tances as Hawthorne, or so rapidly as Dickens, but he was a good walker.
His sister, Mrs. Greenleaf, built a memorial chapel in North Cambridge for the Episcopal society there, and from this Longfellow formed the habit of walking in that direction by way of the Botanic Garden.
Somewhere in the cross streets he became acquainted with two children, the son and daughter of a small shop-keeper.
They, of course, told their mother about their white-haired acquaintance, and with the fate of Charlie Ross before her eyes, their mother warned them to keep out of his way. He might be a tramp, and tramps were dangerous!
However, it was not long before the children met their white-haired friend again, and the boy asked him: Are you a tramp?
Mother thinks you're a tramp, and she wants to know what your name is.
It may be presumed that Mr. Longfellow laughed heartily at this misconception, but he said: I think I may call myself a tramp.
I tramp a good deal; but you may tell your mother tha