Mr. Walt Whitman, who, although he is gifted with frosty locks, has not yet come to sixty years, has been heard to tell this story of himself:—
I was in a street car in Camden one day not long ago, when an Irishman came aboard. He was a middle-aged, respectable-looking fellow, but he had been imbibing pretty liberally. He sat down beside me and stared hard. Finally he hitched a little closer and leaned forward to look in my face. I felt ready for some fun, but I never noticed him—just looked as stern and unapproachable as possible. But he nodded, and grinned and hitched again, bringing his face close to my ear, then in a voice husky but loud, he said—
"An'—an'—how—ould are ye?"
The passengers smiled, but I never noticed him—just looked solemnly out at the opposite window. The Irishman thought I was deaf, so he raised his voice and shouted—
An'—how—ould are ye?"
"Sir-r-r?" I exclaimed, turning on him fiercely. But he was not to be put down.
"How ould are yees?" he finally yelled right in my ear.
If it had happened in a New York horse car everybody would have screamed out laughing; but Philadelphia folks will be proper if they die, so they only smiled behind their handkerchiefs. I turned round to the fellow, and looking as stern as ever I could, said slowly—
"I am one hundred and thirty-five!"
His under jaw dropped, he sank back in his seat and never spoke again.