could scarcely gasp his request for further enlightenment. Finally Mr. Jones made it clear that a gift of any one of these things to some needy brother or sister, or to some widow with a family of small children, or to an orphan asylum, or any needy place or person, would give him the right to ask God to spare his life that he might continue to do good and bless those who needed such help. "Now," concluded he, "if he wants me to pray for him he knows what he can do," and he abruptly terminated the interview.

Late that afternoon he was called upon again with a list of benefactions. The old skinflint-as Mr. Jones had designated him-had sent a basket of eggs here, butter, cheese, bread, a turkey and other good things to others, a load of watermelons to the orphan's home, and another to the poorhouse.

At once Mr. Jones went to his house, knelt down at his bedside and prayed: "O Lord, Thou hast had a hard time with this man, and hast had pretty nearly to kill him to teach him how to live. He has begun to open up his hard heart and loosen his tight pantry, milk-house, and poultry house doors. Now Lord teach him to open his purse strings. If he is sincere in his desire to live a better life please give him another chance. Let him live to prove himself, and Thine shall be the praise, the honor, and the glory forever, through Jesus Christ Thy Son, Amen!"

Needless to say the man recovered his health, and sought to live worthily ever afterwards.

The point I wish to emphasize is that many people do not grow old gracefully, or grow old at all, because they have nothing to grow old for. And only by having a real reason, a powerful motive, will such a joy be given to you.

Then there is one other class that should be referred to. Do you, who are gray haired, bent in body, somewhat slower in mind than you were, feeble in action, and regarding yourself as "aged," recall the time when you were full of love, hope, ambition, aspiration, ideals, morals, sweet purities, eager desires for good? You were then singing with God. Why did you quit? Why did you step out of the chorus? Those who "grow old gracefully" who have "a beautiful old age," who seem "never to grow old," who "have the secret of perpetual youth," kept on trying to keep step with God, sang all the time, even though their voices got to quavering now and again, or sank into a groan, or a hoarse whisper, or even a curse. They knew their only hope of real and perpetual joy and happiness was to keep on singing, so, catching their breath, they began again, and kept it up, with the result to be seen and enjoyed by all.

This beautiful old age is as free to all as are the air, the sunlight, water, flowers, and sky. It is the joyous gift of God to those who Sing through Life

with Him in blessed helpfulness of others, and who never tire of singing.

The ideal of my own "old age"-my entrance into centenary years and beyond-is that I shall take with me thousands of beautiful pictures of things I have seen and enjoyed,-pictures that the memory will gladly recall; of books read; dramas and tragedies, comedies and extravaganzas seen enacted; of movies watched; concerts of voice and instrument, solo and orchestra, individual and choral listened to; happy social events participated in; stirring political movements witnessed and perhaps engaged in. Every loving thought and act of the past is stored away in memory and can be recalled if one wills. And, more than one's own acts, every beautiful deed done to and for one by others, the unselfishness of friends, the unswerving devotion, constant self-sacrifice, perpetual sympathy, never-failing helpfulness of loved ones, can be made to live again by Memory's willing assistance. For the memory of man delights to serve him in these blessed ways if he but give it the opportunity.

Not in sorrow, in bitterness, in regret, in repining, therefore, do I anticipate the calling back of scenes of the past in my own old age, but in joy, happiness, and thankfulness, the songs of which will bring joy, happiness and thankfulness to others, and be deemed worthy of entrance into the Universal Symphony.

CHAPTER XIV

SONGS OF DEATH

"BUT these are songs of sorrow, not songs of joy and blessing," say the bereaved. The mother sadly wails over her dead, the father over his first-born son, the lover over his beloved, the child over the parent. These surely are not songs to be heard in the God song of triumph.

It seems not.

Seeming is often deceiving. Many a minor theme, even an alien minor ninth, enters into the grandest sweep of symphonic harmony, and no one feels it misplaced. Yet were it taken from its setting and made to stand alone it would be a note or theme of sorrow, of sadness, of gloom, of excruciating discord.

Death should be judged, as all things else are judged, with understanding, knowledge, insight, and comprehension. In the past death has been openly regarded as a gloomy, sad, terrible thing, to be feared above all else. Yet the war has shown us how brave and good men can die. Coningsby Dawson, Rupert Hughes, Joyce Kilmer, hosts of others, have voiced the new, the larger, ideas of death, even as Browning gave expression to them a couple of gen

erations ago: To the real believer in God there is no death. Life, once begun, is continuous. Here, there, or somewhere, in God's great universe, we live on. St. Paul declares it in that triumphant chapter of his to the Corinthians (1 Cor. XV), where he declares that man has a natural body and also a spiritual and incorruptible body, and that, at death, the former is sown in corruption and at the resurrection is raised in incorruption.

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory!

The universal heart of man feels this is true; Wordsworth wrote his Intimations of Immortality and Addison in his Cato says:

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,.
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

While Browning exclaimed:

Good to forgive;

Best to forget!

Living we fret;

Dying we live.

Fretless and free,

Soul, clap thy pinion!

Earth have dominion,

Body, o'er thee!