she have nodded? With confidence you darted at Mary’s chair, and seated
yourself.
How they shrieked, and how they clapped; none louder than Mary, and none
more vengefully than Lucy—Lucy, who, in truth, had called you, and whom
you had unwittingly exasperated. Boys are so stupid!
Another victim of female duplicity, out you dived for the refuge of your
own sex. You resolved that sometime you would pay Mary Webster back.
Billy Lunt went in next. What befell Billy was signalized by a sudden
uproar of laughter and soprano cries, but no clapping!
Billy was being kissed!
“A-a-aw, Billy!” and all of you pointed your fingers at him, and prodded
him in the ribs, when, crimson and rumpled, he reappeared.
“Who kissed you?”
“Mary Webster; she tried to but she didn’t do it square! I skinned out
an’ they grabbed holt of me, an’ I broke away!” boasted Billy.
After clap-in and clap-out was instituted post-office, and after
post-office, drop-the-handkerchief, and after drop-the-handkerchief
ensued King William, sung with whatever variations local tongues had
given to the old, old rhyme:
King _Will_-yum was King _James’s_ son,
And he-e-e th’ royal _race_ did run;
Upo-o-on his breast he wore a sta-a-ar
Which pe-e-eople called the _sign_ of war.
Now cho-o-ose the east, now cho-o-ose the west,
And cho-o-ose the one that _you_ love best;
If _she’s_ not here to _take_ your part,
Go cho-o-ose another with _all_ your heart.
Down _on_ this carpet _you_ must kneel,
As su-u-ure’s th’ grass grows _in_ the field—
and then, as everybody knows, you are supposed to “kiss your sweet,” and
“rise up_on_ your feet.” Some couples kissed, but some wouldn’t.
The gulf ’twixt the boy and the girl factions has long since been
effectually spanned. Mindful of Mary’s meanness in befooling you into
accepting her inhospitable chair, you devote yourself to Lucy. At first
Lucy is lukewarm, and with a pout of distaste only languidly pursues you
after you have deposited the handkerchief behind her. You obey a command
to “bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the one you
love the best,” but although this last honor you would bestow upon Lucy,
and struggle desperately to salute her, she grants you merely the tip of
an ear.
You persevere in your attentions, and by repeatedly twitching her
hair-ribbon into disorderly streamers, you arouse her interest in you.
You chase her, screaming, up-stairs and down; and in return she, with
screaming unabated, chases you down-stairs and up, and chastises you
with playful little slaps and pinches.
Other couples are similarly engaged. Yet you all are “good,” as goodness
goes, among your generation.
Out of what is rapidly verging upon chaos, the summons to refreshments
brings organization once more. The majority of the boys, comprising the
ruder spirits and the so-to-speak unattached, gather in a corner, where
it is each for himself and pillage your neighbor. The politer boys,
which class includes yourself, stimulated to their duty by Mrs. Daner,
attend upon the fair ladies.
You watch protectingly over Lucy, gallantly letting her have the largest
piece of cake, although you covet it yourself, and essaying to practise
other denials such as have been impressed upon your memory by your
mother.
You and Lucy converse. Your “Gee! ain’t this bully!” and her ecstatic
response, “My! ain’t it, though!” establish between you a delightful
understanding. For her entertainment you dexterously insert into your
mouth a whole cookie.
“Oh, Johnny! How awful!” she sniggers.
The ice-cream is chocolate and vanilla, and everybody takes both. Hen
seems not to be aggrieved by the absence of strawberry. Not being a
ladies’ man, he is in the corner with kindred souls, but you can hear
him.
The dishes are large.
“Piggie!” upbraids Lucy, when, having been solicited, you accept a
second. Nevertheless, she does not refuse a spoonful from it, now and
then.
Last come the candies, amidst which are fascinating motto-wafers, always
the source of much mirth and amusement.
All the company exchange mottoes. You and Lucy limit your operations
chiefly to one another. For instance, you present her with a pink motto,
shaped like a four-leaf clover, which says;
“Are you fickle-minded?”
“You are too stout!” replies Lucy, with a circular disk in cream color.
“Forget me not,” you entreat—the words being done in red upon a white
diamond.
“All in life is dear,” answers Lucy, rather vaguely, with a greenish
hexagon.
“Are you in earnest?” you query—a pink heart.
“Ask pa’s consent,” suggests Lucy, unmaidenly as the encouragement may
appear, with an indented square.
You have to trade around among various friends before you can
effectually respond. Sly Mary Webster supplies you with “Say now!” of
which you immediately avail yourself.
“Will you marry me?” asks Lucy, dared thereto by companions, while those
in the secret whoop and shriek at her boldness.
“Of course I will,” you assure her, providentially possessing the very
reply, on a yellow oval.
“That’s what!” comments Lucy.
The remark deserves better, but the best that you can do is a “With all
my heart,” on a pink star.
* * * * *
The festivities of the evening are over. It is time to go home. Most of
the mottoes have eventually been eaten, and the rest of them have been
stuffed, along with other sweets, into greedy pockets. Already some of
the girls have been called for by kinspeople, and some of the boys have
scrambled through the hall, and noisily fled into the street. You
encounter Lucy at the foot of the stairs, and hastily thrust into her
hand a motto that you have been saving—a fine shamrock in yellow, which
says for you:
“May I see you home to-night?”
There is a motto-wafer with a mitten on it; has Lucy one, and will she
be moved to give it to you, as a mischievous rebuff? No; lacking ready
answer, she only giggles and attempts to pass on.
“But may I? I ain’t foolin’—truly I ain’t!” you beseech, husky in the
stress of the moment.
“_I_ don’t care,” calls back Lucy, half-way up the flight.
And so, much to the disgust of Hen, who had counted upon your society
going as well as coming, you “saw her home” in the most exemplary
fashion—you keeping to one edge of the walk, and she to the other, and
between your parallel routes space for a coach and four.
“Edith Lucas is mad ’cause I said I’d go home with _her_,” vouchsafes
Lucy.
“Pooh! We don’t mind, do we?” you affirm, employing a delightful plural.
“Uh-uh,” agrees Lucy.
Beatific silence thenceforth encompassed your route until the Rogers
front gate was reached.
“Good-night!” piped Lucy, scampering for the door.
“Good-night!” cried you, running deliriously down the street.
And the next day all the boys in town pestered you with their teasing:
“Aw, John! went home with a girl!” and you find “John Walker is Lucy
Roger’s beau,” chalked upon horse-blocks and walks and gate-posts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MIDDLETON’S HILL
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: “‘WANT TO GO DOWN, ONCE? I’LL TAKE YOU’”]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MIDDLETON’S HILL
[Illustration: “‘CLEAR THE TRACK’”]
ALL night those new and cherished acquisitions, your copper toed boots,
had served patient sentry-duty beside your peaceful couch, now wistfully
to wonder why their lord and master did not awaken and see what had
happened.
The rising-bell summoned you, but you only protested, blind, and
snuggled for another snooze.
“Snowing, John! Get up!” called father.
“Scrape, scrape,” came to your ears the warning of an early shovel.
Your heart gave a wild hurrah, open popped your eyes, to the floor you
floundered, to the window you staggered. Sure enough! The sill was
heaped to the lower panes, and in the air the flakes were as thick as
swarming bees.
Ecstatically alive, you hustled on your clothes, bestowed on face and
hair a cold lick and a hasty promise, and in the copper-toed boots
(eager for the fray) raced noisily down the stairs.
You found the household less exhilarated and enthusiastic than you had
expected.
“Well, this _is_ a snowstorm!” commented mother, in a blank way, pouring
the coffee.
“Um-m-m! You bet!” you mumbled.
“It’s good for all day, I guess,” said father solemnly, sipping from his
cup as he gazed out.
“Oh, dear! Do you think so?” sighed mother, aghast.
“Oh, gee! I hope so!” sighed you, fervently.
“Shouldn’t wonder if we had a foot or more, by night,” continued father.
You heard him rapturously. Father knew—but it seemed almost too good!
Fourteen buckwheat cakes were all that you could allow yourself, this
morning. The snow needed you; and grabbing cap and scarf and mittens,
with a battle-cry of defiance and joy you rushed, by the back door, into
the furious vortex. The crackling stove, the cheery carpet, the warm,
balmy, comfortable atmosphere of indoors appealed not to you.
First, exultantly you dragged forth for a preliminary canter your
faithful sled, long since extricated from summer quarters and held in
readiness for action. The snow proved satisfactory.
“Ain’t this dandy!” you shouted through the driving flakes, across from
chores in your back yard to Hen at chores in his back yard.
[Illustration: “‘AIN’T THIS DANDY’”]
“You bet you!” agreed Hen.
So it was, for boys; and Madam Nature, hovering anxiously near, knew
that her efforts were appreciated.
“Won’t the hill be bully, tho’!” you jubilated.
“Golly!” reflected Hen.
“Got your runners polished yet?” he asked. “Mine’s all rust.”
“So are mine,” you replied.
Down crowded the snow—there never are such snows, nowadays; so jolly, so
welcome, so free from disagreeable features—and in school and as you
ploughed back and forth and shoveled your paths, you and your comrades
were riotously happy.
Down tumbled the snow—great, soft flakes of it like shredded
wool-pack—until, when it ceased, as much had fallen as heart of boy
could wish for, which was considerable more than would have satisfied
the majority of other people.
The hill was covered, and “sliding” was to be “dandy”—and that was your
sole thought. Why else had the snow come?
To-day you remember that hill, don’t you? Middleton’s Hill! Of course
you do! The best hill that ever existed. Perfect—for coasting. Ideal—for
coasting. Grand—for coasting. Therefore an invaluable possession,
although, be it said, of importance rather underestimated by the public
generally.
The hill started off gently; suddenly, with a dip, increased its slope;
and after a curve, and a splendid bump over a culvert, merged with the
level roadway. Difficult enough to ascend in muddy spring, in dusty
summer, and even in hard fall, when with the winter it came into its own
and was polished by two hundred runners, horse and man usually sought
another route. It was practically surrendered to you and yours, as your
almost undisputed heritage.
To be sure, occasionally some rebellious citizen attempted to adapt it
to his own selfish ends by sprinkling ashes, in a spasmodic fashion,
athwart it; but a little snow or water soon nullified the feeble essay.
To be sure, occasionally a stubborn driver, his discretion less than his
valor, tilted at the glistening, glassy acclivity; and while his horses,
zigzagging and slipping, toiled upward, you and yours hailed him as a
special gift of Providence and gleefully hitched on behind.
[Illustration: “HAILED HIM AS A SPECIAL PROVIDENCE”]
Yes, it was a paragon of a hill, with a record of pleasure to which here
and there a broken bone (soon mended) lent but additional zest.
* * * * *
The hill is ready. The track, at first traced by the accommodating sleds
and feet of a pioneer few, gradually has been packed and polished until
now it lies smooth, straight-away, inviting.
The hill is ready. So are you. Your round turban-like cap is pulled
firmly upon your head and over your ears, your red tippet (mother knit
it) twice encircles your neck, crosses your breast, and is tied (by
mother) behind in a double knot, your red double mittens (mother knit
them and constantly darns them) are on your hands, and your legs and
feet are in your stout copper-toed, red-topped boots. And your cheeks
(mother kissed them) are red, too.
Twitched by its leading-rope, follows you, like a loyal dog, your sled—a
very fine sled, than which none is finer.
“Say, but she’s slick, ain’t she!” glories Hen, as you and he hurriedly
draw in sight of your goal. From all quarters other boys, and girls as
well, are converging, with gay chatter, upon this Mecca of winter sport.
Far and wide has gone forth the word that Middleton’s hill is “bully.”
“Ain’t she!” you reply enthusiastically.
With swoop and swerve and shrill cheer down scud the sleds and bobs of
the earlier arrivals, and the spectacle spurs you to the crest.
Panting, you reach it.
“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.
Hen sheepishly desists, and scrambles to his feet.
“Cracky! That’s a reg’ler old belly-bumper, ain’t it!” he exclaims
joyously.
He refers to the delicious culvert. You assent. The culvert is a
consummation of bliss to which words even more expressive than Hen’s may
not do justice.
Up the slope, in the procession along its edge, you and he trudge; and
down again, in the procession along its middle, you fly. Over and over
and over you do it, and the snow fills sleeve and neck and boot-leg.
Occasionally, with much noise but little real speed, adown the track
comes a girl, or two girls. The majority of them, however, use a track
of their own—a shorter, slower track, off at one side. Poor things,
condemned by fate to their own company and that of the smallest,
timidest urchins, they pretend to have exciting times.
They sit up straight, girls do, the ethics of society seeming to deny
them the privilege of “belly-buster,” and on high sleds—nothing can be
more ignominious than a “girl’s sled”—scraping and screaming, showing
glimpses of red flannel petticoats as they prod with their heels, acting
much like frightened hens scuttling through a yard they plough to their
goal.
For a girl to essay the big hill appears to be “no end of” an
undertaking. First she—or, probably they, inasmuch as girls usually
adventure in pairs, to encourage each other; first they, then, squat on
their flimsy sled, girl fashion (another reproach this: “girl fashion”),
and titter and shriek; and the one on behind urges by “hitching” with
her feet in the peculiar girl way, and the one on before holds back with
her feet and says:
“Wait!”
They wait for bob and sled to precede, until with frantic unanimity of
action they seize upon a favorable interim betwixt coasters, and with
trepidation are off.
[Illustration: “GIRL FASHION”]
But you overtake them.
“Look out!” you yell, as on your bounding courser you eat up the trail.
“Look out!”
You try to retard your speed by dragging your copper toes. Anticipating
the shock of collision you lift the forward part of you, like a worm
reconnoitering.
“Look ou-out!”
One last agonizing appeal. And now the pesky girls, glancing behind with
sudden apprehension in utmost haste and terror-stricken confusion,
amidst wild cries, by dint of laboring feet veer ditchward, stop on the
brink, and as you shoot past rise flustrated and gaze after.
Well, they have spoiled your slide. You had a grand start, and goodness
knows where you might have gone to. Darn it, why can’t girls stay on
their own track!
Yes, indeed. Nevertheless, budding chivalry grafted upon natural
superiority prompts you to take Somebody down on a real ride. You would
like this Somebody, if the other boys would only let you; but most of
the time you cannot afford to.
A sparkling little figure in white hood, fur-trimmed jacket, white
mittens strung about her neck, and plaid skirt well wadded out over long
leggins, with her ridiculously high sled (girl-sled) she stands by
looking on.
“Want to go down, once? I’ll take you,” you offer bluffly.
From amidst the giggling society of her sex she bravely advances, and
obediently seats herself on your sled.
“Oh, Lucy! I’d be ’shamed! Sliding with a boy! Oh, Lucy!”
Lucy wriggles disdainfully.
“Don’t you wish _you_ could!” she retorts.
“Aw, John! Takin’ a girl! ’Fore I’d be seen takin’ a girl!” joins in the
gibing chorus of your mates.
You hurriedly shove off.
“You got room enough?” asks your solicitous passenger.
“Lots,” you affirm huskily; and crouched to steer you leave the derisive
crest behind you.
Down you spin—you and Lucy, both gripping hard the sled; your shoulder
pressing against her soft back, and her hair-ribbon whipping across your
mouth as you peer vigilantly ahead.
Here is the culvert.
“Hold on tight!” you warn.
“Whisk—slam!”
With a tiny scream from Lucy you have landed, right side up, the three
of you.
“Wasn’t that bully?” you query reassuringly.
But Lucy must first recover her breath.
This she does when finally, the sled having entirely ceased motion, you
and she must fain disembark.
“My!” she gasps. “I jus’ love to go fast like that, don’t you?”
Her tone conveys volumes. Suffused with proud gratification you pick up
the rope.
“You’re a splendid steerer, aren’t you!” she says admiringly.
“Huh!” you scoff. “Steerin’’s easy.”
“Get on and I’ll haul you up,” you proffer.
“Won’t I be too heavy?” she objects, delighted.
“Naw,” you assert. “You’re nothin’.”
Ignoring jeers and flings you carry out your voluntary program, to the
very end.
“Thank you ever so much,” pipes Lucy, nimbly running to rejoin her own
kind.
Shamefacedly you lift your sled, and with a tremendous belly-buster are
away again; and when once more you reach the crest your straggle from
grace will have been forgotten.
And at last, wet through and through, countenance like a polished
Spitzenburgh (you have a right to the simile, as the barrel in the
cellar will testify), hands and feet like parboiled lobsters, reluctant
to withdraw but monstrously hungry, you arrive at home to be fed.
“_John!_ Don’t come in here that way! Go right into the kitchen and take
off your boots. Mercy!” expostulates mother, as in you stamp, leaving a
slushy trail and munching a doughnut as a sop to that clamorous stomach.
Wearily you return to the kitchen, and apply your oozy, slippery boots
to the bootjack. Then, having abandoned your footgear, their once gay
tops now a sodden maroon and their copper toes already showing effects
of the friction whereby they steered you down the hill, to steam behind
the kitchen stove, you obey orders to go upstairs and change into the
dry clothing that mother has thoughtfully laid out.
What a nuisance mothers are! Oh, dear, won’t supper _ever_ be ready!
“Billy Lunt an’ Chub Thornbury’s got a bob. Let’s us make one,” proposed
Hen.
“Let’s,” you agreed.
So, combining equipments, you and he proceeded, in emulation. The two
sleds were connected by a board seven feet long, bolted as securely as
possible to the rear sled, and fastened to the front one by a single
bolt which acted as a pivot—and which, at a sudden jerk, would pull out,
and throw the major portion of the bob upon its own resources.
However, the bob was a very good bob, and when cleverly shoved off and
expertly steered gallantly maintained itself against all comers; even
against Fat Day’s more aristocratic “boughten” bob, which, with its gay
paint and varnish and rail “hand-holts,” was the pride of Fat’s heart
and the apple of his stingy eye.
Hen steers (for steering is a science) and you shove off (for shoving
off is an art). Between you two, pilot and captain of the craft, it
packed, on occasion, an inconceivable number of passengers, with always
room for one more.
“Gimme a ride. Lem_me_ ride!” beseech friends.
“Aw, you can’t! There ain’t any room!”
“There is, too! I can get on, all right.”
[Illustration: “THE BOB WAS A VERY GOOD BOB”]
“G’wan! Don’t you let him, John! Don’t you let him, Hen! We’re all
squashed now!”
This from the jealous load already booked.
“Shove up, can’t you! Aw, shove up! What’s the matter with you! There’s
lots of room!”
And the pestiferous intruder squeezes in. The bob looks like a gigantic
caterpillar upside down, so thick are the heads and shoulders in a
series of ridges. The board creaks. The load also complains, grunting
uneasily as each boy, fitting like a bootjack into the boy before, his
legs stretched horizontally along either flank, tries to “shove up
closer.” Hen, his feet braced against the stick nailed across the points
of the guiding sled, is the only unit of the mass that enjoys any
elbow-space. But then, the pilot of a vessel is _ex officio_ the favored
personage.
“Darn it, lift up your feet, there!”
“Then somebody hold ’em! Grab my feet, somebody!”
“Whose feet _I_ got, anyway?”
“Aw, quit your shovin’ so!”
“G’wan an’ push off. We don’t want any more.”
“Gimme some room!” you plead. “I only got about an inch!”
They hitch along, and cede you another inch.
“Clea-ear the track!”
You bend and push. The bob starts. It gathers way. One concluding
effort, and you land aboard just as it is outstripping you; and kneeling
upon your scant two inches, hanging for dear life to the shoulders of
the boy in front of you, are embarked for your rapturous yet
excruciating flight.
With lurch and leap, with whoop and cheer, down zips the bob, every lad
clutching his neighbor as he may, each cemented to each—but you, out in
the cold, clutching most desperately of all.
“I’m fallin’ off!” you announce wildly.
The two inches are only one and a half.
“Jocko’s fallin’ off!”
How delightful—for the others! The news of your lingering predicament is
received with hoots of wicked glee.
Around the curve, with everybody leaning, and the rear sled slewing
outward whilst you balance on its extreme edge. Going—
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.
[Illustration]
“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.