North of Boston

THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. Jeputy Sheriff Fred Jackson '27 phones wun night from his shack down in Maine that they is a dollar for both uv us in a lumber deal.

Come morning, as the sun riz up over the hills, the coupe is gassed, warmed and I bend the throttle.

Up North the White Mountains is tiers uv pink and blew candy, a piece of scenery they would pay you 5G to set into Macy's window. The lakes is silver dish pans, scattered from Hell to breakfast by a careless giant. The little cross road villages, the green timber lots, the lonely farms and the white fields is a bunch uv Currier and Ives prints scattered around under the wings.

Fred's lake wanders up over the horizon. The ship slides down the long stairs uv the air and the wheels kiss onto eighteen inches uv solid ice.

We wawk up to his modest fourteen room shack. The snow crunches under foot. It's so still you can hear the bells on a logging team off on the next mownting.

Setting in his living room we rig our deal whilst his dear Dreadnaught feeds us kauphy and toast slathered with real country butter. We lean back and tawk about the nice guys we know what aint there and watch our cigarette smoke make blue patterns in the sunlite that lays in through the windows.

Then its time to crank up the ship and take another hour of that same old shop worn landscape on the way home. I wisht sum of you fellers could of ben along. You might of like it.