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 "Excelsior" 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
