ALL night those new and cherished acquisitions, your copper toed boots, had served patient sentry-duty beside your peaceful couch, now wistfully to wonder why their lord and master did not awaken and see what had happened.

The rising-bell summoned you, but you only protested, blind, and snuggled for another snooze.

“Snowing, John! Get up!” called father.

“Scrape, scrape,” came to your ears the warning of an early shovel.

Your heart gave a wild hurrah, open popped your eyes, to the floor you floundered, to the window you staggered. Sure enough! The sill was heaped to the lower panes, and in the air the flakes were as thick as swarming bees.

Ecstatically alive, you hustled on your clothes, bestowed on face and hair a cold lick and a hasty promise, and in the copper-toed boots (eager for the fray) raced noisily down the stairs.

You found the household less exhilarated and enthusiastic than you had expected.

“Well, this is a snowstorm!” commented mother, in a blank way, pouring the coffee.

“Um-m-m! You bet!” you mumbled.

“It’s good for all day, I guess,” said father solemnly, sipping from his cup as he gazed out.

“Oh, dear! Do you think so?” sighed mother, aghast.

“Oh, gee! I hope so!” sighed you, fervently.

“Shouldn’t wonder if we had a foot or more, by night,” continued father.

You heard him rapturously. Father knew—but it seemed almost too good!

Fourteen buckwheat cakes were all that you could allow yourself, this morning. The snow needed you; and grabbing cap and scarf and mittens, with a battle-cry of defiance and joy you rushed, by the back door, into the furious vortex. The crackling stove, the cheery carpet, the warm, balmy, comfortable atmosphere of indoors appealed not to you.

First, exultantly you dragged forth for a preliminary canter your faithful sled, long since extricated from summer quarters and held in readiness for action. The snow proved satisfactory.

“Ain’t this dandy!” you shouted through the driving flakes, across from chores in your back yard to Hen at chores in his back yard.

“You bet you!” agreed Hen.

So it was, for boys; and Madam Nature, hovering anxiously near, knew that her efforts were appreciated.

“Won’t the hill be bully, tho’!” you jubilated.

“Golly!” reflected Hen.

“Got your runners polished yet?” he asked. “Mine’s all rust.”

“So are mine,” you replied.

Down crowded the snow—there never are such snows, nowadays; so jolly, so welcome, so free from disagreeable features—and in school and as you ploughed back and forth and shoveled your paths, you and your comrades were riotously happy.

Down tumbled the snow—great, soft flakes of it like shredded wool-pack—until, when it ceased, as much had fallen as heart of boy could wish for, which was considerable more than would have satisfied the majority of other people.

The hill was covered, and “sliding” was to be “dandy”—and that was your sole thought. Why else had the snow come?

To-day you remember that hill, don’t you? Middleton’s Hill! Of course you do! The best hill that ever existed. Perfect—for coasting. Ideal—for coasting. Grand—for coasting. Therefore an invaluable possession, although, be it said, of importance rather underestimated by the public generally.

The hill started off gently; suddenly, with a dip, increased its slope; and after a curve, and a splendid bump over a culvert, merged with the level roadway. Difficult enough to ascend in muddy spring, in dusty summer, and even in hard fall, when with the winter it came into its own and was polished by two hundred runners, horse and man usually sought another route. It was practically surrendered to you and yours, as your almost undisputed heritage.

To be sure, occasionally some rebellious citizen attempted to adapt it to his own selfish ends by sprinkling ashes, in a spasmodic fashion, athwart it; but a little snow or water soon nullified the feeble essay. To be sure, occasionally a stubborn driver, his discretion less than his valor, tilted at the glistening, glassy acclivity; and while his horses, zigzagging and slipping, toiled upward, you and yours hailed him as a special gift of Providence and gleefully hitched on behind.

Yes, it was a paragon of a hill, with a record of pleasure to which here and there a broken bone (soon mended) lent but additional zest.

The hill is ready. The track, at first traced by the accommodating sleds and feet of a pioneer few, gradually has been packed and polished until now it lies smooth, straight-away, inviting.

The hill is ready. So are you. Your round turban-like cap is pulled firmly upon your head and over your ears, your red tippet (mother knit it) twice encircles your neck, crosses your breast, and is tied (by mother) behind in a double knot, your red double mittens (mother knit them and constantly darns them) are on your hands, and your legs and feet are in your stout copper-toed, red-topped boots. And your cheeks (mother kissed them) are red, too.

Twitched by its leading-rope, follows you, like a loyal dog, your sled—a very fine sled, than which none is finer.

“Say, but she’s slick, ain’t she!” glories Hen, as you and he hurriedly draw in sight of your goal. From all quarters other boys, and girls as well, are converging, with gay chatter, upon this Mecca of winter sport. Far and wide has gone forth the word that Middleton’s hill is “bully.”

“Ain’t she!” you reply enthusiastically.

With swoop and swerve and shrill cheer down scud the sleds and bobs of the earlier arrivals, and the spectacle spurs you to the crest.

Panting, you reach it.

“You go first,” you say, to Hen.

“Naw; you,” says he.

“All right. I’d just as lief,” you respond.

Breast-high you raise your sled, its rope securely gathered in your hands.

“Clea-ear the track!” you shriek.

“Clea-ear the track!” echoes down the hill, from the mouths of solicitous friends.

You give a little run, and down you slam, sled and all, but you uppermost; a masterly exposition of “belly-bust.” Over the crest you dart. The slope is beneath you, and now you are off, willy-nilly.

“Clea-ear the track!” again you shriek, with your last gasp.

You have begun to fall like a rocket, faster, faster, ever faster, through the black-bordered lane. The wind blinds your eyes, the wind stops your breath, the wind sings in your ears, like an oriflamme stream and strain your tippet-ends, and the snow-crystals spin in your wake. Dexterously applying your toes you steer more by intuition than by sight. You dash around the curve; you strike the culvert, and it flings you into the air until daylight shows ’twixt you and your steed; ka-thump! you have landed again; and presently over the level you glide with slowly decreasing speed until, the last glossy inch covered, the uttermost mark possible, this time, attained, you arise, with eyes watery and face tingly, and stand aside to watch Hen, who comes apace in your rear.

“Aw, that ain’t fair! You’re shovin’! That don’t count!” you assert, as Hen, in order to equal your mark, evinces an inclination to propel with his hands, alligator fashion.

Hen sheepishly desists, and scrambles to his feet.

“Cracky! That’s a reg’ler old belly-bumper, ain’t it!” he exclaims joyously.

He refers to the delicious culvert. You assent. The culvert is a consummation of bliss to which words even more expressive than Hen’s may not do justice.

Up the slope, in the procession along its edge, you and he trudge; and down again, in the procession along its middle, you fly. Over and over and over you do it, and the snow fills sleeve and neck and boot-leg.

Occasionally, with much noise but little real speed, adown the track comes a girl, or two girls. The majority of them, however, use a track of their own—a shorter, slower track, off at one side. Poor things, condemned by fate to their own company and that of the smallest, timidest urchins, they pretend to have exciting times.

They sit up straight, girls do, the ethics of society seeming to deny them the privilege of “belly-buster,” and on high sleds—nothing can be more ignominious than a “girl’s sled”—scraping and screaming, showing glimpses of red flannel petticoats as they prod with their heels, acting much like frightened hens scuttling through a yard they plough to their goal.

For a girl to essay the big hill appears to be “no end of” an undertaking. First she—or, probably they, inasmuch as girls usually adventure in pairs, to encourage each other; first they, then, squat on their flimsy sled, girl fashion (another reproach this: “girl fashion”), and titter and shriek; and the one on behind urges by “hitching” with her feet in the peculiar girl way, and the one on before holds back with her feet and says:

“Wait!”

They wait for bob and sled to precede, until with frantic unanimity of action they seize upon a favorable interim betwixt coasters, and with trepidation are off.

But you overtake them.

“Look out!” you yell, as on your bounding courser you eat up the trail.

“Look out!”

You try to retard your speed by dragging your copper toes. Anticipating the shock of collision you lift the forward part of you, like a worm reconnoitering.

“Look ou-out!”

One last agonizing appeal. And now the pesky girls, glancing behind with sudden apprehension in utmost haste and terror-stricken confusion, amidst wild cries, by dint of laboring feet veer ditchward, stop on the brink, and as you shoot past rise flustrated and gaze after.

Well, they have spoiled your slide. You had a grand start, and goodness knows where you might have gone to. Darn it, why can’t girls stay on their own track!

Yes, indeed. Nevertheless, budding chivalry grafted upon natural superiority prompts you to take Somebody down on a real ride. You would like this Somebody, if the other boys would only let you; but most of the time you cannot afford to.

A sparkling little figure in white hood, fur-trimmed jacket, white mittens strung about her neck, and plaid skirt well wadded out over long leggins, with her ridiculously high sled (girl-sled) she stands by looking on.

“Want to go down, once? I’ll take you,” you offer bluffly.

From amidst the giggling society of her sex she bravely advances, and obediently seats herself on your sled.

“Oh, Lucy! I’d be ’shamed! Sliding with a boy! Oh, Lucy!”

Lucy wriggles disdainfully.

“Don’t you wish you could!” she retorts.

“Aw, John! Takin’ a girl! ’Fore I’d be seen takin’ a girl!” joins in the gibing chorus of your mates.

You hurriedly shove off.

“You got room enough?” asks your solicitous passenger.

“Lots,” you affirm huskily; and crouched to steer you leave the derisive crest behind you.

Down you spin—you and Lucy, both gripping hard the sled; your shoulder pressing against her soft back, and her hair-ribbon whipping across your mouth as you peer vigilantly ahead.

Here is the culvert.

“Hold on tight!” you warn.

“Whisk—slam!”

With a tiny scream from Lucy you have landed, right side up, the three of you.

“Wasn’t that bully?” you query reassuringly.

But Lucy must first recover her breath.

This she does when finally, the sled having entirely ceased motion, you and she must fain disembark.

“My!” she gasps. “I jus’ love to go fast like that, don’t you?”

Her tone conveys volumes. Suffused with proud gratification you pick up the rope.

“You’re a splendid steerer, aren’t you!” she says admiringly.

“Huh!” you scoff. “Steerin’’s easy.”

“Get on and I’ll haul you up,” you proffer.

“Won’t I be too heavy?” she objects, delighted.

“Naw,” you assert. “You’re nothin’.”

Ignoring jeers and flings you carry out your voluntary program, to the very end.

“Thank you ever so much,” pipes Lucy, nimbly running to rejoin her own kind.

Shamefacedly you lift your sled, and with a tremendous belly-buster are away again; and when once more you reach the crest your straggle from grace will have been forgotten.

And at last, wet through and through, countenance like a polished Spitzenburgh (you have a right to the simile, as the barrel in the cellar will testify), hands and feet like parboiled lobsters, reluctant to withdraw but monstrously hungry, you arrive at home to be fed.

“John! Don’t come in here that way! Go right into the kitchen and take off your boots. Mercy!” expostulates mother, as in you stamp, leaving a slushy trail and munching a doughnut as a sop to that clamorous stomach.

Wearily you return to the kitchen, and apply your oozy, slippery boots to the bootjack. Then, having abandoned your footgear, their once gay tops now a sodden maroon and their copper toes already showing effects of the friction whereby they steered you down the hill, to steam behind the kitchen stove, you obey orders to go upstairs and change into the dry clothing that mother has thoughtfully laid out.

What a nuisance mothers are! Oh, dear, won’t supper ever be ready!

“Billy Lunt an’ Chub Thornbury’s got a bob. Let’s us make one,” proposed Hen.

“Let’s,” you agreed.

So, combining equipments, you and he proceeded, in emulation. The two sleds were connected by a board seven feet long, bolted as securely as possible to the rear sled, and fastened to the front one by a single bolt which acted as a pivot—and which, at a sudden jerk, would pull out, and throw the major portion of the bob upon its own resources.

However, the bob was a very good bob, and when cleverly shoved off and expertly steered gallantly maintained itself against all comers; even against Fat Day’s more aristocratic “boughten” bob, which, with its gay paint and varnish and rail “hand-holts,” was the pride of Fat’s heart and the apple of his stingy eye.

Hen steers (for steering is a science) and you shove off (for shoving off is an art). Between you two, pilot and captain of the craft, it packed, on occasion, an inconceivable number of passengers, with always room for one more.

“Gimme a ride. Lemme ride!” beseech friends.

“Aw, you can’t! There ain’t any room!”

“There is, too! I can get on, all right.”

“G’wan! Don’t you let him, John! Don’t you let him, Hen! We’re all squashed now!”

This from the jealous load already booked.

“Shove up, can’t you! Aw, shove up! What’s the matter with you! There’s lots of room!”

And the pestiferous intruder squeezes in. The bob looks like a gigantic caterpillar upside down, so thick are the heads and shoulders in a series of ridges. The board creaks. The load also complains, grunting uneasily as each boy, fitting like a bootjack into the boy before, his legs stretched horizontally along either flank, tries to “shove up closer.” Hen, his feet braced against the stick nailed across the points of the guiding sled, is the only unit of the mass that enjoys any elbow-space. But then, the pilot of a vessel is ex officio the favored personage.

“Darn it, lift up your feet, there!”

“Then somebody hold ’em! Grab my feet, somebody!”

“Whose feet I got, anyway?”

“Aw, quit your shovin’ so!”

“G’wan an’ push off. We don’t want any more.”

“Gimme some room!” you plead. “I only got about an inch!”

They hitch along, and cede you another inch.

“Clea-ear the track!”

You bend and push. The bob starts. It gathers way. One concluding effort, and you land aboard just as it is outstripping you; and kneeling upon your scant two inches, hanging for dear life to the shoulders of the boy in front of you, are embarked for your rapturous yet excruciating flight.

With lurch and leap, with whoop and cheer, down zips the bob, every lad clutching his neighbor as he may, each cemented to each—but you, out in the cold, clutching most desperately of all.

“I’m fallin’ off!” you announce wildly.

The two inches are only one and a half.

“Jocko’s fallin’ off!”

How delightful—for the others! The news of your lingering predicament is received with hoots of wicked glee.

Around the curve, with everybody leaning, and the rear sled slewing outward whilst you balance on its extreme edge. Going—

Over the culvert, a double jounce, and now you are all but gone. Going, going—

On the level, nearing the finish, speed slightly abated; and now your tired fingers relax, you cannot hang on any longer, your knees slip, going, going—gone; but gone more gracefully than you had reason to expect.