North of Boston

THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. Long Memorial Day time they ast me would I come and speak to the Chickville Church like I done before.

It is one of them little white cross road churches with a burying ground acrost the way.

I suppose a high powered city preacher would of sniffed at the place. They aint no stained glass windows. The heating plant is two box stoves. Lighting is kerosene. The pews is straight backed with old fashioned numbers painted on.

The platform and pulpit was banked with lilacs and spring flowers. Looking out the window you could see the pines and a wine glass elm moving easy in the breeze.

A very determined and capable female pumped and played the wind box. Folks sounded real good when they sung "Faith of Our Fathers" and "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Three ministers, two of them ex-combat chaplains, done their stuff and I wound things up.

Then we went acrost to the cemetery and decorated the graves and Taps was sounded.

Perhaps it wan't no great shakes of a service, but out of that settlement come fellers for every war this country has been in, men that would light a cigarette off the mill tail of Flell and laugh, from the boys that silvered the rocks in the Devil's Den at Gettysburg with their bullet splashes, right down to the crowd that put Hirohito's best out of the Banzai business.

A Frost, a Whittier or a Masefield would of whittled out a piece of immortal poetry from his thoughts whilst gohome from that service.

Not being in the poetry business, I just changed my clothes and rearranged the internal plumbing of a woodchuck what had set up housekeeping near my wife's garden.

Now and then a man puts in a day when he knows that he has ben in on a real good deal. That day was one of them. I wisht some of you fellers could ben along. You might of liked it.