"I cannot tell you," said mother. "But I will show you. Get ready to go out of doors. Here comes Tim. That is good. He may play, too."
"How many can be in this game, mother?"
"Ever so many, Polly. Please take this dish pan. Peter, carry this pan. Tim, here is one for you. Now follow me."
Mrs. Howe went through the open gate into the hayfield. A hard crust was on the top of the snow.
"See, children," she said, "what a fine crust. It holds me up. It is just right for sliding. By and by the sun will make it soft."
"I wish we had our sleds," said Peter. "Let's go back for them."
"You have them with you," said mother. "That is the game."
"I don't see any game," said Peter. "And I don't see any sleds."
"Then I will show you, my son. Bring your big pan here. Put it down on the edge of the hill. Now sit in it. Hold on to the handles. Keep your feet up. You need not steer. You can't run into anything here. Now go."
Mother gave Peter a push. Away he went on the icy crust.