Wilbur the Snowman and the Quiet Snowy Night
In the middle of a small front garden, on a soft white winter's night, there stood a cheerful little snowman named Wilbur, with a carrot nose, three black buttons, and a cosy red scarf wrapped snug around his neck.
All day, the garden had been full of noise and fun. Children had rolled Wilbur's big round bottom, and his middle, and his head. They had laughed and played and thrown soft snowballs, and packed the snow up tight, and given Wilbur his smiling face and his warm red scarf. It had been a wonderful, busy, joyful day.
But now the children had gone inside, into their warm bright houses, and something was happening that Wilbur loved best of all. The snow had begun to fall again — soft and slow and silent — and the whole world was growing quiet.
Down drifted the snowflakes, one by one, spinning gently through the glow of the streetlamp, settling without a sound. Down they came, soft as feathers, covering the rooftops and the trees and the gardens in a smooth white blanket. And with every falling flake, the world grew quieter, and quieter, and quieter still.
There is no quiet in all the world like the quiet of a snowy night. It is a soft quiet, a gentle quiet, a hushed and peaceful quiet — as if the whole world has been tucked snugly into bed beneath a cool white blanket.
Wilbur stood in the middle of it all, calm and content, and watched over the sleeping street. In the windows, the warm lights blinked out, one by one, as all the children climbed into their cosy beds. The snow kept falling, soft and slow. The streetlamp glowed. And everything, everywhere, was still.
"Goodnight, little houses," Wilbur whispered into the gentle snowfall. "Goodnight, sleeping children. I'll stand here, calm and quiet, and watch over you all night long."
And as the soft snow drifted down and the peaceful hush lay deep over the whole white world, the little snowman kept his gentle, happy watch — while every child on the quiet street drifted warmly and safely off to sleep.