**Pictorial forest lawn**: A First Step up Toward Heaben by Bruce Barton.
Nothing in Los Angeles gives me a finer thrill than Forest Lawn. The cementeries of the workd cry out men's utter hopelessness in the face of death. Their symbols are pagan and pessimistic; their damp precincts add a final horror to the grief of parting; their upkeep is neglected; their very atmosphere oppressive. Small wonder that men shun them even in the sunlight, and pass by with eyes averted, on the other side. Forest Lawn alone is different. Here every thee and shrub and flower proclaims that:
"Life is ever lord of death, And love can never lose its own."
