North of Boston

Just before Christmas one of our oldest, and the best, man in town died. He was eighty and his heart give out. He run down, just like an old clock, slow and easy.

He was the Father of Pret Smart '24, our County Judge of Probate, and of Ed Smart, my Associate in Court.

They dont make men like him no more. He would get up at five to handle his correspondence. At seven he was in the mill in overalls, working with his men. At noon he would change his clothes, drive to Concord and preside at a meeting of our State Fish and Game Commission. It would take a small computer to figure out the good things he had done with his life.

After the funeral I stood in the line of pall bearers in the vestibule of our church. I could look down the road to his house, and then up onto the hill where we was going to bury him.

I thought how many times he had come in' and out of that vestibule. And I thought how many days work he had given to the church, from the days of kerosene lamps and wood stoves right up to now.

Then we drove to the grave yard. There was. the pale winter sky and the sun dazzling on the crust. Six Conservation Officers in the bright red jackets and green slacks were in. line behind the grave. (To be a C O in New Hampshire you got to be a practical biologist, a detective, know public relations, be extra rugged and know how to handle boats, radios and weapons real good.)

The red jackets was bright against the pines and the words of the committal service was torn by the cold hill winds.

Every one choked up, but still, if some of you fellers had ben there, you might of liked it.