“You’ll never get in there,” said the Yard Dog; “and if you approach the stove you’ll melt away—away!”
“I am as good as gone,” replied the Snow Man. “I think I am breaking up.”
The whole day the Snow Man stood looking in through the window. In the twilight hour the room became still more inviting; from the stove came a mild gleam, not like the sun nor like the moon; it was only as the stove can glow when he has something to eat. When the room door opened the flame started out of his mouth; this was a habit the stove had. The flame fell distinctly on the white face of the Snow Man, and gleamed red upon his bosom.
“I can endure it no longer,” said he. “How beautiful it looks when it stretches out its tongue!”
The night was long; but it did not appear long to the Snow Man, who stood there lost in his own charming reflections, crackling with the cold.
In the morning the window-panes of the basement lodging were covered with ice. They bore the most beautiful ice flowers that any snow man could desire; but they concealed the stove, which he pictured to himself as a lovely female. It crackled and whistled in him and around him; it was just the kind of frosty weather a snow man must thoroughly enjoy.
But he did not enjoy it; and, indeed, how could he enjoy himself when he was stove-sick?
“That’s a terrible disease for a Snow Man,” said the Yard Dog. “I have suffered from it myself, but I got over it. Away! away!” he barked; and he added, “the weather is going to change.”
And the weather did change; it began to thaw. The warmth increased, and the Snow Man decreased. He made no complaint—and that’s an infallible sign.
One morning he broke down. And, behold, where he had stood, something like a broomstick remained sticking up out of the ground. It was the pole around which the boys had built him up.