DECEMBER 147 



They shout above the frolic wind 



As up the hill they go ; 

 But though so high above us now, 



They soon shall be as low. 



Oh ! weary, weary, drag the years, 



As life draws near the end ; 

 And sadly, sadly, fall the tears 



For loss of love and friend. 

 But we'll not doubt there's good about 



In all of human kind ; 

 So here's a health before we go 



To those we leave behind ! 



December Mth. It is so curious after a full life to be 

 alone on Christmas Eve. But of course it was my own 

 choice, and not necessary. I could have gone away, but 

 I love these winter afternoons and the long evenings at 

 home. It is also, I think, essential wisdom that the old 

 should learn to live alone without depression, and above 

 all without that far more deadly thing ennui. I have 

 no doubt that training for old age, to avoid being a 

 bore and a burden to others, is as desirable as any other 

 form of education. The changes brought about by 

 circumstances mean, in a sort of way, a new birth, and 

 one has to discover for oneself the best methods of re- 

 adjusting the details of one's life. I find this poem 

 written in one of my notebooks many years ago by a 

 man whom I had known from childhood. Though he 

 was not the author, the poem represented his feelings 

 rather than mine. It has truth in it, but it also has a 

 touch of bitterness, which appealed no doubt to a man 

 who had reaped nothing but life's failure. He had 

 always lived up in balloons of his own imaginings, 

 believing in ultimate wealth, and having the power to 

 draw forth money from others, merely to lose it. He 

 died in old age and poverty in a garret at Venice. Do 

 we reap as we sow? Very often; not always. I am 



