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Poem	A motorist once said to me, and this was in the country, on a county lane, a motorist slowed his vehicle as I was walking my dear old collie, Sithney, by the side of the road, and the motorist came to a halt mildly alarming both Sithney and myself, not yet accustomed to automobiles, and this particular motorist sent a little spasm of fright up our spines, which in turn panicked the driver a bit and it seemed as if we were off to a bad start, and that's when Sithney began to bark and the man could not be heard, that is, if he was speaking or trying to speak because I was commanding Sithnewy to be silent, though, indeed I was sympathetic to his emotional excitement. It was, as I recall, a day of prodigious beauty. April 21, 1932--clouds like the inside of your head explained. Bluebirds, too numerous to mention. The clover calling you by name. And fields oozing green. And this motorist from nowhere moving his lips like the wings of a butterfly and nothing coming out, and Sithney silent now. He was no longer looking at us, but straight ahead where his election was in doubt. "That's a fine dog," he said. "Collies are made in heaven." Well, if I were a voting man I'd vote for you, I said. "A bedoozling day to be lost in the country, I say. Leastways, I am a misplaced individual." We introduced ourselves and swapped a few stories. He was a veteran and a salesmen who didn't believe in his product-- I've forgotten what it was--hair restorer, parrot feed--and he enjoyed nothing more then a a day spent meandering the back roads in his jalopy. I gave him directions to the Denton farm, but I doubt that he followed them, he didn't seem to be listening, and it was getting late and Sithney had an idea of his own and I don't know why I am remembering this now, just that he summed himself up by saying "I've missed too many boats" and all these years later I keep thinking that was a man who loved to miss boats, but he didn't miss them that much.
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