Near by, under the shade of slender white birches, we saw the simple shaft which marks the resting place of one of the Iowa Band, James J. Hill, who holds his place in the annals of the college, not only because he gave the first dollar to help found it, but because of the continued loyalty of his sons. I wished my guests could have come to us before we buried the man whose life spanned the old and the new--the white-haired, ever youthful, eloquent teacher, Leonard F. Parker, who smiled benignly upon us all until his eyes closed forever, and with their closing, a benediction was gone. He was the type of missionary teacher who began his career in a log cabin, who, whether he taught in a country school or in a great State University, taught with a passion for men. The impress of his personality remained with his pupils long after they had forgotten his erudite lore. As great as these great Americans were their wives, and no one can ever think of them as less than the equals of their husbands. If the American woman occupies a unique place in the world, it is not only because the American man has been more generous than his European brother, but because she has proved her equality. She has attained the measure of rights and privileges still denied to most of her sisters elsewhere because she earned and deserved them. We, the living, sons and daughters of these great teachers by birth and by adoption, cannot hold in too high esteem the legacy they left us. We do not know with as firm an assurance as we ought to know, how much we owe to them, and that, if we waste our inheritance, we waste spiritual forces which we cannot generate. They were all, in the true sense, provincial, narrow men. They thought of America and of the world and of the world to come, in the terms of their creed, their town and their college; while we who have circled the globe and think in world terms first, and boast of wider vision and larger faith, may be in danger of overlooking the fact that in our small place and places like it may be decided the fate of America, and through America, the fate of the world. The Herr Director was astonished and the Frau Directorin pained to find that we lived in a servantless house and in practically a servantless town; that we were our own cooks and housemaids, butlers and gardeners. When the Herr Director saw me mowing my lawn in broad daylight he wondered that I did not lose caste among my fellows. The Frau Directorin was remarkably adaptable. She delighted in wielding the dustless mop (to reduce "the meat"), she dusted the bric-à-brac, and out of the kindness of her heart and in spite of our protests, became "first aid" to my wife.