Artie was for coasting down the bluff he had fallen over. “That,” he remarked, engagingly, “would be even more exciting.”
“Yes, and when you landed in that cold water, I guess you’d find it exciting,” observed Fred. “We couldn’t pull you out with a rope, either, because you’d drown before we could get a rope.”
However, it was not necessary to go over the bluff, for they found that the gradual ascent to it formed a hill that was steep enough to offer good coasting. Taking turns with the sled, they coasted to their hearts’ content, and when the cowbell called them to dinner they brought rosy cheeks and huge appetites to the table.
The turkey was the brownest, the cranberry jelly the reddest, that they had ever seen. And they were allowed both kinds of pie—mince and pumpkin—because Mr. Williamson said that playing outdoors so much would keep them from getting ill, no matter how much dinner they ate. Wasn’t that an understanding remark? As Artie said, it just showed you what kind of a man Mr. Williamson was!
There was a long hill back of the Meade farmhouse, and here Mr. Williamson took them all that afternoon. It was the kind of hill that took your breath away, going down it on a sled, long and steep and with a dip in the middle that made your heart come up in your mouth, so Margy said. The girls couldn’t help screaming each time they went down, but they wouldn’t have stayed away for the world.
When it was too dark to coast any longer, they went back to camp and the boys built a huge bonfire. They had cocoa, steaming hot, in their tin cups and had turkey sandwiches and ate outdoors, grouped around the fire “just like explorers,” Artie said.
“The nicest Thanksgiving I ever had,” said Ward, sleepily, getting into his flannel bag that night.
And Artie echoed him, more sleepily still.
Perhaps it was the snow that made Artie dream of Christmas. At any rate, he sat up in bed the next morning and shouted across to Fred that he heard sleighbells.
“Go to sleep,” said Fred, drowsily. “You’re dreaming.”