Frosty knew the sun was hot that day. He knew his fate. But Frosty chose to spend what remained of his time living, not dying. He took his broomstick and he ran here and there, around the square, leading the nation's children into a rebellion not of street gangs, violent crime, teenage pregnancy or any of the other social ills that plague our youth, but a rebellion of joy.
He even paused for a moment when the town square's traffic cop called for him to stop, for Frosty was at his core a good and decent soul.
Frosty is gone now, a victim of seasonal change and global warming. Most of his corpse is scattered in the vast nothingness of this planet's oceans, some of it refroze and may be trapped glacially for millennia, some is locked underground, and some may be carrying away the sewage of the fetid masses of humanity, but the magical moment he gave our children will never die. Which is why I hope.... no, which is why I know, that someday Frosty will know the magic that is a trip over Yosemite falls.
I think I may have just peed out a piece of Frosty.