ed he was, for
one Fourth of July just after that, he jumped every time a cannon went
off and begged his mother to stuff his ears with cotton, so that he
would not hear the banging.

Henry liked music and books far better than fighting. He read a great
deal with his mother, and they took long walks together, for they both
loved flowers and birds. Twice every Sunday Henry went to church with
his mother. In the cold weather he carried her foot-stove for her (a
funny little box which held coals) and in the summer her nosegay,
because she never went to service, after the flowers began to bloom,
without a bunch of sweet smelling blossoms. This odd foot-warmer can be
seen any time in the old Wadsworth-Longfellow house in Portland.
Visitors from all over the world, even from India and Turkey, have
wandered through this home of the poet to look at the desk at which he
wrote, the rich mahogany chairs, and the old-fashioned mirrors.

Henry was willing to do errands or any tasks that his mother wished him
to do. He did not mind even driving the cow to pasture, for as he
walked along, he was usually making up rhymes. And although he had very
good lessons in school, he often scribbled little jingles in his copy
book. When he was thirteen, he told his sister that he was going to send
a poem to the Portland newspaper. He did not tell any one but her, and
he only signed "Henry" at the end of the poem, so although the editor
printed it, the other school children did not find out for a long time
that it was his. Henry and his sister read the printed verses until they
wore the newspaper to shreds and felt they had a lovely secret.

After Henry graduated from college, his father wanted him to be a
lawyer, like himself, but Henry was sure he wanted to be an author. He
said: "Don't ask me to study law, father; I think I can write books.
Anyway, if you will let me have my way, I will promise to be famous at
something." So his parents let him travel through Europe, and when he
sent long, happy letters home, telling about the different things he
saw, they were so charming that all the neighbors wanted to borrow the
letters, and Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow agreed that Henry would probably be
famous with his pen.

When Henry came home again, he was chosen for a college professor. He
was only twenty-two, and it began to look as if the Portland boy would
be a success even if he did not study law.

The students at Harvard College loved young Profes