“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.