We all have a chance at the ball.

Some of us run to all the four hunks, from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, from old age to death.

At the first hunk we bound with uncontrollable mirth; coming to the second, we run with a slower but stronger tread; coming to the third, our step is feeble; coming to the fourth, our breath entirely gives out.

We throw down the bat on the black hunk of death, and in the evening catchers and pitchers go home to find the family gathered and the food prepared.

So may we all find the candles lighted, and the table set, and the old folks at home..