Arriving at last in Vowelville we were greeted by the Vole. At least he said that was his name. But Felsenfeld said to me later when we were at the Vowelville Motel, where we were the only guests, That man is not the Vole, the Mole or even the Bole. It was all the same to me. That night I was startled out of sleep by a startling sound. It was unsettling and indescribable, like restless leg syndrome. What was it? Felsenfeld was no help—he just slept on. But something had changed in the world. Something, perhaps in the atmosphere, had been rent, and would never be the same. Many years later, after I learned that Felsenfeld had died, I read about the Great Vowel Shift. Swineherds who said potato now said potahto. Churlish marauders would tilt their chins up and say rahther, rather than rather. Now I know what Felsenfeld had known all along. Something that night had changed and would never be the same.