paragraph speaking kindly of our poor old friend Blank; you know he
seldom gets a word of praise, poor fellow, nowadays; and thinking he
might not chance to see this paper, I am snipping out the paragraph to
mail to him this afternoon. I know that even these few lines of
recognition will make him happy for hours, and I could not bear to
think he might perhaps miss seeing these pleasant words so kindly
expressed.'"

"_May Day_, 1876.--Longfellow dined with us. He said during the
dinner, when we heard a blast of wintry wind howling outside, 'This is
May day enough; it does not matter to us how cold it is outside.' He
was inclined to be silent, for there were other and brilliant talkers
at the table, one of whom said to him in a pause of the conversation,
'Longfellow, tell us about yourself; you never talk about yourself.'
'No,' said Longfellow gently, 'I believe I never do.' 'And yet,'
continued the first speaker eagerly, 'you confessed to me once'--'No,'
said Longfellow, laughing, 'I think I never did.'"

And here is a tiny note of compliment, graceful as a poet's note
should be:--

"I have just received your charming gift, your note and the stately
lilies; but fear you may have gone from home before my thanks can
reach you.

"How beautiful they are, these lilies of the field; and how like
American women! Not because 'they neither toil nor spin,' but because
they are elegant and 'born in the purple.'"

There is a brief record in 1879 of a visit to us in Manchester-by-the-