II 



AT WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE 



The Homestead two Centuries Old and the 

 Unspoiled Country about it 



They lighted a fire for me in Whittier's fire- 

 place. The day had been one of wilting July heat 

 and sun glare till storm clouds from the New 

 Hampshire hills brought sudden cool winds and 

 black shadows. Twilight settled down in the 

 wide, ancient living-room, bringing brooding 

 darkness and mystery. The little light that came 

 through the tiny, lilac-shaded windows seemed to 

 half reveal ghosts of legends and romance, 

 wrapped in darkness, slipping indistinctly from 

 the black cavern of the fireplace, standing close be- 

 fore it and hiding it, and gathering in formless 

 groups in the corners of the room. They whis- 

 pered and the leaves on the trees outside rustled 

 the tale, while echoes of warlock warfare rumbled 

 in the sky above and witch fires flared. A witches' 

 twilight had come down the Merrimac and 



