JOE'S MITTENS
“Joe, put
your mittens on.”
“Awe, Mom.”
“Put them on.
It’s 20 degrees outside. I don't need you freezing your fingers numb.”
Joe loved
playing in the snow and making snowmen, but he hated wearing mittens. He quietly
opened the back door, hoping to escape mittenless, but his mother entered the
kitchen before he succeeded.
“Joseph
Andrew Johnson. Put those mittens on right now.”
“Mom, the
right one’s still wet.”
“Put them on
anyway.” Joe stuffed his hands into the mittens.
Once outside,
Joe formed snowballs and stacked them into a fort. The wet stuff molded easily.
Soon, the
fort bored Joe. He grabbed a snowball from the fort and planted it on the
ground. He pushed it around the backyard until, in his mind, it was just the
right size. Then, he rolled it in front of the picture window. He rolled a
second and a third, stacking them on each other. Finally, he stepped back and
looked at his creation.
“Gee, you don’t
look much like a snowman,” Joe sighed.
He grabbed
Matchlite charcoal eyes and buttons from the garage, broke off a long, icicle
nose from the eaves trough, and grabbed two stick arms from the kindling pile.
“There.
That’s better,” he declared. As the cold wind blew, Joe looked at the snowman.
“You look very cold, Mr. Snowman.” Joe wrapped his scarf around the snowman’s
neck, settled his stocking cap on its head, and placed his mittens on its stick
hands. “There! You’ll stay nice and warm now.”
As Joe
entered the kitchen, the smell of cocoa drifted through the door. “Joseph,
where are your mittens?”
“Somebody
needed them more than I did.”
“Who?”
“Mr.
Snowman.”
Looking at
the snowman, Mom smiled. She couldn’t be mad with him; he shared his mittens
with “someone” who needed them.
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