I recollect I never heard him say a bitter word; He never carried to and fro unpleasant things he heard; He always doffed his hat and spoke to every one he knew, He tipped to poor and rich alike a genial "how-dy'-do"; He kissed the babies, praised their looks, and said: "That child will grow To be a Daniel Webster or our president, I know!" His voice was so mellifluous, his smile so full of mirth, That folks declared he was the best and smartest man on earth! Now, father was a _smarter_ man, and yet he never won Such wealth and fame as Uncle Eph, "the deestrick's favorite son"; He had "convictions" and he was not loath to speak his mind-- He went his way and said his say as he might be inclined; Yes, _he_ was brainy; yet his life was hardly a success-- He was too honest and too smart for this vain world, I guess! At any rate, I wondered he was unsuccessful when My Uncle Eph, a duller man, was so revered of men! When Uncle Eph was dying he called me to his bed, And in a tone of confidence inviolate he said: "Dear Willyum, ere I seek repose in yonder blissful sphere I fain would breathe a secret in your adolescent ear; Strive not to hew your way through life--it really doesn't pay; Be sure the salve of flattery soaps all you do and say! Herein the only royal road to fame and fortune lies; Put not your trust in vinegar--_molasses_ catches flies!" THIRTY-NINE. O hapless day! O wretched day! I hoped you'd pass me by-- Alas, the years have sneaked away And all is changed but I! Had I the power, I would remand You to a gloom condign, But here you've crept upon me and I--I am thirty-nine! Now, were I thirty-five, I could Assume a flippant guise, Or, were I forty years, I should Undoubtedly look wise; For forty years are said to bring Sedateness superfine, But thirty-nine don't mean a thing-- _A bas_ with thirty-nine! You healthy, hulking girls and boys-- What makes you grow so fast? Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise-- I'm tough and bound to last! No, no--I'm old and withered, too-- I feel my powers decline. (Yet none believes this can be true Of one at thirty-nine.) And you, dear girl with velvet eyes, I wonder what you mean Through all our keen anxieties By keeping sweet sixteen. With your dear love to warm my heart, Wretch were I to repine-- I was but jesting at the start-- I'm glad I'm thirty-nine! So, little children, roar and race As blithely as you can And, sweetheart, let your tender grace Exalt the Day and Man; For then these factors (I'll engage) All subtly shall combine To make both juvenile and sage The one who's thirty-nine!