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Many a time since that carnival night have I steered my own toboggan, down less
precipitous steeps, perhaps, but none the less dangerous; many a time on the trackless old
hill up here in Ontario have I cleared a half-buried tree stump by a couple of inches and a
touch of my moccasined toe, that has swerved my craft aside in the nick of time; many a
night have I been one of a gay young crew, packing the snow together at the foot of a hill
just to make a “big bump” over which our toboggan would leap like a stag, then fly on its
runaway course, and many the cold western moon that has smiled all night above us as we
thronged the [cre] st of this king of winter sports. But I never take a dash down-hill
without a peculiar homesickness to see old Mount Royal lifting its royal crest against the
night, and to hear some chivalrous, dark-eyed French Canadian asking if “Mademoiselle
will only honor me and my toboggan,” and then with regret I remember that the mighty,
rugged slide, with many of its fellows, has fallen into disuse the last few seasons, owing to
that variable tyrant Fashion, who has recently smiled very openly on skating and
snowshoeing. But one never knows the veerings of this weathercock, or how soon the
mandate will be issued that will cause young Canada to spring to its feet, hailing with a
glad and lusty shout the return of this temporarily exiled monarch, and of the wild,
inspiring atmosphere that clings forever to his kingly robes.

E. PAULINE JOHNSON.

Word Count:
Total: 2569
Without Titles: 2533