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IT was only a plain New England farm among the folks of the hills of Vermont. There was neither train nor telephone nor trolley. It was much as God had made it. There lay a child, young and weak and helpless, and a mother proud in the gift of prophecy. And there stood by the child's cradle one great and powerful, Fate. She had sought him out in his simple atmosphere. Her protecting arm she raised above him. She took him by the hand and ever led him on. She saw in him virtue to be recognized. Capacity was quick to see and to seize opportunity. She commissioned into the service a good and a great merchant of Boston. She cried gangway to a creditable public servant, who stood high and third on Beacon Hill, who blocked his progress, who was then drafted into the grand army of the politically dead. She commanded striking policemen to open a path before him. A great Police Commissioner gave wings to his feet. She led him towards horizons as boundless as the seas, fame, power and financial freedom. She set him in the seats of the mighty. Even Death rode on before him and cleared the way.