hey were also wellsprings of
joy to me. Sometimes I hold with the Lacedemonians that "hunger is the
best sauce" for the mind as well as for the palate. Certainly we made
the most of all that came our way.

Naturally the school-house continued to be the center of our interest by
day and the scene of our occasional neighborhood recreation by night. In
its small way it was our Forum as well as our Academy and my memories of
it are mostly pleasant.

Early one bright winter day Charles Babcock and Albert Button, two of
our big boys, suddenly appeared at the school-house door with their best
teams hitched to great bob-sleds, and amid much shouting and laughter,
the entire school (including the teacher) piled in on the straw which
softened the bottom of the box, and away we raced with jangling bells,
along the bright winter roads with intent to "surprise" the Burr Oak
teacher and his flock.

I particularly enjoyed this expedition for the Burr Oak School was
larger than ours and stood on the edge of a forest and was protected by
noble trees. A deep ravine near it furnished a mild form of coasting.
The schoolroom had fine new desks with iron legs and the teacher's desk
occupied a deep recess at the front. Altogether it possessed something
of the dignity of a church. To go there was almost like going to town,
for at the corners where the three roads met, four or five houses stood
and in one of these was a postoffice.

That day is memorable to me for the reason that I first saw Bettie and
Hattie and Agnes, the prettiest girls in the township. Hattie and Bettie
were both fair-haired and blue-eyed but Agnes was dark with great
velvety black eyes. Neither of them was over sixteen, but they had all
taken on the airs of young ladies and looked with amused contempt on
lads of my age. Nevertheless, I had the right to admire them in secret
for they added the final touch of poetry to this visit to "the Grove
School House."

Often, thereafter, on a clear night when the thermometer stood twenty
below zero, Burton and I would trot away toward the Grove to join in
some meeting or to coast with the boys on the banks of the creek. I feel
again the iron clutch of my frozen boots. The tippet around my neck is
solid ice before my lips. My ears sting. Low-hung, blazing, the stars
light the sky, and over the diamond-dusted snow-crust the moonbeams
splinter.

Though sensing the glory of such nights as these I was careful about
referring to it.