One winter day, when I was about 6 years old, I went out one morning. It was a beatiful sunny day and I decided to make a snowman. I had two black buttons and a carrot in my pocket. I worked hard for about 3 hours, but when I finished, I started to cry, because I thought that my snowman was ugly. I sat down next to it and looked around.
I suddenly noticed birds footprints. I had read from a dwarf book that dwarfs use bird legs to move from place to place. So I began to follow the footprints. I felt like a detective. I was very exited and hoped to find a dwarfhouse. I was getting hungry, I hadn't eaten since 9 o'clock in the morning. I couldn't give up, I kept searching. I had another problem, too- my mother had asked me to be home before the dark and the sun had nearly disappeared to the west. I lost the trace of the bird footprintses. I was sure that I had to dig where I had stopped, to find their house.
I went home to eat and sleep. The next morning I went to find the mysterious place again, but I wasn't able to find it anymore, because it had been snowing all night. I wasn't disapponted at all. I had other things to be happy about on the Christmas Day. I ran inside to unpack my presents. It was a good day.
The moral of this story is that sometimes hope is the best comfort for sadness.
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