26 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



it to get more than a passing acquaintance. And 

 to unbuild a building you need to be strong of 

 limb, heavy of hand, and sure of eye, lest the 

 structure upon which you have fallen fall upon 

 you; nor do business mottoes count, for you be- 

 gin not at the bottom, but at the top, or near it. 



Up in the attic among the cobwebs, stooping 

 beneath the ancient rafters, dodging crumbly 

 bunches of pennyroyal and hyssop, hung there by 

 hands that have been dust these fifty years, you 

 poise and swing a forty-pound crowbar with a 

 strong uplift against the roof-board, near where 

 one of the old-time hand-made, hammer-pointed, 

 wrought-iron nails enters the oak timber. The 

 board lifts an inch and snaps back into place. 

 You hear a handful of the time-and-weather- 

 worn shingles jump and go sputtering down the 

 roof. You hear a stealthy rustling and scurrying 

 all about you. Numerous tenants who pay no 

 rent have heard eviction notice, for the house in 

 which no men live is the abode of many races. 

 Another blow near another nail, and more 

 shingles jump and flee, and this time a clammy 

 hand slaps your face. It is only the wing of a 

 bat, fluttering in dismay from his crevice. Blow 



