Page:The clerk of the woods.djvu/163

Rh winter, skates in hand, bound for Jason Halfbrook's meadow. Many a merry hour you spent there, heedless of the cold. You could skate then, or thought you could. The backward circle, the "Dutch roll," the "spread-eagle," these and other wonders were in your repertory. They were feats to be proud of, and you made the most of them. Nor need you feel ashamed now at the recollection. When the Preacher said, "There is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his own works," he was not thinking exclusively of an author and his books. You did well to be proud while you were able. It was pride, in part, that kept you warm. Now, if you stand beside a city skating-resort, you see young fellows performing feats that throw all your old-fashioned, countrified accomplishments into the shade. You look on, open-mouthed. Boys of to-day have better skates than you had. Perhaps they have better legs. One thing they do not have,—a better time.

This morning, however, you are not going to the Halfbrook meadow. There is no ice, or none that will bear a man's weight; and