resting,
stimulating.

"Riders."

"Yes."

"Good weather for riding."

A man was fishing near by. "Good weather for fishing."

"Yes."

"Wonder what time it is, anyway." From a pocket, deep-buried, came forth
a great gold blob of a watch. "I've got one minute to eleven."

Old man Minick dragged forth a heavy globe. "Mm. I've got eleven."

"Little fast, I guess."

Old man Minick shook off this conversation impatiently. This wasn't
conversation. This was oral death, though he did not put it thus. He
joined the other men. They were discussing Spiritualism. He listened,
ventured an opinion, was heard respectfully and then combated
mercilessly. He rose to the verbal fight, and won it.

"Let's see," said one of the old men. "You're not living at the Grant
Home, are you?"

"No," old man Minick made reply, proudly. "I live with my son and his
wife. They wouldn't have it any other way."

"Hm. Like to be independent myself."

"Lonesome, ain't it? Over there?"

"Lonesome! Say, Mr.--what'd you say your name was? Minick? Mine's
Hughes--I never was lonesome in my life 'cept for six months when I
lived with my daughter and her husband and their five children. Yes,
sir. That's what I call lonesome, in an eight-room flat."

George and Nettie said, "It's doing you good, Father, being out in the
air so much." His eyes were brighter, his figure straighter, his colour
better. It was that day he had held forth so eloquently on the
emigration question. He had to read a lot--papers and magazines and one
thing and another--to keep up. He devoured all the books and pamphlets
about bond issues and national finances brought home by George. In the
Park he was considered an authority on bonds and banking. He and a
retired real-estate man named Mowry sometimes debated a single question
for weeks. George and Nettie, relieved, thought he ambled to the Park
and spent senile hours with his drooling old friends discussing nothing
amiably and witlessly. This while he was eating strong meat, drinking
strong drink.

Summer sped. Was past. Autumn held a new dread for old man Minick. When
winter came where should he go? Where should he go? Not back to the
five-room flat all day, and the little back bedroom, and nothingness. In
his mind there rang a childish old song they used to sing at school. A
silly song:

Where do all the birdies go?
_I_ know. _I_ know.

But he didn't know. He was terror-stricken. October came and went. With
th