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Updated: June 19, 2025
Almost everybody seemed to know the words of Whittier's poem, and beneath the blue Kansas sky, amid the groves of Kansas trees, the sturdy, hardy men and the few pale women joyfully, almost tearfully, sang, We crossed the prairie, as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!
They had improvised a pretty bit of scenery at the back, with a few sticks, some paint, brown carpet-paper, and a couple of mosquito-bars; a Dutch gable with a lattice window, vines trained up over it, and bushes below. It was a moving tableau, enacted to the reading of Whittier's glorious ballad.
It is an exceedingly interesting drawing, and one by which those who love the poet are willing to have him seen by the future. It must remain as the only and sufficient record of Whittier's personnel.
Besides that, she had a faculty of seeming to know more than she really did and so the impression left upon the Judge's mind, when the little party was over and he had returned from escorting Ethelyn to her door, was that Miss Grant was far superior to any girl he had ever met since Daisy died, and like the Judge in Whittier's "Maud Muller," he whistled snatches of an old love tune he had not whistled in years, as he went slowly back to his uncle's, and thought strange thoughts for him, the grave old bachelor who had said he should never marry.
"Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily," sobbed Diana. "I'm so sorry I ever thought her funny and meddlesome." "She was good and strong and brave," I said. "I could never have been as unselfish as she was." I thought of Whittier's lines, "The outward, wayward life we see The hidden springs we may not know."
Westlake in Uncle Whittier's store, and before that alert stare forgot her determination to be rude, and was shakily cordial. She was sure that all the men on the street, even Guy Pollock and Sam Clark, leered at her in an interested hopeful way, as though she were a notorious divorcee. She felt as insecure as a shadowed criminal. She wished to see Erik, and wished that she had never seen him.
The other walls were hung with pictures, among which we noticed 'The Barefoot Boy, a painting of Mr. Whittier's birthplace in Haverhill, a copy of that lovely picture, 'The Motherless, under which were written some exquisite lines by Mrs. Stowe, and a beautiful little sea-view, painted by a friend of the poet. Vases of fresh, bright flowers stood upon the mantelpiece.
There are no novel ideas in "Snow-Bound," nor is there any need of them, but the thousands of annual pilgrims to the old farmhouse can bear witness to the touching intimacy, the homely charm, the unerring rightness of feeling with which Whittier's genius recreated his own lost youth and painted for all time a true New England hearthside.
Whittier's poem "Ichabod" seemed to have been aimed at him, especially in its third stanza: "Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night." Amid the lurid gleams and heat of such a disappointment, men cannot see clearly. They impute wrong motives, base motives, to the backslider.
The family was poor, and the boy's life was a hard and cramped one, with few opportunities for schooling or culture; yet its very rigor made for character, and developed that courage and simplicity which were Whittier's noblest attributes. What there was in the boy that moved him to write verse it would be difficult to say some bent, some crotchet, which defies explanation.
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