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1947 San Francisco Convention
Tributes to Paul P. Harris
Reverend Ezra A. Van Nuis, Minister of Calvary Presbyterian
Church, RC San Francisco, U.S.A.
Following these tributes musical numbers were presented by Uda
Waldrop's Male Choristers under the direction of Rotarian
Waldrop.
Tom A. WARREN: I opened the tribute to Rotarians of all the
world who have passed on during the last twelve months. By
arrangement, Ches Perry and his group then paid tribute to Paul
Harris.
Now, as the final act in this ceremony, we pass again to tribute
to the whole and not the one. I call upon Reverend Ezra A. Van
Nuys, Minister of Calvary Presbyterian Church, also a member of
the Rotary Club of San Francisco. Reverend Dr. Van Nuys!
Ezra A. Van Nuys: President Dick, Chairman Tom, Ladies and
Fellow Rotarians: The place where we now stand is holy ground;
the very atmosphere that we breathe is freighted with sacred
memories.
Few indeed have been the Clubs of Rotary that have not responded
to the call of the Angel of Death. Today our feelings are those
of mingled ones. First of all, we are profoundly grateful for
the lives of those whom we have loved long since and lost a
while. They have made their contribution to society. We are a
better world because they have lived, and we take up the torch
that they hand to us and are determined in heart that our lives
shall count as their lives counted. Indeed, we feel the impact
of their living upon us.
Out in the Southwest Pacific, coral islands lift their flaunted
palms in air, and men are living there in beauty and in plenty,
because of the contribution of the little coral palpi that has
been deposited there through the centuries gone by. Each
generation has lifted it higher, and we enjoy what they gave
because of the sacrifice that has been made.
So
it is with these men who have lived long since and we have lost
a while. I am reminded of those words of Edgar Guest:
To
leave some simple word behind,
To
keep my having lived in mind;
If
enmity to aught I show,
To
be an honest, generous foe.
To
play my little part, nor whine
That greater honors are not mine;
This, I believe, is what I need
For my philosophy and my creed.
So
it is with profound gratitude that we think of those whom we
have loved and God has called.
It
has been our privilege in the years gone by to remember the
great blessing that has come to us through memory. One of God's
greatest gifts to man is the ability to remember. And a second
gift like unto it is the fact that there are men worth
remembering, and we are grateful to Him for the privilege of
remembering these noble characters.
A
second feeling fills our hearts, and that feeling is the feeling
of sympathy to wives and mothers, sons and daughters, and others
who have mourned their going. We share their sorrow.
It
has been said that the sisterhood of mercy is born of the
brotherhood of adversity, and today we share in the sorrows of
the past year.
But the third feeling that we have today is one of profound
determination that we too shall live as they have lived, and the
panoply of their lives shall hover over us, and that we shall
leave to our posterity the blessings that they have left to us.
Far up the River Nile are the tombs of the kings. In those tombs
lie buried in the centuries past, reaching through four to six
thousand years, the bodies of those who are known in the world.
The walls of those tombs are painted in blues and gold, colors
that have never faded. The storms cannot reach them; the burning
sands cannot parch them. They remain there through time and
through eternity and those pictures today are as bright as they
were the day they were placed there.
So
come to us these memories, and we are determined that they shall
live on and on. We arc richer because they have lived. Perhaps
Sam Walter Foss, our great New England poet of America, can give
to us, in his words, the expression of our deep feeling hearts
this morning.
He
was walking the country road. It was a warm day. He sought a
drink. He followed a bypath off the highway, that wandered
around a little cabin, and in the rear he found the
old‑fashioned well sweep. Under the canopy was a shelf, and on
the shelf was a cup and a plate of apples. Above was written
"Have a drink. Take an apple." He participated in the offered
hospitality, then went to the back door of the humble cottage
and rapped. A dear old woman came to the door. Mr. Foss said,
“It is unusual. Tell me about it.”
She said, "Our land is poor. Father and I live here alone. We
haven't much to give but what we have, we give gladly. Our land
raises the best apples, and our water is as cool and refreshing
as you will find anywhere. We haven't much, but that we give."
Mr. Foss, in thoughtful mood, wended his way toward his own
cabin and to his study, and there he sat down and wrote those
immortal lines, "The House by the Side of the Road," a part of
which is:
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by -
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As
good and as bad as I.
I
would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or
hurl the cynic's ban -
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
These men have lived in that house and, by their gifts, our
hunger and thirst have been satisfied and we are made stronger,
and we are determined that we, too, shall live in that house,
and the service that they have given will be the service that we
hand to those who come after. So, when our summons comes, let us
be able to say, as with one who has gone before, when we come to
the sound of low music and the scent of flowers and the tread of
soft steps, and the crunch of wheels on gravel:
Make the ceremony short
And the epitaphs simple
“Here lies a man.”
(Applause)
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