I talked, a week ago, as if, in my time as a boy, we lived out-of-doors every day, and all day long, regardless of everything that winter could do to hinder us. That was an exaggeration. Now and then there came a time when the weather shook itself loose, as it were, and bore down upon us with banners flying. Then the strong man bowed himself, and even the playful boy took to his burrow. The pond might be smooth as glass, but he did not skate; the hill-track might be in prime condition, but he did not slide. He sang low, and waited for a change. Not that he stayed at home from school. Let no degenerate reader, the enfeebled victim of modern ideas, think that. The day of coddling had not yet dawned upon New England. There was no bell then to announce a full holiday, or “one session,” because of rain or snow. And as truly as “school kept,” so truly the boy was expected to be there. No alternative was so much as considered. But on such a morning as we now have in mind he went at full speed, looking neither to right nor left, and he thanked his stars when he came in sight of the village store. That, whether going or coming, he hailed as a refuge. Possibly he had a cent in his pocket, a real “copper,” and felt it in danger of burning through; but cent or no cent, he went in to warm his fingers and his ears, and incidentally to listen to the talk of the assembled loafers. I can see them now, one perched upon a barrel-head, one on a pile of boxes, three or four occupying a long settee, and one, wearing a big light-colored overcoat, who came every day, sitting like a lord in the comfortable armchair in front of the cylinder stove. This last man was not rich; neither was he in any peculiar sense a social favorite; he said little and bought less; but he always had the chief seat. I used to wonder what would happen if some day he should come in and find it occupied. But on that point it was idle to speculate. As well expect a simple congressman to drop into the Speaker’s chair, leaving that functionary to dispose of his own corporeal dignity as best he could. Prescription, provided it be old enough, is the best of titles. What other has the new king of Great Britain and Ireland? If it was shortly before schooltime, on one of those mornings when the weather seemed to be laying itself out to establish a record, the talk was likely to be of thermometers. “My glass was down to nineteen below,” one man would say, by way of starting the ball. “Mine touched twenty at half-past six,” the next one would remark. And so the topic would go round, the mercury dropping steadily, notch by notch. As I said a week ago, winter was winter in those days. It may have occurred to me, sometimes, that the man who managed to speak last had a decided moral advantage over his rivals. He could save the honor of his thermometer at the least possible expense of veracity.