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52
September, 1945
way to the mills. However, in Kentucky, eastern Missouri, and other parts of the West where Boone's fiddle feet carried him, one still occasicnally may encounter an ancient survivor bearing the carven legend in the quaint chirography employed by the woodsman to chronicle his activities :
"D. Boone Chilt a Bar here oct. 12, 1768," or "Here D. Boone scupt a injin, 1773."
On larger trees where he was not cramped for space, the legend might read : "Here D. Boone chilt three bars and 2 injins and sculpt the last but not the bars."
It seems the larger the trunk, the greater his deeds. We might conclude that Boone tempered his sculpting activities to the size of the tree available for recording his prowess. Fortunately, he never visited the land of the gi.mt redwoods and mighty sequoias. If he had, literature would have been the loser. Helen Hunt Jackson could not have written her poignant story of Ramona. Boone would have left her no material to work with
A great many persons viev..'ing Dallin's Scout have wondered what he is watching out for. No one can answer that question except The Scout himself, but it's a 10 to 1 shot he's on the lookout either for a bachelor apartment or a pair of shorts. As an old bachelor, studio, or just plain kitchenette apartment and male underwear hunter I am in a position to
state authoritatively that the Scout's method probably will prove equally as effective as chasing around haberdasheries, department stores, and apartment rental agencies, and far less wearing.
In the old days the melodramas made quite a point of the fact that many a sturdy and honest heart beat beneath a ragged coat, although it was never made quite clear why rags were an essential attribute to a sterling character. (It always seemed conceivable to me that a man could w ear a welltailored suit without harboring a secret desire to experiment upon his wife's throat with his shaving utensils.) In these days, '' however, a freshly pressed pair of pants may often conceal the true poverty that lies beneath. Personally, I have been running about with shorts of such a raggedy aspect it would be embarrassing no end to take my pants off in public. I feel that if ever again [ encounter a pair of shorts in open display on a merchandising counter I shall remove my safari helmet and advance with outstretched hands, reuttering the historic words of greeting: "Doctor Livingstone, I presume."
On the other hand, it may be The Scout is not on the lookout for shorts. He has been a chronic victim of the shorts shortage— as a study of his nether garments will reveal — for such .1 long time he probably has become inured to his state. All he needs, anyway, is a strip of old sheetin*^ to