look out. Dreary indeed was the scene! Nothing but snow as far as the eye could reach, and flakes still falling, though lightly.

The storm was evidently almost over, but the sky was gray and overcast.

They closed the door, went down, and soon had a fire, hoping that the smoke would guide somebody to them.

Breakfast was taken by candle-light, dinner—in time—in the same way, and supper passed with no sound from the outside world.

Many times Willie and mamma went to the scuttle door to see if anyone was in sight, but not a shadow broke the broad expanse of white over which toward night the sun shone. Of course there were no signs of the roads, for through so deep snow none could be broken, and until the sun and frost should form a crust on top there was little hope of their being reached.

The second morning broke, and Willie hurried up to his post of lookout the first thing. No person was in sight, but he found a light crust on the snow, and the first thing he noticed was a few half-starved birds trying in vain to pick up something to eat. They looked weak and almost exhausted, and a thought struck Willie.

It was hard to keep up the courage of the little household. Nora had openly lamented that to-night was Christmas Eve, and no Christmas dinner to be had. Tot had grown very tearful about her “waisins,” and Mrs. Barnes, though she tried to keep up heart, had become very pale and silent.

Willie, though he felt unbounded faith in papa, and especially in Tim, found it hard to suppress his own complaints when he remembered that Christmas would probably be passed in the same dismal way, with fears for papa added to their own misery.

The wood, too, was getting low, and mamma dared not let the fire go out, as that was the only sign of their existence to anybody; and though she did not speak of it, Willie knew, too, that they had not many candles, and in two days at farthest they would be left in the dark.

The thought that struck Willie pleased him greatly, and he was sure it would cheer up the rest. He made his plans, and went to work to carry them out without saying anything about it.

He brought out of a corner of the attic an old boxtrap he had used in the summer to catch birds and small animals, set it carefully on the snow, and scattered crumbs of corn-bread to attract the birds.

In half an hour he went up again, and found to his delight he had caught bigger game—a poor rabbit which had come from no one knows where over the crust to find food.

This gave Willie a new idea; they could save their Christmas dinner after all; rabbits made very nice pies.

Poor Bunny was quietly laid to rest, and the trap set again. This time another rabbit was caught, perhaps the mate of the first. This was the last of the rabbits, but the next catch was a couple of snowbirds.  These Willie carefully placed in a corner of the attic, using the trap for a cage, and giving them plenty of food and water.

When the girls were fast asleep, with tears on their cheeks for the dreadful Christmas they were going to have, Willie told mamma about his plans. Mamma was pale and weak with anxiety, and his news first made her laugh and then cry. But after a few moments given to her long pent-up tears, she felt much better and entered into his plans heartily.

The two captives up in the attic were to be Christmas presents to the girls, and the rabbits were to make the long anticipated pie. As for plum-pudding, of course that couldn’t be thought of.

“But don’t you think, mamma,” said Willie eagerly, “that you could make some sort of a cake out of meal, and wouldn’t hickory nuts be good in it? You know I have some left up in the attic, and I might crack them softly up there, and don’t you think they would be good?” he concluded anxiously.

“Well, perhaps so,” said mamma, anxious to please him and help him in his generous plans. “I can try. If I only had some eggs—but seems to me I have heard that snow beaten into cake would make it light—and there’s snow enough, I’m sure,” she added with a faint smile, the first Willie had seen for three days.

The smile alone he felt to be a great achievement, and he crept carefully up the ladder, cracked the nuts to the last one, brought them down, and mamma picked the meats out, while he dressed the two rabbits which had come so opportunely to be their Christmas dinner. “Wish you Merry Christmas!” he called out to Nora and Tot when they waked. “See what Santa Claus has brought you!”

Before they had time to remember what a sorry Christmas it was to be, they received their presents, a live bird, for each, a bird that was never to be kept in a cage, but fly about the house till summer came, and then to go away if it wished.

Pets were scarce on the prairie, and the girls were delighted. Nothing papa could have brought them would have given them so much happiness.

They thought no more of the dinner, but hurried to dress themselves and feed the birds, which were quite tame from hunger and weariness. But after a while they saw preparations for dinner, too. Mamma made a crust and lined a deep dish—the chicken pie dish—and then she brought a mysterious something out of the cupboard, all cut up so that it looked as if it might be chicken, and put it in the dish with other things, and then she tucked them all under a thick crust, and set it down in a tin oven before the fire to bake. And that was not all. She got out some more cornmeal, and made a batter, and put in some sugar and something else which she slipped in from a bowl, and which looked in the batter something like raisins; and at the last moment Willie brought her a cup of snow and she hastily beat it into the cake, or pudding, whichever you might call it, while the children laughed at the idea of making a cake out of snow. This went into the same oven and pretty soon it rose up light and showed a beautiful brown crust, while the pie was steaming through little fork holes on top, and sending out most delicious odors.

At the last minute, when the table was set and everything ready to come up, Willie ran up to look out of the scuttle, as he had every hour of daylight since they were buried. In a moment came a wild shout down the ladder.

“They’re coming! Hurrah for old Tim!”

Mamma rushed up and looked out, and saw—to be sure—old Tim slowly coming along over the crust, drawing after him a wood sled on which were two men.

“It’s papa!” shouted Willie, waving his arms to attract their attention.

“Willie!” came back over the snow in tones of agony. “Is that you? Are all well?”

“All well!” shouted Willie, “and just going to have our Christmas dinner.”

“Dinner?” echoed papa, who was now nearer.

“Where is the house, then?”

“Oh, down here!” said Willie, “under the snow; but we’re all right, only we mustn’t let the plum-pudding spoil.”

Looking into the attic, Willie found that mamma had fainted away, and this news brought to her aid papa and the other man, who proved to be a good friend who had come to help.

Tim was tied to the chimney, whose thread of smoke had guided them home, and all went down into the dark room. Mrs. Barnes soon recovered, and while Willie dished up the smoking dinner, stories were told on both sides.

Mr. Barnes had been trying to get through the snow and to find them all the time, but until the last night had made a stiff crust he had been unable to do so. Then Mrs. Barnes told her story, winding up with the account of Willie’s Christmas dinner. “And if it hadn’t been for his keeping up our hearts I don’t know what would have become of us,” she said at last.

“Well, my son,” said papa, “you did take care of mamma, and get up a dinner out of nothing, sure enough; and now we’ll eat the dinner, which I am sure is delicious.”

So it proved to be; even the cake, or pudding, which Tot christened snow pudding, was voted very nice, and the hickory nuts as good as raisins. When they had finished, Mr. Barnes brought in his packages, gave Tot and the rest some “sure-enough waisins,” and added his Christmas presents to Willie’s; but though all were overjoyed, nothing was quite so nice in their eyes as the two live birds.

After dinner the two men and Willie dug out passages from the doors, through the snow, which had wasted a good deal, uncovered the windows, and made a slanting way to his shed for old Tim. Then for two or three days Willie made tunnels and little rooms under the snow, and for two weeks, while the snow lasted, Nora and Tot had fine times in the little snow playhouses.

The End