The beauties of my recollections--where are they?
They have run the gantlet of the years as well as I.

First the years pelted them with red roses till their cheeks were all on fire.

By and by they began throwing white roses, and that morning flush passed away.

At last one of the years threw a snow-ball, and after that no year let the poor girls pass without throwing snow-balls.

And then came rougher missiles,--ice and stones; and from time to time an arrow whistled, and down went one of the poor girls.