FOREWORD 



wonder, arid while I gazed one leg quivered a moment 

 and then was still. 



It is the story of his life that I would tell. 



I plucked the rose and bore it away with me; and 

 even now, as I write, its crumbled leaves lie over him 

 in a memorial urn ; and I shall be happy if I have truly 

 caught the meaning of his life, which carried with it so 

 much of the sweetness of endeavor, so much of the joy 

 of living, and so much of love for the Kingdom of 

 Light. 



BEECHHURST, LONG ISLAND, 

 March, 1917. 



