larger and more ample faith. Even in these last years his mind was clear and his thoughts far in advance of multitudes of much younger men. It was one of the greatest inspirations of my life to talk with him upon the great themes of morals, ethics, religion and philosophy. How refreshing to find a man of his age ever ready to discuss these questions from the most modern point of view, and ever encouraging us of the younger generation to go on and try to lead the world into the larger ways of thinking and living. I must bear a word of personal testimony and say that I regard his life as one of the most helpful influences which ever touched my own.

He believed that religion is an eternal fact of human consciousness because God is Father of the human race and man partaker of the Divine Nature. Thus he saw in all religious creeds and organizations the effort of man to know and worship God; and was, therefore, charitable to all religious creeds and faiths. He believed the human at its best is truly divine, and that the divine can express itself at the highest, in such a universe as this, only through the human; hence he believed in Jesus Christ as the incarnation of God, the Saviour and Redeemer of the world; and in the Christian Church as the expression of His life, and the organization through which His Kingdom must come among men. Surely in our local church, as well as in the church universal, we must say "Thou wilt be missed, because thy seat will be empty."

And in the more personal relationships of life how true this is. What a congenial, companionable friend and neighbor he was. Cultured, well read, familiar with the great literature of the world, of a genuine poetic temperament, democratic by nature and habit, kindly disposed toward all mankind, with a large and interesting life experience, he was a companion who brought to one's life a rich and high enjoyment and strength. No wonder his circle of friends was large and that multitudes in all walks of life feel a sincere loss in the passing of this firm and gentle man. He felt himself above no one who was true and honest. His was the aristocracy of heart and mind. He was truly a citizen of the world and was genuinely respected and honored by all classes of people who

knew him.

Thus even those of us who stand outside his family circle can, in a measure, understand why he was idolized by his own family, and why his children sacredly revere his name and memory. None so feelingly and truly as those of his own household-the ones who knew him bestcan say "Thou wilt be missed because thy seat will be empty." Their loss is great; but, after all, how rich they are in the heritage of the name and memory he leaves.

He made no pretension to perfection, and would be the first to check our unstinted praise. About all he would probably let us say is that he did sincerely try to so live that the mistakes of his life should be those of the human judgment and not the intention of the heart. But I am sure he will forgive us for what our love prompts us to say more than this. "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; they rest from their labors, but their works do follow them." He has lived a strong, natural, normal, beautiful life-a Christian in the truest sense of the word

and, having set his house in order, passed peacefully on to the larger life for which this had been a true preparation.

For need we stay to argue the immortality of such a soul? Its very strength, power and beauty are sufficient. Let the one who asserts that all this which we have known and loved in him can perish with the mere passing of a breath come forward with his frail arguments, but we shall still say:

"There is no death! the stars go down

To rise upon some other shore,

And bright in heaven's jewelled crown
They shine forever more.

There is no death! although we grieve
When beautiful, familiar forms

That we have learned to love, are torn
From our embracing arms.

Although with bowed and breaking heart,
With sable garb and silent tread,
We bear their peaceful dust to rest,
And say that they are 'dead.'

They are not dead! they have but passed
Beyond the mists that blind us here
Into the new and larger life

Of that serener sphere.

And ever near us, though unseen,

The dear, immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe

Is life-there are no dead."

So as we have seen this mind and soul live on above the failing body in the last few years we shall have an increasing faith in Paul's beautiful statement of the truth, "Though the earthly house of this tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal, in the heavens." And in Jesus' words, "In My Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you." For ourselves we say, "Thou wilt be missed, because thy seat will be empty." But for him we say:

"Servant of God, well done!

Rest from thy loved employ;

The battle fought, the victory won,
Enter thy Master's joy.

The pains of death are passed;

Labor and sorrow cease;

And life's long warfare closed at last,
His soul is found in peace.

Soldier of Christ, well done!

Praise be thy new employ;
And, while eternal ages run,

Rest in thy Saviour's joy."

May God comfort and sustain this bereaved family; and may He lead us all on at last into the larger life whither our beloved has gone.

MILE-STONE SIXTY-NINE.

Written by Wm. H. Collins on his Sixty-ninth Birthday, March 20, 1900.

Across the sweep of nine and sixty years
Fair was the dawning of my natal day.
White cloud-fleets lay upon the azure sky,
When, borne upon a tidal wave of life,
From the silent realm of mystery,

A helpless, naked immigrant, I came.

Warm were the greetings. Canopied with smiles
My cradle. Tender ministries of love
Responded to my cry, and mother's hope
Began in thought to cast my horoscope.

Those little hands! What fabric shall they weave?
Of hemp and silk some texture strong and fine,
Strong to defy life's hardest wear and tear?
Will they be skilled and used to make, or break?
Those fingers, will they clasp the sword, or pen?
The sculptor's chisel, or the artist's brush?

Those lips, so warm upon the springs of life!
Will they give voice to harsh, discordant words
To cut and wound and hurt the listening ear?
Or shape to melody the charms of song?

Or speak the burning words of eloquence,
To charm or soothe or rouse the multitude?

Those soft, pink feet! Will they be torn and bleed
Upon some rugged, flinty path of life ?

Or with firm step climb up the hills of God,
And so, thro' service, gain the crown of life?
That brain! What subtile thinking shall it do?
What depths profound, what heights will reach?

When doubt its shadows o'er the pathway casts,
Will it converge the broken lines of light,
And in the focus find the problem solved?
When will is weak and on temptation's point,
Will conscience, like the magnet, tremble back
In line with the eternal poles of right?

By mile-stone "sixty-nine" I, pensive, stand
To trace again, in thought, my winding path.
A barefoot child, his every pulse a bound,
And careless as the butterfly he chased.
Then, eager, restless boy, so full of life,
Hands often torn by thorn pricks set to fend

The rosy bloom which he had rudely seized;
Feet clogged with mire from dismal swamps,
Where he the "will-o'wisp" had chased in vain.
Oft with his dog and gun, o'er moor and fen,
In air and sunshine tramped the live-long day,
To gain a tougher fiber, stronger nerve,
Commune with nature in her various moods,
Her springs and winding creeks and gray old hills,
Her flowered meads and forest solitudes.
Not vain the visions of the mother's hope!
In manhood's strength he led a strenuous life,
Problems of life and thought he tried to solve,
And so for others make the pathway clear
In tangled shadows of the forest lost,
The path that leadeth on and up to light.
So, too, he served with tongue and pen

For freedom on the battle fields of thought.

And when the bugle blew, he answered, "Here!"
On battle line, mid crash and roar of guns.

And when the sword was sheathed, mid furnace fires
And hammer blows upon the anvil's face,

Mid smoke and showering sparks from glowing steel,
He organized strong labor's force and skill

To forge and fit the useful tools of peace.

Love came to him, pure mated love, the love
Of children and of children's children, too;
And home with love, so sweet and beautiful,
Pure as the dew-washed lily's cup, and warm
As is its stamens' yellow flame within.

On summer's bloom doth follow winter's frosts.
The diamond gleams in sunshine; so do tears.
I've stood beside the grave.
To bleeding strain I know.
The welcome footfall heard

The heart-string stretched
Loved voices hushed,
no more, the eyes

Once bright with love, dim with the mist of death.
And shadows yet will fall, I know not when.
But as the star of hope its radiance cast
Upon my path in all the by-gone years,

My trust is firm some star will always shine
For me above the far horizon rim.

I've lived an earnest, plain, contented life.
Content to sink my Ego in the All.

'Tis well: for single dew-drops little are,

But myriad myriads of them make

The sea which floats the commerce of the world;
'Tis myriad stars make radiant the night.

I cherish not a vain regret. Without a fear,

Content, I await the outflowing tide.

I soon will hear the stroke of muffled oar;

From far the chimes of evening's Angelus,
And know the mystery of mysteries.

All's well, since love is love and God is love,

We'll place a wreath on mile-stone "sixty-nine"
And crown my natal as a festive day,

And hopeful wait for three-score years and ten.
Quincy, March 20, 1900.

WILLIAM H. COLLINS.

Ten years have passed since mile stone sixty-nine
Was garlanded with loving thoughts by those
Who gathered 'neath the roof tree to break bread
"And crown his natal as a festive day."

Three score and ten, and still the evening star
Burned clear and bright, not less a star of hope
Because a beacon light to sunset's shore,
But still a token that the day's not done.

The years pass on, almost a decade more,
The glory lingers in the evening sky,

The Master's brush is stayed; He hesitates

To paint away the sunset tints, so long have they
Sent radiance to the world in this man's day.

Another mile stone reached, and we who love him
Cannot gather round and touch his hand, or look
Into his eyes with love and birthday cheer;
But in our heart we consecrate the day,
In thankfulness that one we hold so dear
The father we all love, is with us still.

Helen to her father upon
his seventy-ninth birthday,
March 20, 1910.