by Mark Twain
A FINE OLD MAN
John Wagner, the oldest man in Buffalo--one hundred and four years old--recently walked a mile and a half in two weeks.
He is as cheerful and bright as any of these other old men that chargearound so persistently and tiresomely in the newspapers, and in every wayas remarkable.
Last November he walked five blocks in a rainstorm, without any shelterbut an umbrella, and cast his vote for Grant, remarking that he had votedfor forty-seven presidents--which was a lie.
His "second crop" of rich brown hair arrived from New York yesterday, andhe has a new set of teeth coming from Philadelphia.
He is to be married next week to a girl one hundred and two years old,who still takes in washing.
They have been engaged eighty years, but their parents persistentlyrefused their consent until three days ago.
John Wagner is two years older than the Rhode Island veteran, and yet hasnever tasted a drop of liquor in his life--unless-unless you countwhisky.