THE FIRST SNOW.
Rodney Grant seemed to take genuine pleasure in showing his disdain and
defiance of public opinion by openly associating with Lander and Davis,
and he was seen often in their company. Even Roger Eliot, naturally
broad-minded and liberal, could but deplore this; and Stone found
himself quite alone in any effort to defend or justify the actions of
the singular boy from Texas. It was generally believed and proclaimed
that Grant had found associates to his liking, and more than once the
old saw, “A person is known by the company he keeps,” was applied to
him.
The young people of Oakdale were making the most of the skating when,
after a slight warning flurry, a slow, steady downfall of snow set in,
growing heavier with the passing of a cloudy afternoon.
“No more fun on the lake for us,” moaned Chub Tuttle, standing more
than ankle deep outside the academy as the scholars came trooping
forth. “This snow has fixed the skating all right.”
“Snow doubt about it,” punned Chipper Cooper, turning up his coat
collar and pulling his cap down over his ears. “We’ll have to take to
another line of sport, and it’s likely there won’t even be any sliding
worth while for some time to come.”
Nearly all night long it snowed, but with the coming of another dawn
the storm ceased, the sky cleared, and the sun beamed cheerfully on a
world wrapped in a mantle of white, gleaming with the prismatic colors
of millions of diamonds.
At an early hour, having eaten breakfast, Rod Grant was viewing the
scene with admiration and pleasure when he discovered two dark figures
tracking across the open fields toward the cottage of Miss Priscilla
Kent. Immediately he recognized Lander and Davis, watching them with
curiosity and interest as he perceived that they were walking on
snowshoes. They hailed him as they drew near, and, with his trousers
laced into the tops of high, heavy leather boots, he waded out
knee-deep to meet them.
“Top of the morning, Roddy,” cried Bunk, in his familiar way. “What are
you doing with yourself?”
“Morning, Lander. Morning, Davis. I was just getting ready to turn
myself into a human steam-plough and wield my aunt’s big shovel. Got to
open up the path as far as the road, you know.”
“That’s work,” grinned Davis, two missing front teeth in his upper jaw
giving him anything but an appearance of comeliness. “Work was made for
slaves.”
“But you Yanks took away our slaves,” reminded Rod jovially, “and so we
have to bend our backs like common people.”
“Eh?” grunted Spotty in surprise. “Your slaves? Why, Texas—why, I’ve
always thought of Texas as a Western State, and——”
“We’re right proud to be called Southerners,” said Rod. “Find any sport
walking on those things?”
“Oh, it’s sport in a way,” answered Lander. “Besides, a feller can get
around almost anywhere on ’em, no matter how deep the snow is. I and
Spot have been talking about going over to my camp Sat’day. Without
snowshoes we’d have to do some tall wading. If we can get a dog, and
the snow packs down some, perhaps we’ll try the rabbits a crack—and
_that’s_ sport. Ever shoot rabbits?”
“Jacks.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about them. Our rabbits are different; they’re
good to eat. Say, it would be fun to shoot a few and have a rabbit stew
over at my camp. I can make the stew, too.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” admitted Grant, who had a taste for hunting.
“Want to come in on it? Come ahead. I’ve been telling Spot I thought we
might borrow old Lem Sawyer’s hound, Rouser. He’s a good dog, though,
like Lem, he’s getting rather old. Lem’s laid up with the rheumatism
this winter, and I don’t believe he will do much rabbitin’.”
“I’d have to have some snowshoes and a gun,” said Rod.
“Bet we could get them of Sawyer. You know how to shoot?”
“A little,” smiled the boy from Texas, “but I don’t know much about
using snowshoes, though, watching you fellows, it seems easy enough.”
Spotty chuckled. “Try it,” he invited. “Try mine. Go ahead.”
Obligingly he slipped his toes out of the straps and stepped off into
the snow. Grant was willing enough to make the trial and, wading
alongside, he mounted on Spotty’s snowshoes. Having inserted his toes
beneath the straps, he started off with a confidence that was soon
upset, as he was himself by stepping on one snowshoe with the other,
which plunged him to the full length of his arms, burying his face in
the snow. Nor could he rise until he had succeeded in getting his feet
free from the snowshoes, after which he floundered part way over and
stood up to discover Both Davis and Lander convulsed with laughter.
“Looks easy enough, don’t it?” cried Bunk hilariously.
“Hang the things!” growled Rod, his face flushed with chagrin. “They
seem contrary as an unbusted bronch. You fellows don’t have any trouble
managing them.”
“There’s a little trick to it that you’ll have to learn,” explained
Lander. “To begin with, those boots of yours are too stiff and heavy.
You see, I’ve got on moccasins, and Spotty’s wearing some limber-soled
shoes. You’ve got to lift the front end of the snowshoes with your toe
and let the heel drag, slipping the shoe forward as you step, this
fashion. Watch me and get wise.”
Grant watched Bunk walk around easily in a broad circle, which brought
him back to the starting point.
“I see,” nodded the boy from Texas, “and I reckon I can catch onto it
after a little practice. Where can I get a pair of moccasins?”
“Stickney carries ’em; he carries everything. Mebbe Lem Sawyer’ll have
an old pair he’ll sell cheap, for he’s hard up and needs the money.
I’ll find out if you want me to.”
“Go ahead. I’ve never yet mounted anything I couldn’t master, and,
having been bucked off by a pair of snowshoes, I’m right eager to get
busy in proper fashion with the things. Think I’ll get the shovel now
and go at it opening the path. I won’t have much more than time to
finish that job before school.”
Having watched them depart, he went at his task, making the snow fly
with a pair of lusty arms, which, in spite of the heavy work, betrayed
no weariness until he had finished.
At noon that day Davis informed him that Lander had succeeded in
borrowing Sawyer’s dog, gun and snowshoes for the following Saturday,
and that Sawyer had agreed to sell his moccasins at a bargain if they
were what Rod wanted.
“We’ll show you some fun,” promised Spotty. “We’re going over to Bunk’s
old camp to-night to see if everything is all right there. If it is,
we’ll have the stuff ready for a stew Saturday, and as sure as we can
start any rabbits we’ll give you a feed that will be good for a hungry
man. Watch for us in the morning. We’re going to show you how to
navigate on snowshoes.”
They came the following morning, bringing the snowshoes and moccasins,
and Rod had his first lesson. As soon as he caught onto the knack of
it, he made satisfactory progress, and was praised by both Spotty and
Bunk, although he found it impossible to get over the snow for any
distance with as much speed and ease as they could.
“You’re coming all right, old man,” assured Lander. “I’ve seen lots of
fellers try it who didn’t get along half as fast. Just you keep
practicing, and you’ll break in fine.”
Rodney continued to practice, and by Saturday he had thoroughly
mastered the art of getting around with considerable skill and ease
upon snowshoes.
Friday night about an inch of light snow fell on top of the other,
which had settled beneath the rays of the sun, giving a perfect
opportunity for rabbit tracking, as Lander joyously explained when he
and Spotty appeared at an early hour. They were leading Sawyer’s old
black-and-tan hound, and, besides their own guns, they brought the
man’s double-barreled breech loader for Rodney.
And so, thoroughly equipped, the boys set off for the day’s sport.
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