So down underneath the bridge we went. Down there the ice was crystal clear, very thick, and it all like a room we had all to ourselves shut off by the snowdrifts on either side. We sang and laughed, ate our oranges. Quite my nicest memory.
– James Reaney, from “Master William Butterfield,” The Box Social and Other Stories (The Porcupine’s Quill, 1996)

















