rked. Opportunities were opened to
him; acquaintances were made possible; a letter came almost every month
until that last little note, late in 1892:

MY DEAR FRIEND:

I would write you more fully if I could. You are always thoughtful and
kind.

Thankfully your friend,

RUTHERFORD B. HAYES.

Thanks--thanks for your steady friendship.

The simple act of turning down his wine-glasses had won for Edward Bok
two gracious friends.

The passion for autograph collecting was now leading Edward to read the
authors whom he read about. He had become attached to the works of the
New England group: Longfellow, Holmes, and, particularly, of Emerson.
The philosophy of the Concord sage made a peculiarly strong appeal to
the young mind, and a small copy of Emerson's essays was always in
Edward's pocket on his long stage or horse-car rides to his office and
back.

He noticed that these New England authors rarely visited New York, or,
if they did, their presence was not heralded by the newspapers among
the "distinguished arrivals." He had a great desire personally to meet
these writers; and, having saved a little money, he decided to take his
week's summer vacation in the winter, when he knew he should be more
likely to find the people of his quest at home, and to spend his
savings on a trip to Boston. He had never been so far away from home,
so this trip was a momentous affair.

He arrived in Boston on Sunday evening; and the first thing he did was
to despatch a note, by messenger, to Doctor Oliver Wendell Holmes,
announcing the important fact that he was there, and what his errand
was, and asking whether he might come up and see Doctor Holmes any time
the next day. Edward naively told him that he could come as early as
Doctor Holmes liked--by breakfast-time, he was assured, as Edward was
all alone! Doctor Holmes's amusement at this ingenuous note may be
imagined.

Within the hour the messenger brought back this answer:

MY DEAR BOY:

I shall certainly look for you to-morrow morning at eight o'clock to
have a piece of pie with me. That is real New England, you know.

Very cordially yours,

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Edward was there at eight o'clock. Strictly speaking, he was there at
seven-thirty, and found the author already at his desk in that room
overlooking the Charles River.

"Well," was the cheery greeting, "you couldn't wait until eight for
your breakfast, could you? Neither could I when I w