reat evil. People who
would not steal articles of value did not hesitate to cheat in
car-fare, taking the view that the company got enough out of the
public without their small contribution. He said, "They are like two
very religious old ladies who, driving through a toll-gate, asked the
keeper the rate. Being newly appointed, he looked into his book and
read so much for a man and a horse. The woman who was driving whipped
up the horse, calling out, 'G'lang, Sally, we goes free. We are two
old maids and a mare.' On they went without paying."

When Abram Ryan was seven years old the family moved to St. Louis,
where the boy attended the schools of the Christian Brothers, in his
twelfth year entering St. Mary's Seminary, in Perry County, Missouri.
He completed his preparation for the work to which his life was
dedicated, in the Ecclesiastical Seminary at Niagara, New York. Upon
ordination he was placed in charge of a parish in Missouri.

On a boat going down the canal from Lynchburg to Lexington, where he
was a fellow-passenger with us, he met his old friend, John Wise, and
entered into conversation with him, in the course of which he made the
statement that he came from Missouri. "All the way from Pike?" quoted
Mr. Wise. "No," replied Father Ryan, "my name is _not_ Joe Bowers, I
have _no_ brother Ike," whereupon he sang the old song, "Joe Bowers,"
in a voice that would have lifted any song into the highest realms of
music.

He recited his poem, "In Memoriam," written for his brother David, who
was killed in battle, one stanza of which impressed me deeply because
of the longing love in his voice when he spoke the lines:

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping
In thy lonely battle grave;
Shadows o'er the past are creeping,
Death, the reaper, still is reaping,
Years have swept and years are sweeping
Many a memory from my keeping,
But I'm waiting still and weeping
For my beautiful and brave.

The readers of his poetry are touched by its pathetic beauty, but only
they who have heard his verses in the tones of his deep, musical voice
can know of the wondrous melody of his lines.

When I said to him that I wished he would write a poem on Pickett's
charge at Gettysburg, he replied:

"It has been put into poetry. Every flower that blooms on that field
is a poem far greater than I could write. There are some things too
great for me to attempt. Pickett's charge at Gettysburg is one of
th