FROST ON THE WINDOWS.
Charles was a little boy. One cold winter’s morning his mother brought him down stairs. It was very early. She put him down on the carpet, before a bright, warm fire. Then she opened the shutters to see if it was light. Charles saw something white and shining upon the windows, and called to her, and said, “Oh, mother, mother, how beautiful! See how the windows are painted all white. There is a mountain, and another,—and—and I see another on the top of it; and there are some trees, and flowers—and—”
“Yes, they are very beautiful,” said Charles’ mamma, as she stood dressing her little boy.
“What makes it look so? It isn’t light like day,—and oh! mother, see, there is a bright star in the sky!”
“It is not quite daylight yet; pretty soon it will grow lighter, and the little star will not look so bright, and then the sky will grow brighter, and it will be daylight.”
“What is it now; is it night?”
“No, it is day-dawn.”
“Day-dawn;—well, it’s very pretty, I think, mother. O, see, there’s a cow! I think those are pictures painted on the window, aren’t they?”
“No, they are not pictures. Don’t you know what they are?”