North of Boston

They aint much happened sence the last riting. This summer I sold my good old 1926 Model T Ford touring. Took the dough and put some more with it and got me a 1933 Packard convertible Victoria. It warnt hurt none. Awl it needed was some paint, chrome work, brake reline job, plugs, points and a new battery.

Long late this fall, just before the freeze, I fired her up wun afternoon and headed down into Maine on pleasure and business. The leaves was awl down and the lakes just starting to skim over. They was the long black road and the blue hills and mountains in the distance and the brown fields and the green of the pine lots and the white houses and the old grey barns. The air was still and the sun lay long shadows. They was a few clouds floating off on the horizon.

I dont know when I have felt so good behind a wheel. There was a real shift lever under my hand and a set of gauges to read. A feller really had to know how to drive instead of just being tooken down the road by wun of these modern marvels on wheels.

There was the long slim hood out front and the big chromed headlights and the deep pounding song when you come down on the stinger and the pull of the wheel going into a corner.

Stopped for an early supper at wun of the best places in Maine. Didn't have nuthin but real clam chowder, baked lobster, hot biskits and two cups of black cofEee. Paid the check, pulled on the old coonskin and slid behind the wheel. A big moon come up, lighting the fields. I just drifted along, feeling young again and not in no hurry.

Stopped for gas. A yung fool laffed and ast me where I got the anteek. A chap in a conservative Lincoln took wun look and said, "I presume that vehicle is not for sale" I told him NO and took to the cold moonlit road again.

I would of give five dollars if some of you fellers could o£ rode with me. You might of liked it