NO matter how dismal things may look overnight, long hours of sleep
do make a difference, especially if one is only eight years old. Jock
never once opened his eyes till broad daylight, and then he started
suddenly wide awake. He sat up and took a good look round.
It was a very pretty little room. Somebody had been at pains to make it
nice. In one corner stood a small table, with a little writing-desk on
it, and a bookcase above, half-full of books, but with space for more
books of his own. He gazed with eager eyes, taking in one thing after
another.
Then he saw that the window-panes were covered with frost-pictures.
There were trees in rows, and trees singly, and houses, and even
people—all sketched by the busy fingers of Jack Frost. He had seen
something of the kind before, but nothing equal to this. Jumping out of
bed, he ran to the window.
And such a scene burst on him!
Below lay a small lawn covered by a thin white carpet, and in the
centre of the lawn was a big tree, it, too, being dressed in white.
From its topmost to its undermost twigs it was clothed in pure white.
Jock supposed that a fall of snow had come in the night. But this was
not snow, it was hoarfrost—such a thick hoarfrost that it lay along the
bigger boughs three-quarters of an inch deep. And beyond the lawn were
clumps of evergreen bushes, and each leaf of those bushes carried its
own white trimming.
It was a fairyland scene, and Jock could not turn his eyes away. He
had seen snow at home, pretty enough at first, when great flakes came
floating down, even though they fell through a murky atmosphere. But he
knew how black and grimy they soon became. Anything like this vision of
purity he had never known.
When his toes complained of the cold floor, his first thought was that
he could not possibly go back to bed. He must dress at once, and run
out to see things for himself.
A brass clock on the mantelpiece spoke, and it said in very hurried
tones—EIGHT. Jock was rather astonished, for at home he had always
got up at seven. He did not know that Aunt Judith had ordered that he
should not be aroused, but should sleep on. She might be a trifle short
in manner and speech, but she had noted the boy's white face, and when
Emma came to say how soundly he was sleeping, she said—"Let him rest
till half-past eight. Have him ready by nine, and he shall breakfast
with me."
A bath had been put ready, with plenty of cold water, to which he was
used. He went in for a good splashing, and dressed with all possible
speed, for he was eager to get out of doors. At home he had always been
free to race in and out of the back-garden whenever he pleased, and it
never entered his mind that perhaps here he ought to ask leave.
He met no one on the stairs or in the hall, and the front door stood
invitingly open. Before him lay the front drive, with three or four
elm-trees in the centre, and away to the right was a larger lawn. He
walked down the drive, following its bend, and then turned sharply off
to the right, racing across the big lawn towards a small pond which
drew his attention.
All round the pond were heaped-up rocks, where, in summer, flowers grew
abundantly. No flowers were to be seen now, but only leaves dressed
in white, and the water at its edges was frozen hard. Jock stooped
to examine it, and with his fingers broke off a piece of ice, nearly
overbalancing himself as he did so, which might have meant a second
cold bath.
He was so excited that he danced about on the slippery grass, quite
forgetful of the fact that he had had no breakfast. It did not occur to
him that people might be puzzled, if no one knew where he was gone. So
he wandered round the pond, and on towards a wide grassy ditch, called
a "haw-haw," dividing the garden from a field. The sun shone brightly,
and millions of tiny ice-needles on grass and on leaves flashed forth
gleams of light in response to the sun's kisses.
"Oh-h!" Jock said to himself in a wordless rapture. He stood still, and
again murmured—"Oh—h!"
"What's your name?" demanded a shrill little voice.
Jock found himself facing a girl just beyond the haw-haw, standing on
the slope of the field. He stared instead of answering. She was very
slight, with long thin legs like sticks, and an extremely short frock,
and tiny hands, ungloved. A cloth cap was stuck jauntily on one side of
her head, while below it hung wisps of black hair. The face was small,
with a pointed chin, and the black eyes roved everywhere, but came
constantly back to Jock.
[Illustration: "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" DEMANDED A SHRILL LITTLE VOICE]
"I s'pose you're the new little boy," she remarked.
Jock felt insulted. "Little" indeed. Though not tall for his age, he
was the bigger of the two.
"You've got red hair," she went on.
"It isn't red," protested Jock, but she ignored this.
"Mine's black. I wish it was nice and curly like yours. Stop—I'll come."
She retreated some paces, then took a run and cleared the ditch in fine
style, landing close to her new acquaintance, at whom she looked with
interest. "You haven't told me your name."
"I'm Jock Munro."