"Yes, indeed," said Edward. "These are your poems in Dutch."
"That's right," he said. "Now, this is delightful. I am so glad you came. I received this book last week, and although I have been in the Netherlands, I cannot speak or read Dutch. I wonder whether you would read a poem to me and let me hear how it sounds."
So Edward took "The Old Clock on the Stairs," and read it to him.
The poet's face beamed with delight. "That's beautiful," he said, and then quickly added: "I mean the language, not the poem."
"Now," he went on, "I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll strike a bargain. We Yankees are great for bargains, you know. If you will read me 'The Village Blacksmith' you can sit in that chair there made out of the wood of the old spreading chestnut-tree, and I'll take you out and show you where the old shop stood. Is that a bargain?"
Edward assured him it was. He sat in the chair of wood and leather, and read to the poet several of his own poems in a language in which, when he wrote them, he never dreamed they would ever be printed. He was very quiet. Finally he said: "It seems so odd, so very odd, to hear something you know so well sound so strange."
"It's a great compliment, though, isn't it, sir?" asked the boy.
"Ye-es," said the poet slowly. "Yes, yes," he added quickly. "It is, my boy, a very great compliment."
"Ah," he said, rousing himself, as a maid appeared, "that means luncheon, or rather, it means dinner, for we have dinner in the old New England fashion, in the middle of the day. I am all alone to-day, and you must keep me company, will you? Then afterward we'll go and take a walk, and I'll show you Cambridge. It is such a beautiful old town, even more beautiful, I sometimes think, when the leaves are off the trees."