130 PASTORAL DAYS. 



" shinney-stick," but to the calm recollection of after-life principally as an 

 instrument of torture, indiscriminately promiscuous in its playful mo- 

 ments. Were I to swing one of those dainty little clubs again, I would 

 rather that the end were tied up in something soft, and that this should 

 be the universal rule ; otherwise I don't think I would play. I would 

 prefer to sit on the bank and watch the sport, or make myself useful in 

 looking after the dead and wounded. But to the " average New Eng- 

 land boy " it makes a great deal of difference who swings the club, and 

 what it is swung for. If it is whirled in play, and takes him with a blow 

 that ought to kill him, and would if he were not a boy, why then he 

 laughs, and thinks it's good fun, and goes in and gets another. But if 

 the parental guardian has any reason to swing a stick even one-tenth 

 the size, the whole neighborhood thinks there is a boy being murdered. 

 So much depends upon a name sometimes. 



How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports 

 on the old mill-pond ! I see the two opposing forces on the field of ice, 

 the wooden ball placed ready for the fray. The starter lifts his stick. I 

 hear a whizzing sweep. Then comes that liquid, twittering ditty of the 

 hard-wood ball skimming over the ice, that quick succession of bird-like 

 notes, first distinct and clear, now fainter and more blended, now fainter 

 still, until at last it melts into a whispered, quivering whistle, and dies 

 away amidst the scraping sound of the close-pursuing skates. With a 

 sharp crack I see the ball returned singing over the polished surface, and 

 met half-way by the advance-guard of the leading side. The holder of 

 the ball with rapid onward flight hugs close upon his charge, keeping it at 

 the end of his stick. Past one and another of his adversaries he flies on 

 winged skates, followed by a score of his companions, until, seeing his 

 golden opportunity, with one tremendous effort he gives a powerful blow. 

 To be sure, one of his own men interposes the back of his head and takes 

 half the force of his stroke ; but what does that matter, it was all in fun ? 

 besides, he had no business to be in the way. The ball thus retarded in 

 such a trivial manner instantly meets a barricade of the excited oppo- 

 nents, who have hurried thither to save their game ; but before any one 

 can gain the time to strike the ball, the starters rush pell-mell upon them. 

 Now comes the tug of war. Strange fun ! What a spectacle ! The 

 would-be striker, with stick uplifted, jammed in the centre of a boisterous 

 throng ; the hill-sides echo with ringing shouts, and an anxious circle with 

 ready sticks forms about the swaying, gesticulating mob. Meanwhile the 



