his uncle on his mother's side, not the pig, of course. Now I hadn't no
intention of tellin' about that hog; hadn't thought of it for a thousand
year, as you might say. I just commenced to tell about Angie Phinney,
about how fast she could talk, and that reminded me of a parrot
that belonged to Sylvanus Cahoon's sister--Violet, the sister's name
was--loony name, too, if you ask ME, 'cause she was a plaguey sight
nigher bein' a sunflower than she was a violet--weighed two hundred and
ten and had a face on her as red as--"

"Just a minute, Ase. About that pig?"

"Oh, yes! Well, the pig reminded me of Violet's parrot and the parrot
reminded me of a Plymouth Rock rooster I had that used to roost in the
pigpen nights--wouldn't use the henhouse no more'n you nor I would--and
that, naturally, made me think of pigs, and pigs fetched Josiah's
uncle's pig to mind and there I was all ready to start on the yarn. It
pretty often works out that way. When you want to start a yarn and you
can't start--you've forgot it, or somethin'--just begin somewhere, get
goin' somehow. Edge around and keep edgin' around and pretty soon you'll
fetch up at the right place TO start. See, don't you, Kent?"

I saw--that is, I saw enough. I came home and this morning I began the
"edging around" process. I don't seem to have "fetched up" anywhere in
particular, but I shall keep on with the edging until I do. As Asaph
says, I must begin somewhere, so I shall begin with the Saturday morning
of last April when Jim Campbell, my publisher and my friend--which is
by no means such an unusual combination as many people think--sat on the
veranda of my boathouse overlooking Cape Cod Bay and discussed my past,
present and, more particularly, my future.