oil shall cease, and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!"

[Illustration: LONGFELLOW'S HOUSE--ONCE WASHINGTON'S HEADQUARTERS AT
CAMBRIDGE]

Longfellow loved all children, and had a word for them whenever he met
them.

At a concert, going early with her father, a little girl espied Mr.
Longfellow sitting alone, and begged that she might go and speak to him.
Her father, himself a stranger, took the liberty of introducing his
little daughter Edith to the poet.

"Edith?" said Mr. Longfellow, tenderly. "Ah! I have an Edith, too; but
_my_ baby Edith is twenty years old." And he seated the child beside
him, taking her hand in his, and making her promise to come and see him
at his house in Cambridge.

"What is the name of your sled, my boy?" he said to a small lad, who
came tugging one up the road toward him, on a winter morning.

"It's 'Evange_line_.' Mr. Longfellow wrote 'Evange_line_.' Did you ever
see Mr. Longfellow?" answered the little fellow, as he ran by, doubtless
wondering at the smile on the face of the pleasant gray-haired
gentleman.

Professor Monti, who witnessed the pretty scene, tells the story of a
little girl who one Christmas inquired the way to the poet's house, and
asked if she could just step inside the yard; and he relates how Mr.
Longfellow, being told she was there, went to the door and called her
in, and showed her the "old clock on the stairs," and many other
interesting things about the house, leaving his little guest with
beautiful memories of that Christmas day to carry all through her life.
This was characteristic of the poet's hospitality, delicate and
courteous and thoughtful to all who crossed his threshold. Many a
trembling young girl, frightened at her own boldness in having ventured
into his presence, was set at ease by her host in the most genial way;
he would make her forget herself in the interesting mementos all about
her, devoting himself to her entertainment as if it were the one
pleasure of the hour for him to do so.

[Illustration: Henry W. Longfellow]

It is often said, and with reason, that we Americans do not think enough
of manners--that politeness of behavior which comes from genuine
sympathy and a delicate perception of others' feelings. Certainly our
young people might look to Mr. Longfellow as a model in this respect. He
was a perfect gentleman, in the best sense of that term, always
considerate, and quick to see where he might do a kindness, or say