It was a perfect snowball day! There had been a heavy snowstorm, and then the sky had cleared and the weather turned soft and warm. What could be more delightful?

Rita was too little to go to school, but she was not too little to make snowballs.

So Mammy put on the little girl’s coat and hood, and leggings and overshoes and mittens, and turned her out of doors in the sunshine.

Oh, how bright it was! How the world sparkled and twinkled and laughed! Rita laughed, too, and at first could only jump up and down for pure joy, and sing,—

A song of her own composition, of which she was justly proud.

But presently she said to herself, “snowballs!” and from that moment she had no time for singing or jumping.

First she made some dumplings, and set them in a row on the piazza to bake in the sun; then she saw three little birds in a tree, and threw the dumplings at them, in case they might be hungry.

Then she made a pudding, and stirred it with a large icicle, which made the best possible pudding stick; then she made some eggs, and pelted Rover with them till that good dog fairly yelled with excitement.

At last she said, “I know what I will do! I’ll make a Great Snowball, like the Great Sausage in my German picture book.”

So the little girl set to work, and rolled and patted and pressed till she had a well-shaped ball to begin with. Then she laid it on the smooth snow table-cloth of the lawn, and began to roll it in good earnest, here and there, over and over and over.

The snow was in perfect condition, soft and moist; every particle clung to the ball, which grew bigger and bigger and BIGGER and BIGGER!

At last Rita’s arms were tired, and she stopped to rest and to look about her. She was at the end of the lawn, where the bank sloped up to the stone wall. How nice it would be if she could roll the Great Snowball up the bank, and push it to the top of the wall!

Then Papa would see it when he came home to dinner, and he would be so ’stonished! he would say, “Who—upon—yerth—put that great, hugeous snowball there?” And Rita would say, “I did, Pappy! just ’cisely all my own pitickiler self.”

And then Papa would say, “Why-ee! what a great, big girl my Rita is! I must take her to town to-morrow-day, and buy her a muff, and a doll with wink eyes, and a squeaky dog, and a prayer-book, and a nalbum, and big boots, and a gold watch and a stick of striped candy! and then—” But by this time Rita was quite ready to go to work again.

The snowball was very big by this time, quite as big as she was; and the bank, though not high, was very steep. But Rita’s short arms were sturdy, and her courage knew no measure; so at it she went, pushing the great ball up, inch by inch; puffing, panting, her cheeks growing redder and redder, but with no thought of giving up.

Now, by this time the snowball began to have its own ideas. Just at what point of bigness a snowball begins to have a mind of its own I cannot tell you, so you must ask some one wiser than I; but this snowball had reached the point.

At this moment it was saying to itself, “What fun this child is having! but I do not enjoy it at all. It is the pushing that is the fun, apparently. Why should not I push the child? I am bigger than she; it would be very pleasant to roll down the bank, and push her before me. I might try! I think I will! There!”

Down went the snowball! Down went little Rita! roly-poly, rumble-tumble, ruffle-puffle, flop!

When Papa drove into the yard, two minutes later, he saw a great mound of soft snow, with two little black legs sticking out of it.

“Never mind!” said Rita, shortly, when Papa had pulled her out, and she stood shaking the snow from her wet, rosy face, “the old thing didn’t hurt me a bit, and it broke its old self all—to pieces!”