“Snowing, John! Get up!” called father.
“Scrape, scrape,” came to your ears the warning of an early shovel.
Your heart gave a wild hurrah, open popped your eyes, to the floor you floundered, to the window you staggered. Sure enough! The sill was heaped to the lower panes, and in the air the flakes were as thick as swarming bees.
Ecstatically alive, you hustled on your clothes, bestowed on face and hair a cold lick and a hasty promise, and in the copper-toed boots (eager for the fray) raced noisily down the stairs.
You found the household less exhilarated and enthusiastic than you had expected.
“Well, this is a snowstorm!” commented mother, in a blank way, pouring the coffee.
“Um-m-m! You bet!” you mumbled.
“It’s good for all day, I guess,” said father solemnly, sipping from his cup as he gazed out.
“Oh, dear! Do you think so?” sighed mother, aghast.
“Oh, gee! I hope so!” sighed you, fervently.