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 gone forth into the whole world. The Church has already set her seal of approval, on his sanctity by proclaiming her priest Venerable; and the Apostle of Youth he is rightly called, for he saved thousands, hundreds of thousands, of children from moral destruction.

In the far days of the past, so far back that they seem like a beautiful, hallowed dream, I learned to know and love Don Bosco, then in the zenith of his great achievements, a living and powerful force for good. His name became a household word with us because of the profound appreciation of our mistress for his heroic character, his noble simplicity, and his astounding labors for the glory of God and the salvation of the poor little homeless boys roaming the streets of Italy—waifs in her beautiful, historic cities, no one to love them, to care for them, or educate them, but many, alas! to teach them crime and wickedness by word and example. Don Bosco had known the pangs of poverty, and his great heart, Christ-like in its vast capacity of loving, took them all in, and they became his own children, his own far-reaching, virtuous, and happy little world of souls.

You are familiar with Joseph's prophetic dream, how he and his eleven brethren were all binding sheaves in the field, when suddenly his sheaf arose and stood, and their sheaves all bowed down before it. How cruelly they hated him for that dream—selling him finally as a slave into