THE years he has lived, the countries he has visited, the great men he has known--they shine in the eyes of this raw-fisted footsoldier from days past. To be in his presence is to be in the presence of unmistakable wisdom. To be eyed through his legendary horn rims is to be subjected to a glance from which no secret, dark or innocent, can be safe. He is a statesman, and a scholar.

To those who catch the Ibis in one of his lighter moods, the wisdom seems mixed with an inexplicable friendliness and concern for human kind. Youngsters go away starry-eyed and often remake their lives in light of his calm, softly spoken words. And oldsters can be hyponotized as well.

But he is no dreamer, this Ibis. His eyes have fixed shrewdly on the world of politics and politicians for more than half a century. During the era of the trust bust, it was common to see his lanky figure alongside such luminaries as William Howard Taft, Louis D. Brandeis and Teddy Roosevelt. During the war years, he was never more than a vestibule's distance from President Wilson's ear, and in the dark days that followed he stood grandly above the politics which killed the peace.

Peace has always been uppermost in the Ibis's mind. He feels man must learn to live in harmony if he is to live at all. Yet he was a staunch advocate of preparedness in the late thirties, as one by one he saw the dominoes of disaster spell out their hideous gavotte of war.

To the statesmen of postwar America, the Ibis has often seemed a political anachronism, preaching the same blend of straight talk and good-will that was his banner headline as a youth. But if his message still comes over loud and clear, it is because he has stayed in tune with the youth of today, and because his wisdom and eloquence transcend the tradewinds of political fortune.

In retirement, an idol to many but a friend to few, his influence has been tremendous. Who can say what accomplishments might be the Ibis's if he re-entered life with energy and determination? The sky's the limit --or is it?