The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1890-04-24
BILL ARp's PHILOSOPHY.

BILL ARP'S PHILOSOPHY.
/ Atlanta Consultation.
There is an old saying which has that
sad refrain:
"What can an old man do but die.
was Illuminating over this because 1
had just parted with venerable friend
who told me with smile that this WAS
his birthday-his seventy fourth birthday.
He always meets US with smile that
plays among the wrinkles, and he never
complains of age or in6rmity or anything
else. He still pursues his calling and
walks feebly to and fro, and will likely
die in the harness of honorable toll. He
is man of culture-a man of convic-
tions, and yet he never gives offense.
This old man can do great deal besides
dying. His very presence is sermon to
the rising generation. One such man in
a community is like beacon-a light
house among the breakers. If every
aged man was like him there would be
no wrecks, no lost passengers on the sea
of life.
There was another old man here not
long ago, a veteran of eighty-fve, whom
the people Of Georgia have long delight.
ed to honor. His massive Scotch frame,
smooth shaven face and rich gray hair,
his cordial salutation and cheerful laugh
give evidence of good health and good
heart. He has recently resigned a high
Office which he filled to the last with un-
diminished zeal and ability. This old
man can do something else besides dying.
Bnt these two are exceptional cases. Very
few old men wear their age SO gracefully.
The cares of life sadden and sour them.
Domestic troubles disappoiut, the loss of
friends or the loss of money drives the
wrinkles deep, brings down the dropping
corners of the mouth, bends the shoul-
ders and gives the voice sad, complain
ing tone. I met just such an one the
other day, and he complained about a
misery in his bresst, and about his taxes,
and the waterworks and gasworks and
public schools, and wondered what they
would get up next to rob man, and he
wound up his lamentations with sigh
and said he didn't expect to live much
longer nohow. l tried to comfort him
with the story of the old woman who tried
hard to keep her dog from biting man
at the gate, but at last the dog got away
from her, aud as the terrified
man mounted the gate post she
exclaimed: "Well, stranger, I reckon
you'd just as well let him bite you and
maybe be be satisfied" But anecdotes
don't set well on misery. That man
grieves and sighs around the hearthstone.
He is no comfort to his children and is q
misery to himself. The old song
fits him, "What Can an Old Man do but
Die"
know another aged man OF fourscore
years and he is blind. What can he do
but die. A great deal, and he does it.
Almost all the day he sits on q big arm
chair and talks to the children rs they
run to and fro-the children of the fourth
generation, and they love him and are
good to him and guide him around when
he walks. He, too, never complains, but
says that God is good and he is just wait
ing upon him. That old man is doing
good every day. His very friendliness to
death has disarmed its terrors in the
minds of those children. But the chill
dren go To school and the good mother
has her duties and sometimes the old man
sits alone for hours and rocks in his
chair, and thinks and thinks and thinks.
When asked what he thinks about when
so long alone he said, "About my child
hood mostly, the scenes of my youth;
the time when I was between eight and
eighteen years. remember all that and
l love to think about it, for had good,
kind parents and I was happy all the
year round. Later on some trouble
came, some sorrow and atfliction, and
still later on more sorrow, but all that is
like hssty dream. God will not let me
recall it. can't tell you now where I
lived or what l was doing when was
thirty and forty and fifty years old.
Memory is strange thing. One would
think that what happened to us when in
the vigor of manhood would leave the
strongest impressions, but they do not.
The merest triaes Of my boyhood are as
bright to me as they were seventy years
| ago, and they grow brighter as the years
roll on. see the little branches where
fished for minnows, the trees I climbed
for chesnuts, the hills and valleys where
hunted, the little school house and the
winding path and the foot-log across the
creek. I see my schoolmates-the boys
and girls-and I would know them any
where, but they are all dead now, reck.
on. I see the school teacher, good man
he was, and there is the very crack in the
log where he had his switch. I remem-
ber the big log fires at home and the
old time ovens and skillets and the oven
crane in the chimney, and the Johnny
cake board that stood in the corner. Oh,
yes, remember thousand things that
are of no consequence, but they are
pleasant to think about now. was
thinking how good the Lord had
been in giving me such happy child
hood and making me to forget all my
troubles"
And so I ruminated about that man.
Suppose he had had hard, unhappy
boyhood, how miserable would be his
memories now I heard man say that
all his young life he lived in fear and