I can write my name. But experience is what counts most."

Tapping the porch floor with his cane for emphasis, the old fellow's
softly slurred words fell rapidly but clearly. Sometimes his tongue got
twisted, and he had to repeat. Often he had to switch his pipe from one
side of his mouth to the other; for, as he explained, "there ain't many
tooth-es left in there". Mr. Anderson is rather slight of build, and his
features are fine, his bald head shiny, and his eyes bright and eager.
Though he says he "ain't much good anymore", he seems half a century old
instead of "92 next December, if I can make it".

"I have been having some sick spells lately, snapped three or four ribs
out of place several years ago, and was in bed for six weeks after my
wife died ten year ago. But my step-daughter here nursed me through it.
Doctor says he doesn't see how I keep on living. But they take good care
of me, my sons and step-daughter. They live here with me, and we're
comfortable."

And comfortable, neat, and clean they are in the trimmest little frame
house on the street, painted grey with green trim, having a square of
green lawn in front and another in back enclosed with a rail fence, gay
flowers in the corners, rubber plants in pots on the porch, and grape
arbor down one side of the back yard. Inside, rust-colored mohair
overstuffed chairs and davenport look prim with white, crocheted
doilies, a big clock with weights stands in one corner on an ornately
carved table, and several enlarged framed photographs hang on the wall.
The other two rooms are the combined kitchen and dining room, and a
bedroom with a heatrola in it "to warm an old man's bones". Additional
bedrooms are upstairs.