He was orderly and painstaking in his work, deciding with great caution. Prof. Asa Gray tells a story of his boyhood which well illustrates this. "It goes back to the time when he was first allowed to have a pair of boots, and to choose for himself the style of them. He was living with his grandmother, in the country, and the village Crispin could offer no great choice of patterns; indeed, it was narrowed down to the alternative of round toes or square. Daily the boy visited the shop and pondered the alternatives, even while the manufacture was going on, until, at length, the shoemaker, who could brook no more delay, took the dilemma by both horns, and produced the most remarkable pair of boots the wearer ever had; one boot round-toed, the other square-toed.... He probably never again postponed decision till it was too late to choose." A single incident illustrates the kindness of the man, who was always called the "model of a Christian gentleman." "Early in the war, in the autumn of 1861, a caller at the presidential mansion, very anxious to see the chief magistrate of the nation, was informed that he could not then be seen, being engaged in an important private consultation. The caller, not to be repulsed, wrote on a piece of paper that he must see Mr. Lincoln personally, on a matter of vital and pressing importance to the public welfare. This, of course, secured his admission to the presence of Mr. Lincoln, who was sitting with a middle-aged gentleman. Observing the hesitancy of the visitor, the President told him he might speak freely, as only a friend was present. "Whereupon the visitor announced that for several evenings past he had observed a light exhibited on the highest of the Smithsonian towers, for a few minutes, about nine o'clock, with mysterious movements, which, he felt satisfied, were designed as signals to the rebels encamped on Munson's Hill, in Virginia. Having gravely listened to this information with raised eyebrows, but a subdued twinkle of the eye, the President turned to his companion, saying, 'What do you think of that, Professor Henry?' "Rising with a smile, the person addressed replied that, from the time mentioned, he presumed the mysterious light shone from the lantern of an attendant who was required at nine o'clock each evening to observe and record the indications of the meteorological instruments placed on the tower. The painful confusion of the officious informant at once appealed to Henry's sensibility, and, quite unmindful of the President, he approached the visitor, offering his hand, and with a courteous regard counselled him never to be abashed at the issue of a conscientious discharge of duty, and never to let the fear of ridicule interfere with its faithful execution."