A cosier time no boy could have had.  Just the two were there, and the smiling face that looked out over the plates and cups gave the boy courage to tell all that this trip was going to mean to him.

“And you have come on just to see us, have you?” chuckled the poet.  “Now, tell me, what good do you think you will get out of it?”

He was told what the idea was:  that every successful man had something to tell a boy, that would be likely to help him, and that Edward wanted to see the men who had written the books that people enjoyed.  Doctor Holmes could not conceal his amusement at all this.

When breakfast was finished, Doctor Holmes said:  “Do you know that I am a full-fledged carpenter?  No?  Well, I am.  Come into my carpenter-shop.”

And he led the way into a front-basement room where was a complete carpenter’s outfit.

“You know I am a doctor,” he explained, “and this shop is my medicine.  I believe that every man must have a hobby that is as different from his regular work as it is possible to be.  It is not good for a man to work all the time at one thing.  So this is my hobby.  This is my change.  I like to putter away at these things.  Every day I try to come down here for an hour or so.  It rests me because it gives my mind a complete change.  For, whether you believe it or not,” he added with his inimitable chuckle, “to make a poem and to make a chair are two very different things.

“Now,” he continued, “if you think you can learn something from me, learn that and remember it when you are a man.  Don’t keep always at your business, whatever it may be.  It makes no difference how much you like it.  The more you like it, the more dangerous it is.  When you grow up you will understand what I mean by an ’outlet’—­a hobby, that is—­in your life, and it must be so different from your regular work that it will take your thoughts into an entirely different direction.  We doctors call it a safety-valve, and it is.  I would much rather,” concluded the poet, “you would forget all that I have ever written than that you should forget what I tell you about having a safety-valve.”

“And now do you know,” smilingly said the poet, “about the Charles River here?” as they returned to his study and stood before the large bay window.  “I love this river,” he said.  “Yes, I love it,” he repeated; “love it in summer or in winter.”  And then he was quiet for a minute or so.

Edward asked him which of his poems were his favorites.

“Well,” he said musingly, “I think ‘The Chambered Nautilus’ is my most finished piece of work, and I suppose it is my favorite.  But there are also ‘The Voiceless,’ ‘My Aviary,’ written at this window, ’The Battle of Bunker Hill,’ and ‘Dorothy Q,’ written to the portrait of my great-grandmother which you see on the wall there.  All these I have a liking for, and when I speak of the poems I like best there are two others that ought to be included—­’The Silent Melody’ and ’The Last Leaf.’  I think these are among my best."’