Then the sharp call of the locust stabbing “the noon-silence;” the driver asleep on his haycart; the sheep huddled against the shade of the stone-wall; and “Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers--grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette-- Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends To the pervading symphony of peace.” The eyes of the visitor in the garden room fell upon the couch standing under the sunset view, and she recalled how many famous persons had sat upon it--Emerson, “his Puritanic face with more than Eastern wisdom lit;” and Bayard Taylor; for she knew of his long and intimate friendship with the poet and his sister, a friendship terminating only with death--if, indeed, Whittier’s friendships have ever terminated; for he seemed to reflect the eternity of Heaven in a heart that never forgot to love. And Sumner had been there--Sumner who with every gift that men prize had turned aside from them all to fight the battle of the slave--“has he not graced my home with beauty all his own?” sang the poet. And many more than these. “What loved ones enter and depart,” recorded Whittier. The books at hand; the desk beside the long window looking out upon the veranda were evidences of Whittier’s life work and preparation to meet scholar and statesman upon their own grounds. Near the desk stood the hospitable-throated Franklin stove. What wit and wisdom glowed in the light of its winter fires! And what wonderful closet was that in the garden room. Here the poet kept his wood--and much else besides! For, from it would he come forth armed with his logs and with the wizard-like power to read the thoughts of his companion! And this skill he proved as he sat before the fire and talked in fun or in earnest, often alternating in mood, but always illuminating the subjects he talked upon. And in the summer days what a background the blackness of the open stove made for the flower treasures which the poet brought from his walks! Then, suddenly, the visitor wondered why there were no flowers upon the hearth that August day? But even with the thought, the poet came into the room with his arms filled with flowers. II As he showed them to her, she touched a spray of the goldenrod. “The signal of autumn--Dame Nature’s first grey hair,” she said. “Thee’s about right there,” he answered. “And what does thee call that?” And his deft fingers singled out another flower. “The pale aster in the brook,” she quoted. He laughed, and went out of the room to put the flowers into water, but not before she had commented upon the splendid cardinal flowers scattered among the asters, and the brilliant sumach leaves and spikes which made a background in the gorgeous mass of color. * * * * * Whittier’s poems are rich in descriptions of flowers, and he sang of them as only one who loved them could do: