WHEN old men meet they ask for news of friends they used to know. "Say, what's become of Hiram Hughes?" "The anthrax laid him low." "Well, what's become of William Bill, and what's become of Fred?" "They both are sleeping on the hill, and each is doubly dead." "Why, truly, friend, if these things be, we're pretty much alone; but where is Silas J. McGee?" "He sleeps beneath the stone." "I used to know a lovely maid, whose name was Julia Jones." "She's resting in the willow's shade, out in the place of bones." No wonder that the old are bent beneath their weight of gloom; they cannot gossip worth a cent and not bring in the tomb. Mirth to their discourse they would lend, and cheerfully behave, but when they ask about a friend they hear about the grave. "Oh, what's become of Jim and Joe, and Nell and Bess and Jane?" "They died the death long years ago, and dead they still remain," |