Snow by Parcel Post

In Rosie’s valley, the first snow of winter came by post.

It came on the last cart before the frost, in brown paper parcels tied with string. Rosie’s mom was the postwoman. She kept the parcels in the big ice-box at the back of the post office. On the lid was a sign. It said DO NOT SIT ON THE SNOW.

Rosie had never once sat on the snow. She did not even sit near it.

On delivery day, Rosie put on her red mittens. Mom put on the big post sack.

“Every parcel, before teatime,” said Rosie. “Then the whole valley will be white by bedtime.”

“Every single one,” said Mom.

The parcels were very cold, and drippy at the corners. So Rosie carried each one out in front of her, arms straight, feet slow, as if it were a birthday cake with all the candles lit.

At every gate, Mom whistled the same three notes. Tee, tee, too. It meant the post was here.

The first gate was the sheep farm. Tee, tee, too, went Mom. Rosie carried the parcel up the path like a cake, and the farmer opened it on the doorstep.

Fwoof!

Out puffed the snow, white as flour from a bag. It went up, and up, and then it came gently down. It settled on the roof. It settled on the garden. It settled on the gate, and there it stopped. The farm was white from chimney to gate, and the lane outside was still brown.

The parcel for the windmill was long and thin, much longer than Rosie. It was very hard to carry like a cake.

Mr. Rook the miller was at the very top of his windmill, the way he always was. He waved with both arms.

“Lovely day for it!” said Mr. Rook, very loudly, because he was very high up. He said that every day, even when it rained sideways.

Mr. Rook climbed all the way down and opened the long thin parcel. Fwoof! Snow settled on the four big sails, and the little round roof, and Mr. Rook’s hat.

The parcel for the duck pond came in a jar. Ducks cannot open jars, so Rosie unscrewed the lid herself. Fwoof! The pond went white from edge to edge. Then all the ducks came and sat on it.

“They can’t read the sign,” said Rosie.

On they went. The goat farm went white. The Red Barn went white. The bakery and the school and the house with the blue door went white. One house at a time, the brown valley was turning white.

Then the sack went light. At the very bottom was one last parcel. It was small, and it had dripped all over its own label. The ink had run. All that was left was a big, smudgy R.

Rosie held it out like a cake and thought hard. “R is for Rook!” said Rosie.

So back they went to the windmill. Mr. Rook waved from the very top.

“Already got mine!” said Mr. Rook, very loudly. “Lovely day for it!”

And the windmill was white.

“R is for Reed,” said Rosie. So they went to the goat farm. Mrs. Reed opened the door with a small goat under one arm.

“Already got mine!” said Mrs. Reed.

And the goat farm was white.

“R is for Red Barn,” said Rosie. So they went to the Red Barn. The farmer leaned out of the hay door, up high.

“Already got mine!” said the farmer.

And the Red Barn was white.

Rosie sat down on a stone wall. She checked first that it had no snow on it. The sky was going blue, and lamps were coming on in the windows.

“Everybody has theirs,” said Rosie. “So who is R?”

“Let’s go home,” said Mom. “Toast is good for thinking.”

So they walked home up the hill. At the top, they stopped to look. The whole valley lay white in the blue evening. Every roof and every gate, the windmill, the pond with the ducks on it. All but one.

At the end of the lane was a little house with a crooked chimney. Its roof was still brown.

“Mom,” said Rosie. “That’s our house.”

She looked at the roof. She looked at the parcel. She looked at the big smudgy R.

“R is for Rosie!” said Rosie.

Mom laughed so much she had to sit down on the grass. “I take the post to every house in the valley,” said Mom, “and I forgot my own! What a good thing I have such a careful helper.”

At their own gate, Mom whistled. Tee, tee, too. She had never done that at home before. Rosie giggled. Then she carried the last parcel up the path, arms straight, feet slow, like a cake.

She opened it on her very own doorstep.

Fwoof.

The snow puffed out softly. It settled on their roof, and their garden, and their gate. A little bit was left over, just enough for one small snow-cat. Rosie made it by the gatepost, with two pebble eyes and a long curly tail.

“Every parcel,” said Rosie. “Before teatime.”

“Every single one,” said Mom.

They had toast by the stove. Then Mom tucked Rosie into bed.

Out of the window, the moon shone on the white valley. On the windmill and its four white sails. On the goat farm and the Red Barn. On the ducks, still sitting on their pond. On the little snow-cat by the gate.

Mom shook the empty post sack. “Anybody left who needs their snow?” said Mom.

Rosie pulled the quilt up to her chin. “Already got mine,” said Rosie, very softly.

Rosie fell asleep under her own white roof, warm and glad.