ABSTRACT
The gold-leafed dome of State House glistened in the winter sunshine. Below stretched Boston Common where the workers played crap during the great Police Strike of 1919. Crisp fresh snow covered all. The children's railway was drifted nine foot deep. The great black police horses - at two o'clock in the afternoon - were cossetted back into their warm trailers. Man, woman and child wore wet overboots or rubber galoshes; and all complained, like a city scripted in monologue, about the weather. Perhaps it was an annual surprise, much as it had been for Chief Michael Stewart ensconced in the Bridgewater Police Station on Christmas Eve, 1919. But the years had ticked by, and now - half a century later -I came to look for new light, or for time's perspectives.
