AS
I THINK of the days of my boyhood, winter sports and pleasures seem more
thrilling than those of other seasons. We boys never had a dread of the
so-called, "shut-in" season; in fact, there was none so far as we were
concerned. Under one pretext or another, we would manage to get out into
the snows and storms. I cannot ever remember having wished that a blizzard
would let up; I always wished that it would continue to pile the snow
higher and higher until all signs of the world we knew would be
obliterated and a new, strange and fantastic world would take its place.
All New England boys who have been reared in the country or the small
village appreciate the ecstasy of being "snowed in." To me Whittier's
"Snow Bound" is and ever will be the most bewitching of all poems:
So all
night long the storm roared on;
The
morning broke without a sun;
In
tiny spherule traced with lines
Of
nature's geometric signs,
In
starry flake and pellicle,
All
day the hoary meteor fell;
And
when the second morning shone,
We
looked upon a world unknown,
On
nothing we could call our own.
Around
the glistening wonder bent
The
blue walls of the firmament.
No
cloud above, no earth below- A universe of sky and snow!
The
old familiar sights of ours
Took
marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose
up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or
garden wall or belt of wood;
A
smooth white mound the brush pile showed,
A
fenceless drift what once was road;
The
bridle post an old man sat
With
loose flung cloak and high cocked hat;
The
well curb had a Chinese roof;
And
even the long sweep, high aloof,
In
its splendor, seemed to tell
Of
Pisa's leaning miracle.
Weird and fantastic shapes
assumed by old friends, hitching posts, rail fences, well sweeps or what
not, required introductions anew as if we had never seen them before and
where drifting snows had been piled into embryonic mountains they had to
be climbed and christened by the dauntless explorers. From the high rails
of half-submerged fences, somersaults had to be turned into the air and
landings had to be made on our feet or on our backs on the soft cushions
of dazzlingly white, feathery snow. Over the fences, across fields,
pasture lands and meadows, we had to make our way. Struggling through deep
drifts of snow was laborious exercise; we panted for breath; our bodies
were wet with perspiration and our faces aglow with the health giving
exercise. What mattered it if our boots and our coat sleeves did fill with
snow packed hard by our struggles; we could sit down in the snow and wrest
our boots from swollen feet and discharge the excess burden; take
wristlets off and shake them; give our ears a hasty rub or two, and then
on again to overtake our intrepid leaders if we could.
How the sun shone, not
infrequently blinding us as its light was reflected by the myriad
crystals. Here and there a scolding squirrel could be seen high up in a
tree top congratulating himself perhaps on his hereditary virtue of
conservation and on his store of sweet hickory nuts, saved for just such
occasions. Here and there a rabbit path crossed and re-crossed itself; not
so much because bunny feared impending evil as it was because bunny
enjoyed the fun of throwing farm dogs off the track in case they happened
to be looking for trouble. Here and there a chickadee voiced his
jubilation.
In course of time we made our way
home to steaming hot dinners and then hastily started out on new
adventures. On Saturdays and holidays, we could pursue our courses
indefinitely with never a thought of school, home, church or anything else
of a worrying nature.
Here and there across the dazzling
landscape an industrious farmer might be seen digging his way out to the
highway with the aid of a sturdy pair of oxen or horses and a home-made
snow plough. If such scene presented itself, or if, perchance, a
locomotive with snow plough attached were to appear along the railroad
track, the expedition would change its course. Such activities had to be
investigated to make certain that they were being conducted with
efficiency and dispatch. This was before the days of the rotary snow
plough. Ploughs were forced through drifts by sheer power, and, when
halted, there was nothing for the engineer to do but to back up, get a
flying start and plunge in again. Considering the heavy snow falls and the
lack of modem equipment, it was astonishing how quickly normal schedules
were restored. The snow crews knew their business and through the heavy
storms they worked day and night. It was a joy to walk down the track
where the snow crew had driven its plough through the drifts and piled up
walls of white along the track. Another thrilling sight was to see the
first train come through after the storm registering the domination of man
in affairs mundane.
Sleep? Oh, how we slept the night
after a storm, but not always was our slumber dreamless. We sometimes
dreamed-hoped and prayed, perhaps-that rain might fall during the early
hours of the night and that the rain might be followed by a frost during
the early hours of the morning so that when we got up we might find
another thrill-that of the crusted snow.
Winter had so many charms that
substantial enjoyment was to be found even in anticipation of them.
Thanksgiving Day was always celebrated in our home. Uncles, aunts,
cousins, and later, father, mother, brothers and sister were assembled to
enjoy the feast of stuffed turkey and cranberry sauce with its succulent
accompaniment of chicken pie. After dinner it was customary for the young
people to go to the pond to see how the ice was forming and to speculate
as to how soon the skating could begin. We skipped stones over the thin
ice and enjoyed the strange, weird music which broke upon the frosty air
as a result of the impact.
One day to our everlasting
amazement we discovered a new lake, at least one we had never seen before,
although in the summer we had walked over every foot of the land now
covered by water. There it was nestling in the woods, two islands in the
center. Columbus could not have been more delighted with his discovery.
Why we had never seen or heard of it before, we could not imagine. We
eventually learned that it was the result of heavy autumn rains and that
it was known as "Little Pond" to distinguish it from what we knew as Fox
Pond. In other words, Little Pond was simply a basin surrounded with
mountains and hills. In the summer the basin was dry and in the winter it
was partially filled with water. How such a gem of a lake had failed to
escape the eyes of Wallingford grown-ups, was a quandary. I suppose the
reason was that it was tucked away in a fold of the hills where grown-ups
seldom had occasion to go even in summer and in winter never.
In fact, Little Pond had almost
managed to escape the eyes of us rapscallions. In the summer it was
nothing but a dried up muck hole in the center of a hayfield. The muck
hole was made by the owner of the land who used the soil, made up of
decomposed vegetable matter, to reinforce less favored fields. During the
years subsequent to our discovery, when the muck hole began to fill up in
the autumn, we boys inspected it frequently in anticipation of joys to
come. The two islands were covered with bushes and constituted excellent
ambush for Indians, highway robbers, bandits, escaped prisoners or
whomsoever might be seeking refuge. We adopted Little Pond as our own and
loved it more than any other; it was our discovery.
Dear Ladies of Wallingford: High
have your praises been sung for having rechristened Fox Pond, "Elfin Lake"
to gratify your esthetic natures, but why, I pray you, did you stop there?
Would not "Lake of the Fairies," or "Lake of the Witches," have added a
touch of delightful mysticism to Little Pond even if it does dry up in the
summer? Perhaps it did not dry up in the summer; perhaps the fairies
spirited it away to gladden the hearts of other little boys in some
faraway spot in fairyland. However I am sure that neither witches with
their brooms nor fairies with their wands could have so stirred things
within me as did my first sight of magical, miraculous Little Pond. If the
souls of departed boys have wings, they must hover over that sheet of
mystical frozen water at about the time the moon takes its great lantern
in hand and steps over the top of Bear Mountain to light the pathway of
boys who have shouted themselves hoarse, skated themselves weary, and are
Oh so hungry! as they wend their way over Joe Shum's Hill and across
Anderson's bridge, to the light, warmth and love of home.
One Christmas morning, I found in
the chimney corner a brightly painted sled with a picture of a reindeer
painted on the seat. It was the gift of my father then working in a toy
factory in Springfield. That was the most joyous of all the many joyous
Christmas Days of my boyhood.
During Christmas holidays, my
cousins Mary, Eddie, Mattie and John Fox frequently spent the entire
period with us. All hands were up in the morning before the break of day
and the rising sun found us well wrapped in heavy jackets with tippets
protecting our necks, wristlets protecting our wrists and mittens our
hands against the cold and snow. We wended our way to Little Pond or Fox
Pond as fancy might lead us. Once "Inky" Ballou and I skated almost to
Rutland on Otter Creek, our progress being slow because of frequent
interruptions caused by shell ice where water flowed too rapidly to permit
Jack Frost to do a good job of solid ice construction.
Frequently as we boys and girls
trudged along the roads to the frozen lakes and ponds, we heard the baying
of hounds on the mountainside in hot pursuit of fox or rabbit. How their
voices rang out in the quiet winter air. They were so distant that we
could not see them even when they came out of the wooded parts of the
mountainside into the open where, in summer, cows grazed between rocky
outcroppings and where prickly blackberry and raspberry bushes laden with
luscious fruit waited for transfer to cups and pails of industrious boys
and girls.
Indeed we did not need to see the
hunt; we could picture it in our minds. We knew each and every hound in
the pack. They were "Roz" Sherman's hounds and we knew that "Roz" and his
companions were not far behind. It was jubilee time for the keen-scented,
loudmouthed long-eared songsters. All summer long they had been kicked
about as they slunk around the hotel and grocery stores in search of stray
bits of food. No one had respect for "Roz" Sherman's hounds, a fact of
which they were painfully aware. Dismal howls emitted in village streets
were the result of kicks from men and stones thrown by boys. "Roz"
Sherman's hounds completely lost their self-respect in the summertime but
with the first snow, they became kings of creation as with yelps and howls
they chased four-footed wild creatures to their lair, or to within gun
shot of the slow-footed humans lagging far behind.
If the weather was cold as was
usually the case, our caps or toques were drawn low, and if perchance, in
spite of all precautions the ears of some member of the party were frost
bitten, as shown by the tell-tale whiteness, a well known remedy was
quickly applied-a handful of snow briskly rubbed into the ailing member
until circulation was restored.
Upon arrival at the pond the first
step was to strap our skates on securely and speed away across the ice to
gather deadwood to build a fire before which we might toast our backs,
faces and sides each in turn. During the extra cold winters the ice was
eighteen or more inches thick and therefore safe for skaters as long as
the kept away from the great holes where the ice cutters were gathering
their crop.
The rumbling and grumbling coming
from the pond would have frightened youngsters unfamiliar with the strange
sounds. The only explanation I have ever heard for these sounds was that
they came from air imprisoned beneath the ice; I have never heard such
sounds except on mountain lakes. We boys scoffed at the air theory and
preferred to think of the sounds as the voices of gnomes, protesting to
the Devil perhaps for having shut them so tightly beneath the thick ice of
the pond.
Occasionally fast trotting horses
matched their speed on the smooth surface of the pond where a half-mile
straightaway had been marked out but our greatest joys were those of our
own imaginations; wars were fought with savage tribes of Indians; wolves
were killed and skinned; and vast continents explored.
At noon we hastened home to
appease the hunger gods which were rioting within us in spite of the ample
breakfasts of wet browned and buttered buckwheat cakes, hot from the
griddle and generously baptized with maple syrup straight from the
mountain side. Grandfather bought his maple syrup, fifteen gallons at a
time and his buckwheat flour by the barrel. Both purchases required
endless investigations, samplings, etc. Buckwheat cakes with crisp fried
potatoes on the side constituted our breakfasts all the year round.
After dinner we went at it again
and not until darkness of the brief northern winter day was beginning to
fall was the last skate unstrapped and the day's outdoor job finished.
