 | Mark Twain's sketches, new and old |  |
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 charge around
so persistently and tiresomely in the
newspapers, and in every way as remarkable.
Last November he walked five blocks
in a rain-storm, without any shelter but
an umbrella, and cast his vote for Grant,
remarking that he had voted for forty-seven
presidents—which was a lie.
His “second crop” of rich brown hair
arrived from New York yesterday, and
he 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 persistently refused
their consent until three days ago.
John Wagner is two years older than
the Rhode Island veteran, and yet has
never tasted a drop of liquor in his life
—unless—unless you count whisky.
| Mark Twain's sketches, new and old | |