ks that can be read now on
business and professional signs in Western cities, and some, too,
that are written in more abiding type still, on the marble slabs that
dot the quiet field on the river-bank.

The dreariness of the school does not show so much in the
winter-time, when the whole landscape is locked in snow, and the
windows are curtained by frost-ferns. The big boys attend school in
the winter-time, too, for when there is nothing for them to do at
home the country fathers believe that it is quite proper to pay some
attention to education.

It was a biting cold day in January. The Christmas and New Year's
festivities were over, and the Manitoba winter was settling down to
show just what a Manitoba winter can do in the way of weather. The
sky was sapphire blue, with fleecy little strings of white clouds,
an innocent-looking sky, that had not noticed how cold it was below.
The ground was white and sparkling, as if with silver tinsel, a
glimmer of diamonds. Frost-wreaths would have crusted the trees and
turned them into a fairy forest if there had been trees; but there
was not a tree at the Chicken Hill School, so the frost-wreaths lay
like fairy lace on the edges of the straw-covered shed and made
fairy frills around the straggling woodpile. Everything was
beautiful, blue and silver, sparkle and dance, glitter and glimmer.

Out on the well-tramped school-yard the boys and girls were playing
"shinny," which is an old and honourable game, father or uncle of
hockey.

Big Tom Steadman was captain of one side, and his fog-horn voice, as
he shouted directions and objurgations to his men and his opponents,
was the only discordant note in all that busy, boisterous, roaring
scene.

Libby Anne Cavers was on the other side, and Libby Anne was a force
to be reckoned with, for she was little and lithe, and determined and
quick, with the agility of a small, thin cat. She was ten years old,
but looked about seven.

Big Tom had the ball, and was preparing to shoot on the opposing
goal. He flourished his stick in the air with a yell of triumph, and
in his mind the game was already won. But he had forgotten Libby
Anne, who, before his stick reached the ground, had slipped in her
own little crook, and his stick struck the empty snow, for Libby Anne
was fast flying up the field with the ball, while the players
cheered. It was neatly done.

Tom Steadman ran after her in mad pursuit, and overtook her just as
she passed the ba