Carroll Watson Rankin

“ The wind, straight from the north, came in icy blasts. In many places the trolley wire overhead was all that indicated the car line. Prudence soon found that snow-shoeing in mild weather and plowing along through freshly fallen drifts were two very different matters. The wind striking the girl’s left cheek—hand in hand, they were traveling toward the east—was like a knife,
“Oh, Bob,” she wailed. “My face—”
“Rub it with snow,” shouted Bob, to make himself heard above the blizzard. “Come on—don’t stand still. It won’t be so bad after we ’ve turned the corner.” ”

“ This is a nice how-do-you-do!” exclaimed Bob.
“Did the car come back?” asked Prudence, looking up eagerly.
“No, it did n’t,” growled Bob, who was rubbing his pale yellow nose with a snowball. “I suppose it would have if I ’d waited to ask, but like an idiot, I just jumped off, That fire is n’t going to last ten minutes longer, and there is n’t another stick left in the shed. It ‘ll be colder than a barn here in another hour. Put on your snow-shoes; we ’ll have to walk to town—mother ‘ll be worried to death when Grace gets home without us. What color is my nose now?” ”

“ Bob will tell you what he thinks of it, too, when he has to shovel a few tons of it off the front walk.”
“I wish I could go snow-shoeing once,” said Grace, obediently dropping the curtain. “I ’ve always wanted to learn,”
“You shall have an opportunity,” said Prudence, sitting up in bed. “We have two clubs here. The girls walk Wednesday afternoons and the boys Wednesday evenings. Once a month we all walk together and have a jolly good supper at the men’s snow-shoe—club-house. We ‘ve just been waiting for snow enough—we have n’t had as much as usual this winter.” ”