VIII 



THE ILLUMINATION OF AN 

 OLD FARM 



NOT long ago, out there somewhere 

 in the vast upper spaces of mys- 

 tery, our Lord welcomed into his peaceful 

 presence a man whom he was ready to 

 glorify. Here on the earth this man was 

 called James B. Doolittle; hut the name 

 was a misnomer, for in any kingdom of 

 equity he surely would have been named 

 Do-much. 



"A Conspiracy of Friendship" 

 When, as a boy, I first met this man, 

 he was a farmer, living a few miles from 

 one of the most beautiful of our mid- 

 Western villages, Delavan, Wisconsin. 

 Rudyard Kipling is, as far as I now re- 

 call the writers, the only one who has 



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