‘There, now,’ said Dr. Hale, ‘the snow is beginning to stay, is it not?’
As the doctor and Moses said ‘Good-day,’ the pastor continued his walk in a brooding mood, scarce lifting his head from the ground, on which the flakes were falling more thickly and beginning to remain. Lost in thought, and continuing his way towards the end of the village, he was startled by a tapping at the window of Abraham Lord's cottage, and, looking up, he saw Milly's beckoning hand.
Passing up the garden-path and entering the kitchen, he bade the girl a good-afternoon, and asked her if she were waiting for the ‘angel een.’
‘Nay,’ said Milly; ‘I'm baan to be content wi' th' daawn (down) off their wings to-day.’
‘So you call the snow “angels' down,” do you?’
‘Ey, Mr. Penrose,’ cried her mother. ‘Hoo's names for everythin' yo' can think on. Hoo seed a great sunbeam on a bank of white claads t' other day, and hoo said hoo thought it were God Hissel', because th' owd Book said as He made th' clouds His chariot.’
‘But why do you call the snow “angels' down,” Milly?’
‘Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose,’ replied the girl. ‘I've sin th' birds pool th' daawn off their breasts to line th' nest for their young uns. And why shouldn't th' angels do th' same for us? Mi faither says as haa snow is th' earth's lappin', and keeps all th' seeds warm, and mak's th' land so as it 'll groo. So I thought happen it wur th' way God feathered aar nest for us. Dun yo' see? It's nobbud my fancy.’