I OFTEN wonder how this globe will struggle on when I cash in, when I put on my long white robe and sleep with cold but peaceful grin. I find it hard to realize that sun and moon and stars will shine, that clouds will drift along the skies, when everlasting sleep is mine. What is the use of keeping up the long procession of the spheres, when I’m beneath the butter-cup, with gumbo in my eyes and ears? What is the use of dusk or dawn, of starless dark or glaring light, when I from all these scenes am gone, down to a million years of night? Young men will vow the same sweet vows, and maids with beating hearts will hear, beneath the churchyard maple’s boughs, and reck not that I’m resting near. And to the altar, up the aisle, the blooming brides of June will go, and bells will ring and damsels smile, and I’ll be too blamed dead to know. Ah, well, I’ve had my share of fun, I’ve lived and loved and shut the door; and when this little journey’s done, I’ll go to rest without a roar.