Longfellow was one of the best-natured men in the world. He was always pleasant and obliging to everybody who came to see him. He wrote his autograph for all the children who asked him. Once there was a school celebration in his honor. He was present and made a beautiful little speech, in which, among other things, he thanked the children of Cambridge for the arm-chair. When the exercises were over the children crowded about him and he wrote his name in their albums until he could write no more, his hand was so tired. But he told those who had not got his autograph that he would write it for them if they would come around to his house. Many children went to see him on other occasions, and he was always very kind to them. Everybody loved him. We have mentioned many of the men who were his friends. Another was Professor Agassiz, the great scientist and professor at Harvard College, who was a warm and intimate friend of Longfellow’s. After a time these friends began, one by one, to die. Agassiz died, Sumner died, and a number of others. Hawthorne had died some years before. Longfellow lived a sad life after the terrible accident that killed his wife, and was getting to be a very old man. Every one tried to honor him. He knew that he was accounted the greatest poet America had produced. His sons and daughters were about him and took excellent care of him. Nevertheless, he began to weary of life a little, and longed to join the dear ones who had gone before. It is autumn; not without, But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old. He still wrote many beautiful poems, such as the “Tales of a Wayside Inn,” “Keramos,” and others. He even wrote a poem on the death of Garfield a short time before he himself died. But none of these poems became as famous as those he had written in earlier years in the prime of his manhood. At last, on the 24th of March, 1882, he died, and the whole country went into mourning for him. His soul to him who gave it rose; God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest! And though the poet’s sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest. NOTE.—The thanks of the publishers are due Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for their kind permission to use selections from the copyrighted works of Longfellow. THE STORY OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER [Illustration: _JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER_] WHITTIER CHAPTER I THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME The Quaker of the olden time! How calm and firm and true, Unspotted by its wrong and crime, He walked the dark earth through!