Once upon a time a man lay dying.

He was dying very much at his ease, for he had had enough of it all.

None the less they brought a priest, who stretched his face a yard long and spoke from his elastic-sided boots.

“This is a solemn moment,” said the priest.  “But sooner or later it comes to us all.  You are fortunate in having all your faculties.”

The dying man smiled grimly.

“Is there any wrong that you have done that you wish redressed?” the priest asked.

“None that I can remember,” said the dying man.

“But you are sorry for such wrong as you have done?”

“I don’t know that I am,” said the dying man.  “I was a very poor hand at doing wrong.  But there are some so-called good deeds that I could wish undone which are still bearing evil fruit.”

The priest looked pained.  “But you would not hold that you have not been wicked?” he said.

“Not conspicuously enough to worry about,” replied the other.  “Most of my excursions into what you would call wickedness were merely attempts to learn more about this wonderful world into which we are projected.  It’s largely a matter of temperament, and I’ve been more attracted by the gentle things than the desperate.  Strange as you may think it, I die without fear.”

“But surely there are matters for regret in your life?” the priest, who was a conscientious man, inquired earnestly.

“Ah!” said the dying man.  “Regret?  That’s another matter.  Have I no occasion for regret?  Have I not?  Have I not?”

The priest cheered up.  “For opportunities lost,” he said.  “The lost opportunities—­how sad a theme, how melancholy a retrospect!  Tell me of them.”

“I said nothing about lost opportunities,” the dying man replied; “I said that there was much to regret, and there is; but there were no opportunities that in this particular I neglected.  They simply did not present themselves often enough.”

“Tell me of this sorrow,” said the priest.  “Perhaps I may be able to comfort you.”

The dying man again smiled his grim smile.  “My greatest regret,” he said, “and one, unhappily, that could never be remedied, even if I lived to be a thousand, is—­”

“Yes, yes,” said the priest, leaning nearer.

“Is,” said the dying man, “that I have known so few children.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Sentry (for the second time, after officer has answered “Friend,” and come up close).  “HALT!  WHO GOES THERE?”

Officer. “WELL, WHAT HAPPENS NOW?”

Sentry. “I COULDN’T TELL YOU, SIR, I’M SURE.  I’M A STRANGER HERE MYSELF.”]

* * * * *

“ABSENTEE ARRESTED.

Sergeant Storr stated that he saw Shann on a lighter in the Old Harbour.  He failed to produce his registration card and could offer no reason why he had not reported for service.  Subsequently he said he was 422 years of age.”—­Hull Daily News.

Passed for centenarian duty.