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that way; she looked like a young girl. I wondered if she remembered being eight. I wondered if she remembered the excitement of the first snow.
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    The Stevensons tea towels were still on their porch clothesline, and Mother said that Mrs. Stevenson had probably scolded their hired girl for forgetting to bring them in last night.
    "They'll be frozen solid," Peggy said. "She'll have to crack them in half and then dry them in the cellar."
    I poured cream on my steaming oatmeal and
laughed at the thought of the Stevensons hired girl breaking the icy tea towels. We had to do it, too, from time to time.
    Father looked at his watch. He was in a hurry because he had patients to see, at the hospital. The ones with appointments at his office weren't urgent, and most of them wouldn't be able to get through the snow, anyway. But the youngest Cooper boy had mastoid surgery just yesterday—he had had a cholesteatoma in his right ear, Father said—and must be watched carefully for a while, or he would be deaf.
    "And Mattie Washington," he added. "You must know her, Naomi. Her house is close to yours."
    Naomi, still at the stove, nodded. "She doesn't have pain, does she?"
    "No," Father told her. "But I want to be sure she's being kept comfortable. She'll go soon."
    "Ninety-two," Naomi said. "Seven children, only three still left, and one of them was always worthless."
    Father smiled. "Even the worthless one is at her side. And lots of grandchildren."
    "And some greats," Naomi told him. "I believe she has some greats."
    "Yes. She's lived a good long life." Father pulled his heavy coat on. We could hear the horses in front; Levi had brought them around. They stamped their feet, and the bells on their
harnesses jingled. Horses like snow. It makes them excited, and I think they like the way their snorts make steam in the cold air. When Father opened the front door, I could hear one of them whinny. The light sliced into the hall when the door opened. The entire day was white, and I could see the flakes still drifting.
    "The steps will be slippery, Henry. Be careful," Mother warned him, and then he was gone.
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    The steps
were
slippery, I found, when finally, bundled up, mittened, and booted, with a red knitted scarf wrapped twice around my neck and up over my chin, I went outside. Next door, Austin was already out, building a snowman in his front yard for his sister, Laura Paisley, who even at two and a half had learned how to command her brother.
    "Make him a nose!" Laura Paisley called from the front porch, where she watched Austin at work. Her own nose and cheeks were pink with cold. She was wearing blue mittens.
    "I will," Austin promised. "First I have to finish him." He was still patting the sides smooth, and I went over to help. It was hard, walking through the snow, which was up partway to my knees. On the way, I broke off two thin branches from the forsythias to use as snowman arms.
    "Ding-dong!" Laura Paisley shouted suddenly, clapping her mittened hands in delight.
    Bells! Not like the small jingles from our two horses harnessed to the buggy. But many bells, rows of them, because the snow-roller had come around the corner and entered our street, with its six huge horses. Slowly, dragging the heavy roller, they flattened the snow in the street. When Father left, Orchard Street was like a meadow, or a sea of snow, not a street at all. Jed and Dahlia had pranced through, lifting their feet high, leaving prints of their spiked winter shoes in the deep new snow. But now Orchard Street was reappearing. And in front of each house, now, men and boys were out with shovels, clearing the walks.
    The Stevensons hired girl came out onto their porch and took the frozen tea towels down. I thought she had been scolded. Her face was glum. But then she looked over, saw our snowman, and smiled. "Need a carrot?" she called. "I'll bring one out in a bit. And some lumps of coal for eyes."
    Like our Peggy and Peggy's sister Nell, she was just