The opposing leaders choose their sides, and with loud hurrahs we penetrate the thickets at the water’s edge, each to cut his special choice of stick--that festive cudgel, with curved and club-shaped end, known to the boy as a “shinney-stick,” but to the calm recollection of after-life principally as an instrument of torture, indiscriminately promiscuous in its playful moments. Were I to swing one of those dainty little clubs again, I would rather that the end were tied up in something soft, and that this should be the universal rule; otherwise I don’t think I would play. I would prefer to sit on the bank and watch the sport, or make myself useful in looking after the dead and wounded. But to the “average New England boy” it makes a great deal of difference who swings the club, and what it is swung for. If it is whirled in _play_, and takes him with a blow that _ought_ to kill him, and _would_ if he were not a boy, why then he laughs, and thinks it’s good fun, and goes in and gets another. But if the parental guardian has any reason to swing a stick even one-tenth the size, the whole neighborhood thinks there is a boy being murdered. So much depends upon a name sometimes. [Illustration: THE OLD MILL-POND.] How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports on the old mill-pond! I see the two opposing forces on the field of ice, the wooden ball placed ready for the fray. The starter lifts his stick. I hear a whizzing sweep. Then comes that liquid, twittering ditty of the hard-wood ball skimming over the ice, that quick succession of bird-like notes, first distinct and clear, now fainter and more blended, now fainter still, until at last it melts into a whispered, quivering whistle, and dies away amidst the scraping sound of the close-pursuing skates. With a sharp crack I see the ball returned singing over the polished surface, and met half-way by the advance-guard of the leading side. The holder of the ball with rapid onward flight hugs close upon his charge, keeping it at the end of his stick. Past one and another of his adversaries he flies on winged skates, followed by a score of his companions, until, seeing his golden opportunity, with one tremendous effort he gives a powerful blow. To be sure, one of his own men interposes the back of his head and takes half the force of his stroke; but what does that matter, it was all in fun? besides, he had no business to be in the way. The ball thus retarded in such a trivial manner instantly meets a barricade of the excited opponents, who have hurried thither to save their game; but before any one can gain the time to strike the ball, the starters rush pell-mell upon them. Now comes the tug of war. Strange fun! What a spectacle! The would-be striker, with stick uplifted, jammed in the centre of a boisterous throng; the hill-sides echo with ringing shouts, and an anxious circle with ready sticks forms about the swaying, gesticulating mob. Meanwhile the ball