When I was ten and you were eight,
Two years between us stood,
We used to meet by daddy's gate—
A stolen kiss was good.
When I was twenty—quite a boy,
You still were my heart's queen,
But grown of kissing somewhat coy;
You see, you were sixteen!
When I was thirty, bronzed and tall,
With sweethearts, too, in plenty,
I met you at the Wilsons' ball—
You told me you were twenty.
I'm forty now, a little more—
Oh, Time, you ruthless bandit!
But you—you're only twenty-four;
I cannot understand it!
Pearson's Weekly.
FAR IN THE FUTURE.
"Don't you ever expect to get married?" she asked.
"Well," replied the old bachelor, "I may some day. But I have been reading up on the subject and the scientists agree that if a man takes proper care of himself there is no reason why his mind should begin to fail before he is eighty at least."—Chicago Record-Herald.
CRUSHED.
MR. W.S. Gilbert was once at the house of a wealthy but ignorant and pretentious woman. She asked Mr. Gilbert several questions about musical composers, to show that she knew all about them.