Digital primer

It was a little after seven o'clock on the evening of December 31,
186--. Inside, the little red schoolhouse was ablaze with light. Sounds
of voices and laughter came from within and forms could be seen flitting
back and forth through the uncurtained windows. Outside, a heavy fall of
snow lay upon hill and vale, trees and house-tops, while the rays of a
full-orbed moon shone down upon the glistening, white expanse.
At a point upon the main road a short distance beyond the square, where
the grocery store was situated, stood a young man. This young man was
Ezekiel Pettengill, one of the well-to-do young farmers of the village.
His coat collar was turned up and his cap pulled down over his ears, for
the air was piercing cold and a biting wind was blowing. Now and then he
would walk briskly back and forth for a few minutes, clapping his hands,
which were encased in gray woollen mittens, in order to restore some
warmth to those almost frozen members. As he walked back and forth, he
said several times, half aloud to himself, "I don't b'lieve she's comin'
anyway.


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