wonderful sweetness, the coming of the Christ-child for the redemption
of the world. It is true that in commemoration the poet may speak while
the man within is silent. But it is hardly true that he whose generous
soul responded to every principle of Christ, the Teacher, pleading for
humanity, would sing over and over that tender song of love and
sacrifice as a mere poetic inspiration. As he slept my brother's soul
was called. Who shall say that it was not summoned by that same angel
song that awakened "Little Boy Blue"? Who shall doubt that the smile of
supreme peace and rest which lingered on his face after that noble
spirit had departed spoke for the victory he had won, for the hope and
belief that had been justified, and for the happiness he had gained?

To have been with my brother in the last year of his life, to have
seen the sweetening of a character already lovable to an unusual
degree, to know now that in his unconscious preparation for the life
beyond he was drawing closer to those he loved and who loved him, this
is the tenderest memory, the most precious heritage. Not to have seen
him in that year is never to realize the full beauty of his nature, the
complete development of his nobler self, the perfect abandonment of all
that might have been ungenerous and intemperate in one even less
conscious of the weakness of mortality. He would say when chided for
public expression of kind words to those not wholly deserving, that he
had felt the sting of harshness and ungraciousness, and never again
would he use his power to inflict suffering or wound the feelings of
man or child. Who is there to wonder, then, that the love of all went
out to him, and that the other triumphs of his life were as nothing in
comparison with the grasp he maintained on popular affection? The day
after his death a lady was purchasing flowers to send in sympathy for
the mourning family, when she was approached by a poorly-clad little
girl who timidly asked what she was going to do with so many roses.