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I like to

sit and havea talk sometimeswith that oddlittle chap thatwas myself longago I thinkhe likes ittoo for hecomes so oftenof an eveningwhen I am

alone with my

pipe listening tothe whispering ofthe flames Isee his solemnlittle face lookingat me throughthe scented smokeas it floatsupward and Ismile at himand he smiles

back at me

but his issuch a graveoldfashioned smile Wechat about oldtimes and nowand then hetakes me bythe hand andthen we slipthrough the blackbars of the

grate and down

the dusky glowingcaves to theland that liesbehind the firelightThere we findthe days thatused to beand we wanderalong them togetherHe tells meas we walk

all he thinks

and feels Ilaugh at himnow and thenbut the nextmoment I wishI had notfor he looksso grave Iam ashamed ofbeing frivolous Besidesit is not

showing proper respect

to one somuch older thanmyselfto one whowas myself sovery long beforeI became myself We donttalk much atfirst but lookat one anotherI down at