It matters not what it was all about, but once he, wealthy and busy, stopped his work, left his office and walked with me, little and unknown, down the street, to do me a favor, for no reason except that he took a fancy to me. That was more than twenty years ago. So he is gone now! I wish I might drop a tear upon his folded hands; perhaps the Recording Angel, checking up his account, might see it, and think it was a pearl, and put it to his credit. So only can I pay my debt. Reading of his death has set me thinking. How many persons there are who have done me a Good Turn! Just casual people, I mean. All kinds. Let me recall. Alas, that my memory for kindness is so poor! I cannot understand those who say they owe no man anything. My days are crowded with undeserved Good Turns. I shall never pay my debts, if I live a thousand years. There’s the man who gave me a match, the girl who gave me a smile, the farmer who gave me a ride, a cobbler in Munich once mended my shoe and would take no money, a man made way for me in a crowd to see the parade, a baby once smiled at me and held out her arms—I would not forget these small things, little sparkles in the life-stream. And men have given me a chance, and some have stopped to praise me, and I have seen the little flame in women’s eyes as they looked on me, and years ago George Armstrong and Jo Holmes lent me money when I am sure they did not know they would ever get it back. There are others, appearing out of the stranger throng, that have stood by me, defended my name, spoken out boldly and called themselves my friends. Of all these Harlow N. Higinbotham is the type, because my acquaintance with him was but casual, because he had no reason for his kindness except the human spark, because he emerged from the multitude, did me his Good Turn, and receded again into the mist. Always his strong face, shrewd and understanding, will stand out from among the sea of human faces in my memory, and rebuke my dark moods, saying unto me that this world of men and women is a good place, full of unexpected impulse, not a vale of tears, but a place of Heart and Humanity. So, Recording Angel, when the case of this man comes up on the Day of Judgment, let me bear my testimony. HARLOW N. HIGINBOTHAM One of the workers of the world Living toiled, and toiling died; But others worked and the world went on, And was not changed when he was gone. A strong man stricken, a wide sail furled; And only a few men sighed. Well, I am one of them. [Illustration: _Facsimile of ms. page_ _Written by Eugene Field._ ] APPENDIX D _In a copy of “Echoes from the Sabine Farm,” given to Mr. Higinbotham by Eugene Field we find inscribed, on the fly leaf, the following_: