sat there that night fondling it, petting it; seeing it
recede and ever recede; trying to be reconciled and give it up, but
not able yet to bear the thought; for it had been his hope to be a
horse-doctor. He also climbed high, but, like the others, fell; then
fell again, and yet again, and again and again. And now at last he can
fall no further. He is old now, he has ceased to struggle, and is only a
poet. No one would risk a horse with him now. His dream is over. Has
any boyhood dream ever been fulfilled? I must doubt it. Look at Brander
Matthews. He wanted to be a cowboy. What is he to-day? Nothing but
a professor in a university. Will he ever be a cowboy? It is hardly
conceivable. Look at Stockton. What was Stockton's young dream? He hoped
to be a barkeeper. See where he has landed. Is it better with Cable?
What was Cable's young dream? To be ring-master in the circus, and swell
around and crack the whip. What is he to-day? Nothing but a theologian
and novelist. And Uncle Remus--what was his young dream? To be a
buccaneer. Look at him now. Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful
they are, and how perishable! The ruins of these might-have-beens, how
pathetic! The heart-secrets that were revealed that night now so long
vanished, how they touch me as I give them voice! Those sweet privacies,
how they endeared us to each other! We were under oath never to tell
any of these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate when
speaking with persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them. Oh, our
lost Youth--God keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us,
with the indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE

Sleep! for the Sun that scores another Day
Against the Tale allotted You to stay,
Reminding You, is Risen, and now
Serves Notice--ah, ignore it while You stay!

The chill Wind blew, and those who stood before
The Tavern murmured, 'Having drunk his Score,
Why tarries He with empty Cup? Behold,
The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more

'Come, leave the Cup, and on the Winter's Snow
Your Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw:
Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,
Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow.'

While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,
I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,
'O Youth, O whither gone? Return,
And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine.'

In thi