s immediate
neighborhood a desire to elect him to some political position, that of
councilman, or State assemblyman, in the hope or thought that he would
rise to something higher. But he would none of it--not then anyhow.
Instead, about this time or a very little later, after the birth of his
second child (a girl), he devoted himself to the composition of a
brilliant piece of prose poetry ("Wolf"), which, coming from him, did
not surprise me in the least. If he had designed or constructed a great
building, painted a great picture, entered politics and been elected
governor or senator, I would have taken it all as a matter of course. He
could have. The material from which anything may rise was there. I asked
him to let me offer it to the publishing house with which I was
connected, and I recall with interest the comment of the oldest and most
experienced of the bookmen and salesmen among us. "You'll never make
much, if anything, on this book. It's too good, too poetic. But whether
it pays or not, I vote yes. I'd rather lose money on something like this
than make it on some of the trash we do make it on."

Amen. I agreed then, and I agree now.

The last phase of Peter was as interesting and dramatic as any of the
others. His married life was going forward about as he had planned. His
devotion to his home and children, his loving wife, his multiplex
interests, his various friends, was always a curiosity to me,
especially in view of his olden days. One day he was over in New York
visiting one of his favorite Chinese importing companies, through which
he had secured and was still securing occasional objects of art. He had
come down to me in my office at the Butterick Building to see if I would
not come over the following Saturday as usual and stay until Monday. He
had secured something, was planning something. I should see. At the
elevator he waved me a gay "so long--see you Saturday!"

But on Friday, as I was talking with some one at my desk, a telegram was
handed me. It was from Mrs. Peter and read: "Peter died today at two of
pneumonia. Please come."

I could scarcely believe it. I did not know that he had even been sick.
His little yellow-haired wife! The two children! His future! His
interests! I dropped everything and hurried to the nearest station. En
route I speculated on the mysteries on which he had so often
speculated--death, dissolution, uncertainty, the crude indifference or
cruelty of Nature. What would bec