The Rec-O-Kut plays and I give you Thanatopsis and The Route of the Gila Monster for your edification

I have accomplished something. Goal completion and all that rot.
I put the Rec-O-Kut K33H back together with somewhat mixed results. It is paired with the Dynakit PAS2 and the Magnecord reel to reel so it has the components it grew old with. I am not so happy with the sound. The high range is not what I had hoped.
Part of it is my speakers. The Baby Advents don't sound like I think they should. I have not tried my Dynaco A-25's.
The sound is not as clean as it was before I took it all apart. However I used screw terminals instead of soldering because I was afraid I would have to take things apart again.
The Fairchild tonearm has an old shure hitrack M97 which should be a pretty good cartridge.
I completely reinforced the "plinth" but there was not a lot of rumble to begin with. However, the whole thing was mounted on a chunk of plywood. I see I have the motor drive in the wrong place but I think it was put that way to save space.
Right now I am listening to the Allman brothers do Statebourgh Blues. That sound pretty good. The Kinks Village Green Preservation Society sounded kind of dead in the highs. It is kind of scratchy record I use for doing tests as another scratch or pop won't really matter.
Anyway here is a picture and I'm going to bed.

I think I should clean up my background before I post any more photos of my projects. I have a lot of clutter.
In other news the neighboring farmer quoted poetry at coffee time. He said he learned this one from his father. It is called. "The route of the Gila Monster." It is about a couple hobos and has lots of train lingo. I think this link will get you to the poem.
Last week he quoted us this poem by William Cullen Bryan:

Thanatopsis

by William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that hourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
, With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.--The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The vernal woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning--and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lost thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.--
So shalt thou rest--and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living--and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh,
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
1814