Fun's fun, I know, but nobody wants to go home with half his scalp
hanging over one eye, and dripping all over the back porch. Because,
you know, a fellow's mother gets crosser about blood on wood-work
than anything else. Scrubbing doesn't do the least bit of good; it
has to be planed off, or else painted.
Let me see, now. Have I missed anything? I'll count 'em off on my
fingers. There's skating, and sleigh-riding, and sliding down hill,
and Oh, yes. Snowballing and making snow-men. Nobody makes a
snow-man but once, and nobody makes a snow-house after it has caved
in on him once and like to killed him. And as for snowballing - Look
here. Do you know what's the nicest thing about winter? Get your
feet on a hot stove, and have the lamp over your left shoulder, and
a pan of apples, and something exciting to read, like "Frank Among
the Indians." Eh, how about it? In other words, the best thing
about winter is when you can forget that it is winter.
The excitement that prompts "It snows!" and "Hurrah!" mighty soon
peters out, and along about the latter part of February, when you go
to the window and see that it is snowing again - again? Consarn the
luck! - you and the poor widow with the large family and the small
woodpile are absolutely at one.
You do get so sick and tired of winter.
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