It is without doubt true that the deaf are closer to subconscious thought than those who have perfect hearing. It seems to be easier for us to go back to childhood or to raise into the mind memories of other days. It often becomes a wonder to me that old friends forget so many of the scenes and sayings of youth. I presume they have more to distract their attention. It seems to me that the useless or trivial conversation which most people indulge in must in time dilute or distort memory and drive away the pictures of youth. With the deaf these pictures seem to grow clearer with each year, and this, I take it, is one of the compensations which accompany the trouble. For as we march along the road and reach a hill from which we begin to see the end, I think it must be a lonely road which those must travel who have forgotten the pictures and companions of their youth. It is practically impossible for the deaf to weep as others do. They are for the most part denied what I may call the healing balm of tears, unless there can occur some great shock, some volcanic eruption of emotion which breaks down the dam and lets in the flood upon a dry desert of lonely years. But the deaf man who has kept his mind cleanly occupied and his spirit bright may find in happy memories a joy of life which others rarely know. “Sometimes when night pulls down the shade after a weary day, I sit beside my open fire and watch the shadows play. Then memory takes me by the hand, and happily we go Back to the kindly days of youth—when I was Mary’s beau. Oh! Mary! In those golden years, when you and I were young, When all the symphonies of youth by hopeful lips were sung, When every avenue of life led out to rosy skies, And fortune’s fingers dangled there the gifts that all men prize! Old Time is kind. He hides the years which bear the loss and stain, And only those which shine with love and happiness remain. As one may find a violet beneath the Winter’s snow, I go back to the kindly years—when I was Mary’s beau. I was a chunky farmer boy—her father lord of lands. She was a little village queen—I only had my hands. Yet in the pure democracy of our New England town Youth never could be quite denied—love beat the barriers down. Yet she was wise—to reign a queen—one must keep step with wealth. And Mary knew full well that I had nothing but my health. To me she played a sister’s part—but settled down with Joe, I went out West with but a dream that I was Mary’s beau. I’ve journeyed East, I’ve journeyed West—I’ve had my hour of life. I’ve lingered in the pleasant ways—I’ve faced the storm and strife. Fame, wealth, have missed me and yet they will envy me I know, Those days back in the golden years—when I was Mary’s beau.