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Adventures and Letters

On December 14, 1904, my father died, and it was the first tragedy that had come into
Richard's life, as it was in that of my sister or myself. As an editorial writer, most of my
father's work had been anonymous, but his influence had been as far-reaching as it had
been ever for all that was just and fine. All of his life he had worked unremittingly for
good causes and, in spite of the heavy burdens which of his own will he had taken upon
his none too strong shoulders, I have never met with a nature so calm , so simple, so
sympathetic with those who were weak--weak in body or soul. As all newspaper men
must, he had been brought in constant contact with the worst elements of machine
politics, as indeed he had with the lowest strata of the life common to any great city. But
in his own life he was as unsophisticated; his ideals of high living, his belief in the
possibilities of good in all men and in all women, remained as unruffled as if he had
never left his father's farm where he had spent his childhood. When my father died
Richard lost his "kindest and severest critic" as he also lost one of his very closest friends
and companions.
During the short illness that preceded my brother's death, although quite unconscious that
the end was so near, his thoughts constantly turned back to the days of his home in
Philadelphia, and he got out the letters which as a boy and as a young man he had written
to his family. After reading a number of them he said: "I know now why we were such a
happy It was because we were always, all of us, of the same age."
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