Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

“Rump-head ronyons” cried Bill “rump-head. You are a ronyon”
“Well I don’t go out to see Merle Schnurrenberger anyway”
“I don’t either. Her mouth hangs open!”
“So does yours!”
Coasting was fine and there were three or four big bobsleds, which laden with shouting boys and girls, sped down the hill. The hill is not a very big one, or very steep but it is almost as good a one as there is in Salem, besides being paved and conveniently situated. As the sleds whizzed past us, we were possessed with a strange desire to slide ourselves, but we didn’t know any of the sliders well enough, and we had no bobsled of our own.
“Darn it” said Bill “I wish we had a bobby”
“Here too” I replied, “Gee but it’s good to-night. Look how shiny the track is.”
“King’s got one, but it’s too late now to go out.”
“Yes. Let’s go to-morrow night – oh we’re going out to the Richies aren’t we?”
“Yes I guess so. To play five hundred.”