-Pa, What is it?
-That’s a divil of a query, sonny. Did you jes fall off the turnip truck? It’s the boundry stone.
-What’s a boundry stone, pa?
-Oh, you’re like a fan dancer, you are. Everything suggests something else, don’t it?
-I dunno. What’s a fan dancer? What’s the stone for?
-Never mind the first question. Your ma’ll kill me. It’s a marker for the town. The R is for Roxbury.
-But we’re from Roxbury Pa!
-Do tell.
-What’s it do? What’s it for?
-You really want to know?
-Yes, please.
-OK then. Stand still and watch it. Won’t take long.

A shifty dog, ears tessellated and frayed from numberless fights over the contents of garbage cans, saunters along the curb. He pauses for a moment, lifts his leg, and christens the marker. He lowers his head a bit and slinks by.

-It’s just the same for the man that puts up the stone, son, but he don’t do it so elegant as the dog.