"And at home," broke in Maine, who was a tall girl, too, but lithe
and breezy as a young willow, with flyaway hair and dancing brown
eyes, "at home all is winter--white, beautiful, glorious winter,
with ice two or three feet thick on the rivers, and great fields and
fields of snow, all sparkling in the sun, and the sky a vast
sapphire overhead, without a speck. Oh, the glory of it, the
splendor of it! And here--here it is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor
good red herring. A wretched, makeshift season, which they call
winter because they don't know what else to call it."

"Come! come!" said Old New York, who was seventeen years old and had
her own ideas of dignity. "Let us alone, you two outsiders! We are
neither Eskimos nor Hindoos, it is true, but the Empire State would
not change climates with either of you."

"No, indeed!" chimed in Young New York, who always followed her
leader in everything, from opinions down to hair-ribbons.

"No, indeed!" repeated Virginia, with languid scorn. "Because you
couldn't get any one to change with you, my dear."

Young New York reddened. "You are so disagreeable, Virginia!" she
said. "I am sure I am glad I don't have to live with you all the
year round--"

"Personal remarks!" said Massachusetts, looking up calmly. "One cent,
Young New York, for the missionary fund. Thank you! Let me give you
each half an apple, and you will feel better."