y shingle is battered and old,
No longer deciphered with ease,
So I’ve taken it in from the cold,
And fastened it up on a frieze.
A long generation ago,
With feelings of singular pride
I regarded its glittering show,
And pointed it out to my bride.
Companions of youth have grown few,
Its loves and aversions are faint;
No spirit to make friends anew—
An old enemy seems like a saint.
My clients have paid the last fee
For passage in Charon’s sad boat,
Imposing no duty on me
Save to utter this querelous note;
And still as I toil in life’s mills,
In loneliness growing profound,
To attend on the proof of their wills
And swear that their wits were quite sound!
So I work with the scissors and pen,
And to show of old courage a spark,
I must utter a jest now and then,
Like whistling of boys in the dark.
I tack my old friend on the wall,
So that infantile grandson of mine
May not think, if my life he recall,
That I died without making a sign.
When at court on the great judgment day
With penitent suitors I mingle,
May my guilt be washed cleanly away,
Like that on my faded old shingle!
f course my chief occupation in my library is reading and writing. To be sure, I do a good deal of thinking there. But there is another occupation which I practice to a great extent, which does not involve reading or writing at all, nor thinking to any considerable degree. That is playing solitaire. I play only one kind of this and that I have played for many years
It requires two packs of cards, and requires building on the aces and kings, and so I have them tacked down on a lap-board to save picking out and laying down every time
This particular game is called “St. Elba,” probably because Napoleon did not play it, and it can be “won” once in about sixty trials. I do not care for card-playing with others, but I have certain reasons for liking
SOLITAIRE.
like to play cards with a man of sense,
And allow him to play with me,
And so it has grown a delight intense
To play solitaire on my knee.
I love the quaint form of the sceptered king,
The simplicity of the ace,
The stolid knave like a wooden thing,
And her majesty’s smirking face.
Diamonds, aces, and clubs and spades—
Their garb of respectable black
A moiety brilliant of red invades,
As they mingle in motley pack.
Independent of anyone’s signal or leave,
Relieved from the bluffing of poker,
I’ve no apprehension of ace up a sleeve,
And fear no superfluous joker.
I build up and down; all the cards I hold,
And the game is always fair,
For I am honest, and so is my old
Companion at solitaire.
Let kings condescend to the lower grades,
Queens glitter with diamonds rare,
Knaves flourish their clubs, and peasants wield spades,
But give me my solitaire.