North of Boston

THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. I come home frum the awfice few nights ago and parked my muddy rubbers on the door rock and let myself in. Got supper an at alone for my Dreadnaught was to Portland, going through them hat shops like a weasil through a hen house. Et in the kitchen and listened to the knots snap in the end heater and the wind sing the old lonely hill songs around the eaves and watched the long light lay on the white lake and the snow patches on the mowntings.

Crow lit in the back pasture, trying to figger out where my corn patch will be come spring. I grabbed the scope sighted Winchester and extended same out the window. He died nice.

Whilst cleaning the rifle in our gun and music room I started up the electric tawking machine and dug out a bunch uv records from our dear dead past. Was listening to a Campion Smoke Shop record, made by the Barbary Coast orchestra, taking Wabash Blues apart into small and quivering morsils when my dear son and dotter come treading in with a bunch uv other yung reptiles. They allowed they was going to dance. "Go ahead," I says, "records is all laid out." They took wun gander at them and remarks real pitying, "Father—the idea—dance to those old things!"

I picked up my treasures and stored them away real careful. The yunger generation dug out "Celery Stalks at Midnight" and "Bean Patch Boogie" or some such thing and begun to gyrate around.

I could of told them yung critters about sum well remembered May and June nights when what they cawled that old fashioned music made a feller's hair curl and liver turn to water—females likewise.

But I kept quiet. I just grabbed a book and stomped off upstairs. Looks like we might be gettin old or along.