Front matter
. Cp' V
(y y r*o
V
Dedication
There is a woman with whom I have been long in love. It had its birth on her soft breasts. She is no longer young. The chisels of four score years and ten have been carving her features. Her brow is wrinkled— her cheeks are furrowed— her eyes are dimmed. To me her face has grown sweeter as the years have worked upon it. The anointing grace of God rests on it as a splendor.
By the exquisite loveliness of that face, I compare all beauty. By the purity of her life, I judge all character.
By the devotion of her ’ heart. I measure
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The end
You’ve reached the end of Where will this path lead! A tale of a summer trip.