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4. shared the log-covered shack with Hudson, who is my Ethan. Once at a party meeting on the village green he chased two policemen all round the square and down Main Street to the sympathetic howls of the mill workers and chagrin of the cops. Nights he'd play a yard long harmonica; God knows where he picked up such a monster. He borrowed hens, set them, and returned the fowls keeping the chicks. He had a hog in a woodland pen. A man of gray hair he went on the Hunger March, came down with pneumonia, and now he writes me the doctor says he is dying. I call it genius to be able to live happily on so little work. Our cabin in the pines cost only twenty-three eighty to build. Jack McCarthy, a carpenter on the Boston Elevated System sent us sliding car windows. Even the stove we got out of a dump. Hilda and I'd gladly live so again, only without my old friend, I fear we'd starve. Nor could I cut ice and saw timber and maple sugar any more as I did among many tasks those two years. I'm getting old myself; fifty now.

   I'll surely be glad to hear from you any time you feel so moved to write, and just as soon as the little book is bound, I'll send you a copy or two.

As ever, Jack P.S. You gave me a fine laugh in "there were a lot of fatheads around gumming up the works." All the Comrade Davis, Comrade Brown, Comrade Lipservice "aides" I ever had in any work I ever did, no matter how hard I ever tried, made me a monkey on a jackass and turned our plans into burlesques which would have thrilled any police convention. We were almost as laughable as the N.A. M and as self-ruinous. We invariably muffed the ball. Jack