write this, tears come to my eyes against my will, but the story must be told,

for every fortunate boy there is a Mom and there is a Dad!

forever hushed and he shut his eyes and rested his head upon the clay-cold

pillow of his burial place—thus making his final camp to stir no

more—gladly departing to join

the snow-cap headed old timers of the yesteryears as he crossed over the “Great

Divide,” as he termed it—thus placing his name on the ever-expanding roll of

the dead who went through the pearly gates—and he came no more to calm my mind.

It was here where he opened his eyes in a mysterious and spiritual backdrop of fairer

days.

Anglo-Saxon forbears, for the woods and streams, for outdoor life, and the

adventures which attended it. He had seen life and lived life, following a

primal instinct which, though it mellowed as he grew older, did not alter in

his lifetime—fervently at one time or another joining into all sorts of hunting

and fishing trips with his many friends and family.