“I have a pleasant time of it once or twice a year with an old gentleman, living away in the country; one whom memory calls up from the dim and shadowy twilight of my earliest recollections, as a tall stalwart man, already the head of a family with little children around him.  Those who were then little children have grown up to be men and women, and have drifted away upon the currents of life, themselves fathers and mothers, with grey hairs gathering upon their heads.  I visit this venerable philosopher in his hearty and green old age, every summer.  I see him now, in my mind’s eye, sitting under the spreading branches of the trees planted by himself half a century ago, which cast their shadows upon the pleasant lawn in front of his dwelling—­discussing politics, morals, history, religion, philosophy—­recounting anecdotes of the early settlement of the county of which he was a pioneer; and I see how calmly and deliberately he smokes, while he calls up old memories from the shadowy past, discoursing wisely of the present, or speaking prophetically of the future.  I saw him last in July of the past year, and he seemed to have changed in nothing.  He had not grown older in outward seeming.  His heart was as warm and genial as it was long, long ago; and cheerfulness, calm and chastened, marked as it had for years the conversation of a man who felt that his mission in life was accomplished.  ‘Why,’ said he, addressing me, as a new thought seemed to strike him, ’why, your head is growing grey!  I never noticed it before.  It is almost as white as mine.  Well, well!’ he continued, as he tapped the thumb nail of his left hand with the inverted bowl of his pipe, knocking the ashes from it as he spoke, ’well, well! it won’t be long until we will have smoked our last pipe.  Mine, at least, will soon be broken.  But what of that?  Seventy-eight years is a long time to live in this world.  I have had my share of life and of the good pertaining to it, and shall have no right to complain when my pipe is broken and its ashes scattered.’  Such was the philosophy of an almost Octogenarian smoker.”

“I move for a suspension of sentence,” said Smith, “Spalding’s defence of the weed, induces me to withdraw the indictment against it, leaving punishment only for the excessive use of it.”

The motion was carried unanimously, and by way of confirming the decision, we all refilled our pipes and smoked till the stars looked down in their brightness from the fathomless depths of the sky.

CHAPTER VII.

KINKS!—­“DIRTY DOGS”—­THE BARKING DOG THAT WAS FOUND
DEAD IN THE YARD—­THE DOG THAT BARKED HIMSELF TO DEATH.