I may be pardoned personal intrusion for a moment to relate when and where I first saw this remarkable man. I had gone to Saranac Lake in ill health. I asked why there was no statue in the community to the great Trudeau of whom I had read in Stevenson’s Letters. Being reminded that it was not customary to erect statues to the living, I decided to see this (to me) resurrected person. It happened to be about the time of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the sanitarium. When he stood up on a platform and, in a voice tense with emotion, told of his dream that was now materialized, I was filled with a sudden comprehension of the amazing thing that was happening--the celebration of that which this frail man had _lived to achieve_! I wrote several verses and gave them to my own physician, merely as one way of expressing what I thought about it all. The next morning I was called on the telephone. It was Dr. Trudeau himself; some one had pinned the verses to his pillow on the previous night, and they had added to the happiness of the doctor at the end of one of the proudest days of his life. He asked me to come and see him. “Do you know,” he said when we shook hands, “writing verses is something beyond my comprehension. I understand poetry, but not how one can write it. My case is like that of Zeb Robare, a guide over at Paul’s. He was asked by some ladies he was rowing the name of a certain mountain up here. ‘That’s Ampersand,’ said Zeb. ‘But, guide, how do you spell it?’ ‘Ah,’ said Zeb, ‘that’s the hell of it, ma’am. I can climb it easy enough, but I couldn’t spell it to save my life!’ That’s how I feel about poetry!” Oddly coincident, Clayton Hamilton, a writer engaged in a book about Stevenson, called upon Dr. Trudeau to ask about Robert Louis’s sojourn at Saranac Lake. Mr. Hamilton later confessed in cold type, “I had come to ask of R. L. S. and remained to admire this hero of innumerable, unnoted battles,--this maker of a City of the Sick, who, because of him, look more hopefully on each successive rising sun.” Trudeau marveled at the feat of juggling English; yet this author wrote in conclusion: “And the best of our tricky achievements in setting words together dwindle in my mind to indistinction beside the labors and spirit of this man.”