an." There
are other poems in the collection quite as easy to understand as these.
Some of the most admired indeed, that would seem "hard" to many a tall
youngster at the head of the school-class, were written in the poet's
own boyhood. His most famous poem, "Thanatopsis," was composed when he
was but eighteen years of age. When you, too, are eighteen you will more
than enjoy it, if you do not do so already. But you will like a song of
his youth,--lines "To a Waterfowl,"--and the beautiful poem entitled
"June," which has been very much quoted of late because of the
fulfillment of his wish that when he should come to lie at rest within
the ground, he might be laid there

"in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound."

Another beautiful poem, called "Waiting by the Gate," will be quite
clear to many of you; and one and all can understand "An Invitation to
the Country," addressed to Julia, the poet's devoted daughter, the joy
of his old age, who brightened his declining years, and to the last was
the faithful companion of his home.

You remember the story of his boyhood days that Mr. Bryant told you in
these pages nearly two years ago? Good as that story is, there is a
picture in his lovely home at Roslyn that could tell you even better
things. It is the portrait of his beautiful young mother, which for
years has shone upon him from the walls of his bedroom with such a
strong, sweet, loving look in her face that it makes one feel sure that
he was reared in a happy home, that his noble, useful manhood sprang
from a sunny, well-directed boyhood. Long ago the good mother passed
from earth, and now the gate through which she passed has opened for him
in his serene old age, the gate of which he wrote:

"And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,
And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

"I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me."

* * * * *

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: One of your little readers has found the word
"mutch" in one of my poems, and inquires its meaning, and I was