Free The Four-Story Mistake by Elizabeth Enright Page A

for Randy. Snowflakes were a mystery altogether.
    â€œCome on,” she said. “Let’s go up through the woods to the top of the hill and see how it looks from up there.”
    By lunchtime the valley was lightly coated, like a cake with confectioner’s sugar; and by half past three the snow was of a respectable depth: halfway to the tops of their galoshes. There was white fur on the antlers of the iron deer and on the melancholy boughs of the Norway spruce.
    They cleared the front drive with Willy, built a snowman for Oliver and a fort for all of them. “But, gee, if we only had a sled!” Rush said finally. Oliver stopped digging, leaned thoughtfully on his spade, and in a moment or two drifted inconspicuously toward the house.
    Scrape, scr-a-a-pe, went Willy’s industrious shovel. The millions of little white stars twinkled down, and down, and down; an endless supply. Mona bent over and wrote her name, big, on the snow with the point of her mitten.
    MONA MELENDY.
    Then she stood off and looked at it. It was the kind of name that would look well in lights when she was famous. Oh, yes, of course, Mona Melendy. Isn’t she wonderful? The most perfect Juliet I ever—
    â€œOw! Rush, you devil!” yelped Mona furiously as a wet, generous handful of snow down her back brought the glorious daydream to a close. The fight was on. Half in earnest, half in fun, they pelted each other, rolled on the ground, got soaking wet. Rush was strong, but Mona was bigger. She got him down, finally, and was sitting firmly on his chest combing her disheveled hair when she saw Oliver returning.
    â€œWhy, look what he’s got!” she exclaimed, rising suddenly and liberating her victim.
    â€œSleds, gee whiz,” murmured Rush, in awe. They were sort of funny, shabby old things with high, rusted runners, and names painted on them in fancy letters. “Snow Demon,” one was called. “Little Kriss Kringle” was the other. Yes, they were strange, but never mind, they were sleds!
    â€œWhere’d you ever get them, Fatso?” inquired Rush.
    â€œMe? Oh. I just found them,” replied Oliver vaguely.
    â€œBut where? ”
    â€œOh, just around.”
    â€œWhat do you mean around? I never saw any sleds lying around the Four-Story Mistake. Come on, Oliver, give us the dope, like a good guy.”
    â€œI can’t,” said Oliver firmly. “It’s a secret.”
    Randy couldn’t resist boasting a little. “I know where he got them,” she crowed. “But I promised not to tell.” And she and Oliver exchanged a wink of the greatest satisfaction and good will.
    The sleds turned out to be all right, though not greased lightning by any means. Rush had an inspiration, too, and went and got two large dishpans from the house; so each of them had a suitable vehicle for traveling down a snowy hill. The dishpans were particularly exciting, because they not only descended rapidly, but spun round and round while doing so. At the bottom of the slope you rose with difficulty, staggered, and discovered that you were the exact center of a world that revolved about you like a mammoth merry-go-round. Oliver was the only one who didn’t care for this. His stomach resented the spinning of the dishpan, though for some reason it did not resent being slammed down belly-whopper on a sled over and over again.
    Even Willy Sloper came and joined them for a while, and the picture of him going down the slide in a dishpan, arms and legs waving like an old-fashioned windmill was one that none of them would ever forget.
    â€œI know what let’s do,” Mona said, when they were all exhausted and hot and red-cheeked. “I read about it in a book. They made snow ice cream in this book. Why don’t we make some?”
    â€œHow do you do it?”
    â€œWell, first we have to beg a bottle of milk and some sugar from Cuffy. You do it, Rush. You’re best at