"I am going to find her parents," said the father, but he had scarcely
reached the gate when he heard the children scream. He saw their
mother's white face at the window.
"There is no need of going for the child's parents," she said.
There was no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were a heap
of snow which, while they were gazing at it, melted quite away upon
the hearth rug.
"What a quantity of snow the children brought in on their feet," their
father said at last. "It has made quite a puddle here before the
stove."
The stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to grin like a
red-eyed demon at the mischief which it had done, for the story of the
snow image is one of those rare cases where common sense finds itself
at fault.
THE FIRE THAT WOULD NOT BURN
There was great trouble in the white castle that stood at the top of
the hill. The huge fire that had burned in the castle kitchen for
years had suddenly gone out, and no one seemed to be able to light it
again.
It was deep winter outside. The hill was white with snow, and the
fountains in the castle garden looked like tall ladies dressed in
white cloaks. From all the castle turrets there hung long icicles, and
inside the castle, where the walls and the floor were made all of
stone, it was so cold that every one was blowing on his fingers and
saying that something must be done at once about starting the fire in
the kitchen.
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