‘In the first place,’ began Jack Frost, ‘Buttons has lost Boots.’ Here he paused for a moment to shift his paint-brush from one shoulder to the other, but Fleetfoot was too wise to interrupt by a question. He knew what a sharp little fellow Jack Frost could be if he wished. ‘Buttons is a little boy,’ went on Jack Frost, taking a tight hold on Fleetfoot’s hand. ‘He has a new winter coat trimmed with brass buttons. And, too, his eyes are as round as buttons and so are his nose and his mouth. All this may be why he is called Buttons. I can’t say. Boots is his cat. It is easy to tell where he gets his name, for he wears a white fur boot on each foot.’ Brownie Fleetfoot didn’t answer, for at that moment he tumbled headlong into a drift of snow. He lay there kicking until Jack Frost pulled him out and gently shook him to brush him off. ‘Try to keep your eyes open,’ said Jack Frost, tweaking the end of Fleetfoot’s nose. ‘And now come along. I was in Buttons’ front yard to-night painting his maple tree yellow and red,’ continued Jack Frost, ‘and a very pretty tree it is going to be. The night was as quiet as quiet could be, not a sound, when, all of a sudden, out of the door like a flash came Boots and shot off round the house as fast as he could go. He didn’t stop for anything. I could hear the bell on his neck tinkling all the way to the top of Butternut Hill. That is a high hill just back of Buttons’ house. Look out for that ice, Fleetfoot! Do you want to tumble down?’ The little Brownie laughed and shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t hurt me if I did,’ said saucy Fleetfoot, but under his breath so that Jack Frost couldn’t hear. ‘In no time at all,’ went on Jack Frost, ‘out of the house came Buttons himself in his night-clothes and no slippers, enough to give him his death of cold. And he started to hunt for Boots.’ ‘It is lucky his mother didn’t see him,’ said Fleetfoot. ‘You know how particular mothers are about coats and sweaters and rubbers and all.’ ‘Yes, I know,’ answered Jack Frost shortly. Perhaps he thought it was partly his fault that mothers behaved so. At any rate, he didn’t seem pleased. ‘Don’t interrupt, Fleetfoot. Of course Buttons hadn’t heard the bell going up Butternut Hill, so where does he go to look for Boots but round the barn. He thought Boots was after mice, I suppose. Well, I did my best to make Buttons go up Butternut Hill. I whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t understand a word I said. He thought I was the wind blowing. Think of that! Then I rubbed my icicle over his nose and gave his cheeks and his toes a little pinch. But that didn’t help either. He kept walking round and round the barn calling, “Boots! Boots!” and saying, “Ouch!” every time he stepped on a sharp stone with his bare feet.’ ‘Poor Buttons!’ murmured Fleetfoot, looking down at his own pointed Brownie shoes that were helping him speed so swiftly over the ground. ‘Poor Buttons! He must have hurt his toes.’