He should have one
spring for birth and childhood, for play and growth, for the ending
of his dreams and the beginning of his love. One summer for strife
and toil and passion. One autumn in which to gather the fruits of
his deeds and to live upon them, be they sweet or bitter. One
winter in which to come to an end and wrap himself with resignation
in the snows of nature. Thus he should never know the pain of
seeing spring return when there was nothing within himself to bud
or be sown. Summer would never rage and he have no conflicts nor
passions. Autumn would not pass and he with idle hands neither
give nor gather. And winter should not end without extinguishing
his tormenting fires, and leaving him the peace of eternal cold."
"Really," she cried, "I have never heard anything as fine as that
since I used to write compositions at boarding-school."
"It may be part of one of mine!" he replied. "We forget ourselves,
you know, and then we think we are original."
"Second childhood," she suggested. "Are you really coming in?"
"I am, madam," he replied. "And guided by your suggestion, I come
as a second child."
When he had reached the top step, he laid his hat and cane on the
porch and took her hands in his--pressing them abstemiously.
"Excuse me if I do not press harder," he said, lowering his voice
as though he fancied they might be overheard. "I know you are
sensitive in these little matters; but while I dislike to appear
lukewarm, really, you know it is too late to be ardent," and he
looked at her ardently.
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