Longfellow was very kind to young men and young women who wanted to become writers, but did not know how to begin. Sometimes they brought him very poor work for criticism. He was patient with them all, and always sent them away encouraged and happy. Some people have criticised this kind-heartedness, saying that he should not have encouraged the young writers when there was no real worth in what they had written, but should have told them at once that the poems or stories were poor, and that they could not expect to write such things well without more practice. But Longfellow was too gentle and kindly to deal with them in that way.

When the poet's seventy-fifth birthday came, the school-children of Cambridge had a great celebration. A short time before, the "spreading chestnut tree," about which he wrote in "The Village Blacksmith," had been cut down. Longfellow had tried to prevent its destruction, but all in vain; the old tree fell. The suggestion was made that the school-children should raise money by small subscriptions to pay for making a great arm-chair for the poet's study out of this chestnut wood.

The money was raised, the chair built, and presented to him. The gift gave him great pleasure. He afterward gave orders that no child who wished to see the chair should ever be turned away. So the tramp of little feet, perhaps in muddy shoes,

came and went through the house for a long time after, to the despair of the house-maids.

Many of Longfellow's poems are as popular among the boys and girls as among the grown people, for they are often very simple and easy to understand. Their simplicity and beauty have brought him a world-wide fame. His poems have been translated into more different languages than those of any other American poet. He has been called "the universal poet," for he seems to be the poet of all countries, and all ages and classes of people.

Longfellow lived to a green and sunny old age, seeing grandchildren growing up about him, and his books constantly increasing in fame and popularity. He died on March 24, 1882, universally

beloved and mourned.

stu'di ous, fond of study.
Bowdoin, pronounced Bō'dn.
Heidelberg, pronounced Hi'del berg;

a city in Germany.

soph'o more, one belonging to the second of the four classes in college.

tra di'tions, the unwritten stories and

beliefs of any people, which are

handed down from father to son Manabozho, pronounced Ma nab'o zho. pop u lar'i ty, favor among a large number of people.

aut'o graph, a person's name written in his own hand.

Fin'land ers. Finland is a part of the Russian empire, lying northwest u ni ver'sal, belonging to all places of Russia proper, in Europe. and all people.

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON was born in Cambridge, Mass., on December 22, 1823. He has written history and biography, as well as many stories and poems. He was the friend of Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, and Hawthorne, about all of whom he has written especially for this series of Readers.

THE BUILDING OF THE CANOE

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

"GIVE me of your bark, O Birch-Tree! Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree!

Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!

I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float upon the river,
Like a yellow leaf in autumn,

Like a yellow water-lily!

Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree! your white-skin wrapper,

Lay aside

For the Summer-time is coming,

And the sun is warm in heaven,

And you need no white-skin wrapper!"

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha

In the solitary forest,

By the rushing Taquamenaw,

When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, "Behold me!
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me!"

And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,

Saying, with a sigh of patience,
"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.

Of

"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
your strong and pliant branches,

My canoe to make more steady,

Make more strong and firm beneath me!"

Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
"Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, Shaped them straightway to a framework, Like two bows he formed and shaped them, Like two bended bows together.

Give me of your roots, O Tamarack! Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree!

My canoe to bind together,

So to bind the ends together

That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"

And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched its forehead with its tassels,
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow,
"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"

From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree,
Closely sewed the bark together,
Bound it closely to the framework.

"Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree! Of your balsam and

your resin, So to close the seams together

That the water may not enter,

That the river may not wet me!"

And the Fir Tree, tall and sombre, Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, Rattled like a shore with pebbles, Answered wailing, answered weeping, "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"

And he took the tears of balsam, Took the resin of the Fir Tree, Smeared there with each seam and fissure, Made each crevice safe from water.

"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog! All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!