WINTER AS IT WAS 187 



On week-days, once out of school, we 

 wasted no time. We knew where we were 

 going, and we went on the run. We were 

 boys, not men. Some of us, at least, were 

 not yet infected with the idea that we ever 

 should be men. We aspired neither to 

 men's work nor to men's pleasures. We 

 aimed not at self -improvement. We thought 

 not of getting rich. We might recite " Ex- 

 celsior " in the schoolroom, but it did us 

 no harm ; our innocence was incorruptible. 

 Two things we did: we skated, and we slid 

 down-hill. There was always either snow 

 or ice. The present demoralization of the 

 seasons had not yet begun. Winter was 

 winter. Snowdrifts were over your head, 

 and ice was three feet thick. And zero 

 for boys who slept in attics to which no 

 particle of artificial heat ever penetrated, 

 zero was something like summer. Young 

 America was tough in those days. 



I recall at this moment the bitterly cold 

 day when one of our number skated into an 

 airhole on Whitman's Pond. It was during 

 the noon recess. His home was a mile or 

 more east of the pond, and the schoolhouse 



