sixth age--getting false teeth and finding they aren't satisfactory;
seventh age--toothless again.

I knew a man once who was a gunsmith and lost all his teeth at a
comparatively early age. He went along that way for years. He
had to eschew the tenderloin for the reason that he couldn't chew
it, and he had to cut out hickory nut cake and corn on the ear and
such things. But there is nothing about the art of gunsmithing
which seems to call for teeth, so he got along very well, living
in a little house with the wife of his bosom and a faithful housedog
named Ponto. But when he was past sixty he went and got himself
some teeth from the dentist. He did this without saying anything
about it at home; he was treasuring it up for a surprise. The
corner stone was laid in May and the scaffolding was all up by July
and in August the new teeth were dedicated with suitable ceremonies.

They altered his appearance materially. His nose and chin which
had been on terms of intimacy now rubbed each other a last fond
good-bye and his face lost that accordian-pleated look and
straightened out and became about six or seven inches longer from
top to bottom. He now had a sort of determined aspect like the
iron jawed lady in a circus, whereas before his face had the
appearance of being folded over and wadded down inside of his neck
band, so his hat could rest comfortably on his collar. He knew he
was altered, but he didn't realize how much he was altered until
he went home that evening and walked proudly in the front gate.
His wife who was timid about strangers, slammed the door right in
his face and faithful Ponto came out from under the porch steps
and bit him severely in the calf of the leg. There was only one
consolation in it for him--for the first time in a long number of