So Goran ate the goats’-milk cheese and black bread that his grandmother had left for him; and then, and not before, he summoned up enough courage to look out to see if the snow was still falling.
It was snowing harder than ever, and already everything had a deep fluffy covering. Oh, would his grandmother ever be able to get back to him? But he must be brave, and not cry, for he was six years old. He said a little prayer, as his grandmother had taught him to do whenever he was frightened or unhappy, and his heavy heart grew lighter.
“I’ll make a snowman,” Goran decided. Perhaps then the time would seem shorter. Grandfather and he had made a splendid snowman after the first snowfall last winter.
It was not late enough in the year to have the day as dark as night. It was only as dark as a deep winter twilight, and the white snow seemed to give out a light of its own for Goran to work by.
First he found an old broomstick and thrust it into the snow so that it stood upright. Then he pushed the heavy wet snow around it, patting on here, scooping out there, until there was a body to hold the big snowball he rolled for the head. A bent twig pressed in made a pleasant smile, and for eyes Goran ran indoors and took from the little box that held his treasures two marbles of sky-blue glass that his grandfather had given him once for his birthday.
What a beautiful snowman! With his sky-blue eyes he gazed through the falling snow at little Goran.
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!” called the old clock, and that was the same as saying:
“Time for supper, Goran!”
The fire lit up the room with a warm glow, painted the curtains crimson, and made wavering gigantic shadows on the walls. The water bubbled in the pot, and the boiling potatoes knocked against the lid. “Prr-prrr!” said Mejau, blinking in front of the blaze, and the old clock answered:
“Tock! Tick! Tock!”