EVERY WRITER of Consequence Has Had Something to Say About the Flight of Time
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EVERY WRITER OF Consequence has had something to say about the flight of time. Few have failed to express at some time the longing that the march of time might be stayed, or that its course might be reversed and the days of youth brought back again. Oliver W e n d e 11 Holmes treats this phase of the subject with characteristic humor in his poem "The Old Man Dreams. The first three stanzas express a familiar longing: O for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! 'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy Than reign, a greybeard king. Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with learning's crown! Tear out life's wisdom-written page And dash its troubles down! ' I One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy ruling dream Of life all love and fame! A LISTENING ANGEL HEARD the poet's prayer and offered tol grant it, but asked if there were nothing which the poet had learned , to love which he would wish tol jtake with him into youth. Thinking it over, the poet found that he would not wish to part from his wife and children, and asked that he might take them along. The angel smiled at the poet's wish that he might be a boy again and I yet a husband and father too, and the poet himself awoke, laughing, from an amusing dream, which he wrote, "to please the gray-haired boys." BUT THE COMING OF THE New Year has brought songs of more specific character. One of these, a very beautiful one, is Frank L. Stanton's "To the New Year:" One song for thee, New Year, One universal prayer; Teach us—all other teaching far above— To hide dark hate beneath the wings of LOVA To slay all hatred, strife And live the larger life! To bind the wounds that bleed; To lift the fallen, lead the blind As only love can lead— To live for all mankind! Teach us, New Year, to be Free men among the free, Our only master, Duty, with no God Save one—our Maker: monarchs of the sod! Teach us with all its might, Its darkness and its light; Its heart-beats tremulous, Its grief, its gloom, Its beauty and its bloom— God made the world for us! MORE DIDACTIC, AND LESS poetic, are the lines of Susan Coolidge "The New Year," of which the last stanza runs: Every day is a fresh beginning; Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain ; And spite of old sorrow and old sinning, And puzzles forecasted and possible pain, Take heart with the day and begin again. I SUPPOSE NO OTHER NEW Year's poem is as familiar or as often quoted as Tennyson's "Ring Out, Wild Bells, to the Wild Sky," I which appears in every anthology and in practically all senior school readers. Less lofty in sentiment, but more homely, and with an appeal of its own, is "The Death of the Old Year," also by Tennyson, and because it is less familiar than the other I quote it: THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. By Alfred Tennyson. 'Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, I And tread softly and speak low, I For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true And the New Year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been wit us Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, And tho' his foes speak ill of him. He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you. Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste I His son and heir doth ride posthaste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own, The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New Year blithe and bold, my friends, Comes to take up his own. How hard he breathes! Over the snow I heard, just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die, Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. What is it we can,do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. A SHORT TIME AGO Announcement was made of the death of J. E. Andrus, of New York city popularly known as the "millionaire strap-hanger," because though a man of great wealth he took the subway to and from his office instead of using a more expensive conveyance Though extremely frugal in his personal habits he spent large sums every year in quiet and unostentatious phi1anthropy, In 1903 Dr. and Mrs. J. E. Engstad spent an interesting day with Mr. Andrus on the battlefield of Waterloo, concerning which Mrs. Engstad writes as follows: "WE WERE STANDING AT the desk of our hotel in Brussels early one beautiful morning discussing with the clerk the best way to get to the battlefield, when a bewhiskered gentleman of perhaps 60 accosted us saying that he was looking for someone to share a diligence to the field, and invited us to go with him and share the expenses, remarking that in that way it would be cheaper all around. As he looked like a perfectably respectable elderly American tourist we gladly accepted. He then introduced himself as Mr. Andrus, of Yonkers. 'AN EXCHANGE OF CARDS soon disclosed the interesting fact that this was the Andrus of the well-known Arlington chemical company, whose circulars had been coming to my husband's desk for years. Furthermore a bond of fellowship soon sprang up between the two when it was disclosed that Mr. Andrus had studied medicine in his youth. AT THAT TIME WE KNEW very little about Mr. Andrus' standing in the financial world, though we were aware he was the owner of considerable valuable real estate in the city of Minneapolis, but there was nothing in his appearance to indicate that he was a multi-millionaire, and one of America's richest men. We have since heard much of his frugality and simple life, and can well believe it. "WE SPENT THE DAY Together, driving the fifteen miles from Brussels to the battlefield. Joining a group of tourists we followed a guide to the principal points of interest, and tipped him the customary fee, after which we ate lunch in a cafe near the entrance to the grounds. Mr. Andrus' taste was apparently no more extravagant than ours, and his tip to the waiter not a whit bigger. At the end of the trip the diligence fee was shared pro rata. "WE HAVE OFTEN TALKED of it since. Every time we think of Waterloo we are reminded of this immensely wealthy man, so modest so frugal, so unassuming, dressed not a bit better than the young j doctor from North Dakota with whom he fraternized so quietly, yet so cordially. We can well believe this man, whose fortune has been estimated at $300,000,000, shined his own shoes, that he habitually shunned the automobile and rode in the subway from his home in Yonkers to his offices in New York, thereby gaining for himself the nickname of the "Millionaire Straphanger." "MR. ANDRUS NEVER Retired from active business. It is said that he always carried a 20-cent lunch with him in his pocket. All his life he practiced a thrift and frugality which might be a salutary lesson in economy to us poorer folk. We understand his contributions to charity were very large, but given without ostentation. He was to be buried in a marble mausoleum costing half a million dollars, which he built not for himself, but for his wife, to whom he was very devoted. "SOMEHOW A GLORIOUS DAY n Belgium, an intensely blue sky, fleecy white clouds, a peaceful countryside, then Waterloo with its tremendous memories—La Belle Alliance, Hugomont, La Haye Sainte, Blucher, Grouchy, Wellington and Napoleon are all indelibly associated in our minds with the name of J. E. Andrus." IN A RECENT HERALD Article by Win V. Working there was given an account of the attempted kidnapping of the self-styled "Lord" Gordon, which was one of the many incidents in the colorful history of the Canadian border. The article recalled to J. E. Stevens his own recollections of the event, and he tells the story as he was familiar with it at the time, giving a number of additional facts.