AN OLD VAGABOND.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XX, Issue 17, 12 February 1892, Page 15

AN OLD VAGABOND.

(By John Botlb O'Bvillt.)

Hn was old and alone, and he sat on a stone to rest fox awhile from the road ; His beard was white and his eye was bright, and hia wrinkles over* flowed With a mild content at the way life went ; and I closed the book on my knee ; "I will venture a look in this living book," I thought, as he greeted me. And I said : " My friend, have you time to spend to tell me what makes you glad ?" "Oh, ab, my lad," with a smile ; " I'm glad that I'm old, yet am never sad 1" I " But why ?" said I, and his merry eye made answer as much as his tongue ; " Because," said be, " I am poor and free who was rich and a slave when young. There is naught but age can allay the rage of the passions that rule men's lives ; And a man to be free most a poor man be, for unhappy is he who thrives ; He fears for his ventures, his rents and debentures, his crops, and his son, and his wife ; His dignity's slighted when he's not invited ; he fears every day of bis life. Bat tht man who is poor, and by age has grown sort that there are no surprises in years, Who knows that to have is no joy, nor to save, and who opens his eyes and his ears To the world as it is, and the part of it bis, and who Bays : They are happy, these birdß, Yet they live day by day, in improvident way — improvident? What were the words Of the Teacher who taught that the field-lilies brought the lesson of life to a man 1 Can we better the thing that is school less, or eing more of love than the nightingale can ? See that rabbit — what feature in that pretty creature needs science, or culture, or care ? Bend this dog to college and stuff him with knowledge, will it add to the warmth of his hair ? Why should mankind, apart,! turn from Nature to Art, and dsclaro the exchange better planned 1 I prefer to trust God (or my living than plod for my bread at master's hand. A man's higher being is knowing and seeing, not having and toiling for more. In the senses and soul is the joy of control, not in pride or luxurious Btore. Yet my needs are the same as the kingling's whose name is a terror to thousands ; some bread, Some water and milk— l can do without silk — some wool and for my head. What more is possest that will stand the grim test of death's verdict? What riches remain To give joy to the last, all the vanities past ? — Ay, ay, that's word— they are vain And vexatious of spirit to all who inherit belief in the world and ways. And so, old and alone, Bitting here on a stone, I smile with tht bird at the days." And I thanked him, and went to my study, head beat, where I laid down my book on its shelf ; And that day all the page that I read was my age, and my wants, and my joy 8, and myself.