“What is the use?” inquired Oscar.  “The storm is n’t over yet, and if I make a path, it will fill right up again.”

“No it won’t,” replied his father.  “I don’t think it will storm much longer; and the snow is so light, now, that you can shovel it easily, but if you leave it till noon, it maybe trodden down hard.  You need not clean off the whole side-walk now; only make a comfortable passage-way, and perhaps I will help you finish the job at night.”

Oscar still thought it would be a waste of labor to shovel a path then, and he did not evince any haste in obeying his father’s order.  After loitering about the house a long time, he took the shovel, and worked lazily at the path for awhile.  Although he only undertook to cut a narrow passage-way through the drift in front of the house, he worked with so little spirit, that when the time came for him to get ready for school, he had not half completed the task.  He asked permission to stay at home and finish his path, but his mother did not think this necessary, and refused her consent.  So he went to school, and in the meantime the storm died away, and the clouds dispersed.

Towards noon the door-bell rang, and on Bridget going to answer it, a little printed paper was handed to her, directing the occupant of the house to have the snow removed from his sidewalk within a given number of hours.  After school, Oscar thought no more of his path, but went off with Alfred Walton, and did not go home until dinner-time.  He had but little time now to shovel snow; but his father told him to be sure and come home directly from school, in the afternoon, and not to play or do anything else until the sidewalk was cleared off.

Oscar accordingly went home after school, and resumed his work.  He found that the snow was trodden into such a solid icy mass, that an axe was necessary to cut it up in some places.  He was not the boy to hurt himself with hard labor, and although he kept his shovel at work in a leisurely way, he did not accomplish much, except the removal of a little snow that had not got trodden down.  Wearied at length with his feeble and fruitless efforts, he returned into the house, saying to his mother: 

“There, I can’t get the snow off the sidewalk, and it’s of no use to try.  It’s trodden down just as hard as ice.  Besides, if I should shovel it all off, there will be an avalanche from the top of the house to-night, that will bury the sidewalk all up again.  The snow is sliding off the roofs, all around here;—­have n’t you heard it, mother?”

“Yes, I thought I heard it,” replied Mrs. Preston; “but if you can’t get the snow off the sidewalk, you had better speak to your father about it, when he comes home, and perhaps he will help you, or hire somebody to do it for you.  It must be got off as soon as possible, for the police have notified us to attend to it.”

In spite of this advice, Oscar neglected to speak to his father in regard to the matter, and no one else happening to think of it, nothing was said about it.  The next morning, he chopped away upon the ice a little while, but getting tired of it, he soon abandoned the job, and went to play.  When Mr. Preston came home to dinner, an unusual cloud was on his brow; and as soon as Oscar came in, the cause was explained.