Having naught beside to spare,
To my good friend, Mrs. Ayer,
And to Mrs. Sturtevant,
My last lock of hair I grant.
I make Mr. Currier[13]
Of this will executor;
And I leave the debts to be
Reckoned as his legal fee.

This is all of the will that was written that evening; but the next
morning, at breakfast, I found under my plate a note-sheet, with some
penciling on it. As I opened it, Mr. Whittier, with a quizzical look,
said, "Thee will notice that the bear-trap man has added a codicil to
his will." This is the codicil:--

And this pencil of a sick bard
I bequeath to Mr. Pickard;
Pledging him to write a very
Long and full obituary--
Showing by my sad example,
Useful life and virtues ample,
Wit and wisdom only tend
To bear-traps at one's latter end!

I had to go back to my editorial desk in Portland that day, and
immediately received there this note from Mr. Whittier:--

"DEAR MR. P.,--Don't print in thy paper my foolish verses, which thee
copied. They are hardly consistent with my years and 'eminent gravity,'
and would make 'the heathen rage, and the people imagine vain things.'"

I had no thought at the time of giving to the public this jolly side of
Whittier's character, but do it now with little misgiving, as it is
realized by every one that "a little nonsense now and then is relished
by the wisest men." Whittier's capacity for serious work is well known,
and his love of play never interfered with it. An earnest man without a
sense of humor is a machine without a lubricant, worn out before its
work is done. There can be no doubt that Whittier owed his length of
days to his happy temperament.

Here is a story of Whittier told by Alice Freeman Palmer: One evening
they sat in Governor Claflin's library, in Boston, and he was taking
his rest telling ghost stories. Mrs. Claflin had given strict orders
that no visitor be allowed to intrude on Mr. Whittier when he was
resting. Suddenly, at the crisis of a particularly interesting story,
there was a commotion in the hall, and the rest of that story was not
told. A lady had called to see the poet, and would not be denied. The
domestic could not stop her, and she came straight into the library.
She walked up to Whittier and seized both his hands, saying, "Mr.
Whittier, this is the supreme moment of my life!" The poor man in his
distress blushed like a school-girl, and shifted from on