Our porch is one of those accommodating porches with plenty of room, a standing invitation to company. Whenever company comes I have to convert myself into a moving van and tote all the furniture out from the parlor.

The Duke of Mont Alto, and the Duchess, dropped in one evening with the Purdys, and I began to move the parlor. What with spade pushing and furniture moving, I've got Sandow backed off the board. It's wonderful what a little regular training will do for a fellow! But what gets me is, how on earth did Murphy ever maneuver the big chair with the green upholstery into the house at all? It is exactly half an inch wider in every dimension than our door—but as Murphy got it in it was up to me to get it out. I was pushing and shoving and twisting, trying it sideways and upside down, straight ahead and backing like a mule, stealing a fraction of space by half-closing the screen door, when my wife took hold of a leg to help me. That settled it. We stuck, in such a position that I could neither get myself out nor the chair in again.

The Duke and the Duchess and the Purdys all volunteered to assist by suggesting various things that they thought I hadn't thought of thinking of. I kept my temper and formed my mouth into a counterfeit smile, to show how polite a Southern gentleman could be in trying circumstances. Then I gave one mighty heave, determined to push the chair through or the jam down, and stuck worse than ever.

"Can't you get through?" asked my wife sympathetically.

"Certainly I can get through," I replied; "I'm just doing this to make it look difficult!"

The Purdys laughed at that, and the Duke said I was a comical cuss. You see, he had an idea I was trying to amuse the company. That made me so mad that I dropped the chair to spit on my hands, and when I dropped the chair the stubborn thing fell right through the door of its own accord, and I straightened up like a General, and remarked:

"Now I suppose you'll make a pool among you and gobble all the credit for that!"

And hanged if they didn't!

To amble back to our muttons, it was a nice, quiet little visit.

During the evening my wife got out some grape-fruit, and in the stilly night, the stars twinkling overhead and the grass growing silently, hardly disturbing us at all, it was exceedingly pleasant to hear the spoons go slippety-slosh into the evasive juices that reluctantly gave up about half what the labor was worth.

But what I started to write about was the house party across the street. When you're sitting on the porch of your own house doing nothing but listening to the ebb and flow of grape-fruit juice, you can't help noticing the strings of Japanese lanterns over yonder, and listening to the gay laughter of young people as they madly hurl bean-bags into a hole in a plank, shrieking the while and guying each other apace. O, Postoffice! O, clap-in-an-clap-out! O, Puss-in-the-corner! O, Youth!

The Duke was saying something about the time when suburban streets would be two hundred feet wide to make landing places for aeroplanes, and when the human appetite would be regulated by push-buttons ranged along the diaphragm. But I didn't hear a word.

I yearned to be across the street. That was uncomplimentary to company, but nevertheless I yearned. So did all the rest, only they aren't telling about it. When a man has passed into the sere and yellow he has a right to the consolation of retrospect. Frankly, for a moment I wished I didn't have any house. I wanted to be over there where the young folks were, pitching bean-bags. And later, when they gathered around the piano and sang discordantly all the popular songs, I wanted to be there and join my voice in the music. It was awful music, but I wanted to howl right along with the young ones.

When the company had gone I wrestled the green chair back into the house by way of the widest window, but my mind was still full of the thought that had seized me—of the youth, and gaiety, and glory of green years. As I went to close the shutters, the last of the young people had just gone up the street singing. I gave one good night glance at the parlor windows of the house across the way. Then I started, called my wife, and we riveted our two noses to the pane.

"The Silhouettes!" I exclaimed hoarsely.

"Sshh!" she cautioned, and took my hand.

The Man Silhouette was talking earnestly to the Girl Silhouette, and she was shaking her head. But suddenly she leaned closer to him, and threw her arms about his neck, and he kissed her, and she ran from the room and left him standing there.

Presently the Girl Silhouette came back, leading by the hand a large, fat Silhouette with whiskers. I recognized him as the man I had seen mowing the lawn and working the garden hose. He shook hands with the Man Silhouette, and kissed the Girl on the forehead, and joined their hands, and seemed to call toward the hallway; whereupon a fourth Silhouette came in.

"It's the Girl's mother!" said my wife.

They all stood together, and bowed and nodded and that sort of thing for an unconscionably long time, until our noses were cold from the glass. And then the Silhouette with the whiskers pushed all the other Silhouettes in the direction in which we knew their dining room lay, and stepped back to turn off the lights.

When there was nothing to see but the blank curtain, we went upstairs; and after I had retired my wife crept away. I awoke and found her an hour later, sound asleep with her nose against the pane, her unseeing eyes turned toward the house across the way, and a smile on her lips. I lifted her and put her on the bed—and she didn't stir until morning.

"That Man Silhouette," I said at breakfast; "did you see him last night after the—er—incident on the blinds?"

"Certainly not!" she replied, almost indignantly. "You men all think women are curious."

I wondered if she had only dreamed, or could she be a somnambulist!

"But," she added, as she poured the coffee, "I'm going to see what he looks like to-night, if I never get to bed; and I'm going to see her if I have to go over there and borrow butter!"

There you go again, Youth! There you are at it, Romance!

What would I not give to be back myself, to the time when we, mayhap, were silhouettes for the entertainment of our neighbors! But come on, old man, come on! You must go straight ahead, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year! Somewhere ahead there is a marble shaft, and a place with the roses; but your cradle is broken, your little tin wagon is rusted, your Noah's Ark is buried under the dust of years—and you have had your frivols!