He shouted and hallooed as he shot down the hill.

His mother could not have recognized his voice had she heard it, for it was the first time that the boy had ever given full cry to the natural voice of youth and his heart.

A few stolen races, and sorties up apple-trees, a few stolen slides had poor Ephraim Thayer had; they had been snatched in odd minutes, at the imminent danger of discovery; but now he had the wide night before him; he had broken over all his trammels, and he was free.
Up and down the hill went Ephraim Thayer, having the one playtime of his life, speeding on his brother's famous sled against bondage and deprivation and death.

It was after midnight when he went home; all the village lights were out; the white road stretched before him, as still and deserted as a road through solitude itself.

Ephraim had never been out-of-doors so late before, he had never been so alone in his life, but he was not afraid.