I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines;
   I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines;
   I haste by the boulder that lies in the field,
   Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.

   Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood? 
   Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood? 
   The minute draws near,—­but her watch may go wrong;
   My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?

   Why doubt for a moment?  More shame if I do! 
   Why question?  Why tremble?  Are angels more true? 
   She would come to the lover who calls her his own
   Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!

   —­I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. 
   I looked:  lo! my Love stood before me at last. 
   Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed,
   As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!

XII

There was a great tinkling of teaspoons the other evening, when I took my seat at the table, where all The Teacups were gathered before my entrance.  The whole company arose, and the Mistress, speaking for them, expressed the usual sentiment appropriate to such occasions.  “Many happy returns” is the customary formula.  No matter if the object of this kind wish is a centenarian, it is quite safe to assume that he is ready and very willing to accept as many more years as the disposing powers may see fit to allow him.

The meaning of it all was that this was my birthday.  My friends, near and distant, had seen fit to remember it, and to let me know in various pleasant ways that they had not forgotten it.  The tables were adorned with flowers.  Gifts of pretty and pleasing objects were displayed on a side table.  A great green wreath, which must have cost the parent oak a large fraction of its foliage, was an object of special admiration.  Baskets of flowers which had half unpeopled greenhouses, large bouquets of roses, fragrant bunches of pinks, and many beautiful blossoms I am not botanist enough to name had been coming in upon me all day long.  Many of these offerings were brought by the givers in person; many came with notes as fragrant with good wishes as the flowers they accompanied with their natural perfumes.

How old was I, The Dictator, once known by another equally audacious title,—­I, the recipient of all these favors and honors?  I had cleared the eight-barred gate, which few come in sight of, and fewer, far fewer, go over, a year before.  I was a trespasser on the domain belonging to another generation.  The children of my coevals were fast getting gray and bald, and their children beginning to look upon the world as belonging to them, and not to their sires and grandsires.  After that leap over the tall barrier, it looks like a kind of impropriety to keep on as if one were still of a reasonable age.