Whiting has recently taken the place of the reverend writer on all and sundry and religion, and uses the first column of the Herald to describe various New England towns. So, enjoying New England towns, I have watched faithfully for some mention of my own. I have found none. Out of respect for my native haunts, therefore, I think it only just that I here and now do unto Charlotte as he has done unto Dancers.

Charlotte is on the eastern coast of Vermont, not far from Otter Creek, a river famed in history and much too hot a ride in a power beat on any August day. It has various inhabitants, varying in number according to the season. The main products are milk and wise cracks of the vintage of the gay nineties. The milk is very good. The most original feature of the landscape is the cemetery in which lie those two sires of even wortheir stock, Mr. Root and Mr. Beer--lie so near in fact that the names on their granite shafts make sense when read from left to right as one crosses the hill. Here I once wandered with an old lady of uncertain step and wavering voice who was later proved the village lunatic. She was the only woman I have ever convinced of the beauties of a cemetery.

But the main item of interest in Charlotte, aside from the natural beauties--all scenic, is character or local color. Foremost in giving Charlotte its fame is a gentleman, called by the more jocose, Gawdammit, mainly because of his continuous invocations to that deity in the course of his conversation. I remember one summer evening when I met him in front of Breezy Point Library, a euphemism, where there was an entertainment. Said Gawdammit, "Thar be a big crowd here tonight -- -- -- yes sir. Had I a known about it I'd has brought the old woman over for a time, yes sir, Godammit."

When there is John Lucia who has twenty children, according, to the last census, one gray horse, one Ford truck, a sense of humor, and, naturally, a wife. And though John can manage the horse, the truck, and even the sense of humor --Jennie goes her own way. Last fall she wanted to drive a car since John refused to spend his time in the cinema at Burlington--she did. And the rumor is that she had to go out of Charlotte to get the license, for a tree near the store is proof positive that she could get none in Charlotte. "Wish by gar it had a kilt her," said John. Charlotte has its cynics. Though John has reason to be. Did she not after bearing and bearing with all the twenty children bob her hair--pour le sport. Charlotte is not so far from Deauville in all things.

But the village does have certain scruples. For instance there is the question of foreign invasion. Charlotte used to countenance these educational amusement enterprises which yearly came to relieve Charlotte of her stock of money. The selectmen arose finally in righteous indignation. Charlotte now has a race track and keeps the money in the town. The races are not your rustic anti-Belmont flascos either. With a whip and a blanket for reward and the town on deck to stand by the local steeds, races are keen and the time--enjoyed by all.

Nor is there absence of culture in the place. Three native sons have doctors' degrees from universities, but nevertheless there is a sound culture in Charlotte. One of the faculty here at Harvard maintains that Ferrisburg has even more. I disagree. If culture is that refined sense of right living which comes with the mellowness and dignity of age, then Charlotte has culture. Verb roots do not thrive on her rock ribbed earth, but something even finer does. For the faces of the people are strong and chiseled. They workship a strong god who made their rocks and yet let them live upon them. Charlotte is a goodly place --though rather cold in the winter.