The poet thought that he had met him.
For some time the young woman talked on, happy in the sound of her own voice and patronizing still more both poem and poet—to say nothing of the unknown who bore his name.
In speaking of her the poet remarked that he always pitied such young women.
Among his many experiences of autograph hunters he enjoyed the following:
He was on his way to the mountains. It was a delightful autumn day. The sunshine, the brilliant colors of earth and sky, the nectar of the clear and balmy air, all acted upon his sensitive nerves and brought a keen pleasure which prepared him for the enjoyment of any amusing phase of human nature that might present itself. The train drew up at a junction. As the poet alighted with that alertness of movement which to the last distinguished him and made his way toward his exchange, a young woman forced a passage through the rushing crowd and came up to him.
“Are you Mr. Whittier?” she inquired of him breathlessly.
The poet assented.
“Won’t you please write your name in my album?” And she held out her book open at the desired page.
His dark eyes lighting with amusement passed swiftly from the puffing train—his train on which in another moment the bell would ring and from which the conductor was already shouting, “All aboard!”—to the eager and entreating face of the speaker. He appreciated the situation; he liked her pluck. But what was he to write with? Fountain pens were then uninvented.