I NOW am bent and old and gray, and I have come a doleful way. A son of
sorrow I have been, since first I reached this world of sin. Year after
year, and then repeat, all kinds of troubles dogged my feet; they nagged
me when I wished to sleep and made me walk the floor and weep. I had all
troubles man can find—and most of them were in my mind. When I would
number all the cares which gave me worry and gray hairs, I can’t
remember one so bad that it should bother any lad. And often, looking
back, I say, “I wonder why I wasn’t gay, when I had youth and strength
and health, and all I lacked on earth was wealth? I wonder why I didn’t
yip with gladness ere I lost my grip? My whole life long I’ve wailed and
whined of cares which lived but in my mind. The griefs that kept me
going wrong were things that never came along. The cares that furrowed
cheek and brow look much like hop-joint phantoms now. And now that it’s
too late, almost, I see that trouble is a ghost, a scarecrow on a
crooked stick, to scare the gents whose hearts are sick.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------