“I have passed a quiet birthday on the seventeenth. It is always a serious matter--passing these milestones of life. At my age I cannot look forward to many more. I send thee a copy of what is called my ‘Birthday Book.’ It does not amount to much--mere shreds and patches, but it is pretty so far as the publishers are concerned. I go to Amesbury some day the last of this week, if the weather is right and I feel able. Sometime when I am there I should be glad to see thee. I hope to be in Boston in February, and Lizzie also hopes to be there. If so, we will be glad to see thee, and will let thee know.” * * * * * In a letter written from Oak Knoll in the March of 1886, he speaks of what might have been his niece’s fatal accident in an elevator. “I should have written thee before,” he says, “but my strength was not equal to my wish and writing has been almost out of the question with me this winter. I think of my old friends, however, always. I went to Boston for the first time for more than a year, to meet Lizzie; but my lameness and sleeplessness drove me back soon. Lizzie’s accident upset me a good deal, but I am so thankful it was no worse. It was a great escape.... Of course I shall send thee the very small volume of poems [‘Saint Gregory’s Guest’] as soon as it is printed.” And he adds with that self-distrust so wonderful in one of his genius and world-wide fame: “It is a poor affair, I fear, but if it was a mistake, it is not likely to be repeated. I only wanted to speak to my old friends once more. Thy old and loving friend.” * * * * * Now on one hand, now on the other, the poet gathered the material for his poems; sometimes, as we know, these came from incidents told him by those among whom he lived, or by strangers. But often legend furnished the subject; or, best of all, the inspiration of the Spirit which taught him high and holy thoughts. To one who asked him if his poem “Among the Hills,” was taken from life, he answered that it was as this ought to be, and went on to speak of the hopeless drudgery of the farmer’s life as he had seen it in his youth, and of the poverty of ideals in that life, sometimes its actual squalor. In his own home, however, the ideal had always existed; and life there, however simple, was never destitute of attractions, or of that intercourse with a wider outlook which enlarged its own horizon. Is it to be supposed that he knows nothing today of how the farmer’s horizon has widened, how distance has become lessened, if not annihilated, and how the news of the world is left at his doorstone? It has been wisely said that poets are the true prophets; they have visions of the blessings to come upon the world. Sings the poet: “The airs of heaven blow o’er me; A glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be,-- Pure, generous, brave, and free.