"I have forgotten the man's name. I have never seen the old priest,

before or since. But, sometime, a painter will turn to the railroad

life. When he does, I may see from his hand such a picture as I saw at

that moment--the night, the storm, the scant hair of the priest blown

in the gale, the men bared about him; the hush of the death moment; the

wrinkled hand raised in the last benediction."




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