Let her
speak.
But I am wandering far from Hyde Park and its show of girls.
They passed and re-passed me, laughing, smiling, talking. Their
eyes were bright with merry thoughts; their voices soft and musical.
They were pleased, and they wanted to please. Some were married,
some had evidently reasonable expectations of being married; the
rest hoped to be. And we, myself, and some ten thousand other young
men. I repeat it--myself and some ten thousand other young men; for
who among us ever thinks of himself but as a young man? It is the
world that ages, not we. The children cease their playing and grow
grave, the lasses' eyes are dimmer. The hills are a little steeper,
the milestones, surely, further apart. The songs the young men sing
are less merry than the songs we used to sing. The days have grown
a little colder, the wind a little keener. The wine has lost its
flavour somewhat; the new humour is not like the old. The other
boys are becoming dull and prosy; but we are not changed. It is the
world that is growing old. Therefore, I brave your thoughtless
laughter, youthful Reader, and repeat that we, myself and some ten
thousand other young men, walked among these sweet girls; and, using
our boyish eyes, were fascinated, charmed, and captivated.
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