When the great Phillips Brooks
lay dead in the beautiful cathedral in yonder proud city, a great number came to pay their last respects to his memory: the young and old, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, from nation, state, and city, all anxious to take one last look at the face that was so dear to all. In the shadow of the doorway waited a poor old woman, with her shawl drawn closely about her. At last she found her way to the side of him who had been her friend.
Taking from the folds of her garment a little flower, she dropped it with her tears into the casket, and then went her way. I want to put one little flower for myself and for the Board of Trade, that I represent, upon the memorial you are to-day building to the memory of our friend, Charles D. Elliot