On the contrary, if the wit were shallow this poet was likely to gather amusement from its exhibition, and so reimburse himself for any small outlay of patience. Nor was this all, nor even half. For if the best in persons was small, it was his joy to bring out this best. So he found interest in persons in whom others could see none and sometimes developed in them unexpected possibilities. For more than anything except faith in God, he had faith in men; speaking reverently, he read them Godward--as they were meant to be. Yet his often silent laugh at men’s foibles was hearty; and nothing so amused him as the bewildered expression of one lost in the mazes of a joke. And not seldom he tried his hand at bringing such an expression; for he had an immense enjoyment of credulity. Two friends of the poet had been invited to his house to tea. In the garden room with the flashings of the open fire pointing and illustrating his words, Whittier sat entertaining his guests with a fish story--a whale story in which the originator had striven to outdo Jonah. The poet’s countenance was as grave as a judge’s; his eyes were now dropped as if recalling the points of the story--which lost nothing in their narration--and now fastened upon the faces of his listeners. He found one hearer’s eyes dilated and her lips parted in absolute absorption and faith. With unshaken gravity the poet continued, until the voice of his other listener broke in upon the tale with the suggestion that this was really a most remarkable yarn. Like a flash he turned upon her in mock anger. “Thee doubts that, Lucy?” he cried. “Why, a Quaker told me that story.” But the spell being broken, he laughed as heartily as the others. * * * * * A former resident of Amesbury brought up most strictly, and rigid in adherence to her tenets, was taken out of these grooves and put into an entirely different life in New York City, a life much more liberal in creed and practice. The unwonted freedom delighted her and she came home to visit, full of enthusiasm for her new surroundings. She was welcomed by the poet who liked her well. With secret note of the new vivacity in look and manner, he asked her with much interest, “And how does thee like New York?” At the question her enthusiasm burst forth, and she declared with unction that she liked it very, very much. A sparkle of mischief kindled in the poet’s eye. “Thee likes it because it is so wicked,” he commented demurely. * * * * * But although the poet could laugh at others, never did he put himself in a position to be laughed at. So great was his sensitiveness, that his friends have often heard him say how keenly he felt mistakes of his which he alone had perceived--or perhaps imagined; for he was so resourceful and quick at retort that nobody could succeed in cornering him in an argument or a situation.