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[80] than any of these localities was the grave of our poet's sister, of whom Holmes wrote:--
If sinless angels love as we
     Who stood that bier beside,
Three seraph welcomes greeted thee,
     The daughter, sister, bride.

And we faithfully took the poet's word for it that the locust grove in the churchyard would “swing its orient flowers” long after the two church spires had crumbled, although now, alas! the grove has long since disappeared, and the steeples remain. All this had been a part of Dr. Holmes's boyhood, as of mine, and he like me had also “tumbled about in a library,” namely, his own father's, though fourteen years earlier. There was an inexhaustible set of volumes in it, placed near the floor as if for children to reach — the delightful quartos of “Rees' Cyclopaedia,” whose numerous plates of baboons and paroquets were to us of endless interest. If perchance their attraction waned, there was always the resource of building fortresses on the floor with the kindly quartos and playing the battle of Bunker Hill behind them, using for ammunition the store of winter apples then kept

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Oliver Wendell Holmes (2)
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