been told by congratulating friends that he didn't
look a day older than nine hundred and sixty-eight;
and necessarily the habit of living, with him, was
hard to overcome.

In his later years what an oracle he must
have been, and with what reverence his friends
must have looked upon the "little, glassy-headed,
hairless man," and hung upon his every utterance!
And with what unerring gift of prophecy
could he foretell the long and husky droughts
of summer--the gracious rains, at last,--the
milk-sick breeding autumn and the blighting
winter, simply by the way his bones felt after a
century's casual attack of inflammatory rheumatism!
And, having annually frosted his feet for some
odd centuries--boy and man--we can fancy with
what quiet delight he was wont to practise his
prognosticating facilities on "the boys," forecasting the
coming of the then fledgling cyclone and the gosling
blizzard, and doubtless even telling the day of the
month by the way his heels itched. And with what
wonderment and awe must old chronic maladies
have regarded him--tackling him singly or in solid
phalanx, only to drop back pantingly, at last, and
slink away dumfounded and abashed! And with
what brazen pride the final conquering disease must
have exulted over its shameless victory! But this is
pathos here, and not a place for ruthless speculation:
a place for asterisks--not words. Peace!