Tuesday evening. 8:43 p.m. 9 degrees. Wind from the west. 13 mph. Sky as clear as I wish it had been last night. Moon giving a luster to objects below. Where have I heard that one before? Milk and cookie run to Stewart’s. Library lawn iced over. Smooth and level as a skating rink. No one about, But down 208, under the roof of Pop’s Pavilion, there are at least fifteen people, all young men and on skates and with hockey sticks. The lights are on, the picnic area floor has been flooded and is now frozen, and a hockey game is progress. There’s hardly enough room for the two teams to maneuver without the players clipping each other’s shoulders. They skate and pass carefully, as if in slow motion, moving without speed and without hurry.
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