SATURDAY. AFTERNOON
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Hove to look on scene like this,

 Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that am not old, And my locks are not yet grey, For stirs the blood in an old man 8 heart, " makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of happy voice, And the light of pleasant eye. lhave walked In the world for fourscore

 years;

 And they say that am old, And my heart IS ripe for .he reaper, death. And my years are we'll nigh told 1; IS very true; 1t is very true;

 Pm old, and sI bide my time;, But my heart will leap at scene like this. And 1 half renew my prime. Play on, play on: am with outhere, Tn the midstof your merry ring; can feel the thrill of the daring iump. And the rush of the breathless swing. hide with you in the fragrant hay, And l whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. And care not for the fall am willing dio uLsa nay time sh.ll

 come,

 And l shall be glad to go; For the world at best, is weary place. And my pulse is getting low: Out the grave is dark, and the heart will In treading it's gloomy way. And 1t wiles my heart from it's dreariness, To see the yonng so gay.