Story of the Magic Snowman

It was the first real snowfall of the year, one that stuck and piled up drifts. It had snowed for three days straight, deep and firm snow, the kind that packed easily and made good snowballs and igloos. The snowplow raised four-foot ramparts on both sides of the streets, instant forts for children to defend, mountains to brave, great walls of China to explore.

The Babsley twins, looking like panda bears in their goose-down filled snowsuits, toddled after their sister Belinda. She was older by 2 and one half years. She was their idol, they adored her and followed her everywhere.

“Well, if you babies must come with me, then try to keep up. We will miss all the best coasting.” she exhorted the mightily struggling mites, who ran as fast as their chubby, padded legs could go to match Belinda’s pace.

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Ice and Snowman Cometh

Little Bobby was so excited he couldn’t even shut his eyes, let alone sleep. The sounds of the night were muffled by the falling snow outside his bedroom window. The silent night was broken only by the soft, sweet breathing of his little brother and baby sister, her crib pushed into their room to make way for uncles, aunts and cousins in the nursery.

Bobby clutched his Teddy tightly, and strained his ears for a jingle of sleigh-bells, a tread of hooves on the roof, a rush and rustle in the chimney stack.

Only this week, that bad boy Danny Rawls had been teasing him and taunting that there was no Santa, that Santa was a lie. But Bobby refused to believe Mommy would tell him such a fib. Santa was too good, too generous, to beautiful and wonderful not to exist.

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Christmas Tree

The young pine tree stood holding his branches out as if in supplication. Indeed, he was soundlessly praying, if a tree can be said to do so, to whatever gods or druids or faeries to which a pine tree would pray. He was praying the harvesters would reach his rank and row today, tomorrow at the latest.

For it is the week before Christmas, and unless he is taken quickly, he will be too late for this season. Perhaps he might have too propitious a Spring and Summer, with much sun and rain and life-giving humus. Then he might grow too large to be considered quite suitable for a Christmas tree. His pith sank at the thought, and he pushed it away and continued his matins to the pine tree Jesus, or Buddha, or Allah- to whatever the wood-folk present their heart-wood’s desire.

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