The winter is the hardest time.  When Christmas comes there is not even a tree, for there are no candles to light one and no presents to give.  But there is one beautiful gift which they may and do all give to each other,—­it makes them happier than many toys or books,—­it is love.  It makes even this cold dreary Christmas bright and beautiful to them.

Next winter will not be so hard, for in the spring corn will be planted, and plenty of potatoes and turnips and cabbages; and they will have enough to eat and something to sell for money.

But I must not stay to tell you more now of the backwoods life of Louise and her brothers and sister.  If you travel some day to the West, perhaps you will see her yourself, gathering her nuts under the trees, or sitting in the sun on the doorstep with her knitting.  Then you will know her for the little sister who has perhaps come closest to your heart, and you will clasp each other’s hands in true affection.

THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS.

Here, dear children, are your seven little sisters.  Let us count them over.  First came the brown baby, then Agoonack, Gemila, Jeannette, Pen-se, Manenko, and Louise.  Seven little sisters I have called them, but Marnie exclaims:  “How can they be sisters when some are black, some brown, and some white; when one lives in the warm country and another in the cold, and Louise upon the shores of the Rhine?  Sallie and I are sisters, because we have the same father and live here together in the same house by the seaside; but as for those seven children, I can’t believe them to be sisters at all.”

Now let us suppose, my dear little girl, that your sister Sallie should go away,—­far away in a ship across the ocean to the warm countries, and the sun should burn her face and hands and make them so brown that you would hardly know her,—­wouldn’t she still be your sister Sallie?

And suppose even that she should stay away in the warm countries and never come back again, wouldn’t she still be your dear sister? and wouldn’t you write her letters and tell her about home and all that you love there?

I know you would.

And now, just think if you yourself should take a great journey through ice and snow and go to the cold countries, up among the white bears and the sledges and dogs; suppose even that you should have an odd little dress of white bear-skin, like Agoonack, wouldn’t you think it very strange if Sallie shouldn’t call you her little sister just because you were living up there among the ice?

And what if Minnie, too, should take it into her head to sail across the seas and live in a boat on a Chinese river, like Pen-se, and drive the ducks, eat rice with chopsticks, and have fried mice for dinner; why, you might not want to dine with her, but she would be your sweet, loving sister all the same, wouldn’t she?

I can hear you say “Yes” to all this, but then you will add:  “Father is our father the same all the time, and he isn’t Pen-se’s father, nor Manenko’s.”