The little girl went to the window and looked out. The
air was filled with falling white flakes, so large in
size and so queer in form that she was puzzled.

"Are you certain this is snow?" she asked.

"To be sure. I must get my snow-shovel and turn out to
shovel a path. Would you like to come with me?"

"Yes," she said, and followed the Bumpy Man out when he
opened the door. Then she exclaimed: "Why, it isn't cold
a bit!"

"Of course not," replied the man. "It was cold last
night, before the snowstorm; but snow, when it falls, is
always crisp and warm."

Trot gathered a handful of it.

"Why, it's popcorn?" she cried.

"Certainly; all snow is popcorn. What did you expect it
to be?"

"Popcorn is not snow in my country."

"Well, it is the only snow we have in the Land of Mo,
so you may as well make the best of it," said he, a
little impatiently. "I'm not responsible for the absurd
things that happen in your country, and when you're in Mo