the wonder about to escape from every living thing where
light or shadow fell upon them gently. He was a sure, unquestionable,
and in this sense a perfect poet, and possessed the undeniable
painter's gift for presentation.

He was of the company of Odilon Redon, of whom he had never heard, in
his feeling for the almost occult presence emanating from everything
he encountered everywhere, and his simple letters to his friends hold
touches of the same beauty his drawings and paintings and carvings on
pebbles contain.

A born mystic and visionary as to the state of his soul, a boy of
light in quest of the real wisdom that is necessary for the lyrical
embodiment, this was Rex Slinkard, the western ranchman and
poet-painter. "I think of the inhabitants of the earth and of the
world, my home." This might have been a marginal note from the Book of
Thel, or it might have been a line from some new songs of innocence
and experience. It might have been spoken from out of one of the oaks
of William Blake. It must have been heard from among the live oaks of
Saugus. It was the simple speech of a ranchman of California, a real
boy-man who loved everything with a poet's love because everything
that lived, lived for him.

Such were the qualities of Rex Slinkard, who would like to have
remained in the presence of his friends, the inhabitants of the earth,
to have lived long in the world, his home.

It is all a fine clear testimony to the certainty of youth, perhaps
the only certainty there can be. He was the calm declaimer of the life
of everlasting beauty. He saw with a glad eye the "something" that is
everywhere at all times, and in all places, for the poet's and the
visionary's eye at least. He was sure of what he saw; his paintings
and drawings are a firm conviction of that. Like all who express
themselves clearly, he wanted to say all he had to say. At thirty he
had achieved expression remarkably. He had found the way out, and the
way out was toward and into the light. He was clear, and entirely
unshadowed.

This is Rex Slinkard, ranchman, poet-painter, and man of the living
world. Since he could not remain, he has left us a carte visite of
rarest clarity and beauty. We who care, among the few, for things in
relation to essences, are glad Rex Slinkard lived and laughed and
wondered, and remained the little while. The new silence is but a
phase of the same living one he covered all things with. He was glad
he was here. He was