at-grandma! She's been dead these sixty year!

_Is your voice a little trembly?_ Well, it may be, now and then,
But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen;
It 's the Gillotts make the trouble,--not at all my finger-ends,--
That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends.

_Don't you stoop a little, walking?_ It 's a way I 've always had,
I have always been round-shouldered, ever since I was a lad.
_Don't you hate to tie your shoe-strings?_ Yes, I own it--that is true.
_Don't you tell old stories over?_ I am not aware I do.

_Don't you stay at home of evenings? Don't you love a cushioned seat_
_In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet?_
_Don't you wear warm fleecy flannels? Don't you muffle up your throat_
_Don't you like to have one help you when you're putting on your coat?_

_Don't you like old books you've dogs-eared, you can't remember when?_
_Don't you call it late at nine o'clock and go to bed at ten?_
_How many cronies can you count of all you used to know_
_Who called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago?_

_How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain?_
_You've reared your mound-how high is it above the level plain?_
_You 've drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel,_
_You've slept the giddy potion off,--now tell us how you feel!_

_You've watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped,_
_You 've seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped,_
_You've told your thought, you 've done your task, you've tracked your
dial round,_
--I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I'm hale and brisk and sound,

And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see;
My shoes are not quite ready yet,--don't think you're rid of me!
Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far,
And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr?

_Ah well,--I know,--at every age life has a certain charm,_--
_You're going? Come, permit me, please, I beg you'll take my arm._
I take your arm! Why take your arm? I 'd thank you to be told
I 'm old enough to walk alone, but not so _very_ old!

THE SHADOWS

1880

"How many have gone?" was the question of old
Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft;
Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled,
And the question we ask is, "How many are left?"

Bright sparkled the wine; there were fifty that quaffed;
For a decade had slipped and had taken but three.
How