The flashing sunset, as he sank,

Made every scale a gem;

And, turning with a graceful bow,

He kissed his fin to them.

I am, I think I have remarked,

Terrifically old,

(The second Ice-age was a farce,

The first was rather cold.)

A friend of mine, a trilobite

Had gathered in his youth,

When trilobites were trilobites,

This all-important truth.

We aged ones play solemn parts—

Sire—guardian—uncle—king.

Affection is the salt of life,

Kindness a noble thing.

The old alone may comprehend

A sense in my decree;

But—if you find a fish on land,

Oh throw it in the sea.

Impetuously I sprang from bed,

Long before lunch was up,

That I might drain the dizzy dew

From day's first golden cup.

In swift devouring ecstacy

Each toil in turn was done;

I had done lying on the lawn

Three minutes after one.

For me, as Mr. Wordsworth says,

The duties shine like stars;

I formed my uncle's character,

Decreasing his cigars.

But could my kind engross me? No!

Stern Art—what sons escape her?

Soon I was drawing Gladstone's nose

On scraps of blotting paper.

Then on—to play one-fingered tunes

Upon my aunt's piano.

In short, I have a headlong soul,

I much resemble Hanno.

(Forgive the entrance of the not

Too cogent Carthaginian.

It may have been to make a rhyme;

I lean to that opinion).