Upon the Kentucky landscape during these October days there lies this
later youth of the year, calm, deep, vigorous. And as I spend much
time in it for the fine, fresh work it brings to hand and thought, I
feel that in my way I am part of it, that I can match the aftermath of
nature with the aftermath of my life. The Harvester passed over my
fields, leaving them bare; they are green again up to the winter's edge.

The thought has now come into my mind that I shall lay aside these
pages for my son to ponder if he should ever grow old enough to value
what he reads. They will give him some account of how his father and
mother met in the old time, of their courting days, of their happy life
together. And since it becomes more probable that there will be a war,
and that I might not be living to speak to him of his mother in ways
not written here, I shall set down one thing about her which I pray he
may take well to heart. He ought to know and to remember this: that
his life was the price of hers; she was extinguished that he might
shine, and he owes it to her that the flame of his torch be as white as
the altar's from which it was kindled.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing, then, in the character of his
mother--which, please God, he will have, or, getting all things else,
he can never be a gentleman--was honor. It shone from her countenance,
it ran like melody in her voice, it made her eyes the most beautiful in
expression that I have ever seen, it enveloped her person and demeanor
with a spiritual grace. Honor in what are called the little things of
life, honor not as women commonly understand it, but as the best of men
understand it--that his mother had. It was the crystalline, unshakable
rock upon which the somewhat fragile and never to be completed
structure of her life was reared.