As I look back on my life, eventful eugh in spots, but placid, even motous in the long stretches between spots, I think the greatest thrill I ever experienced was when I saw the dead body of Sampson Tracy. Imagine to yourself a man, dead in his own bed, with sign of violence or maltreatment. Eyes partly closed, as he might be peacefully thinking, and expression of fear or horror on his calm face. Now add to your mental picture the fact that he had round his brow a few flowers arranged as a wreath. More flowers diagonally across his breast, like a garland. Clasped in his right hand, against his heart, an ivory crucifix, and in his left hand an orange. Sticking up from behind his head showed the plume of a red feather duster! And draped round all this, like a frame, was a red chiffon scarf, a filmy but volumius affair, deftly tucked in here and there, and encircling all the strange and bizarre details I have enumerated.