He jumped to the window, and gazed out. The big flakes swirled against the pane at the end of his nose. Air and earth were white.
“Bully!” again exclaimed Ned, hustling on his clothes.
The affair of the campaign parade was now only an irritating memory; a president and vice-president had been elected; processions were a thing of the past, with the Republican county central committee short two torches, two caps, and two capes; winter had arrived with a swoop, sending the wild fowl scurrying for the gulf; Thanksgiving—a snapping cold Thanksgiving of skating and appetites—was over; and still upon the frozen ground no snow had fallen.
But here it was, at last, with a vengeance.
“Walks to clean, Neddie,” teased his mother.
“I don’t care,” retorted Ned, from his room.
“There! Don’t forget that you’ve said it,” laughed his mother.
Now at the beginning of the winter it seemed to Ned that he would as soon as not shovel walks. Anything that had to do with snow was fun.
All day the snow fell. At first it was in the shape of big, feathery flakes which clung to everything that they touched. Then, when a good thick coating had been given the world, down came the gritty, small flakes, sifting upon their larger predecessors, and piling up for two feet.