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Page 62
In the parlor hung a picture of the loved and cherished mother, who
had died some years before, a lovely, aged face, full of strength
and sweet repose. In a case were some specimens of the bird
referred to in "The Cry of a Lost Soul," a poem which so pleased
the Emperor of Brazil that he sent these birds to the poet.
At the head of the staircase hung a pictured cluster of pansies,
painted by a lady, a friend of the poet. He called my attention to
their wonderful resemblance to human faces. In the chamber assigned
to me hung a large portrait of Whittier, painted in his youth. It
was just as I had heard him described in my childhood. There were
the clustering curls, the smooth brow, the brilliant dark eyes, the
firm, resolute mouth.
We spent a very pleasant evening in the little garden room, in
quiet, cheerful conversation. The poet and his sister talked of
their life on the old farm, which Whittier has described in "Snow
Bound," and he showed me a quaint old book written by Thomas
Elwood, a friend of Milton. It was the only book of poetry that
Whittier had been able to get to read when a boy.
Like all distinguished writers, Whittier has a large number of
letters from persons whom he does not know, and many strangers go
to see him. Miss Whittier said that one evening the bell rang, and
Whittier went to the door. A young man in officer's uniform stood
there. "Is this Mr. Whittier?" he asked. "Yes," was the answer. "I
only wanted to shake hands with you, sir," and grasping the poet's
hand he shook it warmly, and hastened away.
Some years after my first visit a great sorrow befell Whittier in
the loss of his sister. After that, a niece kept house for him. She
is now married, and he spends most of his time with some cousins at
"Oak Knoll," a delightful place near Danvers. It was there that I
last had the pleasure of seeing him, one golden day in October. The
house is situated on an eminence, surrounded by fine trees, which
were then clad in their richest robes of crimson and bronze and
gold. Through the glowing leaves we caught glimpses of the deep
blue sky and the distant hills. We had a pleasant walk through the
orchard, in which lay heaps of rosy apples, and across fields and
meadows, where we gathered grasses and wild flowers. And we saw the
pigs and cows and horses, and had the company of three splendid
dogs, great favorites of the host. We had also for a companion a
dear, bright little girl, a cousin of the poet. She is the "little
lass," the "Red Riding Hood" of his poem.
After a most enjoyable day I came away reluctantly, but happy at
leaving my friend in such a pleasant home, and among the charming
and refreshing country scenes that he loves so well.--Yours truly,
C.L.F.
* * * * *
AGNES'S MOTHER, whose letter was printed in the "Letter-Box" for
January last, will oblige the Editors by sending them Agnes's address.
* * * * *
Uxbridge, Mass.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Last summer, we stayed a week on Prudence
Island, in Narragansett Bay, where the blackberries sprinkle
thickly the ground, and mosquitoes, in some parts of the island,
sprinkle thickly the air. Prudence, Patience, Hope, and Despair are
four islands near together; they were named by the owner after his
daughters. Prudence has some twelve or fifteen houses; but in
Revolutionary times there were, it is said, seventy families on the
island. The British set fire to everything, and the island was
devastated. One old hornbeam-tree is pointed out as the only tree
that escaped destruction. The wood of this kind of tree is so hard
that it does not burn easily. This tree is sometimes called "iron
wood," and "lever wood," as the wood is used to make levers. This
old tree has all its branches at the top, umbrella-wise, as if the
lower branches had been destroyed in some way, for it is not the
nature of the tree to grow in this fashion. I could barely reach
one little twig of pale, discolored leaves, to bring home as a
memento. Prudence is the largest of the four islands, Patience,
next in size, lies a little north of it. Hope, on the west side, is
a picturesque mass of rock; and Despair lies just north of Hope, a
solid rock, nearly or quite covered at high tide.
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