North of Boston

THEY aim much happened sence the last riting. Tother day I driv North in the pios hope of buying sum lumber.

When I got up onto the long flat beyond Crawford Notch I stopped and looked back. Big white clouds basked in the sun whilst drifting over the Notch. Then a little black squall, lugging hailstones sneaked in under them. It was almost as pretty a pitcher as that old steel engraving "Heart of the Notch" which used to hang over most hoss hair sofas in these here parts.

Swang around the mowntings and pulled out of Woodsville—Wells River around six. Come down the road along the Connecticut. When I got to Orford it was awl I could do to stand on the brakes and yank the boiler onto Route 25, headed for home.

I wanted to let the car have her head and go down to Hanover. Nostalgia grabbed me right by the seat uv the pants and shook till my teeth rattled. I wanted to set on the Senior Fence in the soft spring night and hear hurrying feet on the campus paths. I wanted to hear fellers whistling in the dark.

I just wanted to set there and watch the memories of awl the grand guys I know, scattered from Hell to breakfast, wawk up from the Nugget when the show broke. (You may say that memories cant wawk from a place that aint there no more, but I know they can).

But I didn't do no such thing. I just driv home and come morning jacked up a lumber shed, put a drunk down to the County Farm for the planting season and shoved my nose right agin the old grindstone. But if wun of you fellers had of ben along we would of forgot tomorrow morning and business. We would of went to Hanover.