erson.

I remember distinctly my first visit to them. The little white
house, with green blinds, on Friend street, looked very quiet and
home-like, and when I received the warm welcome of the poet and his
sister I felt that peace dwelt there. At one side of the house
there was a little vine-wreathed porch, upon which opened the
glass-door of the "garden room," the poet's favorite sitting room,
the windows of which looked out upon a pleasant, old-fashioned
garden. Against the walls were books and some pictures, among which
were "Whittier's Birthplace in Haverhill," and "The Barefoot Boy,"
the latter illustrating the sweet little poem of that name.

In the parlor hung a picture of the loved and cherished mother, who
had died some years before, a lovely, aged face, full of strength
and sweet repose. In a case were some specimens of the bird
referred to in "The Cry of a Lost Soul," a poem which so pleased
the Emperor of Brazil that he sent these birds to the poet.

At the head of the staircase hung a pictured cluster of pansies,
painted by a lady, a friend of the poet. He called my attention to
their wonderful resemblance to human faces. In the chamber assigned
to me hung a large portrait of Whittier, painted in his youth. It
was just as I had heard him described in my childhood. There were
the clustering curls, the smooth brow, the brilliant dark eyes, the
firm, resolute mouth.

We spent a very pleasant evening in the little garden room, in
quiet, cheerful conversation. The poet and his sister talked of
their life on the old farm, which Whittier has described in "Snow
Bound," and he showed me a quaint old book written by Thomas
Elwood, a friend of Milton. It was the only book of poetry that
Whittier had been able to get to read when a boy.

Like all distinguished writers, Whittier has a large number of
letters from persons whom he does not know, and many strangers go
to see him. Miss Whittier said that one evening the bell rang, and
Whittier went to the door. A young man in officer's uniform stood
there. "Is this Mr. Whittier?" he asked. "Yes," was the answer. "I
only wanted to shake hands with you, sir," and grasping the poet's
hand he shook it warmly, and hastened away.

Some years after my first visit a great sorrow befell Whittier in
the loss of his sister. After that