Lawks me, the difference! Don't you know the chilly scorn, the silent snubbing Which makes a man, as _is_ a man, feel he'd far rather take a drubbing? Old age and workhouse-duds may hide a deal of nature--from outsiders; But do you think old "crocks" can't _feel_, when they're shrunk from, like snails or spiders? After my dinner, with my "clay," stringed round the stem, that gums, now toothless, May grip it firmer, here I sit and muse; and memory's sometimes ruthless In bringing up a blundering past. We own up frank, me and my fellows, Where we've gone wrong, and, in regrets employ our wheezy, worn old bellows. What might have been, if--if--ah, _if_! That little word, of just two letters, Stops me worse than a five-barred gate. I wonder if it does my betters? We never tire round Winter's fire, or settle-ranged in Summer weather, Of telling of the wandering ways by which we gathered _here_ together. If some who prate of paupers' ways, their tantrums, or their love of snuffing, Their fretting at cold, hard-fast rules, their fancy for sly bacca-puffing, Could only scan the paupers' past a little closer than their mode is, They'd learn that still some sparks of soul burn in those broken-down old bodies. And soul does kick at iron rules, and icy ways. Old blood runs chilly, And craves the heat, of love, fire, pipe, to warm it up like. Very silly, No doubt, from BUMBLE'S point of view! _Here_ we're held human, though so humble; And, Heaven be blessed!--at Nazareth House we've never known the rule of BUMBLE. The very old and very young are much alike in many a matter; Comfort and cheeriness we want, play or a pipe, romps or a chatter. The Nazareth Sisterhood know this, and what is more, they work according. 'Tis love and comfort make a Home, without 'em 'tis bare roof and boarding! Bitter-sweet memories come sometimes; but a gay burst of baby-laughter,-- For we all _laugh_ at Nazareth House!--will banish gathering blues. And after? Well, there's the free-permitted whiff, the "old-boy" gossip, low but cheery; Rest and a Sister's sunny smile soon drive off whim and whig-maleery. And so laid up, like some old hulk that can no more hope for commission, I sit, and muse, and puff; and wait that last great change in man's condition That shifts us to that Great High House to which the Sisters point us daily; Awaiting which in homely ease, Old Age dwells calmly if not gaily. * * * * * INTELLIGENCE À L'AMERICAINE.