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16 C e rta i n S l a n t Concertina music breaks its foam on the haberdashery window, a murder ballad so old even the monkey knows the words And spits them one by one into the tin cup he tritely holds. Who has a monkey these days? Who dares make a monkey dance? But people are busy with their shopping. They have argyle socks on their minds. Four hundred miles to the south-southwest Caissons hulk through Gettysburg. But on this Amherst street the shadow of a small, thin cloud dissipates over horse carts. And still the concertina plays its monotonous music, another familiar melody. Common meter, common meter, common meter. “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” it might be singing, or “Amazing Grace.” The whole town is embedded in the amber of that rhythm. ...

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