THE SNOW BEN.

BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

"We can beat that," said Joe Larkin, contemptuously, as he drew back and began to blow through his red fists. "That isn't any kind of a snow man."

"Like to know why," said Dan Madderley. "He's all right but his ears. We can make them of the same size, easy."

"Yes, but he ain't right anyhow. Everything's just stuck on outside. When I was in the city once, I saw a sculptor chiselling a man out of marble. 'Twasn't much like this thing."

"Well, of course it wasn't. Stone's better'n snow. Everybody knows that, I guess."

"No, it isn't. Not exactly. When you knock off a chunk of marble, you can't stick it on again."

"You might glue it, but I guess it would show the crack."

"Tell you what, boys," exclaimed Joe, with a new idea shining all over his face, "let's make a big snow marble down on the ice, and then let's dig it out into a man, just as the sculptors do."

There was an instant hurrah all around, and not one opposing vote; the half-finished snow man in Deacon Madderley's back yard was left to thaw down all alone, and in ten minutes more the whole crowd of young sculptors was down on the pond.

It was a warm day for winter, and the water was pouring over the dam in a hurry, but the ice was pretty firm up where the boys were, and the soft snow was in just the condition to pack nicely. At it they went, as if they had a whole marble quarry to make, and were afraid some of their marble might get away from them.

"I say, now, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, as the great white pile came up to his shoulders, "who're we going to sculp out? Anybody in partikler?"

"Julius Cæsar."

"No, we can't. You never saw him, nor we didn't either."

"Yes, I did. I saw a picture of him once, with a brass helmet on his head, and a sword in his hand."

"That'd beat us, then," said Dan Madderley. "We'd better try George Washington."

"He's on horseback," said Joe, "and so is Andrew Jackson. No use for us to try a horse. Snow legs won't hold up. He'd come down all in a heap."

A dozen other great names followed, each bringing with it a chorus of doubts as to how he looked, and whether anything like him could be found in that heap of snow; but the shrill voice of little Billy McCoy settled the matter. He had followed his big brothers down upon the ice, and now he eagerly squeaked:

"Boys, why don't you scoop out Ben Franklin? Make him sitting down."

"Hurrah for you, Billy!" exclaimed Joe Larkin. "Guess we all know Ben. He's just the man."

"Guess he is," chirped Billy. "He's fat, too. You can make him real big."

On piled the snow, after that, until they had to reach up with their shovels. When Joe Larkin began to play sculptor, he had to dig his toes into the snow and climb.

"We'll make his head first," he sagely remarked; "and we'll cut out the rest of him to fit that."

"Dig away, Joe," shouted Burr Whitcomb, from the other side of the quarry. "Let's see which of us'll get in first to where old Ben is."

"We'll set him up with his hands in his lap," said Joe; "and we'll part his hair in the middle."

Pieces of shingle, whittled to a sharp edge, did very well for chisels, and no mallets were called for. It was easy to work that kind of marble, and it was just as Joe Larkin had said about mending it. He had to carve Ben's nose for him over and over again, and the last time he shaved it smooth with his jackknife.

"We'll make his hair long, Burr, and lots of it. That'll help hold his head up stiff, and we won't have to cut out so much coat collar. I say, you've made his arm on that side twice as big as this one."

"I can scrape it down. What'll we do for buttons?"

"Boys," said Joe, "pack a lot of round, hard snow-balls, and cut 'em in two. They wore the biggest kind of buttons when Ben was alive; big as dollars."

"How about his hat?"

"He'll look better bare-headed. You can't make a snow brim stay on—not unless it's three or four inches thick, and that won't do."

Joe was giving special attention just then to the parting of Benjamin Franklin's hair, but in a moment more he sang out, "Look here, boys, he never was as fat as all that."

They had been digging away industriously at their part of the great patriot, but they had carefully put on quite as much snow marble as they had cut away. They had made Ben look more like Daniel Lambert than anybody else; but Joe Larkin came down now, and he speedily effected a wholesome change.

"Looks as if he could lift himself and get up now."

"Well, ye—es," said Burr, doubtfully; "but what about his legs? We haven't left any room for 'em."

"Yes we have. But you see we began at the top."

"What's he a-sitting on, anyhow?"

"On the ice. Tell you what, boys, we'll have to make him cross-legged."

"He wasn't a tailor," squeaked Billy McCoy. "He was the lightning-rod man."

Billy had watched all that work with his round mouth half open, and had seemed to regard the job as in a manner under his supervision. But then he had that way of looking at almost any work, no matter who might be doing it, and he had never been known to make any charge for his advice.

It was too late now for any discussion of the matter, however, and all the boys were proud of the way they crossed Benjamin Franklin's legs for him.

"We'll hide one of his feet under him," said Burr. "Joe, can you cut out the other one like a boot?"

"Of course I can."

He did, but if the hidden foot was as large as the one he fitted at the end of Ben's right leg, he could not have needed a great deal more to sit on.

Billy McCoy himself remarked of it, doubtfully, "It's just the biggest foot I ever saw."

The pegs on the sole of that boot and the heel of it were the last touches required, and the young sculptors stood back, and walked around their great work, again and again, in almost silent admiration. Ben fairly looked warm and comfortable in the flood of noon sunshine that was pouring down upon him.

"He'll thaw out," grumbled Dan Madderley; and just then there came a great shout from the shore.

The sun had been at work as well as the boys, and the thaw he was making had had a day or two the start of them.

The shout came from Billy McCoy's biggest brother, Bob, and they saw him dance up and down with excitement, while he swung his hat and repeated it: "Boys! boys! come in! The ice is breaking away!"

So much trampling and running to and fro, and so much added weight of boys and sculpture, had helped the sun above and the rising water below the ice, and now they all had just about time to hurry ashore. Then the great crack Bob McCoy had noticed grew rapidly wider, and they could hear all the frozen surface of the pond crack and split in every direction.

There was some fun in watching the ice break up, but there was sorrow among the sculptors, for all that.

"It's an awful pity to lose such a snow man as that is."

"He didn't even have time to thaw out."

"We can make another."

"There never was just such a Ben Franklin as that."

Probably not, and now there he was floating out into the middle of the pond on a wide cake of ice, and drifting down toward the dam. The water was rising, for the snow was melting fast, and the cake of ice Ben was on rocked now and then in a way which made him seem to bow to his friends on shore.

"Isn't he polite, though!" said Billy McCoy. "Pity he can't swim."

"Swim!" exclaimed Joe Larkin; "I guess so. There he goes, boys. Just a rod or two more."

Most of them gave vent to their feelings in a volley of snow-balls which fell about half way short of their mark. Then they all stood still, for the swift water seemed to seize Ben's cake of ice with a sudden jerk, and swept it to the edge of the dam. For one short minute the brittle raft stuck on the edge, and then it broke right in two. With a great slushy splash the snow Ben went to pieces, and was carried over the slippery "apron," down among the foaming eddies below.

Every boy that was looking on drew a long breath and held it for a moment, and then there rose a chorus of shouts.

Joe Larkin led off with, "Good-by, Ben!"

And the rest followed with: "Hi! hi! hurrah! Good-by, Ben!"

Burr Whitcomb remarked, a little soberly, as he turned away: "Well, I don't care; he was the best snow man I ever saw. He looked a good deal like Ben Franklin."