Here followed the poem, "Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer";--and here, too, fittingly ends any comment but that which would appear trivial and gratuitous. Simply, in briefest conclusion, the hale, sound, artless, lovable character of Benj. F. Johnson remains, in the writer's mind, as from the first, far less a fiction than a living, breathing, vigorous reality.--So strong, indeed, has his personality been made manifest, that many times, in visionary argument with the sturdy old myth over certain changes from the original forms of his productions, he has so incontinently beaten down all suggestions as to a less incongruous association of thoughts and words, together with protests against his many violations of poetic method, harmony, and grace, that nothing was left the writer but to submit to what has always seemed--and in truth still seems--a superior wisdom of dictation. J. W. R. _Indianapolis, July, 1891._ SALUTATION TO BENJ. F. JOHNSON _THE OLD MAN_ _Lo! steadfast and serene, In patient pause between The seen and the unseen, What gentle zephyrs fan Your silken silver hair,-- And what diviner air Breathes round you like a prayer, Old Man?_ _Can you, in nearer view Of Glory, pierce the blue Of happy Heaven through; And, listening mutely, can Your senses, dull to us, Hear Angel-voices thus, In chorus glorious-- Old Man?_ _In your reposeful gaze The dusk of Autumn days Is blent with April haze, As when of old began The bursting of the bud Of rosy babyhood-- When all the world was good, Old Man._ _And yet I find a sly Little twinkle in your eye; And your whisperingly shy Little laugh is simply an Internal shout of glee That betrays the fallacy You'd perpetrate on me, Old Man!_ _So just put up the frown That your brows are pulling down! Why, the fleetest boy in town, As he bared his feet and ran, Could read with half a glance-- And of keen rebuke, perchance-- Your secret countenance, Old Man!_ _Now, honestly, confess: Is an old man any less Than the little child we bless And caress when we can? Isn't age but just a place Where you mask the childish face To preserve its inner grace, Old Man?_ _Hasn't age a truant day, Just as that you went astray In the wayward, restless way, When, brown with dust and tan, Your roguish face essayed, In solemn masquerade, To hide the smile it made Old Man?_ _Now, fair, and square, and true, Don't your old soul tremble through, As in youth it used to do When it brimmed and overran With the strange, enchanted sights, And the splendors and delights Of the old "Arabian Nights," Old Man?_