They burst from their gate helter-skelter;
We counted them—four against two!
There wasn't a moment for shelter,
And what could we possibly do?
The snow-balls like bullets were flying,
Retreat was unworthy and mean;
So, all their wild volley defying,
I slipped my umbrella between.
Then I called to my friend, and together,
Half sheltered behind it, you know,
The storm of the battle to weather,
We charged at the midst of the foe.
The gateway they bravely defended,
Till forced through the half-open door,
And thus, in a victory, ended
The battle of two against four.
HIS FIRST WOLF HUNT.
By Harold Ericson.
When we reached Cronstadt Tom's ankle pained him a good deal; he had skated five miles upon it, and the injured part was swollen.
'What about getting home?' I asked in some anxiety, but Tom declared that after a couple of hour's rest at the inn in Cronstadt, where we were stopping for a meal, his foot would be as well as ever it had been. So it was, he said, when, at about two o'clock in the afternoon, we started for home. But there was no life in his skating, and presently he admitted that it hurt him badly. Two miles were covered with pain and difficulty, and many stoppages. Matters began to grow somewhat serious; at least, I thought so, though I said nothing of my fears. We were sitting on the ice, Tom holding his ankle against it in hopes that the cold would reduce the inflammation, when a sound in the distance caused us both to raise our heads. Several black specks had suddenly appeared upon the white ice-field behind us. Were they a party of skaters? Were they——