When Charley awoke one morning, he looked from the window, and saw the ground deeply covered with snow.
On the side of the house nearest the kitchen, the snow was piled higher than Charley's head.
"We must have a path through this snow," said his father. "I would make one if I had time. But I must be at the office early this morning.
"Do you think you could make the path, my son?" he asked little Charley.
"I? Why, the snow is higher than my head! How could I ever cut a path through that snow?"
"How? Why, by doing it little by little. Suppose you try," said the father, as he left for his office.
So Charley got the snowshovel and set to work. He threw up first one shovelful, and then another; but it was slow work.
"I don't think I can do it, mother," he said. "A shovelful is so little, and there is such a heap of snow."
"Little by little, Charley," said his mother. "That snow fell in tiny bits, flake by flake, but you see what a great pile it has made."

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