In "Littleman" by Tish Cohen, the eponymous Littleman, having completed his daily errands on a snowy Sunday afternoon in Toronto, is prevented from returning to his attic apartment by a particularly menacing mound of snow. But for his ankle-high galoshes, the aging poet could scrabble over the embankment. As it is, he faces wetting his ankles and very possibly catching a chill. Vexing, indeed—how is a person to work on his poem if he is shivering to near-certain death? Of course, there was that sensible pair of snowmobile boots back at the widow Macintosh's weekly garage sale. Ms. Macintosh, she calls herself now, parading about with her pert new haircut. Her smiles could make a man blush so deeply he's barely able to make a decision! However. The boots did come clear up to his knees. And he does need proper seasonal attire. Lately, his poetry tends to leave him cold and uninspired, and with the recent snowfall, his apartment seems farther away than usual. Yes, perhaps he should go back and get those snowmobile boots.