eeping watch of the gamekeeper in the distance. But,
returning resolutely to the petit verre, I am willing to concede that
all after fourscore is the bain de pieds,--the slopping over, so to
speak, of the full measure of life. I remember that one who was
very near and dear to me, and who lived to a great age, so that
the ten-barred gate of the century did not look very far off, would
sometimes apologize in a very sweet, natural way for lingering so long
to be a care and perhaps a burden to her children, themselves getting
well into years. It is not hard to understand the feeling, never less
called for than it was in the case of that beloved nonagenarian. I have
known few persons, young or old, more sincerely and justly regretted
than the gentle lady whose memory comes up before me as I write.

Oh, if we could all go out of flower as gracefully, as pleasingly, as we
come into blossom! I always think of the morning-glory as the loveliest
example of a graceful yielding to the inevitable. It is beautiful before
its twisted corolla opens; it is comely as it folds its petals inward,
when its brief hours of perfection are over. Women find it easier
than men to grow old in a becoming way. A very old lady who has kept
something, it may be a great deal, of her youthful feelings, who is
daintily cared for, who is grateful for the attentions bestowed upon
her, and enters into the spirit of the young lives that surround her,
is as precious to those who love her as a gem in an antique setting, the
fashion of which has long gone by, but which leaves the jewel the color
and brightness which are its inalienable qualities. With old men it is
too often different. They do not belong so much indoors as women do.
They have no pretty little manual occupations. The old lady knits or
stitches so long as her eyes and fingers will let her. The old man
smokes his pipe, but does not know what to do with his fingers, unless
he plays upon some instrument, or has a mechanical turn which finds
business for them.

But the old writer, I said to The Teacups, as I say to you, my readers,
labors under one special difficulty, which I am thinking of and
exemplifying at this moment. He is constantly tending to reflect upon
and discourse about his own particular stage of life. He feels that
he must apologize for his intrusion upon the time and thoughts of a
generation which he naturally supposes must be tired of him, if they
ever had any considerable regard fo