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.
“You didn’t gimme any room!” you accuse, angrily, when you meet your squad as in rollicking mood they tow the bob back toward the crest.
The old hill is not what it used to be. It has been “graded.” No more do the sleds flash adown as they once did. A new-fangled set of city ordinances forbids. Hazardous curve and inspiring “belly-bumper,” tippet and copper-toed boots, clipper and bob, have vanished together, leaving only a few demure little boys in overcoats, and demure little girls in muffs and boas, who sit up straight and properly descend, at a proper pace, along the outskirts—and think that they are having fun!
Good-by, old hill.
GOIN’ SWIMMIN’