Such thoughts they had as they inhaled the delicious scent. Oxford came out into the room at last and threw his mouse up into the air. It fell lightly to the ground. Then Sally came out with her mouse and threw it up into the air. They were so excited and overstimulated that they began to break into verse. Elvira, Elvira, how we admire her! We give her warmest praise. She must sometime have been a cat, We both are very sure of that, A cat who lived in prehistoric days. Elvira, Elvira, how we admire her! It seemed almost as if Elvira had understood, for she said to Miss Harvey, ‘See how excited the kittens are. It reminds me of Martha Furbush-Tailby’s first catnip mouse and her verses.’ Sweet are the lessons of adversity, At least so people say; But sweeter is prosperity, I’ve learned that much to-day. For when the catnip mouse is new And full of catnip strength, The hours fly by on shining wings Not measured by their length. If I were asked what I would like To beautify my house, I’d say without a moment’s thought, ‘Give me a catnip mouse.’ [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII THE FIRST SNOWSTORM Sally sat at the window watching her first snowstorm. She was entranced by the way the flakes fell. They came down so softly, flying through the air like tiny white butterflies, and when they reached the earth, they all joined together in a wonderful white blanket. ‘Oxford,’ she said, ‘isn’t this a beautiful world? Doesn’t it seem as if millions of tiny white butterflies were coming down to cover the earth with a white blanket?’ ‘It looks more like powder to me, or rice,’ said Oxford. ‘I don’t see anything pretty about it. It’s just frozen rain.’ [Illustration] It was when her brother said things like this that Sally longed to have children who might perhaps be like her and understand how truly beautiful this wonderful world is. She did so wish that her great-grandfather was alive, for she was sure he would be a satisfying companion. He was a poet, and Elvira had sometimes read some of his verses aloud. They had been published in a book, and there were others that had never been printed. She longed to ask Elvira if her great-grandfather, William Furbush-Tailby, had ever written a poem about a snowstorm, but, although Elvira was unusually intelligent, for a person, Sally could not always make her thought-transference language understood. This time, however, it seemed to work, for Elvira took a book with writing in it out of a drawer in the cupboard and she said to Miss Harvey, ‘Did I ever read you Billy Furbush-Tailby’s poem on “The First Snowstorm of the Season”?’ Sally pricked up her ears, but Oxford Gray, Junior, went off to sleep, for verses bored him. They fall so softly from the sky, All coming down together; Why did they leave the regions high To give us stormy weather?