friend, and narrowly escaped being tarred and feathered. Somewhat later
he was set upon in another town by a crowd armed with sticks and stones
and other missiles, from which he fled with more haste than dignity. It
was while he was editor of the _Freeman_ that Pennsylvania Hall, where
the Philadelphia Abolitionists held their meetings, was burned by a mob,
and the papers from Whittier's editorial room in this building were used
to help start the blaze.

In 1836 the farm at Haverhill had been sold, and a cottage was bought in
Amesbury near the Quaker meetinghouse. It was in this quiet place, under
the loving care of his mother and sister, that Whittier made his home
after resigning his position with the _Freeman_. These two women were in
their way as unselfishly devoted to the cause of freedom as was the poet
himself, for they encouraged his loyalty and bore privation
uncomplainingly. In the darkest hour of their need, when it seemed as if
their home must be mortgaged, Whittier was invited to become a
contributor to the _Atlantic Monthly_, then being founded, and thus the
long period of want was brought to an end.

After the death of his mother, in the following year (1858), Whittier's
association with his sister Elizabeth became even closer than before,
though they had always shared each other's hopes and interests with
unusual sympathy and understanding. When she died, in 1864, it seemed to
him that part of his life had gone with her. It was with this grief
still fresh in his mind that he wrote the best known of his poems,
_Snow-Bound, A Winter Idyl_, in which he pictures in the most simple and
lifelike manner the quiet loveliness of his childhood home. With
especial tenderness he tells of the much-loved sister, and lets his
mingled grief and hope of reunion be seen:

"As one who held herself a part
Of all she saw, and let her heart
Against the household bosom lean,
Upon the motley-braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,
Now bathed within the fadeless green
And holy peace of Paradise.
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,
Do those large eyes behold me still?
With me one little year ago:--
The chill weight of the winter snow
For months upon her grave has lain;
And now, when summer south-winds blow,
And brier and harebell b