ish I could get grown up as
quick as that."

Uncle Andy sniffed.

"There are lots of people besides you," said he, "that don't know when
they're well off. But," he continued, seating himself on Bill's chopping
log and meditatively cleaning out his pipe bowl with a bit of chip,
"there _are_ some youngsters who have a fashion of getting themselves
born right in the worst of the cold weather--and that not here in
Silverwater neither, but way up north, where weather is weather, let me
tell you--where it gets so cold that, if you were foolish enough to cry,
the tears would all freeze instantly, till your eyes were shut up in a
regular ice jam."

"I wouldn't cry," declared the Child.

"No? But I don't want you to interrupt me any more."

"Of course not," said the Child politely. Uncle Andy eyed him
searchingly, and then decided to go on.

"Away up north," he began abruptly--and paused to light his pipe--"away
up north, as I was saying, it was just midwinter. It was also
midnight--which, in those latitudes, is another way of saying the same
thing. The land as far as eye could see in every direction was flat,
dead white, and smooth as a table, except for the long curving windrows
into which the hard snow had been licked up by weeks of screaming wind.
Just now the wind was still. The sky was like black steel sown with
diamonds, and the stars seemed to snap under the terrific cold. Suddenly
their bitter sparkle faded, and a delicate pale green glow spread itself,
opening like a fan, till it covered half the heavens. Almost immediately
the center of the base of the fan rolled itself up till the strange light
became an arch of intense radiance, the green tint shifting rapidly to
blue-white, violet, gold, and cherry rose. A moment more and the still
arch broke up into an incalculable array of upright spears of light,
pointing toward the zenith, and dancing swiftly from side to side with a
thin, mysterious rustle. They danced so for some minutes, ever changing
color, till suddenly they all melted back into the fan-shaped glow. And
the glow remained, throbbing softly as if breathless, uncertain whether
to die away or to go through the whole performance again."

"I know--" began the Child, but checked himself at once with a
deprecating glance of apology.

"Except for the dancing wonder of the light," continued Uncle Andy,
graciously pretending not to hear the interruption, "nothing stirred in
all that emptiness of