The other day, as I was walking through a side street in one of our large cities, I heard these words ringing out from a room so crowded with people that I could but just see the auctioneer's face and uplifted hammer above the heads of the crowd.
"Going! Going! Going! Gone!" and down came the hammer with a sharp rap.
I do not know how or why it was, but the words struck me with a new force and significance. I had heard them hundreds of times before, with only a sense of amusement. This time they sounded solemn.
"Going! Going! Gone!"
"That is the way it is with life," I said to myself - "with time." This world is a sort of auction room; we do not know that we are buyers: we are, in fact, more like beggars; we have brought no money to exchange for precious minutes, hours, days, or years; they are given to us. There is no calling out of terms, no noisy auctioneer, no hammer; but nevertheless, the time is "going! going! gone!"

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