A DAY ON THE CRUST 



THE January thaw of 1887, followed by 

 three days of intense and bitter cold, made 

 possible for me a certain experience to 

 which I look forward, each winter, as 

 eagerly as the New England boy to Jack 

 Frost's first skimming over of his favorite 

 pond. We had been having snowstorm 

 after snowstorm, until the earth was 

 blanketed more than three feet deep on a 

 level, and those who ventured out on snow- 

 shoes had to look carefully for the tops of 

 the fences lest they should trip over them. 

 Then came the thaw, and after it the big 

 freeze, leaving us with a crust that would 

 hold up an ox everywhere except in the 

 woods. 



After a long embargo by deep and heavy 

 snow, I know of nothing that so stirs the 

 pulses of an out-door lover as the prospect 

 of a grand all-day's walk on the crust. It 

 is like a parole of a prisoner of war, per- 

 mitted, on his honor, to go home and eat 

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