North of Boston
THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. Other day went to look over a woodlot. Parked the barrel of bolts and trod out over a long windswept hill. Mowntings stood against the winter sky and the lakes was silver milk pans.
Through a scattered pine growth and found beds where the deer had laid snug out of the wind and sunned. Through big pines and scattered hardwoods what made a feller feel like he was treading right through the middle uv a Maxfield Parish print. Now and then a patridge rammed the throttle to the fire wall and took off very sudden. Snow was laced with rabbit and deer tracks.
Cupple of hours later I was headed back and stopped for a breather. Out of the corner of my eye I see a big fox come pit-patting along. Fox is vermin. So I pulled the Woodsman. Setting sun slanted onto his fur making it flamin gold. Front sight settled onto his shoulder and I started to come back on the trigger. Then I backed off the squeeze and holstered the Woodsman.
He never see me and went along home. First time I ever done that. Must be gettin soft.
Crowned the hill again and driv home in the long white dusk whilst day died in the west, awl very poetic. Wisht sum of you fellers had ben along. You might uv liked it.
