Lucky

No American town was ever more quaint and unassuming than the one in which I grew up – Middleton. It had been a railroad stopover in the old days, and had been so named because it was but a minor stop at the point between two major stops in bigger towns. I never learned what those other towns were, and never cared. They were unimportant to me – nebulous metropolises on the hinter regions of my daily boyhood existence. But if I had to come up with symbolic names for them in a novel, I might be