but which, alas! he never made. It should be the biography of the water drop, and with pencil and with words he would tell the story of the water in its passage from the clouds to the sea. “He would picture the clouds and the mists, the mountain-tops arresting the fogs and condensing them with its ledges; the little springs which run among the hills, the river’s cradle among the rocks, the tiny brook descending over the desolation of the heights, the brooklet entering the forest, the mossy coverts, the fern-covered banks, the shadowing trees, the twisting, turning stream, winding downward amidst tawny rocks, jumping over cataracts and falls, then emerging into the lower pasture slopes, with cattle drinking at its banks, and then the meadows with great sweeping branches of overhanging trees, the vexing wheels of mills, the larger and larger river, and then the city with its grime, and beyond, the sea, with its mighty ships sailing to far Cathay. And how his wondrous eyes, which had the luminousness but never the passion of the flame, used to glow as he talked of Nature and of the secrets that she told him and of the apostleship he held to make the great world see and love Nature with something of his idolatry. He kept the gladness of his youth and was never won away from the paths in which his boyish feet had strayed. That wondrous picture-making period of boyhood ever held his soul in thrall. He lived in the city, for he was the busiest worker among men, but the roots of his heart were tangled with the grasses of the sunlit pastures where his youth had been. When the sun’s rays lengthened over the noisy city, with the swiftness of the arrow’s flight from a Tartar’s bow he sought the old scenes, and there at length when favoring fortune came, he built his home, and when death wanted him she sought him there, and there she found him.” The minute prepared for the Century Club of New York City was more than a perfunctory record, and witnesses to the high esteem in which the members held him: “WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON, distinguished alike as an artist, an author, and an illustrator, had risen by unwonted industry, native talent, and a tireless enthusiasm to a high place in the esteem of the lovers of nature and the admirers of true art. He was recognized as an artist with the pen as well as with the pencil, and entitled to a place among those enthusiastic naturalists who have the skill in words to impart their enthusiasm. His ‘Highways and Byways,’ ‘Pastoral Days,’ the ‘Heart of the White Mountains,’ ‘Nature’s Serial Story,’ ‘Camp Life in the Woods,’ ‘Trapping and Trap Making,’ ‘Happy Hunting Grounds,’ and many other books, all illustrated by himself, showed his scientific exactitude and his artistic quality. His illustrated article in the last number of ‘Harper’s Magazine’ seems like a farewell message from him in another world. He was also a noted water-colorist, and, in later years, a popular lecturer on natural history.