On Maps and Boundaries
Bread Loaf School of English, 2 July 1962
Typed transcript, 35 p. Abernethy Manuscripts [Frost] / Tape Transcriptions. Transcribed by India Tressault '80.

Reginald Cook: This tape records a talk and reading which Robert Frost gave on the evening of July 2, 1962, at the Bread Loaf School of English. The recording was made by Professor Erie Volkert of Middlebury College. Mr. Frost read from both his Complete Poems and also In the Clearing, his latest book.

Robert Frost: …that's the only, that's the only new thing about it. I d—I do it, the only time I ha—it's the only time I haven't been introduced, I think.

RC: I'll introduce you if you want to be.

RF: Uh—

RC: No, no [unclear]

RF: No, I'll stay [unclear] [laughter]. That was [unclear].

And, suppose I decided not to read you any poetry at all, just to tell you stories. That would be new, wouldn't it. Uh. Suppose I, um, and I might spend the evening reading just out of my new book but I don't want to wear that out [laughter] in a hurry. I, uh, been thinking about, uh, suppose I ju—told a story or two. Um, someone said to me that — a young Italian friend — said to me that he didn't think we Americans realized our, what we have achieved, you know, that it's not in our, on our, in our mind just what we, that we've got a lot. And it's too, we're too used to it. And I suppose that's so, uh, part, m—more or less so. We have to r—stir ourselves up and shout a little and talk, talk about it, uh, to, to real—rem—remember it.

I heard of a boy back in the 1830s, uh, who must have no—been full of what America was. You know, That must have been a great time: the time John L. Stevens was opening up Yucatan and, in the thir—in the '30s, and when, uh, wh—wh—when Emerson was going strong writing poetry. [Unclear] I saw a sa—a government statement today, uh, yesterday, that [unclear] Emerson was a literary man; he wrote essays. That came from Washington [laughter]. Just think of that! Just think of that! And, uh, well about that time, E—Emerson was, about that time, I think, Emerson was having his first little book of poetry printed in England. He had his first book of poetry in England. He was a poet. In prose or verse, he was a poet. That's, and [unclear].

And I had another message from Washington about how we had been too hard worked as pioneers ever to be literary at all, and way back then, uh, we had Emerson who will be remembered longer than this republic. See. You'd think literature had just come over us, we'd just found time for it. That's Washington [laughter]! Awful, isn't it? Emerson; one of the greatest of the great. And, uh.

Well, in the '30s there was a boy from upstate New York, middle state, somewhat like the boy, uh, in r—Redburn [unclear] the boy Redburn in, um, about the same time, I guess. He was, sailed before the mast. He had come down from the country, and got on board, got on board a ship and sailed before the mast. And i—in, in St. Petersburg when the ship got there, he said to his captain, "I wish I could see the Czar." And the captain said, "I'm afraid that would be difficult." Said, "Well, I want to see him."

And, uh, [unclear] the captain spoke to the consul in St. Petersburg and the consul said the same thing: "That would be very difficult. I don't suppose that would be possible." And a message came from the Czar presently for the boy to come see him.

And he came before the Czar [unclear], you know, America those days. I just feel him, the kind of boy, with his hand out like this as if he had a bomb in it or something, you know [laughter], and he said, "I have a present for you. It's an acorn that fell from a tree that grows beside the house of George Washington. He was a great ruler and you're a great ruler. I thought you might like to plant this by your palace."

And the—and they, they, they planted it. I wonder if it's there. The Cz—the Czar sent for a shovel and they went out together and planted it. And then the Czar said to him in a splendid way, too, "Anything I can do for you? That's a great thing you've done for me." And he s—said, "I always wanted to see Moscow." So he s—gave him a cavalcade of horses, sent him up to Moscow. And his s—ship sailed without him. I don't know how he got home [laughter]. That was what America was in those days.

And then, you know, there was the same thing, you know, that began this doubt about it, beg—must have been beginning in the same way, the pessimism, the Redburn just that I mentioned there, the, me—Redburn story in Liverpool is a terrible story, a sort of a dismal, dismal boy abroad. But we had Am—we had Americans and we've got 'em still, I suppose. And…

Now I was thinking about glorifying America. What does that w—what does that word mean? This comes from Washington, too. Uh, uh, uh, they wanted me to do something—somebody does down there. Somebody wants me to do something to glorify the space age [laughter] and our part in it [laughter]. And, that's prophesying and I charge more for prophesy but I thought I'd—[laughter] I, I'd start prophesying a little to you. Uh, the first thing you think of to begin it, without being ironical, you know, you can't do—can't be gloriously ironical, can you? That's something you've got to think of, uh, that that's always, that always takes the wind out of sails, the irony does.

But trying to be glorious. First you think of the space age of, of great Elizabeth. I, I don't know whose sentence it is that, I, that's in my mind: "'the spacious age' of great Elizabeth." Spacious age, a space age that was, too, see. And people radiated from, as much from her in the spirit as from anybody, you know. It was from, of course, from the explor—it was explorers going in every way. But the great radiation into, Drake went all the way, left a marker, didn't on the c—West Coast of America. Her Drake. And, uh, they went everywhere and the thoughts went everywhere. And this is the assumption: that everybody knew that then, that they could have prophesied what a glorious space age it was, and they weren't at all, nobody wanted to stake Columbus to a voyage. Everybody had their doubts about it. One, one minor queen got interested in him [RF laughs]. And it couldn't have been very glorious. It—the glory, uh, the glory is something you see behind you there, what they—where they went and all they did and all they lost, all the wrong they did.

But let's suppose we're going to Mars right away, see. Uh, you, I suppose I can leave it to you, you know, you [unclear] glory in it. Maybe I can't do it right. I, I hesitate about it. If I were sure we were going to Mars and, and I was, wanted to glory in it, the way I would have gloried in Columbus' voyage, you know, if I had been any good, [unclear], I wouldn't have, you know, I know I wouldn't have been up to it. I know that [laughter]. That wouldn't… But if I ha—if I we—din—you know what I'd like to do? I'd like to go to Mars and warn them about how many mistakes we made with the people that lived in the country we came to. Tell them about what we did to the Indians. And they'd better be careful about our, our, our landing in Mars. Better, better, sh—you know, better shoot me and shoot any more that came [laughter], if they use guns. Oh, I'm no good at it. I fail the, uh, my prophesy can't, I can't make it very glorious.

I suppose the glory of it is this. Let's, let's wind it up somewhere. Suppose you think of what—how you glory in it. I think the glory of it would be that we're making these passes, uh, Promethean defi—of Promethean defiance against the unknowable: space, see. Ever, every, every plane we, every motion we make through, through space, [unclear] these, round and round the world and hur—toward the moon and all that, is a sort of Promethean defiance of, of the unknowable. See. That's glorious.

And that's as far as I go. And I don't believe that's what they mean [laughter]. [Unclear] They mean, I think they probably don't go any further than, uh, uh, uh, better communication between the stock exchanges of the different parts of the world [laughter]. They, uh, wh—and that's, that's going to be very valuable. Val-u-able, uh. But they, uh, they're, uh, we're still at it. That's the splendid thing about science and about man. One of the most splendid things is his defiance of the unknowable, further into it, you know, further into it, further into it, and always there it is: Promethean. Suppose I leave that my—for my prophesy. That will go on. I'm quoting, I'm quoting a poet when I say, "It will go on." Uh, you kno—you know the poet I'm quoting. Never mind [laughter].

The, n—something else I was thinking of not connected with that too much about our gl—about our glory. Uh, you're, you're teachers I'm speaking to, some of you, all of you [unclear], and you're teachers that want to be taught. And that's a funny thing, isn't it [laughter]? Uh… Funny kind of submission. It's nice, very nice, And, uh, are you, what do you want to be taught? Want to be taught that, uh, uh, in this same prophetic way, that we're, the further we go in space the less we'll own anything or live any particular where, see. And I heard of a school the other day, a kindergarten, where they put for the children this couplet to correct, see, see. Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers.
Are they any less so for not being ours? See that's, that [unclear] Thoreausian and one-worldish, eh. All wor—universal. Buttercups for the children. Now the—it was put this way for them to correct. "Oh the pretty—" uh, uh,
Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers—
[Are they any more so—a—are they a—any better for no—for not being—no, for their being ours]
Are they any better for [our] being ours?
And that was suppo—you were supposed to correct that or you failed. And you were supposed to make it, "Are they any less so for not being ours?" Uh, th—that's this same question of where we are, and whether Vermont is anything to us, or, or any property is anything. That's very Thoreausian. Thoreau's all, all loose in the world on a—on account of that, you know. He, he talked, he talked that stuff all the time. Uh, no, no property. He could enjoy everything that belonged to other people. He could e—eat their meals, too [laughter].

All right. Now I'll read to you a little. See…I'm going to begin with some of the little ones, and, that I have in my head. Uh, old ones, too. Uh, suppose I just go back to, uh, one or two of the old ones first. I'm groping for what I want. I want to get the mood. "Mowing." There was never a sound beside the [woods] but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
[Perhaps it was something about the, the, [coughs]
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
[ ]
And that was why it whispered and did not speak—
No, no, no, I guess I, see it. Too nervous. There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without [, uh, faded—]pointed spikes of flowers
[Uh, and, uh, without—]
[ ] [and,] and scared a bright green snake.
[Uh,] The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

And, that was one of my earliest ones. Uh, that is one of my earliest convictions, that, about poetry: the fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows, uh, that poetry is, poetry is gloating on, gloating on facts. That I found that for myself when I said that.

Then, another one that has a definition of poetry in it. [Unclear] that comes to my head. The definition of poetry that is, uh, that, uh, the f—the fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows, d—gloating on the fact. Uh, this is called "A Tuft—" "The Tuft of Flowers." Another early one. I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, [as,] as he had been—alone,
"As all may be," I said within my heart,
"whether they work together or apart."
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
[S—]Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the [work—]wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With [un—]one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."
Of course the heart of it lies right in those, uh, lines in the middle: The mower in the dew had loved them thus That's the poem [unclear] you write. By leaving them to flourish, not for us, Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
That's the first part of it. And the social part of it is secondary. That's, [unclear] that was a, m—each one of the poems was, was me getting on with my own thoughts about life, and what it was, step by step.

And then, one… And I guess this one isn't so much like that, but it—it goes, goes, too. The, the very first one in my book, uh, has something to do with it, with it all. Uh, i—uh, this is about, uh, wilderne—the desire for the wilderness. Uh, i—

[Reads "Into My Own"]

That again is, uh, a, a certainty. Uh, the Emersonian idea of being pleased with your own inconsistency I never had [laughter]. I always hoped that the thing would tie together someway. But, uh, if I, if I couldn't make it, that was up to God.

Now that's, uh, then I, uh, suppose I skip a f—from there to some of the later ones in the little book, Uh, few short ones, then I'm going to read part of a long one. I'm not gonna burden you with a 1—a very long one. But, uh, this little one's called "Awa—" "Away!" Uh,

[Reads "Away"]

Then, those, how far, you know, uh, you w—I put those together like those first ones that I read. You just, these later ones, to see what the, there "they would not find me changed from him they knew.'' You know I was thinking of, in scientific way a lot lately and the latest thought I've had about that. You're always pegging along, the latest thought I've had is that someday the scientists are going to find out that the thing they've been looking for as created by the right elements put together is the thing that brings the right elements together [laughter]. And it's another element itself called life, eh. And they're going to say that someday before, before long, They're still looking for it, though, by putting things together. It wo—it's not a resultant, it's a, it's the cause. It's in everything. The attraction of one element, the other. Valence and all that sort of thing that they talk about. That's going to be the, the, that's what I… That was the last thought I had.

Here's, here's one, uh, that was before that. See if I can find it. [Turning pages] Hmmmm. This is called [unclear].[Unclear] lost it.[Unclear] find that.It's called "Accidentally on Purpose." And it's a pie—that's a sar—piece of my sarcasm. Hmmm. Guess I got to look the whole book through [laughter]. Well, I thought it was in another place. I don't know it by heart [unclear]. [Turning pages] No, I haven't got—it isn't there in the book [laughter].

RC: Maybe they skipped it [unclear].

RF: Now, this has in it, uh, the next thought I had before that that the, that the, that, just as a—just as, uh, oxygen and hydrogen and iron and tin and silver and gold are elements, life is an element, so subtle that they haven't put their finger on it. They hope to, they hope to get along without finding it, you know, they think they can make it by putting the right things together. For instance, you put [unclear] they tried marrying everything. Uh, they've tried, you know, uh, oxygen doesn't marry very well with gold. It marries better with silver. Eh. And so on. They're interested in that sort of thing, working at it all the time. So am I [laughter].

Now this is some more play with the thing. "Accidentally on Purpose." I was brought. up on that expression, that I did it a—when I did anything I shouldn't I said I did it accidentally on purpose.

[Reads "Accidentally on Purpose"]

That's that. Th—these are doctrinal [laughter], too. Then, another little sing-song-y one, uh, uh, "Perils of Hope."

[Reads "Perils of Hope"]

Then, then a, a longer one that I'll have to read to you. [Unclear] This is about us, in the, uh, uh, the thing I talked about at first, about our knowing ourselves. This is called "A—" "A Cabin in the Clearing," and, there are three —two speakers in it. One is called Mist and the other is called Smoke.

[Reads "A Cabin in the Clearing"]

Then, uh, see, [unclear] little bit of a longer one. If I can, that's long enough so I can find it.[Unclear] Now this one I, I'm only going to read you a part of, a little of. And the title of it is, "How Hard It Is to Keep From Being King When It's In You and In the Situation." And this has ironies in it, uh, but it's not, it's partly out of the fun of, of a story, of an old story in Arabian Nights that you probably never read unless you've gone a long way in Arabian Nights. Y—I found it somewhere near the t—tail end of Burton. And, and it's, it's stayed with me.I, I saw anothe—I thought of another one the other day that I could make a kind of a, a story-poem out of. I haven't written many story-poems. Uh, now I'll, I'll read this very carefully. Uh,

[Reads "How Hard It is Keep from Being King When It's In You and In the Situation"]

Uh, and then, I'm not going to read any more of that. I'm going to say something to you. There's a lot more to it, and a lot of my ideas about other things. Uh, the, uh, not seeing, uh, too well. I seem to be having trouble with my glasses. [Unclear]. Uh,

[Reads "One More Brevity"]

Let me say some without r—r—reading 'em. And, let's see, uh, "Take Something Like a Star."

[Reads "Choose Something Like a Star"]

That's to my s—preaching to myself, not to you. But the, one of the things in it, uh, 1—that you might not notice. I say in one place, "Some mystery becomes the proud." You don't know what that line cost me in the way of living. It took me a long time to accept obscure poetry bec—uh, but I decided it was lofty spirit made them obscure, see [laughter]. That was ri—see, many a line is like that, that's wrung from you, you know, out of. And it, you don't get credit for all you've suffered to get it. They ask if it takes you long to write thing. No, it takes you long to live 'em. You write 'em quick.

The, that, that poem is full of things about myself that way. Just like those first two ones: the fact is the sweetest dream that labor [unclear]. Even unconsciously I've lived by that, that gloating and doting is the whole business, you know, dwelling on thing—dwelling on things, dwelling on the fact. And that's can be, uh, they can be d—uh, [unclear] if it's beautiful statistics, you know, there's some very beautiful statistics that gloat on too, you know. Some wonder.

You don't know, you got, that's what it all is, eh, s—dwelling on something that, that vibrates in, stays in your mind, keeps coming back, And they, they, uh, the last of that, uh, that I've often called attention to. I don't think I ever called attention to that line before about, and y—see I was thinking of a particular person when I said "Some mystery becomes the proud." Never mind him. I won't tell you who he was. I was giving him credit for loftiness, you know, uh, more than he deserved [laughter]. He's still, he's still hard to take.

Uh, then, and the last part of it [unclear] It asks [something] of us here,
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
And I'm part of the mob, you know, To carry praise or blame too far, You know, you may take something like a star, And I often think it's Catullus, you know, I, I get out Catullus when I'm too bothered up about my having been wrong in politics, when I've voted wrong and gone with the mob and everything. I read Cat—Catullus. And s—astronomy's like that to me, and so's hoeing and so on. …take something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
I say that that way, sp—staid, want to be a more or less staid person, you can't, see. Then, uh, then, you know, s—s—so many kinds there are that I, uh, they, just before I [unclear]…

This book has mistakes in it. It's got to have some corrections. [Unclear] Uh, here's one that I'm going to put a stanza back into. I been th—monkeying with this poem; I don't often monkey with poems. But this one I have publicly monkeyed with. Uh, I—I'll say it to you and partly read it. It's called "Closed for Good." And it should begin this way. It doesn't in the book [In the Clearing]. Much as I own I owe
The [travellers] of the past
Because their to and fro
Has [made] this road to last, I owe them more today
Because they've gone away.
See, that stanza I threw out and it ought to be back in. See.

[Finishes reading "Closed for Good"]

There it ends. Tha—that's the way that's going to be. That's taking you into [unclear], taking you into my confidence when I talk about those things. The, the, the book has a whole lot in it of, of my thinking about science and all that, to, with a, a—a great deal of this in— …that I don't want to go into tonight.

The little, little, here there's a little one that I have here that I want you to have. Oh, gee, where is everything… Something of… [turning pages] And the, this, this kind of, of thing that is so, not, I don't know whether it's meant to recite, it's such a quiet sort of thing. "Questioning Faces."

[Read "Questioning Faces"]

I just, I could almost say, wish you could remember that for me, I say it so carefully.

[Reads "In Winter in the Woods"]

That's a threat to write another book, you see, I didn't write it for that but that's what it comes to, that's my interpretation of it. But it, uh, you see it's got the same rhyme all the way through, r—just wrote, wrote it right off the reel.

[Reads "In Winter in the Woods" again]

"Written in Dejection on the Eve of Great Success." I'm gonna call it eight now, I'm gonna take only eight of them. I'm gonna leave the rest out. But the next book is just going to say I, uh, these are "Eight Lines Written in Dejection on the Eve of Great Success." See, it's stealing from Shelley and all that. But I put in eight this time, 'tisn't in the book. And, uh, the rest of it I'll forget, uh, leave it, uh, uh.

[Reads "Eight Lines Written in Dejection on the Eve of Great Success."]

[Laughter and applause] You, you feel the same way I do about it, but did you see how cautious I am, saying "Lines Written in Dejection," see, "On the Eve of Great Success." They may be at the moon tonight, I don't know [laughter]. Uh, where is the moon anyway, I haven't followed it. But they, and I, I may be refuted in any day, any minute, but I fixed it so I'm all right [laughter]. My own dejection.

And then, one… some other half-absurdity, uh. You must remember my l—uh, that little couplet that you got to fix, you know, uh, uh, uh, Buttercups and daisies, oh, the pretty flowers,
[Are there any,] Are they any less so for not being ours?
Uh, this was all sh—that involves, that involves the whole question of Thoreau and property and whether we were, you know, in the future. It's all very… [unclear] you don't know where I got it. I won't tell on anybody. Uh.

RC: Two have been asked for: "The Gift Outright" and "The Road Not Taken."

RF: All right. Then we [unclear] it; these we finish on these. Uh, uh,

[Reads "The Road Not Taken"]

And then the other one that, that others chose for me. I didn't choose it, uh, the, for the President. I m—uh, I gave it to him for his inauguration. And it's just a history, a piece—a little piece of history about the Revolutionary War. Funny about how politics come into poetry somewhat, you know. The Revolutionary War, I often say that, that things, most tragedies like that great tragedy are conflict of good and good, you know, the colonial is good and it's someone else has come to the world now, we don't know how good it, or bad it is [unclear] colonialism is gone, it's out, today's papers, some more of it. And… uh, we, we led off in that way, and for very slight reason.

Do you know one of the reasons we were out of sorts was that the big pine trees on our land, our farmers' land, the great big pines were good for ship masts and the King marked them for his. We couldn't have them for ours. Right on our own land, see. Irritations like that, little things, you know. We decided we had to go it alone. And, and right away we were, George Washington and ja—Jeffers—Thomas Jefferson and, and Madison and, uh, and, uh, John Adams and the, and the grea—great poets like Emerson and all that. Right away, you know, it set us going, getting going, get enterprise of, of having a country. And it worked well with us. I hope it works well with everybody.

But this poem is about that. "The land was ours before we were the land's." That's all. See, we didn't belong enough to where we lived. This is the, this is some more of this doctrine of belonging to the ground, you know. Mine. See I, I can't get it out of my system.

[Reads "The Gift Outright"]

And we had an amusing time about whether we, uh, whether we, for the inauguration we'd make that into something else, you know, "Such as she will become." Uh, for this, under this administration [laughter]. I was willing to. I've often said, "Such as she was, such as she might become." I've changed that word in there several times myself. But I've kept it finally "Such as she was, such as she would become." And however — I'm preaching to you now, talking politics again — there's nothing like a good map, and the evidence of that is that we got a good map from the Pacific to the Atlantic, it laid out as neat however we got it, crook or crook, I don't say. But it's a great map. And Berlin is the worst map the world ever saw. See, bad maps make bad, bad trouble. Bad m—maps are the, maps does it. That's all. Maps does it [laughter]. Good night. Should I say—[applause].

[Gap in tape] …no glasses and they'd, I just couldn't read with glasses tonight, I did better without them [laughter]. I've had forty doctors, other thing, something the matter. They say I'm a mental case [laughter].

Let's see if… That's the great sentiment of the evening, you know, there's nothing like a good map. Having a good map. Uh, si—these boundaries, these b—I, I n—I know a 1—a poet, a minor poet, who when he was, uh, rather sickly a young man in Maine, came to teach in Fryeburg, Maine, little town [unclear] way back, uh, hundred and fifty, oh, hundred—more than a hundred and fifty years ago. And, and, he became the governor of the state of Maine. And he was one who fought the boundary, for the boundary in northern Maine.

And strangely enough I heard about that boundary sitting at the c—at the President's table beside, uh, beside, uh, Canadian minister's wife, uh, not the minister now but [unclear] the liberal minister, I might call him. And she talked about that boundary and how we got it. And I knew more about it than she did. She didn't know it was this p—uh, this ma—this little m—little man, he, a small man he was. He's buried in a tomb in his, in all his glory in the m—in Augusta, Maine.

And his name was Enoch—you know, fine Biblical name—Enoch Lincoln. And, and I know a lot about him. He, uh, Lincoln, Nebraska's named after him, the capital of Nebraska. I told her that, and what a—[laughter] it's not Abraham Lincoln, this was Lincoln.

And tha—this, uh, he wrote a little book of poetry called The Village. And, uh, it's exhibited in, in the library in Lincoln, Nebraska. It's in a glass case there. And I have a copy of it. Since I been bragging about him, some people have sent me copies of it. It was about, 'twas in the great ti—in those great days back there that I been talking about, when Americans were all alive to be an American.

He, uh, and it's quite a book. It's what you'd call a progressive book. It was fine about women and about Indians [laughter].[RF laughs] Uh, isn't it, isn't it wonderful his history got that way. I've always wanted to go and live in [unclear] Fryeburg a little while in his honor. He, he's just there. He wrote that little book about ri—Fryeburg, right through the mountains there, at the edge of the mountains, 1—near where I've lived. Enoch Lincoln. Someday I, I could, I, I take pleasure in glorifying him, you know, not the, not the space age [laughter]. All right, good night. [Applause]