The children waited, and meanwhile it snowed as if the sky were falling. Down fell the flakes, and the wind, whistling in glee, played with them, blowing them hither and yon. The air was so full of the white mass that Dotty thought the whole world looked as if it was shrouded in spotted lace. And presently it was not like lace; it was like sheets waving to and fro, and you could barely catch the faintest glimpses of trees and houses. It seemed as if the children in the school-room were shut out from the rest of the world; yet the door that shut them out was made of the softest snow.
“I had no idea of such a storm,” thought Miss Parker; “how are all these children to get home to dinner?”
But very soon the principal of the grammar school, up stairs, sent her a note, saying it was thought best not to dismiss school at noon, but have “a long session.”
Miss Parker was glad of this, for she knew, if her little pupils went home, their parents would not be likely to send them back in the afternoon. She heard all the morning lessons, and then gave a half hour’s recess, telling the children they might walk about the room and whisper; but they would not wish, she said, to go out of doors in such a storm.
There was a deal of buzzing and promenading. Tate and Dotty marched around, holding each other by the hand, and humming “John Brown,” under breath.
“Now’s the time to go up to Miss Parker; she’s only eating an apple,” said Dotty.
“No, I dassent yet; let’s wait till just before the bell rings,” replied easy Tate, who never would do anything disagreeable till the last minute.
“Well, then,” said Dotty, “let’s go to the window and look out. Did you ever, Tate Penny? Don’t you s’pose angels have wings?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, don’t you s’pose, when the little boys-and-girls angels get to playing up there, the small feathers pop out?”