“O Dorothy,” said Lucy, “I don’t think that’s much noise.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “you must not play so any more. But if you’ll come and sit down here by the fire, I’ll tell you a story.”
“Well,” said the children. In fact, they were as much pleased at the idea of having a story, as they would have been to have gone on with their play. So they all came and sat down by the fire.
“Tell us a story about a snow-storm,” said Lucy.
“I have told you pretty much all my snow-storm stories, already,” said Dorothy. “Let me think,—did I ever tell you about Oliver’s snow-shoes.”
“No,” said Lucy; “tell us now.”
Accordingly, when all were ready, Dorothy commenced her story as follows:—
“It was a great many years ago that what I am going to tell you took place. It was when Oliver was about eight years old.”
“And how old were you?” asked Royal.
“I was about twelve,” replied Dorothy. “Our house was in the woods, a great way from the school-house where we used to go to school. I should think that it was more than two miles; and we had to go by a path through the woods. We walked to school in the mornings with our dinners in a basket. Then we staid in the school-room at noon, eating our dinners by the fire.”