New York and . There's Howard, too, a mystic sort of man, proud, proud Highlander that's gone. How he loved to sit and lunch, -- my children will never know, -- experience a true troubadour. In Summerside, he played and kilted the Bagpipes and we'd watch. There's Win's brook and Higgins' bridge The first trout -- with an alder rod from the road Between Maje's and Aunt Annie's place, — and I was afraid Dad was stealing the alder rod. The green water swirl around the brow of Budd 's narrow knife shaped put-put lobster boat going to the herring nets. Of horses, Bill and Jack and truck wagons with fine steel rims, turning by pasture fields with dairy cows. Of lilacs, and haylofts and rakes and the finest things -- raking hay and stooking thistled grain Wishing the thistles were other places. There -- hearing, feeling the truth of the parable of the good and bad seed sown —. Of school, when schools were schools to learn reading and arithmetic - to fight - to play the man. There's Major's forge, 'tis silent now - but once and many times, alive with shooting stars of burnished steel - and horse shoes and blacksmith smells. Of places that are part of you - you can not write - Life love, life blood, it hurts to tell about. 'Tis better hid somehow, like love someway. It hurts to tell - and you can never really, really tell, it makes you want to cry. Somehow that piece of you will never die until you die — Belmont, my Belmont. H. Mayne Yeo 77