“What can that be?” Leila said, the smallest.
“I know,” said Cora. “It cleans the sky, and it is the Blessed Virgin who swings his feather bed.”
“Not at all,” said Myriam; “they are not feathers, but small pieces of paper, and these are the angels who empty the baskets where the little Jesus threw the letters that children write to him at Christmas. Yes, I am sure, I recognize my paper.”
“Me,” said Zipporah the greedy, “I believe it is sugar. If only we could taste it!”
But Daniel, their older brother, who had heard everything, laughed:
“Neither sugar nor letters torn or feathers! It’s snow, snow as there are every year in Europe, snow with which we make snowballs and snowmen. We’ll do it tomorrow, if you are wise.”
“What a pity that it is not sugar!” sighed Zipporah passing his tongue on the glass.