While in Boston he was talking one day to two ladies at the same hotel. A young woman just out of boarding school coming to pay them a visit, was introduced to the poet. But she was far from comprehending the honor done her, and it was impossible then and there to enlighten her. “Whittier!” she repeated patronizingly. At the school they had just been reading “Snow Bound.” It was beautiful--“so fine!” And she gushed inanely in its praise. Had he read it? she questioned. The poet admitted that _he had looked it over_! And he admired it, of course? Taking assent for granted, she next asked Mr. Whittier _if he were any relative of the poet_? He answered her that he had not studied out what relation. “_And have you ever seen the Poet Whittier?_” she propounded promptly. 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. He flashed his glance about the station; then with the young woman in tow, hurried to the telegraph office, seized a pen, dashed off his autograph, walked swiftly to his train, and in another moment was being whirled onward. That must have been one of the occasions when his hand smote his knee in keen appreciation of the episode. * * * * * Although Whittier never perpetrated matrimony, he was far from being like the melancholy Jacques, and much enjoyed looking at happiness through other men’s eyes--and through women’s too.