These questions are asked again and again by little people who keep the birthday of the poet and wish to learn about his life.

In his journal, Mr. Longfellow tells us about his children, and it is there we may find answers to all our questions.

The poet's eldest son was named Charles. When Charles was two years old his little brother Ernest was born. Longfellow then moved his books into another room and gave up his study to his babies.

And so the room in which Washington had planned battles became the nursery of the Longfellow children. Did any children ever have a more famous nursery?

In this room which once belonged to Washington we like to think that the children heard again and again the story of our first President.

When Ernest was but a few days old his father told a friend that the little newcomer was a great musician. Do you know what the poet meant by this?

While Charles and Ernest were still little boys, their baby sister Fannie came to live in the nursery. Just as she was old enough to run about, the dear little girl died. Then the house was full of sorrow.

Many of the poems Longfellow wrote at this time tell the story of his grief at the loss of his little daughter.

Charles was six years old and Ernest four, when their father first took them to school. He left them sitting on little chairs among the other children in an old house near a large elm tree.

It was under this same tree that Washington took command of the American army.

As time went on three little girls took the places of the boys in the nursery. How all these children loved their father! They thought him the best playfellow in the world, and so he was.

He made toys for them, taught them games, and wrote letters which he placed under their pillows for them to find in the morning.

II.

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Longfellow writes in his journal about coasting with the boys for hours upon the hillside, and of working hard with all the children making a snow house in the front yard.

Again he tells of charming birthday parties when children played in the hay and scrambled for sugar plums. These parties always ended with a fine birthday supper.

On the first of May the children sometimes had a May party. The girls wore wreaths upon their heads and danced around the May pole. Then they all went to the summer house for a feast.

In summer the Longfellow children often went to the seaside with their father and mother. All day long they played in the sand and waded in the water.

But a great and terrible sorrow came suddenly to the Longfellow home.

One morning, as Mrs. Longfellow was sealing a package with hot wax, her dress caught fire. Before the flames could be put out she was so badly burned that she died soon after.

Never again was the poet full of joy as he had always been before. For him the happiness of life was over. But he never forgot to provide for the pleasure of his children.

Longfellow has told us about his three daughters in a beautiful poem called "The Children's Hour." He has also written about them in a letter to a little girl which you will be glad to read.

A LETTER TO A LITTLE GIRL

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NAHANT, August 18, 1859.

Your letter followed me down here by the seaside, where I am pa.s.sing the summer with my three little girls.

The oldest is about your size; but as little girls keep changing every year I can never remember exactly how old she is, and have to ask her mamma, who has a better memory than I have. Her name is Alice. I never forget that. She is a nice girl and loves poetry almost as much as you do.

The second is Edith, with blue eyes and beautiful golden locks which I sometimes call her nankeen hair to make her laugh. She is a busy little woman and wears gray boots.

The youngest is Allegra, which you know means merry; and she is the merriest little thing you ever saw--always singing and laughing all over the house.

These are my three little girls, and Mr. Read has painted them all in one picture which I hope you will see some day.

They bathe in the sea and dig in the sand and patter about the piazza all day long. Sometimes they go to see the Indians encamped on the sh.o.r.e, and buy baskets and bows and arrows.

I do not say anything about the two boys. They are such noisy fellows it is of no use to talk about them.

And now, Miss Emily, give my love to your papa, and good night with a kiss from his friend and yours,

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE OPEN WINDOW

The old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the graveled pathway The light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air, But the faces of the children, They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house dog Was standing by the door; He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall; But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches With sweet, familiar tone; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone!

--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.