“HAILED HIM AS A SPECIAL PROVIDENCE”
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.