Suddenly Moses Grant heard his name spoken.  When aroused, he saw his neighbor, Johnson, seated in the rustic chair that mated the one in which he himself sat.

‘Good-day, neighbor Johnson,’ said Moses Grant.  ’What in the world are you doing with that great book?’

‘I am taking the census.’  And he began turning the leaves as if searching for a lost place, remarking, laconically:  ‘Sultry.’

’Yes, a very close afternoon.  But is it ten years since the census was taken?  It seems but as many months.  Oh! well, time flies!’

And he looked at the beautiful sky and at the beautiful landscape, and lingeringly at his own stately mansion, guarded by venerable trees that his own hand had transplanted from the forest—­and the great truth, half-realized, yet almost as common as our daily life, that time was sweeping all things into the dead past, day by day and year by year, gave him a passing thought of how much he loved them.

The name of Moses Grant was duly inscribed in the book.  Then the question was asked by neighbor Johnson: 

‘When were you born?’

’In the year 1800—­sixty years ago the day before yesterday—­though I declare I forgot all about my birthday.’

‘Well, how much real estate shall I set down to you?’

’I have said that I owned about fifty thousand dollars in that kind of property, perhaps a little more, but not half as much as some persons estimate.’

‘Well, how much personal property?’

’I guess about twenty thousand will not go far out of the way, reckoning mortgages and all.’

After a few minutes, which neighbor Johnson occupied by telling how Sime Jones tried to get the appointment of census-taker by wriggling about in an undignified way, and in talking about the prospects of his political party, the visitor left the old man, (such we have a right to call him since he has confessed his age,) and the old man (he would not thank us for using the term so often, for he tries to think he is still young—­the old man, I must again repeat) fell a thinking.  His eyes were no longer closed, although his book was; he leaned forward in his rustic chair, and commenced to talk aloud—­which is said to be a growing habit with most old men: 

‘Sixty years of human life!’ The words were uttered slowly, as though their full meaning were felt in the speaker’s heart.  After a little while they were repeated:  ‘Sixty years of human life!’ There was a mournfulness in his voice now; it had sunk to the low, tender tones that, years before, when his faithful wife vanished from earth, revealed to all his friends that there was sadness in his heart, while there seemed cheerfulness in his words.  ‘Welladay!’ he continued; ’I have, at any rate, been a successful man.  My business has prospered beyond my expectations, and I am what people call a rich man.  There was a time when I feared I should come to want; but now, if I could but think so, I have enough.  And mine has been an industrious life.  When I was elected to the State Senate wasn’t my name held up in the newspapers as an example for young men?  Wasn’t my reputation admitted to be spotless?  Yes, I have been a successful man—­more successful than nearly all who started with me.’