On the seventh of April, in 1883, the great city of New York was in
mourning. Flags were at half-mast. The bells tolled.
Shops were closed, but in the windows were pictures of a kind-faced,
white-haired man.
These pictures were draped in black.
All day long tens of thousands of people passed by an open coffin in
one of the churches.
Some of these people were governors, some millionaires.
There were poor women, too, with little children in their arms.
There were workmen in their common clothes.
There were ragged newsboys.
And all these people had aching hearts.
The great daily papers printed many columns about the sad event.
People in England sent messages by the Atlantic cable that they,
too, had sad hearts.
Who was this man for whom the world mourned on that April day?
Was he a president? Oh, no.
A great general? Far from it.
Did he live magnificently and have splendid carriages and fine
diamonds?
No, he was simply Peter Cooper, a man ninety-two years old, and the
best loved man in America.
Had he given money?