ssed it last year, and found the
woods all cut and the water drained off?"

"Don't be a wet blanket," said Old Hundred, crossly. "The country has
to grow."

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. The mood of memory was on
him. I repented of my speech. "Yes," I answered. "No doubt the country
has to grow. The colleges now play hockey on ponds made by the fire
department. But there isn't that thrilling ring to your runners nor
that long-drawn echo from the wooded shores when a crack crosses the
ice."

"I can see it all this minute," said Old Hundred. "I can see my little
self like a different person [which, indeed, he was!] as one of the
crowd. We had chosen up sides--ten, twenty, thirty on a side. Stones,
dragged from the shores, were put down for goals. Most of us had
hockey sticks we had cut ourselves in the woods, hickory, with a bit
of the curved root for the blade. You were one of the few boys who
could afford a store stick. We had a hard rubber ball. Bobbie Pratt
was always one goal because he had big feet. And over the black ice,
against the sombre background of those cathedral aisles of white
pine, we chased that ball, charging in solid ranks so that the ice
sagged and protested under the rush of our runners, wheeling suddenly,
darting in pursuit of one boy who had snaked the ball out from the
maze of feet and was flying with it toward the goal, all rapid action,
panting breath, superb life. It really must have been a beautiful
sight, one of those hockey games. I can still hear the ring and roar
of the runners as the crowd swept down in a charge!"

I smiled. "And I can still feel the ice when somebody's stick got
caught between my legs. 'Hi, fellers, come look at the star Willie
made!' I can hear you shouting, as you examined the spot where my
anatomy had been violently super-imposed on the skating surface."

Old Hundred smiled too. "Fine little animals we were!" he said. "I
suppose one reason why we don't see more games nowdays is because we
live in the city. Even this suburbanized region is really city,
dirtied all over with its spawn. Lord, Bill, think if we'd been
cramped up in an East Side street, or reduced to Central Park for a
skating pond! A precious lot of reminiscences we'd have to-day,
wouldn't we? They build the kids what they call public play-grounds,
and then they have to hire teachers to teach 'em how to play. Poor
beggars, think of having to be taught by a grown-up how to play a
game