I had hoped to stay in California; every one dreams of dying there, I suppose, but I found it would be impossible to make a living. They will not purchase anything that has not already been hallmarked by New York or European approval. Then, too, the climate produces a strange effect upon the Eastern temperament. I saw an apple tree with fruit larger and different from any I had ever eaten. The farmer assured me, upon his word of honor, that he had brought it from New England as a young tree and that it had been a true Eastern russet. [Illustration: EDWARD SIMMONS At the age of seventy ] After my return to New York I carried out two ceilings for Mr. Rockefeller, which were placed in the tea houses at the entrance to his Tarrytown home; I made a decoration for a lumber man down in Mississippi, and then came the War. I was too old to go; they even refused me in the Camouflage section, although I insist I would have been of use. Although I was not allowed to take part in the War, my whole world changed. The color of everything—we were enmeshed in khaki. To eyes accustomed to riotous shades, this deadening of the whole tone of things was tremendously depressing. And then the strides—machine guns, tanks, bombs, poison gas, everything came tumbling and tossing, one over the other, in a mad strife for something to end it all. But all the time they were only getting farther involved. I wanted to keep step, and felt as if I were marching, marching, marching—until I would suddenly become conscious that I was only sitting still. I had never found the necessity of realizing the meaning of the old saying, “He also serves ——.” For the first time I was forced to acknowledge that it was the age of the young. I saw a picture of myself as the perfect Uncle Sam, his long legs stiff, his gray hair flying in the wind, his coat tails standing out farther than they had ever done, struggling to keep his footing; while all about him, over him, and under him were a mass of young men and boys in uniforms of tan, bearing the modern equipment of war and heeding not at all this old-fashioned figure who was gradually being left behind. Chapter XVI: In Retrospect I once started a sonnet to “My Soul,” but, having written one line, I found that I had said all— Cross-hatched with many a shameful scar. It is doubtful if I have a soul, but if so, I am sure that if it shows scars of victory, they are the results of battles that should not have been fought. We have never been a religious family, as I look back. The future? For me it is here. My mother understood. Think of the agony of a woman who had never had a hand laid upon her since she was a child, lying completely helpless, paralyzed for six years! The last time I saw her, I said: “Mother, you and I know what we believe about a future life?” She nodded feebly. “You are unhappy here?”