Unveiling tributes . eternal glories of his Maker; that He who fashionedArcturus, Orion and Pleiades and fixed the globe upon its orbit to WOODMEN OF THE WORLD 65 move through space around the sun, has said that man shall liveforever. We ask a question of our friends: Are all the Woodmen now de-parted seated in the halls of Memory. I answer, yes! If the mem-ory of one noble friend affords a twinkling star of pleasure in aworld of pain, then Woodcraft is a heaven filled with joyful constel-lations. If a single act of charity peals out a single clarion tone ina sphere of silent coldness, then Wo
Unveiling tributes . eternal glories of his Maker; that He who fashionedArcturus, Orion and Pleiades and fixed the globe upon its orbit to WOODMEN OF THE WORLD 65 move through space around the sun, has said that man shall liveforever. We ask a question of our friends: Are all the Woodmen now de-parted seated in the halls of Memory. I answer, yes! If the mem-ory of one noble friend affords a twinkling star of pleasure in aworld of pain, then Woodcraft is a heaven filled with joyful constel-lations. If a single act of charity peals out a single clarion tone ina sphere of silent coldness, then Woodcraft fills the Universe withmusic. If the love we bear a single brother is likened to a single rose,then in our Order all the world is filled with flowers bursting intobloom. If constant mercy is a quality of good, then Woodcraft is thehour-glass, exhaustless as Saharas sands, through which the lastand final grain will never flow. Let Woodcraft live, that memorys brightest lights may burn. A TRIBUTE TO A SOVEREIGN. In name, he is no more; in fact, he lives abetter life than we who come to honor him. The strife and turmoil of a life is ended, and now we lay himdown to sleep—a sailor on lifes trackless sea. Too longalready has he been roughly driven by the beating foam. Lifesbillows, having cast him here, receded; the roar and din was quelledand hushed, his faltering senses failed their office, and the death-dirgecanopied all other sounds. A ship, unanchored, portless and adrifthas found its harbored rest, embosomed in these hills. The snowsof winter, spread like sails, will be as sheets unto his couch—the starsthat guide the ships by night were made his funeral lamps. Just as the sun retired at twilight—a silver crescent in the west-ern skies—just as the muffled oars of night patrolled the waters ofthe vesper evening, the Grim Old Reaper with his scythe cut downthe silent plant that grew along the waters edge, in all its strengthof life and beauty. At night, the wanin
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