stick sharply at it, taking care
that the stick did not reach perilously near.

"Get away, sir," he said; "you've had enough, sir. Get away, sir."

Having reached a gravel walk that diverged from the pavement, he
turned off and went over to a rose-bush and walked around tapping
the roses on their heads as he counted them--cloth-of-gold roses.
"Very well done," he said, "a large family--a good sign."

Thus he loitered along his way with leisure to enjoy all the chance
trifles that gladdened it; for he was one of the old who return at
the end of life to the simple innocent things that pleased them as
children.

She had risen and advanced to the edge of the veranda.

"Did you come to see me or did you come to see my flowers?" she
called out charmingly.

"I came to see the flowers, madam," he called back. "Most of all,
the century plant: how is she?"

She laughed delightedly: "Still harping on my age, I see."

"Still harping, but harping your praises. Century plants are not
necessarily old: they are all young at the beginning! I merely
meant you'd be blooming at a hundred."

"You are a sly old fox," she retorted with a spirit. "You give a
woman a dig on her age and then try to make her think it a
compliment."

"I gave myself a dig that time: the remark had to be excavated," he
said aloud but as though confidentially to himself. Open
disrespect marked his speech and manner with her always; and sooner
or later she exacted full punishment.

Meantime he had reached the steps. There he stopped and taking off
his straw hat looked up and shook it reproachfully at the heavens.

"What a night, what a night!" he exclaimed. "And what an injustice
to a man wading up to his knees in life's winters."

"How do you do," she said impatiently, always finding it hard to
put up with his lingerings and delays. "Are you coming in?"

"Thank you, I believe I am. But no, wait. I'll not come in until
I have made a speech. It never occurred to me before and it will
never again. It's now or never.

"The life of man should last a single year. He should have one
spring for birth and childhood, for play and growth, for the ending
of his dreams and the beginning of his love. One summer for strife
and toil and passion. One autumn in which to gather the fruits of
his deeds and to live upon them, be they sweet or bitter. One
winter in which to come to an end and wrap himself with resignation
in the snows of nature. Thus