The young farmer's father
was spoken to about it, but he, with better reason, alleged that
apple-trees were slow and life was fleeting. At last some one
mentioned it to the old grandfather of the young farmer. He had
nothing else to do,--so he stuck in some trees. He lived long
enough to drink barrels of cider made from the apples that grew on
those trees.
As for myself, after visiting a friend lately,--[Do remember all
the time that this is the Professor's paper.]--I satisfied myself
that I had better concede the fact that--my contemporaries are not
so young as they have been,--and that,--awkward as it is,--science
and history agree in telling me that I can claim the immunities and
must own the humiliations of the early stage of senility. Ah! but
we have all gone down the hill together. The dandies of my time
have split their waistbands and taken to high-low shoes. The
beauties of my recollections--where are they? They have run the
gantlet of the years as well as I. First the years pelted them
with red roses till their cheeks were all on fire. By and by they
began throwing white roses, and that morning flush passed away. At
last one of the years threw a snow-ball, and after that no year let
the poor girls pass without throwing snow-balls. And then came
rougher missiles,--ice and stones; and from time to time an arrow
whistled, and down went one of the poor girls.
Pages:
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188