[A SNOWBALL FIGHT.]
By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.
The snow had fallen to the depth of six inches during the night, filling in the yards and covering the door-steps, throughout the town of Conway. Among those who hailed the arrival of the snow with joy was Frank Taylor, a boy of fourteen, the son of the Widow Taylor, who lived in a miserable little tenement not far from the mill. Why he was glad to see the snow will soon appear.
Early in the morning he shoveled a path to the street, and then putting his shovel over his shoulder, said to his mother:
"I'm going over to Squire Ashmead's to see if he doesn't want me to shovel paths in his yard."
"He's got a boy of his own," said Mrs. Taylor; "perhaps he will do it."
Frank laughed.
"Sam Ashmead is proud and lazy," he said. "You won't catch him shoveling paths. I think I shall get the job. I want to earn something so that you need not sit all day sewing. It is too hard for you."