"Sun’s up!”, claimed Baxter bright and early. Knitted overalls, toque at the ready, socks right side up, and he was puttering in the kitchen, looking for tasty morsels to indulge daybreak appetites.

“Mercy!” answered Fletcher, sleepy-eyed, half foggy, half naked. “Why do we have to go out so early? why can’t we just wait until the Sun is fully up, not just glinting at us?”, retorted to himself, trying to get dressed. Knitted overalls, toque at the ready, socks right side up, inching his way to the kitchen where a kettle boiled and toast was being jammed.

“Because the early bird gets the worm, silly head! If we don’t hurry up Mrs Thaw is gonna’ melt it all and there will be no more waxin’ and slidin’ and fun-a-havin’ in this neck of the woods ’til next winter. Now, who doesn’t want to smell fresh snow in the mornin’? Shut the pie hole, grab some toast and let’s get goin’”. A kindler reply was needed to convince Fletcher of morning adventuring but he raised no stink. Wooly boots, here. “Don’t forget your scarves!” I yelled at them, made them come back to prop knitted things against their cheeks and spit-finger-licked their hairs out of their face. Off they go.