—Before you go, this morning, I want to read you a copy of verses. You will understand by the title that they are written in an imaginary character. I don’t doubt they will fit some family-man well enough. I send it forth as “Oak Hall” projects a coat, on _a priori_ grounds of conviction that it will suit somebody. There is no loftier illustration of faith than this. It believes that a soul has been clad in flesh; that tender parents have fed and nurtured it; that its mysterious _compages_ or frame-work has survived its myriad exposures and reached the stature of maturity; that the Man, now self-determining, has given in his adhesion to the traditions and habits of the race in favor of artificial clothing; that he will, having all the world to choose from, select the very locality where this audacious generalization has been acted upon. It builds a garment cut to the pattern of an Idea, and trusts that Nature will model a material shape to fit it. There is a prophecy in every seam, and its pockets are full of inspiration.—Now hear the verses. THE OLD MAN DREAMS. O for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I’d rather laugh a bright-haired boy Than reign a gray-beard king! Off with the wrinkled spoils of age! Away with learning’s crown! Tear out life’s wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood’s fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame! —My listening angel heard the prayer, And calmly smiling, said, “If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped. “But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?” —Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee, what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I’ll take—my—precious wife! —The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, “The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too!” —“And is there nothing yet unsaid Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years!” Why, yes; for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; I could not bear to leave them all; I’ll take—my—girl—and—boys! The smiling angel dropped his pen,— “Why this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!” And so I laughed,—my laughter woke The household with its noise,— And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys. CHAPTER IV