A child of ten years whose home was on the beautiful Merrimac River, a mile from the poet’s house, one day shyly left her tribute of loving reverence for him at his door. To her came the following note:
“John G. Whittier is greatly indebted to his young friend, Grace M——, for her beautiful gift of flowers. It is doubly welcome at this inclement season and she has his thanks and best wishes. Amesbury, 3rd mo, 29, 1883.”
XIV
The poet had the happiest way of making people feel at ease with themselves, and so of bringing out their best. A man often left his presence feeling himself a more worthy fellow than he had done when he had entered it. And so he ought to have been.
But there were times when peculiar exhibitions of character roused Whittier to keen comment.
While in Boston he was talking one day to two ladies at the same hotel. A young woman just out of boarding school coming to pay them a visit, was introduced to the poet. But she was far from comprehending the honor done her, and it was impossible then and there to enlighten her.
“Whittier!” she repeated patronizingly. At the school they had just been reading “Snow Bound.” It was beautiful—“so fine!” And she gushed inanely in its praise. Had he read it? she questioned.
The poet admitted that he had looked it over!
And he admired it, of course? Taking assent for granted, she next asked Mr. Whittier if he were any relative of the poet? He answered her that he had not studied out what relation.
“And have you ever seen the Poet Whittier?” she propounded promptly.