ed up nice an'
warm--Mary an' Helen an' Cousin Irene. They're going with us, an' we
all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks.
The ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the
road. When we come to the minister's house, Laura is standin' on the
front stoop a-waitin' for us. Laura is the minister's daughter. She's
a friend o' Sister Helen's--pretty as a dagerr'otype, an' gentle-like
and tender. Laura lets me carry her skates, an' I'm glad of it,
although I have my hands full already with the lantern, the hockies,
and the rest. Hiram Peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept
himself, an' when he comes trottin' out at last the girls make fun of
him--all except Sister Mary, an' she sort o' sticks up for Hiram, an'
we're all so 'cute we kind o' calc'late we know the reason why.

"And now," said Ezra softly, "the pictur' changes: seems as if I could
see the pond. The ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and Hiram Peabody
slips up the first thing, an' down he comes, lickety-split, an' we all
laugh--except Sister Mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to
laugh at other folks' misfortunes. Ough! how cold it is, and how my
fingers ache with the frost when I take off my mittens to strap on
Laura's skates! But, oh, how my cheeks burn! And how careful I am not
to hurt Laura, an' how I ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she
tells me 'jist a little tighter' and how we two keep foolin' along
till the others hev gone an' we are left alone! An' how quick I get my
_own_ skates strapped on--none o' your new-fangled skates with springs
an' plates an' clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones
with steel runners that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass
button on the end! How I strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! An'
Laura waits for me an' tells me to be sure to get 'em on tight
enough--why, bless me! after I once got 'em strapped on, if them
skates hed come off, the feet wud ha' come with 'em! An' now away we
go--Laura and me. Around the bend--near the medder where Si Barker's
dog killed a woodchuck last summer--we meet the rest. We forget all
about the cold. We run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut all sorts
o' didoes, an' we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in on the
ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we
boys jump over the air holes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an'
tell us they know we're agoin' to drown