CHAPTER THREE 



PBBIPATETIC MEDITATIONS 



I can see no differences between twenty-two 

 and sixty-two, but alas! I can feel them. As 

 of old, I am all eagerness, these early summer 

 days, to rush out of doors, as the sun rises, and 

 I invariably walk out rather deliberately. I 

 can hear the birds, as I did in years gone by, 

 but I cannot follow them through brake and 

 brier. If there is no bridge over the wide 

 ditch, I must stay on this side of it. 



Somewhere among the books, but as hard to 

 locate as a derelict at sea, is an essay on the art 

 of growing old gracefully. I remember it by 

 title only. Probably it teemed with excellent 

 advice, but I cannot see how any one can grow 

 old good-naturedly. Growing old is dying by 

 inches, and how one can smile over loss of agil- 

 ity is beyond my comprehension. When I can- 

 not leap over a narrow ditch, I do not exclaim, 

 "What a pretty brook 1" but mutter something 



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