Have I said anywhere in this paper that Spring has
come? Well, I say it now. It is a sad, gloomy
time to man, however woman may look at it. It
is now that the family man sees looming ahead the Easter
bonnet trimmed with deadly $ marks, and the Spring
outfits embroidered with the same costly material.
Why is this? Now, I have known X., my next door
neighbor, for eleven years, and in that time I have
never known him to have an Easter hat or an Easter
coat or an Easter pair of pants. I saw him at
the Opera lately and his wife had on a seal skin sacque,
and plain X.
himself had on no gloves. Why should
X. be compelled to carry through life a bird of paradise,
while he appears in the sombre and often shiny costume
of the more humble crow? And now that I have
asked that audacious question, let me ask another:
Why is it that as soon as the frost of age touches
a man he commences to tone down his dress, and as
soon as it touches a woman she commences to tone hers
up with all the hot house appliances to imitate the
spring time of life. I don’t ask this in
a snarly spirit; but as a psychological riddle.
Why is it that in November, with all her brown foliage
and scarlet leaves and wind reddened sky, cannot be
content with being handsome and natural, but should
resort to the buds and flowers and bird-like airs
of beautiful June to make her pretty. Ah, there
are no flowers, no feathers, no ribbons, no latest
fashions that can hold their own against Youth.
Before it the milliner, the tailor and the mantua-maker
are helpless to render effective assistance to Age.
Ah, Youth, careless, painless, peerless, I drink to
you—and put a drop of peppermint in it.
Tom, I was up a little late with the boys last evening.
OBSERVATIONS OF A RETIRED VETERAN XII
Somehow the town presents to me a bereaved appearance.
Since the action of the authorities clearing the sidewalks,
I seem to miss some of my best friends. The tenants
of the pavement had become my companions, after a
fashion, so familiar were they to me. The extravagant
gentleman who stood in front of the clothing store,
with his change of clothes every day and the fixed
stare out of his rain-washed eyes, was one of my warmest
friends. He was no fair weather friend. The
dusts of March, the showers of April, made no difference
with him. He was there, always there, with his
waterproof for the rain, his duster for the summer
heat, and his sou-wester perched on his head when the
Equinox set in. He had one of the most even dispositions
I ever knew and always regarded me with the same mild,
far-off look, whatever uniform or decoration he wore.
He was the same with a blue jumper and overalls as
he was with a diagonal suit with “This style
$25” flying from the button-hole. There
was a great gap the morning he disappeared. The
deserted street looked like a Sunday or a funeral
or some other occasion of unusual sadness. I
went in one day to inquire about him. I didn’t
