Next Mrs. Kimball, Clara, and Mrs. Hounson, who had been called in to help, got ready to make sausage into links. This work was kept up late one night, when several neighbors dropped in to give assistance. Roger and Adrian took spells at turning the crank of the machine which ground the meat up, and then they worked the lever which forced the plunger down and shoved the sausage into the links. Mrs. Kimball stood near as the long slender skin was filled. About every four inches she gave the skin a twist, which separated the sausage into the familiar lengths. Clara held a big needle, and whenever an air bubble appeared on the surface of the skin, she skilfully pricked it, that the sausage might last better, the admission of air to the meat hindering it from keeping well. It was a new and interesting experience to the city boy, and he enjoyed it very much. When the work was finished there was a lunch of doughnuts, cheese, cookies, apples, cider, and nuts, and the boys listened while the womenfolks talked of the doings in Cardiff. Thus was the long, cold, severe winter provided against in the Kimball homestead, which now held a bountiful supply of the various meats that pigs are noted for,--sausage, hams, bacon, salt pork, and spare-ribs. Never was there such sweet cured hams, never such clean, cunning, appetizing links of sausage, never such evenly streaked bacon, and never such lean pork chops, with just enough fat on. There might come great blizzards, but in the big farmhouse none would be hungry. The days passed swiftly now, and the weather grew more severe. Preparations for enduring the winter went on in all the Cardiff homes, and Roger began to anticipate the delights of this season in the country, where the snow comes down to stay for months at a time. It was the end of November, and a cold, blustery night, with banks of big gray clouds blowing up from the west. "Thar's snow in 'em," prophesied Mr. Kimball. And so it proved, for the next morning when the boys peered from the frost-encrusted window, they saw the air full of swirling, feathery flakes which covered the ground to a depth of two feet. "This is fine!" shouted Adrian. "This means coasting on Lafayette hill." The boys hurried into their clothes, for there was no fire in their bedrooms, and the only heat upstairs came from the stove-pipe, which passed up through the chambers. From the kitchen came the smell of hickory wood burning in the range. It mingled with the odor of buckwheat cakes, fried sausage, and hot coffee. "My! But that smells good!" cried Roger. "You bet!" agreed Adrian, earnestly. "I can eat a dozen cakes this morning, with the maple syrup and the sausage gravy mother makes." CHAPTER XIII LAFAYETTE HILL