Edward assured him it was.  He sat in the chair of wood and leather, and read to the poet several of his own poems in a language in which, when he wrote them, he never dreamed they would ever be printed.  He was very quiet.  Finally he said:  “It seems so odd, so very odd, to hear something you know so well sound so strange.”

“It’s a great compliment, though, isn’t it, sir?” asked the boy.

“Ye-es,” said the poet slowly.  “Yes, yes,” he added quickly.  “It is, my boy, a very great compliment.”

“Ah,” he said, rousing himself, as a maid appeared, “that means luncheon, or rather, it means dinner, for we have dinner in the old New England fashion, in the middle of the day.  I am all alone to-day, and you must keep me company, will you?  Then afterward we’ll go and take a walk, and I’ll show you Cambridge.  It is such a beautiful old town, even more beautiful, I sometimes think, when the leaves are off the trees.”

[Illustration:  Edward Bok’s birthplace at Helder, Netherlands.  In the foreground is one of the typical Dutch canals; at the end of the garden in the rear is one of the famous Dutch dykes and just beyond is the North Sea.  The house now belongs to the Dutch Government.]

“Come,” he said, “I’ll take you up-stairs, and you can wash your hands in the room where George Washington slept.  And comb your hair, too, if you want to,” he added; “only it isn’t the same comb that he used.”

To the boyish mind it was an historic breaking of bread, that midday meal with Longfellow.

“Can you say grace in Dutch?” he asked, as they sat down; and the boy did.

“Well,” the poet declared, “I never expected to hear that at my table.  I like the sound of it.”

Then while the boy told all that he knew about the Netherlands, the poet told the boy all about his poems.  Edward said he liked “Hiawatha.”

“So do I,” he said.  “But I think I like ‘Evangeline’ better.  Still, neither one is as good as it should be.  But those are the things you see afterward so much better than you do at the time.”

It was a great event for Edward when, with the poet nodding and smiling to every boy and man he met, and lifting his hat to every woman and little girl, he walked through the fine old streets of Cambridge with Longfellow.  At one point of the walk they came to a theatrical billboard announcing an attraction that evening at the Boston Theatre.  Skilfully the old poet drew out from Edward that sometimes he went to the theatre with his parents.  As they returned to the gate of “Craigie House” Edward said he thought he would go back to Boston.

“And what have you on hand for this evening?” asked Longfellow.

Edward told him he was going to his hotel to think over the day’s events.

The poet laughed and said: 

“Now, listen to my plan.  Boston is strange to you.  Now we’re going to the theatre this evening, and my plan is that you come in now, have a little supper with us, and then go with us to see the play.  It is a funny play, and a good laugh will do you more good than to sit in a hotel all by yourself.  Now, what do you think?”