“He gave as a Federal mediator,”—­so runs one estimate of him,—­“all his unparalleled knowledge and understanding of labor and its point of view.  That knowledge, that understanding he gained, not by academic investigation, but by working in mines and woods, in shops and on farms.  He had the trust and confidence of both sides in disputes between labor and capital; his services were called in whenever trouble was brewing. . . .  Thanks to him, strikes were averted; war-work of the most vital importance, threatened by misunderstandings and smouldering discontent, went on.”

But almost every one who has written for publication has told of but one side of him, and there were such countless sides.  Would it then be so out of place if I, his wife, could write of all of him, even to the manner of husband he was?

I have hesitated for some months to do this.  He had not yet made so truly national a name, perhaps, as to warrant any assumption that such a work would be acceptable.  Many of his close friends have asked me to do just this, however; for they realize, as I do so strongly, that his life was so big, so full, so potential, that, even as the story of a man, it would be worth the reading.

And, at the risk of sharing intimacies that should be kept in one’s heart only, I long to have the world know something of the life we led together.

An old friend wrote:  “Dear, splendid Carl, the very embodiment of life, energized and joyful to a degree I have never known.  And the thought of the separation of you two makes me turn cold. . . .  The world can never be the same to me with Carl out of it.  I loved his high spirit, his helpfulness, his humor, his adoration of you.  Knowing you and Carl, and seeing your life together, has been one of the most perfect things in my life.”

An Eastern professor, who had visited at our home from time to time wrote:  “You have lost one of the finest husbands I have ever known.  Ever since I have known the Parker family, I have considered their home life as ideal.  I had hoped that the too few hours I spent in your home might be multiplied many times in coming years. . . .  I have never known a man more in love with a woman than Carl was with you.”

So I write of him for these reasons:  because I must, to ease my own pent-up feelings; because his life was so well worth writing about; because so many friends have sent word to me:  “Some day, when you have the time, I hope you will sit down and write me about Carl”—­the newer friends asking especially about his earlier years, the older friends wishing to know of his later interests, and especially of the last months, and of—­what I have written to no one as yet—­his death.  I can answer them all this way.

And, lastly, there is the most intimate reason of all.  I want our children to know about their father—­not just his academic worth, his public career, but the life he led from day to day.  If I live till they are old enough to understand, I, of course, can tell them.  If not, how are they to know?  And so, in the last instance, this is a document for them.