Under the Big Dipper

swiftly and pleasantly through the playground of our childhood and youth as though it were but the antechamber to some richly furnished parlor. When we enter the longed-for parlor, we find in it labor and sorrow in plenty. We eat, sleep, dream, enjoy ourselves a little and then one day we awaken to the sad reality that we are no longer young. Some kind friend will remark: “Why, your hair is growing gray!” Another will sympathize and say: “Ah, we are not as young as we used to be.” He uses the polite plural, but we know he has a very definite singular in mind. And then comes the day when the roomy arm-chair is inviting, and the favorite ballad which once whispered gladness, now only recalls times long, long past. Then it is that the chatter of youth is a forgotten language; that the faces of women show only the rouge on cheek and lip and not the glorious eye; when an invitation to the dance compels us to the confession, “I am too old to dance,” and to the

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