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Eugene, Oregon

Winter came. But lily petals fell instead of snowflakes. The seasons brought only flowers and sunshine to John F. Carroll. The summers of his soul knew no parching winds; the winters of his heart knew only the glad ness of the Yuletide. He passed away at five minutes past 1 o'clock on the morning of December 3. Some little time before he had gone to sleep like a tired child after the day's play. After months of pain that brought forth no word of complaint, the end came peacefully at the family residence, 576 East Fifteenth street North.

Mr. Carroll was an optimist. His was the optimism that comes from Irish parentage, an optimism that is ever present, an optimism that believes in good fairies. Born in the little coal mining town of St. Clair, Pa., he always told his friends who came with sorrowful stories:

"Never say it's winter till the snow is in the bed."

Then he would laugh and explain. The miners~—his father was one lived in little cottages with clapboard roofs. These roofs became warped and when the winter storms came the wind would blow the snow into the houses. So an old Irishman whom young John Carroll knew used to tell him when the lad would be chilly at the beginning of the cold season:

"Ah, me boy, never say it's winter till th' snow's in th' bed."

Taking this bit of philosophy into the world, John Francis Carroll was ever the happy Warrior. Only once in his long, active career did an enemy defeat him; that was in Cheyenne, and came as a result of his stand in the so-called rustler war.

John F. Carroll was editor and half owner of the Cheyenne Leader, which he made the paper of Wyoming. He had deplored the activities of the cattle rustlers, but when his friends began their war on the small stock men he rebelled. The Leader took up the fight for these little fellows.

"You'll have to stop that, John, or we 'll make you walk out of town," was the warning given him by one who had been a warm supporter.

"The walking isn't crowded," was the reply.