"Pooh! You don't s'pose a snow man can feel, do you?" asked Bunny, turning to look at his sister. He had just begun to understand why it was that Sue did not want him to throw snowballs at the big white fellow when he was finished.
"Well, maybe he can't feel," said Sue, for she was really too old to have such a little child's belief. At least she felt she was too old to confess to such a feeling. "But what's the fun of making a nice snow man and then hitting him all over with snowballs? I'm not going to throw at his tall hat, even if you make one. Why can't you throw balls at something else, Bunny, like a tree or a telegraph pole?"
"'Cause I can peg at them any time," Bunny answered, with a laugh. "It's more fun to throw snowballs at a snow man and make believe he's real. He can't chase you then."
"Well, I'm not going to throw anything at our nice snow man," decided Sue, digging away with her little shovel to carve out the legs.
"You don't have to," said Bunny, fairly enough. "I'll do it all, Sue."
"Well," said his sister, with a shake of her head, "you can throw at your part of the snow man, if you like, but you can't throw at my part!"
"Which—which is your part?" asked Bunny, and he spoke as though greatly surprised.
"The legs," answered Sue. "I wish you wouldn't throw any snowballs at the legs, Bunny Brown."
"All right, I won't," he promised kindly. For Bunny was a year older than his sister, and, at most times, was kind and good to her.
"You can throw at your own part as much as you like," went on Sue, "but I'm not going to have my part spoiled."