'Good-day, neighbor Johnson,' said Moses Grant. 'What in the world are you doing with that great book?'
'I am taking the census.' And he began turning the leaves as if searching for a lost place, remarking, laconically: 'Sultry.'
'Yes, a very close afternoon. But is it ten years since the census was taken? It seems but as many months. Oh! well, time flies!'
And he looked at the beautiful sky and at the beautiful landscape, and lingeringly at his own stately mansion, guarded by venerable trees that his own hand had transplanted from the forest—and the great truth, half-realized, yet almost as common as our daily life, that time was sweeping all things into the dead past, day by day and year by year, gave him a passing thought of how much he loved them.
The name of Moses Grant was duly inscribed in the book. Then the question was asked by neighbor Johnson:
'When were you born?'
'In the year 1800—sixty years ago the day before yesterday—though I declare I forgot all about my birthday.'
'Well, how much real estate shall I set down to you?'
'I have said that I owned about fifty thousand dollars in that kind of property, perhaps a little more, but not half as much as some persons estimate.'
'Well, how much personal property?'