It was a scene of gaiety and exuberant enjoyment.  The children let loose from school, where they had been confined all the week, put no bounds to the loud and hilarious expression of their delight, which the seniors showed no disposition to check—­remembering they once were children—­and the banks of the stream rung with shouts and answering cries and laughter.  Here, flying round in graceful curves, a dexterous skater cut his name in the ice; there, bands of noisy boys were playing tag, and on the ringing steel pursuing the chase; while every once in a while down would tumble some lubberly urchin, or unskillful performer, or new beginner, coming into harder contact with the frozen element than was pleasant, and seeing stars in the daytime, while bursts of laughter and ironical invitations to try it again, greeted his misfortune.  In another place were girls on small sleighs or sleds, capable of holding two or three, whirled along by half-a-dozen skaters with great rapidity; while, holding on to handkerchiefs, were others drawn upon their feet at less hazardous speed.  Dispersed among the crowd were little boys with flat, tin boxes suspended by a strap from their necks, containing molasses candy, whose brittle sweetness appeared to possess great attraction.  All was fun and jest, and laugh and merriment.

Among others, allured by the beauty of the day, which though clear was not so cold as to be uncomfortable, to witness the sports, were Faith Armstrong and Anne Bernard, escorted by Pownal and young Bernard.  The cheeks of the ladies were crimsoned by the wholesome cold, and their eyes shone with a brighter lustre than usual, and many were the looks of envy or of admiration cast upon them as they passed, greeting their acquaintances and joining in the revel.

At the time when the little party arrived there happened to be a circle gathered around one of the most accomplished performers to witness an exhibition of his skill, and surely nothing could be more graceful.  Without sensible effort, and as if by mere volition, he seemed to glide over the glossy surface, now forwards, now backwards, now sideways, now swiftly, now slowly, whirling like an eagle in rapid or dilatory curves, describing all the lines that Euclid ever drew or imagined, and cutting such initials of the names of the spectators as were desired.  The performance, though hailed with very general expressions of admiration, did not seem to give universal satisfaction.

“He does pretty well,” said an elderly man, with a woollen scarf or muffler about his neck and a fox-skin cap on his head, “He does it pretty well; but, Captain, did you ever see Sam Allen?”

“You mean,” answered the person addressed, who was a man of about the same number of years, “Allen who married old Peter’s daughter, and afterwards run away.  Yes; it didn’t go with him as slick with her as on the ice.”

“Well, she didn’t break her heart about it.  She got married agin as soon as the law allowed.  I was in court when Judge Trumbull granted the divorce.  ’Twas for three years willful desartion and total neglect of duty.”