North of Boston

They aint much happened sence the last riting. Long last month we had to run the bounds on a lot over near the Maine line.

Put the jeep up over a lot of half washed out mountain roads, left it on a hill top and took to the woods. We found the old line and worked it slow and careful, putting on fresh spots and painting them so the line would last a long time and rebuilding the old corner markers.

I was going through some low ground and come to a slow brook under the big hemlocks and hardwoods. Across the brook was an old log, covered with fine green moss. They was three deep parrallel cuts in the moss on top of that log. Bits of moss and rotted wood was drifting away very slow. I beckoned to the men behind me. They give a good look.

"Another feller was running this line just ahead of us" said I.

"And he wore a big black coat" put in the surveyor.

"Large citizen," nodded the axeman, "must weigh around three hundred."

At noon we come out into a little clearing. They was tall pines. Here and there you could see the piles of field stones where the old timers had cleared the land just after the Revolution.

We set down and et our sandwiches and drank our cold milk and dozed in the sun. A pair of jets going down into Maine trailed their sound across the sky. Then the quiet come down again.

I do wisht that a cupple of you fellers could of ben along. You might of liked it.