BY SRIMATHI K SAVITRI

While brushing my hair before the mirror the other day, I had a sudden, darting suspicion that I caught sight of something white, gleaming in the midst of the dark, wavy mass. It glowed for a second like a streak of lightning, thin and faint, among the clouds, and then was lost completely to my view. It was a thing I had hardly noticed before, and my hands instinctively held from their activity, as the suspicion sent through my whole frame the consciousness of some new and unpleasant change. But I sought to recover myself with this re-assuring thought: Might it not be I was mistaken. I was scarcely disposed to look upon the keenness of my eye-sight as anything infallible in the present instance.

"A tiny piece of yarn has evidently found its way amidst the locks," I told myself with optimism, though another voice kept saying within me that a fond hope deceived me and that I probably lived only in a fool's paradise. No, there was no mistaking it. There it was, Sure enough, the cause of so much unrest (for me) strong and vigorous to the touch, and showing with a challenging air that it had as much right to be there as the rest.

"What is there so forbidding in the appearance of a single harmless grey hair," one might ask. True; so long as it is stray and solitary, it can be easily kept in check. For, there is the strength of the countless dark hairs to fight and struggle with it and effectively thrust it aside from others' gaze.

It is not so disquieting as all that. You see it and judge not so much by what it is as by what it portends. It reminds us of the other side of the picture which we have forgotten totally hitherto, and which stares us now in the face grimly from out of the dark. It is the first and earliest messenger of Age who forces himself upon us on our way to keep us company, whether we wish or not. A feverieh vision of innumerable such messengers who must make their appearance in due course and crowding on the scene, must effect a change of the whole atmosphere–that is what renders the advent of the early grey hair so ominous. Indeed, no ship sailing merrily on the smooth waves can detect the tiny patch of dark that breaks on the horizon with greater concern than we do this white emblem of age.

The consciousness of its existence and all the meaning that it implies is bound to be far more oppressive to the mind than ever the knowledge of its being noticed by others can be. The fact that it invariably comes as a surprise and a painful surprise at that, when we least expect it, is, I imagine, what makes the future appear so gloomy and unacceptable to us. Of course, when I say this, I hardly mean those persons who are destined to have a number of these unpleasant visitors even early in the day and are often left with no other choice but to learn to suffer them with a cheerful disregard. These people being inured to them, perhaps, may be said to be not only not worse for having been spared a surprise but fare better in comparison–the first few intruders being more kindly disposed, by not adding to their numbers with that eagerness that they originally seemed to display.

Charles Lamb tells us in his Essays of Elia that he hates people who meet Time half-way. We know what he says, and the entire spirit of his complaint. There are persons who, far

from meeting Time half-way, choose in another sense than what Lamb meant, to ignore it altogether. They would try by cunning means to give the enemy the slip and at sixty would contrive without scruple to pass for thirty But who can fail to espy the withered old hand once it is upon them and they are caught in its grip as in a vice? The desperate way in which they cling to fast fleeing youth is a sight not without a touch of pathos.

There is no escaping this ‘inevitable spoiler.’ Our triumph lies not in overcoming the enemy, for it cannot be, but in accepting his supremacy with the best grace and cheer possible. We find our strength in refusing to allow him to wither our spirits.

What is so repulsive in old age that people should instinctively shrink at its approach? It is but a part of the same Life's journey. The mellow evening light is part of the same day that began with the rosy freshness of morn and grew into the fiery radiance of noon.

Age has its joys as well as its advantages. The sight of it in distress seldom fails to awaken the instinct of pity. The tragedy of Lear can hardly be at its height if he were only a king and a father and not a desolate old man as well, with the weight of eighty winters upon his head. There is a charm and dignity which add to the air of benevolence about old age and often stand it in good stead. Can we ever wish the world to be free of these kind old souls that become only dearer on account of their years? Ask the little boy whether he would like to give up his grandmother, a wrinkled old figure in the midst of youthful brightness. No, not for worlds will he consent to part with her. For, there is a perfect sympathy and understanding that exist between them, and he knows it. He has grown to love the dear old face in spite of its wrinkles and grizzly hair. Perhaps she is also happy and thanks heaven for the blessed state that gathers the little people round her and makes a perfect picture of childhood and old age–the two presenting one complete cycle of human life.

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