Cold Toes for Mrs. Huff

At the top of the lane stood a crooked little house. On the first cold night of autumn, its kitchen windows went misty at the corners.

Bo saw it first.

“Dad!” said Bo. “The windows are misty! It’s tonight!”

Bo was a small boy with very fluffy socks. They were yellow, and so fluffy that his feet looked like two baby ducks. He wore them in July. Once he wore them to the beach, and they came home full of sand.

In the corner of the kitchen stood Mrs. Huff, the old black stove. She had four short legs, a little iron door, an oven drawer, and a tall pipe that went up through the roof. Her name was on the pipe in white chalk, in Grandma’s curly writing, and it had never rubbed off.

All summer long, Mrs. Huff slept. When Bo put his ear to her little door, he could hear her snoring. Hoo-shh. Hoo-shh.

Mrs. Huff only woke up for cold toes. Every autumn, on the first cold night, Dad took off his socks and wiggled his bare toes at her door. Dad’s toes were always freezing. They were freezing in winter. They were freezing in summer. They were even freezing in the bath. So Mrs. Huff always woke right up for Dad.

But this year, Bo was doing the big job. He had asked in July. He had asked nearly every day since.

“All by myself,” said Bo.

“All by yourself,” said Dad.

Bo sat on the rag rug. He peeled off one fluffy sock, then the other. He wiggled his toes at Mrs. Huff’s little door. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

A low hum came out of her pipe. That was what Mrs. Huff did when she was thinking.

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Huff. “Not yet.”

Then she went back to snoring.

Bo looked at his toes. They were pink and warm as buns. They had been in fluffy socks all day.

“Those are very good socks,” said Dad.

So Bo stood on the kitchen tiles. The tiles were a little bit cold. He stood on one foot. He stood on the other foot. He stood for one whole minute, which is a very long time for a small boy. Then he hopped back and wiggled his toes. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Huff. “Not yet.”

Bo looked around the kitchen for something colder. He looked at the sink. Then he looked at the dog’s water bowl.

The dog looked at Bo.

Bo lifted one bare foot over the bowl.

“Not the dog’s bowl!” said Dad. He was laughing so hard he had to hold on to the table.

The dog took a long, slow drink, just in case.

Bo thought very hard. Where was the coldest place of all? Then he knew.

“The back step,” said Bo.

Dad opened the back door. The air was cold and clean, and the moon was round. Behind them, the kitchen window glowed yellow. The step was white with frost, and it sparkled.

“I’ll hold your hand,” said Dad.

Bo stepped out onto the frost. Oh, it was cold! He held Dad’s hand tight and counted.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” said Bo. “Eleven, twelve, eleventeen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!”

Bo always said eleventeen. He said it every year. Dad never fixed it, because Dad liked eleventeen very much.

Now Bo’s toes were pink and tingly, right to the tips. He ran inside and wiggled them at Mrs. Huff’s little door. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Huff.

Bo waited. Dad waited. The dog waited.

Mrs. Huff did not say “not yet.” She gave an enormous yawn.

PLOOF!

Her little door glowed orange. Her black sides ticked as they warmed. A soft, warm puff rolled out over Bo’s toes, like a blanket that had been out in the sun. One by one, all ten toes went cozy again.

“You did it,” said Dad. “You woke her all by yourself.”

Bo was too busy smiling to say anything.

Then the oven drawer slid open with a little scrape. Inside lay one green striped sock.

“My sock!” said Dad. “I lost that in June!”

Every summer, one of Dad’s socks went missing. Every autumn, Mrs. Huff gave it back, a little bit toasty. Dad pulled it on. Now he had one warm foot and one freezing foot, and he looked very pleased.

* * *

Supper was soup, bubbling in a pot on top of Mrs. Huff. Blup, blup, blup. Bo and Dad ate it with buttery toast, right next to the warm stove. Dad hung Bo’s fluffy socks on her rail to keep them toasty. Then he held his freezing foot up to her door until it was warm too.

“I’m glad she’s awake,” said Bo. “I missed her.”

“Me too,” said Dad.

After supper, Bo lay on the rag rug with his bare toes toward Mrs. Huff’s door. The orange glow was warm on his feet. Up on the pipe, Grandma’s chalk letters shone.

Bo meant to stay awake. But the rug was soft and his toes were warm, and his eyes closed all by themselves.

Dad picked him up, very gently, and carried him up the crooked stairs. He put the warm fluffy socks on Bo’s feet. He tucked the blanket up to Bo’s chin.

Down in the kitchen, the windows were misty at the corners. The dog was curled up by the stove. And Mrs. Huff glowed low and orange, keeping the whole crooked house warm.

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Huff, very softly.

This time it did not mean not yet. It meant good night, and well done, and see you in the morning.