North of Boston

THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. For time out uv mind our fambly has ben mixed up with the Christmas tree held at the church the Sunday nite before the holiday.

My Dreadnaught she taught the youngsters their parts real good. The Senior Deacon he rigged up an indoor tree and outdoor tree and decorated same. Being Junior Deacon my job was to skid up a Santa Claus. That night I had him to the church just the second the speaking was over, had his pack all filled with oranges and candy, made the sound effects of the reindeer stopping in the vestibule and started him up the church aisle right on the button. After he done his stuff I lugged him home and driv back.

As I come up the church walk, under the cold stars and the colored lights, a little snow shower whisked down, lovely as a $5,000 painting.

Whilst the wimmen folks was putting things to rights I snuffed out the candles and went down cellar and banked the fire in the big wood furnace. Then we snapped the switches and locked the door. Just before I thro wed the lock I get a deep whiff of that smell that hangs around a country church at Christmas time—its dry wood smoke and fir balsam and oranges and overshoes awl mixed up with old timbers and dried carpits.

Nobody aint never been able to describe that smell right, but if you've knowed it in your nostrils every Christmas season sence memory began, its sweeter than 20 buck per ounce perfume.

As we trod out to the car I told the Dreadnaught how Pret Smart '24, now the Hon Judge of Probate for the county of Carroll, and me used to snow ball up and down that walk on Christmas tree night whilst we was waiting for the old folks to close up the church and take us home.

The Dreadnaught she just squeezes my arm and points to the steeple, dark against the stars.

"My dear," says she, "we're the old folks now."