Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

storm.
        At Seventh St our horses rebelled, and we were forced to become the horses. But, alto it was hard pulling, we only had to go a block, where the Hill was; here were pushed them off and drew the sled up the hill. Arriving at the top, we piled on, King being chosen as first steersman, and started off. King firmly insisted that we hadn’t started at all, while I wrathfully assured him that I had pushed off and it was going. Then Bill, wanted to know whether it was going up or down, to which question I was at a loss to know what answer to give. Despite these differences of opinion, I feel safe in asserting that we had started and were going down and not up. It was a tortuous journey; we would worm ourselves about half a block, when the bobby would stop again. There was too much snow. But finally we arrived at the bottom, much relieved.
      The next time was a little easier, as we kept in the same track as in our first trip. As each trip succeeded another, we increased our speed until we did creditable time. The steerer had the worst job of all. It was icy cold for him, for we sailed into the teeth of the wind: he had to be careful to keep in the tracks, and if he didn’t, he