Once
in a while you turn out for another sleigh, and nearly upset in the
process, and you can see that in all points its occupants are exactly
as you are, just as happy and contented. There aren't any dogs to
run out and bark at you. Old Maje and Tige, and even little Bounce
and Guess are snoozing behind the kitchen stove. All there is is
just jing-jing, jing-jing, jing-jing, not a bird-cry or a sound of
living creature. jing-jing, jing-jing. . . . . Well, yes, kind o'
monotonous, but still . . . . You pass a house, and a woman comes
out to scrape off a plate to the chickens standing on one foot in a
corner where the sun can get at them, and the wind cannot. She
scrapes slowly, and looks at you as much as to say: "I wonder who's
sick. Must be somebody going for the doctor, day like this." And
then she shudders: "B-b-b-oo-oo-oo!" and runs back into the house
and slams the door hard. You snuffle and look at the chimney that
has thick white smoke coming out of it, and consider that very
likely a nice, warm fire is making all that smoke, and you snuffle
again, and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and ride and
ride and 'ride. And about an hour and a half after you have given
up all hopes, and are getting resigned to your fate, you turn off
the big road and up the lane to the house where you are going on
your pleasure-trip, and you hop out as nimble as a sack of potatoes,
and hobble into the house, and don't say how-de-do or anything, but
just make right for the stove.
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