AN OLD VAGABOND.
He was old and alone, and he sat on a stone to rest for awhile from the road;
His beard was white, and his eye was bright, and his wrinkles overflowed
With a mild content at the way life went; and I closed the book on my knee:
"I will venture a look in this living book," I thought, as he greeted me.
And I said : "My friend, have you time to spend to tell me what makes you glad?"
"Oh, ay, my lad," with a smile; "I'm glad that I'm old, yet am never sad!"
"But why?" said I; and his merry eye made answer as much as his tongue;
"Because," said he, "I am poor and free who was rich and a slave when young.
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