Gutzon took care of Nocquet’s burial in Mt. Kisco and prepared a calf-bound volume, _In Memoriam_, which contained, among other mementos, prints of the first air photographs of Long Island. Nocquet had taken a camera on his final trip, and the films were found in his pocket. Though wet, they were successfully developed and are probably the first pictures taken from the air to be reproduced in the public press. Gutzon, after his return from Europe in 1901, met the Herbert Wadsworths of Washington and the Genesee Valley. They were horse enthusiasts. So was Gutzon. Martha Wadsworth was a dominating personality, and she was a social power in Washington. But once she motored all the way to Hermosa, South Dakota, and again to Stamford, Connecticut, just to visit with the Borglums. Herbert Wadsworth’s attitude toward his wife’s activities was one of whimsical tolerance and his view of Gutzon’s enthusiasms was much the same. In 1912 he wrote this to Borglum: Any indication that you are recovering from the Too-Many-Things-at-Once disease is most gratifying. Once I wanted to reform the world and now I’m too exhausted to reform myself. By and by, when you can take a long time off, come up to Ashantee--The Dawdlers’ Do-Nothing Roost--and do nothing with me. Say, where is home, anywhere?... Another equally old friend and brilliant woman who also motored out once to Texas to spend the winter near Gutzon was Edith Cornell Smith, wife of Sydney. She and her husband lived in Thirty-eighth Street, near Gutzon’s studio. They were old New Yorkers to whom tickets at Carnegie Hall and the Opera House, and various club memberships, were as much a part of the annual budget as taxes and rent. Edith was deeply artistic and after her husband’s death spent most of her summers in Stamford where she was a welcome part of the Borglum family. There were many such travelers. In time Gutzon came to look on their arrivals as he did the rains or the rising of the sun. But he was overcome with wonderment when Julian Lee Rayford, then an obscure young artist, thumbed his way from North Carolina to Texas just to talk to him. “I don’t think I ever meant that much to anybody before,” said Gutzon. And he meant it. During his bachelor days in New York, Gutzon occupied a quaint brick apartment on 104th Street where other artists lived, including the Boardman Robinsons. It had been built by a strange woman who, in her youth, had gone abroad to study art and life. She had come back with strong distaste for the respectability of her well-to-do relations. After erecting this flat building, she had taken up her abode in the basement amid an assortment of art treasures gathered up in Europe. The sculptor admired what he called her wild streak, by which he meant her defiance of the conventions, and they got along quite well.