On a Christmas Day, we were mushing our way over the Dawson Trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold, it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
–Robert Service “The Cremation of Sam McGee”
Wait! Wait a minute! I lost my place in the book. Oh, here we are:
On a Christmas Day, we were sitting on a beach on sunny Sanibel Island…