North of Boston

They aint much happened sence the last riting. Long late this fall I am setting in our liberry, digesting Sunday dinner when I hear Grace holler from upstairs, "Oh how fleet - how nimble - how lovely!"

I yank a .257 out of the gun case and make the door just in time to see three deer going into the woods. Paul Revere up the road with the jeep and two tellers close their filling station extremely sudden and come along. Show them where to stand and I drive the swamp and woods.

Two deer come out, but they don't connect for they have very hard chances. That makes one deer left in the swamp, so they drive for me.

I am standing back to an old oak, facing a big field. Dusk is setting in fast and the pines beyond the field are black against a grey sky. A wandering breeze ticks the last few dead leaves high on the oak. Then it is still again.

Father hunted these fields and woods and loved them. Grandfather did before him. So will my son in his time.

Then they was a brown streak out in the field and I locked into the rifle and touched off when the sights looked right.

The trail led down over a steep bank, across the road and into the river. Got rubber boots and a rope and waded out.

It was almost dark and the rocks was covered with ice. Tied on and the boys hauled the deer onto the bank. Climbed out, shed my jacket, rolled my sleeves and went to work.

Then I washed in the river and lit a cigarette.

I don't know when I have felt so good, way down deep.

It want just killing for the sake of killing. That is kid stuff.

It was three tired men in the cold and the dark and fresh killed meat. The feeling goes way way back to the days when the folks in our town had lean bellies and when a man pulled trigger he was playing for keeps.

I know that some of you fellers dont go for that sort of thing and I dont blame you a mite. Its awful lucky that all of us dont like the same things. But I do know some of you who would of liked to have ben with us.