Nettle,” the child said. “Mrs. Nettle—it’s cold enough for snow, isn’t it?” The elderly woman, sitting in the armchair near the fire, went on with the swift darning of the grey sock stretched over her hand. “I shouldn’t wonder,” she agreed. “I think it’s going to snow,” the child said. “It is, isn’t it, Mrs. Nettle?” “I shouldn’t be surprised,” the woman said. “When it snows, I’m going to make a snowman,” the child said. Snipping off an end of grey wool, the woman reached for another strand with which to re-thread her needle. “You need a lot of snow for that,” she said. “Then I hope it snows and snows. I hope it snows all day and all night and all tomorrow and all the day after.” “Nasty messy stuff,” the woman said. “Messy and cold and wet.” “But children like snow, don’t they?” Turning from the window, the child came to lean on the arm of the old woman’s chair. “Mrs. Nettle—they do, don’t they, Mrs. Nettle?” The corners of the woman’s mouth twitched and she lowered her hands and her darning into her lap.
