Calista was talking.
“And then,” she said, “some hot Summer day, when they’re all sitting out on the lawn in the shade, with thin dresses and palm-leaf fans, we’ll come and dig it up, and carry ’em big plates of feathery white snow, with a spoon stuck in.”
We were silent, picturing their delight.
“Miss Messmore says,” I ventured, not without hesitation, “that snow is all bugs.”
In fact all of us had been warned without ceasing not to eat snow—but there were certain spots where it was beyond human power to resist it: Mr. Britt’s fence, for instance, on whose pickets little squares of snow rested, which, eaten off by direct application of the lips, produced a slight illusion of partaking of caramels.
Delia stopped digging. “Maybe they won’t eat it when we bring it to them in Summer?” she suggested.
“Then we will,” said Calista, promptly. Of course they would not have the heart to forbid us to eat it in, say, June.
About a foot down in the ground we set the two tins side by side in an aperture lined and packed with snow and filled in with earth.
