That roof was six inches deep in snow, and the snow had an ice-crust upon it which was as slick as glass.

Out of the comb of the roof projected a short chimney, a common resort for sentimental cats on moonlight nights--and this was a moonlight night.

Down at the eaves, below the chimney, a canopy of dead vines spread away to some posts, making a cozy shelter, and after an hour or two the rollicking crowd of young ladies and gentlemen grouped themselves in its shade, with their saucers of liquid and piping-hot candy disposed about them on the frozen ground to cool.

There was joyous chaffing and joking and laughter--peal upon peal of it.
About this time a couple of old disreputable tom-cats got up on the chimney and started a heated argument about something; also about this time I gave up trying to get to sleep, and went visiting to Jim's room.
He was awake and fuming about the cats and their intolerable yowling.

I asked him, mockingly, why he didn't climb out and drive them away.