panted at my
side." One story reminded him of another, and he said this ox was named
for another that had its day in a former generation on a neighboring
farm.

This is the story he told of the original "Old Butler:" A family named
Morse lived not far from here, and included several boys fond of
practical joking. The older brothers one day bound the youngest upon
the back of the ox, Butler. Frightened by the unusual burden, the
animal dashed away to the woods on Job's Hill. The lad was fearfully
bruised before he was rescued. Indignant at the treatment he had
received, he left home the next morning, and was not heard from until
in his old age he returned to the Haverhill farm, and found his
brothers still living. They killed for him the fatted calf, and after
the supper, as they sat before the great wood fire, they talked over
the events of their boyhood. One of the brothers referred to the
subject all had hitherto avoided, and said, "Don't you remember your
ride upon Old Butler?" "Yes, I _do_ remember it," was the answer, "and
I don't thank you for bringing it up at this time." The next morning he
left the place, and was never again heard from. Mr. Whittier told this
story to explain the odd name he had given his ox.

The story has been often told of Garrison's coming out to East
Haverhill to find a contributor who had interested him; and it has
been stated that the Quaker lad was called in from work in the field to
see the dapper young editor and his lady friend. He once told me that
the situation was a bit more awkward for him. It happened that on this
eventful morning the young poet had discovered that a hen had stolen
her nest under the barn, and he was crawling on his hands and knees,
digging his dusty way towards the hen, when his sister Mary came out to
summon him to receive city visitors. It was only by her urgent
persuasion that he was induced to give up burrowing for the eggs. By
making a wide detour, he entered the house without being seen, and in
haste effected a change of raiment. In telling the story, he said he
put on in his haste a pair of trousers that came scarcely to his
ankles, and he must have been a laughable spectacle. He would have felt
much more at ease if he had come in just as he was when he emerged from
under the barn. Garrison, with the social tact that ever distinguished
him, put the shy boy at his ease at once.

After the death of their father, Greenleaf and his brother Franklin for