The Sojourner by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

Snow fell softly all the winter day. The world was an inverted paper weight, the snow filled the round atmosphere, it was the atmosphere itself, shredded into these cool white patterns. Layer on layer piled on the tree limbs, extended like arms for garments, so that the trees were dressed and shapely. The roofs of houses and barns and sheds were inches deep in eiderdown. In late afternoon Ase heard the sleigh bells ringing, the clatter of horse hoofs, bringing the children home from school.

Ordinarily the three of school age, Nat and Arent and 'Melie, walked the two miles each way to the one-room Linden school-house, but in times of heavy snowfall he sent them off in the cutter, now that Nat was old enough to drive. He himself had never had the use of a rig for school, and he remembered the agony of walking, fighting against a bitter wind, his feet slipping backward, half crying in exasperation, the miles taking an eternity to cover. He had done his chores early, for there were signs of the weather's worsening. He waited and helped the boys unhitch and stable and feed and rub down the horse. The lamps were lit in the house when he went to it. The windows were golden. Firelight flickered orange and was reflected on the snow. The house was a white-banked haven. The kitchen door opened into a place of warmth and comfort and savory supper smells. Doll ran to meet him. She brushed the snow from his coat sleeves. Supper was early. If the children finished their homework quickly, Nellie said, they might pop corn or make pulled taffy, or both. They begged to do it now, to have the solace of munching while they studied. Nellie laughed and agreed.