I have a pulse!  I have a pulse!  The voice was that of the camp nurse at the Greater New York camp meeting held at the beautiful new property called Camp Berkshire, about seventy-five miles north of New York City.  The time was June 28, and the opening exercises of the first meeting could be heard from the nearby auditorium.  Only a few minutes before, the little childish voice of Craig Latham, five-year-old son of the assistant treasurer, looked up at his daddy and said “It’s pay day, Daddy!”  Every Friday a child’s allowance was given Craig and his Brother, David, nine years, and that day had been no exception.  They had been obedient children with mother and daddy so very busy with the rest of the locating committee, trying to get the ever-streaming throng of Adventists located for their annual encampment.  But now, the little voice was silenced.  There was no longer a happy voice calling forth, or those sparkling blue eyes dancing with all the life a five-year old has when he is happy. With his brother, little Craig had gone to the end of the five-story hotel building and together the two of them made their way up a small fire-escape ladder that clung close to the stucco wall of the building.  Strange, but there were no eye witnesses, even with hundreds of people all around.  Only the holy angels knew the impending danger, but their entreaties were not heard.  Childlike, carefree and happy, the two little boys made their way up the small ladder.  Somewhere between the second and third-floor level, something happened.  David, climbing in the lead, looked back for some reason from the third-floor level, and saw Craig falling free, feet first, hands straight up, hitting on his feet, and quickly crumpling to the hard cement walk on which he landed.  And now, Craig’s mother and daddy had been called hurriedly to the scene by David and they found themselves face to face with the dread specter of the enemy.  Their baby boy lay on his left side, his head in his own pool of blood with large unseeing eyes, perfectly still, and with the shades of blue and black fast becoming evident on the face and hands.  There was no breath in his body!  The father, like one coming out of a deep sleep into a nightmare world of unreal things, knelt down and cupped his arms around the still, small form.

If you would like to read this article in a .PDF file of the manuscript that it was published in, please click this link:      Atlantic Union Gleaner November 11, 1963