the streets of Berlin. That was a man's way to die; dying while trying
to save a crowd of little children from the cowardly Hun.

[Illustration: "The last seen of Dale he was gathering together a crowd
of little children."]

If I had died in that kind of service, in my dying moments I could have
heard the words of John Masefield from "The Everlasting Mercy" singing
in my heart:

"Whoever gives a child a treat
Makes joybells ring in Heaven's street;
Whoever gives a child a home,
Builds palaces in Kingdom Come;
Whoever brings a child to birth,
Brings Saviour Christ again to earth."


Or, better, I would have seen the Master blessing little children,
taking them up in His arms and saying to the Hebrew mothers that stood
about with wondering eyes: "Suffer the little children to come unto me,
and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

And perhaps I should have heard the echo of Joaquin Miller's sweet
interpretation of that scene, for when men die, strange, sweet
memories, old hymns and verses, old faces, all come back:

"Then lifting His hands He said lowly,
Of such is my Kingdom, and then
Took the little brown babes in the holy