any theory of "the brotherhood of man"--he just lived it, without ever
thinking of it as something that needed expression in words. I never
heard him use the term. To him the Individual was everything--by that I
mean that every relation he had was on a personal basis. He could not go
into a shop to buy a necktie hurriedly, without passing a word with the
clerk; when he paid his fare on the street car, there was a moment's
conversation with the conductor; when we had ice-cream of an evening, he
asked the waitress what was the best thing on in the movies. When we
left Oakland for Harvard, the partially toothless maid we had sobbed
that "Mr. Parker had been more like a brother to her!"

One of the phases of his death which struck home the hardest was the
concern and sorrow the small tradespeople showed--the cobbler, the
plumber, the drug-store clerk. You hear men say: "I often find it
interesting to talk to working-people and get their view-point." Such an
attitude was absolutely foreign to Carl. He talked to "working-people"
because he talked to everybody as he went along his joyous way. At a
track meet or football game, he was on intimate terms with every one
within a conversational radius. Our wealthy friends would tell us he
ruined their chauffeurs--they got so that they didn't know their places.
As likely as not, he would jolt some constrained bank president by
engaging him in genial conversation without an introduction; at a formal
dinner he would, as a matter of course, have a word or two with the
butler when he passed the cracked crab, although at times the butlers
seemed somewhat pained thereby. Some of Carl's intimate friends were
occasionally annoyed--"He talks to everybody." He no more could help
talking to everybody than he could help--liking pumpkin-pie. He was born
that way. He had one manner for every human being--President of the
University, students, janitors, society women, cooks, small boys,
judges. He never had any material thing to hand out,--not even cigars,