, with both hands at work, shaking out welcomes to
his friends, as a chestnut bough rattles down nuts after a rousing
frost.

There he stood--the honored son of our dear old State--looking benign as
Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and sweet-tempered as if he had fed on native
maple-sugar all his life. I looked eagerly for his "old white coat," but
he had on a bran-new black one; his hair, long and snow-white, fell down
almost to his shoulders, that were rather broad than otherwise, which is
needful considering the burdens that have been piled on them. I really
think any stranger, going in there, would have known that this man owned
a birthday by his face, it was so radiant with good-nature.

By and by we hustled our way to the door. A man that stood there
whispered something to Cousin Dempster, who whispered back. Then the man
sung out--

"Mr. and Mrs. Dempster--Miss Phoemie Frost!"

Mercy on me, wasn't there a fluttering when that name rang through the
crowd, as if blown by the trumpet of Fame. I felt myself blushing from
head to foot, my heart rose into my mouth. I clung with feminine
reliance on my cousin's arm, and, thus supported, prepared to endure the
hundreds of admiring eyes bent upon me.

Mr. Greeley came forward. The moment he heard that name he seized the
two whitely gloved hands that I held out to him.

"Miss Frost, of Vermont," says he.

I pressed his hands. I could not speak. A little address, full of
poetry, that I had been thinking over in my mind, melted into chaos. I
could only murmur something about birthdays and long lives. Then some
new people crowded me away, and I felt myself alone long enough to take
a look at the rooms. They were gorgeous with pictures and flowers;
radiant with gas, which fell like August sunshine through a thicket of
vines, and flowers woven in among the burners in the chandelier, and
dropping down half way to the floor.

The marble slabs under the looking-glass at each end of the rooms were
matted over with flowers, and from the top streamed down long feathery
vines which ended in little bunches of red roses that swung loose before
the glass, and left another vine there. Over the doors and windows these
vines and flowers trailed themselves everywhere. Some beautiful pictures
were on the walls. The centre one was of Greeley himself--just like
him--bland and serene, smiling down upon the crowd as if he longed to
shake hands over again.

This picture was just crowned with a ma