"And I'll go and pick out a good place, and start the house."
The snow was deep enough anywhere that winter, but it was not a very cold day, and every drift and level was in prime condition for snow-balling. The difficulty was that too much of that kind of fun had been going on all the week, and so the grand "match" set for that Saturday had been forbidden by the Academy Trustees.
"They'd about half kill themselves if we'd let 'em," had been the solemn comment of old Squire Garrison, and nobody dreamed of disputing his decision, for he was President of the Board, and the wisest man in the village.
Rory was not gone long, and when he returned, and went through the yard and garden into the orchard, half a dozen boys were following him.
Fred had been at work. He had carried out the big wooden snow-shovel and the grain-scoop shovel and the spade, but the first question Bob Sanders asked was:
"Boards? What are they for? You don't want any boards in a snow house."
"And the Esquimaux don't have any," said Rory.
Fred had put down four of them flat on the snow, and was now shovelling a heap of snow upon them from the spot he had chosen for the house.
"Boards?" he said. "Why, boys, that's our brick-yard."
"Brick-yard? Snow bricks? What's the saw for? You can't cut snow with a saw."