for he was a busy man, and Washington was a long way off; but when he did come, as I said, it was a golden day. We fairly smothered him,--each child wanting to sit on his knee, to see his great watch, and the wonderful sapphire that he always wore on his little finger. Then he must sing for us; and he would sing the old Studenten Lieder in his full, joyous voice; but he must always wind up with “Balzoroschko Schnego” (at least that is what it sounded like), a certain Polish drinking-song, in which he sneezed and yodeled, and did all kinds of wonderful things. Then would come an hour of quiet talk with our mother, when we knew enough to be silent and listen,--feeling, perhaps, rather than realizing that it was not a common privilege to listen to such talk. “No matter how much I may differ from Sam Ward in principles or opinion,” said Charles Sumner once, “when I have been with him five minutes, I forget everything except that he is the most delightful man in the world.” Again (but this was the least part of the pleasure), he never came empty-handed. Now it was a basket of wonderful peaches, which he thought might rival ours; now a gold bracelet for a niece’s wrist; now a beautiful book, or a pretty dress-pattern that had caught his eye in some shop-window. Now he came direct from South America, bringing for our mother a silver pitcher which he had won as a prize at a shooting-match in Paraguay. One of us will never forget being waked in the gray dawn of a summer morning at the Valley, by the sound of a voice singing outside,--will never forget creeping to the window and peeping out through the blinds. There on the door-step stood the fairy uncle, with a great basket of peaches beside him; and he was singing the lovely old French song, which has always since then seemed to me to belong to him: “Noble Châtelaine, Voyez notre peine, Et dans vos domaines Rendez charité! Voyez le disgrace Qui nous menace, Et donnez, par grace, L’hospitalité! Toi que je révère, Entends ma prière. O Dieu tutelaire, Viens dans ta bonte, Pour sauver l’innocence, Et que ta puissance Un jour recompense L’hospitalité!” There is no sweeter song. And do you think we did not tumble into our clothes and rush down, in wrappers, in petticoats, in whatever gown could be most quickly put on, and unbar the door, and bring the dear wanderer in, with joyful cries, with laughter, almost with tears of pure pleasure? All, that was “long ago and long ago;” and now the kind uncle, the great heart that overflowed with love and charity and goodwill to all human kind, has passed through another door, and will not return! Be sure that on knocking at that white portal, he found hospitality within. * * * * *