“Don’t—don’t they shovel up the snow and put it in carts and carry it all away?” asked Carolyn May of Aunty Rose. “Who ever heard the like?” returned Mrs. Kennedy. “What kind of a way is that to do, child? And where would they cart it to? There’s just as much snow in one place as there is in another.” “Why, in New York,” explained the little girl, “there’s always an army of men at work after a snowstorm—poor men, you know. And lots and lots of wagons. My papa used to say the snow was a blessing to the poor who wanted to earn a little money. “Of course, lots of the men that shovel snow don’t have warm coats—or mittens, even—or overshoes! They wrap their feet in potato sacks to keep them warm and dry.” “Well, well,” murmured Aunty Rose. “So that’s what they do with snow in the city, is it? Live and learn.” Uncle Joe had shovelled off the porch and steps, and Prince had beaten his own dooryard in the snow in front of his house. For he had a house of his own, now—a roomy, warm one—built by Mr. Parlow. It must be confessed that, although Uncle Joe paid for the building of this dog-house, it never would have been built by Jedidiah Parlow had it not been for Carolyn May. At first the grouchy old carpenter refused to do the job. “I ain’t got to work for Joe Stagg’s money—not yit, I guess,” growled the carpenter. “Tell him to git somebody else to build his house.” “Oh, but Mr. Parlow,” gasped Carolyn May, quite amazed, “it isn’t for Uncle Joe, you know!” “What ain’t for your Uncle Joe?” demanded Mr. Parlow. “The dog-house.” “Why ain’t it? His money’s goin’ to pay for it, I reckon!” “Oh, yes, that’s so,” admitted Carolyn May. “But Prince is going to live in it, and, you know, Prince is a friend of yours, Mr. Parlow.” “Wal, no gittin’ around sich logic, I do allow,” grunted the old man, his eyes twinkling, and the flush of anger dying out of his cheeks. “I s’pose it is fur the dog. And the poor beast ain’t nobody’s enemy. Wal!” So Prince had his warm house for the winter. Now Carolyn May put on her rubber boots and warm coat and hood and went out to release the dog for his morning run. His “morning scramble” would be the better term on this occasion. Why, at the first bound he was buried in a drift! “Isn’t it lucky,” said Carolyn May to Aunty Rose, who stood in the doorway, “that Prince can smell his way around so well? If it wasn’t for his nose, he’d never be able to find his way out of those drifts. If _I_ fell down in one, I know I wouldn’t be able to smell my way out again.” But after Chet Gormley had come and dug the paths, and the ox-teams had come along with ploughs to break out the roads, she found it possible to go to school. She took Prince with her. Prince had learned to behave very well at school now. He was not allowed in the schoolroom, but he remained on the porch or went back home, as he pleased. But he was always waiting at the door for his little mistress at recess and when the session closed.