By Dan Beard
Cold gray clouds have long since usurped the heavens and driven away the white, fleecy summer cumulus; the latter, like the birds, have gone to more congenial climes. For several weeks past heavy overcoats have been in demand. The rowing season has closed; the baseball bats and lawn tennis rackets are stowed away, and the college boys have settled down to study and gymnastics.
In the cities people swing their arms about and beat their muffled chests in a vain effort to start the blood to circulating in their benumbed fingers. Each waiting passenger, as he reads the morning paper, exhales two streams of mist from his nostrils. The horses puff larger streams of steam and wear chest protectors.
Everybody appears unhappy, except the school-boy. The latter's cheeks glow with more than usual color and his eyes sparkle as if with inward merriment, for he knows the signs, and the dull, leaden sky to him is only a promise of a big snow storm and "lots of fun."
The frost king has arrived and introduced jolly old Winter. Every boy knows that no season of the year can boast of more healthy outdoor games, brimful of fun and excitement, than winter, and that there is no sport among winter games more exciting and amusing than snowball warfare. The interest and fun of the game is greatly enhanced if there be a fort to capture or defend.
