So many hundreds of turkeys, done to a turn, now began to have an effect upon the atmosphere.  Few odors are more subtile and pervading than this, and few more appetizing.  Indeed, there is said to be an odd fellow, a strictly American gourmand, in New York, who sits, from noon to dusk on Christmas-Day, up in a tall steeple, merely to catch the aroma of roast-turkey floating over the city,—­and much good, it is said, it does him.

Hard skating is nearly as effective to whet hunger as this gentleman’s expedient.  When the spicy breezes began to blow soft as those of Ceylon’s isle over the river and every whiff talked Turkey, the population of Dunderbunk listened to the wooing and began to follow its several noses—­snubs, beaks, blunts, sharps, piquants, dominants, fines, bulgies, and bifids—­on the way to the several households which those noses adorned or defaced.  Prosperous Dunderbunk had a Dinner, yes, a DINNER, that day, and Richard Wade was gratefully remembered by many over-fed foundry-men and their over-fed families.

Wade had not had half skating enough.

“I’ll time myself down to Skerrett’s Point,” he thought, “and take my luncheon there among the hemlocks.”

The Point was on the property of Peter Skerrett, Wade’s friend and college comrade of ten years gone.  Peter had been an absentee in Europe, and smokes from his chimneys this morning had confirmed to Wade’s eyes the rumor of his return.

Skerrett’s Point was a mile below the Foundry.  Our hero did his mile under three minutes.  How many seconds under, I will not say.  I do not wish to make other fellows unhappy.

The Point was a favorite spot of Wade’s.  Many a twilight of last summer, tired with his fagging at the Works to make good the evil of Whiffler’s rule, he had lain there on the rocks under the hemlocks, breathing the spicy methyl they poured into the air.  After his day’s hard fight, in the dust and heat of the Foundry, with anarchy and unthrift, he used to take the quiet restoratives of Nature, until the murmur and fragrance of the woods, the cool wind, and the soothing loiter of the shining stream had purged him from the fevers of his task.

To this old haunt he skated, and kindling a little fire, as an old campaigner loves to do, he sat down and lunched heartily on Mrs. Purtett’s cold leg,—­cannibal thought!—­on the cold leg of Mrs. Purtett’s yesterday’s turkey.  Then lighting his weed,—­dear ally of the lonely,—­the Superintendent began to think of his foreman’s bliss, and to long for something similar on his own plane.

“I hope the wish is father to its fulfilment,” he said.  “But I must not stop here and be spooney.  Such a halcyon day I may not have again in all my life, and I ought to make the best of it, with my New Skates.”

So he dashed off, and filled the little cove above the Point with a labyrinth of curves and flourishes.

When that bit of crystal tablet was well covered, the podographer sighed for a new sheet to inscribe his intricate rubricas upon.  Why not write more stanzas of the poetry of motion on the ice below the Point?  Why not?