was chosen one year for the commencement poet. He appeared on the
platform wearing a flannel shirt, square-cut neck, disclosing a
hirsute covering that would have done credit to a grizzly bear; the
rest of his attire all right. Joaquin Miller was another genius and
original.

Another visitor was James T. Fields of Boston, the popular publisher,
poet, author, lecturer, friend, and inimitable raconteur, who was
always one of my best friends.

When Mr. and Mrs. Fields were invited to Hanover, he and his beautiful
wife were always guests at our home. Their first visit to us was an
epoch for me. I worked hard the morning before they were to arrive,
sweeping, dusting, polishing silver, and especially brightening the
large, brass andirons in father's library. I usually scoured with
rotten stone and oil, but on this great occasion, adopting a receipt
which I had happened to see in a newspaper, I tried vinegar and
powdered pumice-stone. The result at first was fine.

I had barely time after all this to place flowers about the house and
dress, and then to drive in our old carryall, with our older horse, to
the station at Norwich, just across the Connecticut River, to meet the
distinguished pair and escort them to our house. As I heard the train
approaching, and the shrill whistle, I got nervous, and my hands
trembled. How would they know me? And what had I better say? My aged
and spavined horse was called by father "Rosinante" for Don Quixote's
bony steed, also "Blind Guide" and "Heathen Philosopher." He looked
it--and my shabby carryall! But the train was snorting for a stop,
and the two guests soon came easily to my vehicle, and Mr. Fields
seemed to know me. Both shook hands most cordially and were soon in