ÒMark, you stop that,Ó Debbie said. ÒCome on, or we wonÕt make it to the swimminÕ hole.Ó

ÒAwh, Debbie, I was just havinÕ fun,Ó he said, reaching for another stone.

ÒYou put that back, Mark Colbert, or IÕm gonna tell mom,Ó she said stepping toward him.

Mark crouched in response, and when Debbie balled up her fists, he turned away from her, tripped on a root, and sprawled onto the ice. I laughed, and Mark jerked his head in my direction and coiled his body as if to strike, but fell again. We all laughed then.

I donÕt remember whose suggestion it was, but it was decided that Sandy was frozen enough to walk on. It bore our combined weight, only groaning occasionally.

Milky-white and dappled various blues, Sandy was transformed, and I was spellbound by its difference. I stopped and peered at the uneven surface, marvelling at the rippled smoothness. It looked like frozen clouds. White swirled into blue, faded to gray, and melted back to white. I saw castles and ghosts in that motionless dance.

ÒCome on, slow poke!Ó Mark cried.

ÒWhat?Ó I asked, frowning. ÒI was just looking at the ice.Ó I started walking again.

ÒHey, look! ItÕs the swimminÕ hole.Ó Mark raced further ahead and straddled a fallen log. As he stepped down, I heard a loud crack.