Good to forgive, Best to forget; Living we fret, Dying we live. Fretless and free, soul, Clap thy pinion, Earth have dominion, Body, o'er thee. The Indians' attitude towards death is very beautiful to me. They regard it as a natural change; a something to be expected, to be looked for, and therefore to be met with bravery, courage, and fearlessness. While I know they grieve deeply at unexpected deaths by accidents, sudden disease, in war, etc., and make a loud show of their grief, that is merely the child part of their nature asserting itself. When a man, a woman, has lived out the natural term of years and he, she, feels death approaching, retirement is made to some quiet and solitary place, where Death is awaited with calmness, serenity, and fearlessness. This is what I would radiate, both for myself and those whom I love. I believe with all my heart in the great goodness of God; in the progressiveness of the human soul towards the godhead possible for us. I look forward with confidence and eager anticipation to the adventures new and brave that are to meet me when I go beyond. I have had a grand and glorious time here. In spite of hardships, sorrows, griefs, pains, sickness, bereavement, poverties, and the pains that come from a recognition of my own mental and spiritual imperfections, I have had a wonderfully rich, joyous, and blessed life. I am thankful for it all. As I look back upon it I regret only those things wherein I have brought pain and sorrow to others. As for myself, all the pains and distresses are gone and forgotten; the joys and delights, the pleasures and happinesses, only, remain, and for these I am thankful beyond all power of expression. Shall I, then, be afraid that the Supreme Power who has so blessed me in this life will be unable, or unwilling, to equally bless me in the one to come? Fearless and unafraid I await the issue, nay, with glad confidence I will welcome it when it comes. Hence, again to quote Browning, whom I love and revere for his great helpfulness: I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old; Bear the brunt, in a minute pay, glad, life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. I want to meet death in just that spirit; open-eyed, in full possession of my senses, if that be possible, that I may have full cognizance of the experience as I pass through it. But let it come as it may, I want to be ready to meet and greet it. In many of his poems Walt Whitman fully expresses my conceptions, and Joaquin Miller's many sweet poems reëcho the thoughts that come to me, again and again, as I contemplate the sleep that has no earthly awakening. Take his beautiful _River of Rest_: