It was midwinter, and the river was frozen over. The boats had not been running for many days, and the happiest time of all the happy days for the young people of the river towns had come. The ponds and creeks were forgotten in the great event of skating on the river, and for miles the smooth surface was a speedway over which the skaters made merry excursions. In front of Skarrow the ice was firm, and with that buoyancy so dear to the lovers of this sport. In the afternoons the young people from the town of Skarrow and Vincent on the opposite side, all met on the river. All classes were there—the darkey with his big crook-runner skates, and the young beau, with his latest style polished runners. The two races voluntarily divided the skating grounds, the white people above, and the colored folks below.

The merry jingle of sleigh-bells could be heard amid this happy throng, and glad voices rising in a splendid chorus, echoed throughout the valley, and many a love dream had its first awakening and sweet realization in this joyous time. How the crisp, frosty air brought the glow of health and beauty to the cheek; how sweet the music of maiden voices rising upon the wintry air, and the tumbling of glossy curls underneath the hoods and sealskin caps as they sped through the delightful hours. Tullie Wasson was out there with his string band—Tullie with his old black fiddle, and Jim Grey with his cornet, and his son with his wondrous bass violin, and Tullie knew all the good old tunes, and a few fancy waltzes and polkas, but he was at his best in the Virginia Reel, and it was a pretty sight to see the joyous couples ranging off to their positions for the ice dance, and what great bursts of laughter and cries of happiness swelled up when Tullie shouted, "Git yer pardners fer a Reel!" The movements of the dance were executed with a grace that would have done credit to the ball-room, Jimmy Dunla, the master of ceremonies, occasionally leaving the lines to give an exhibition of fancy skating and cutting his name on the ice.

Then came the races. The towns of Vincent and Skarrow gave a cup each skating year for the winner of the Ice Race. The race was for one thousand yards, the starting point was at the big hay barn, and a red flag marked the post at the end of the course. Four young men from each side of the river were entered in this race, the event of the season. Indiana held the cup. It had been three years since the last race. Among those entered by the Kentucky boys was Shawn. He had been practicing for many days, and somehow, the hopes of Kentucky were centered in him. The winner of the last race was also entered again. He was one of the most popular boys of the Indiana town, and the betting was strongly in his favor. He was of magnificent build, with a long, graceful stroke, and came skating out before the crowd with the easy confidence of one who felt that the race was won. He closely watched the Kentucky boys as they circled about the crowd preparatory to starting for the head of the course. His eyes were fixed on Shawn. Turning to a friend, he said, "If I am beaten to-day, there's the young fellow who will get the cup." He skated over toward Shawn, and extending his hand, with the utmost good will, he said, "I'm afraid that I will have to beat my old record to win out to-day." Shawn smilingly took his hand and answered, "We are going to do our best, but if Indiana keeps the cup, I know of no one who would deserve it more than you, Danner."

The starter announced the race, and ordered the contestants to the head of the course. As they gracefully swung away, Lallite waved her hand toward Shawn, and the tender glance from her blue eyes sent a thrill into his bosom.

They were forming for the start, sixty yards beyond the flag which marked the line of starting. All was excitement in the crowd gathered on each side near the finishing line. It seemed that every voice was hushed as they saw the red flag at the head of the course suddenly fall, and heard the cry, "Go!" They could see the flash of steel against the ice as the skaters bent every effort toward the goal. After the first hundred yards, Danner and Shawn were seen to be in the lead, Danner almost erect and coming like a whirlwind. Shawn was bending over, but close on Danner's heels, and with a shorter but much faster stroke. Swish, swish, swish—they could hear the sound of the skates on the ice.

The Indiana crowd set up a mighty shout. "Come on, Danner! Look at Danner!"

"Come, Shawn," yelled the Kentucky boys. Old Brad ran out and threw up his hat and shouted, "Down to it, my Shawn—bust yo'se'f wide open, honey!"

Shawn was just behind Danner. They were nearing the last hundred yard flag. Danner threw all his energy and power into the last effort; every nerve and muscle was strained to its utmost.

"Danner wins!" went up the cry, but suddenly like a rush of wind, Shawn shot past him and the flag went down with Shawn a good five yards in the lead.

And such a mighty shout that went up on that frozen stream was never heard before. Old Brad was rubbing Shawn's face and chest. Shawn heard the loud huzzas and heard Danner's voice praising his wonderful race, but best of all, Lallite came up, and with her own hand, presented him the cup. On the shoulders the boys of Skarrow he was carried in triumph. It was a proud day for Shawn. He had brought the cup back to Kentucky.