But while I am boasting, old boy, the sun has gone, and left my little world all chilled. That beastly old winter has pushed his way into my very room, so that the pen trembles in my stiff fingers; there is actually ice in my glass, and my nose is blue. Detestable color! it makes me think of graveyards. I hate anything pale.--Hullo, wake up! St. Martin is ringing his chimes; it is Candlemas today. “When the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,” does it indeed? then we must do likewise, we will go out and meet it face to face. It is cold, and no mistake; my cheeks sting with the frost needles, and the north wind lies in wait at the corner to catch me by the beard, but I am beginning to warm up, thank the Lord! and my complexion is once more brilliant. I like the ring of the hard ground under my feet, it makes me as merry as a grig, but what ails all these folks that they are so pinched and wretched-looking? “Well, Mrs. Neighbor, what has put you out? It’s the wind, hey, rumpling up your skirts? I don’t blame him, young rascal! I wish I were young myself; he knows the right spot--greedy scamp! he picks out the toothsome morsels. Have patience, old girl; live and let live. And where are you running, as if the devil were after you? To church? God will always get the better of Satan. Those who weep will rejoice, and frost will burn. Now you are laughing yourself? good, good; I am on the run for church too, yes I am off to Mass like you, only it will not be said by the Curé,--Mass in the fields is what I mean.” I stop at my daughter’s first to get my little Glodie, for we walk together every day. Best little friend that she is to me! my lambling, my little chirping frog, just five years old; as wide-awake as a mouse and keen as mustard. She comes running to meet me, for she knows I always have a lot of new stories for her, it is hard to say which she loves most;--so we go on hand in hand. “Come along, darling, to meet the lark.” “What lark?” “It is Candlemas. Did you never hear that today the lark comes back to us out of the skies?” “What did he do up there?” “He went to look for fire.” “What fire?” “Fire to make sunshine, fire to boil the kettle.” “Did the fire fly away then?” “Why yes, on All Saints’ Day. In November every year it leaves us to go and warm up the stars.” “And how do we get him back again?” “We send three little birds to fetch him.” “Oh, do tell me!” There she is trotting along the road, all warmly snuggled in a jacket of soft white wool, looking like a little robin in her red hood. She doesn’t mind the cold, not she! but her fat cheeks are like rosy apples, and her little nose runs. “Ah, this little candle needs the snuffers, is that because of Candlemas? and the lights in Heaven?” “Oh, Grandfather, do tell about the three little birds.”