“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.
