Then she said: "I am Mrs. Miller, and
you are welcome. When you have looked around, come into Mr. Miller's
own room and be refreshed. After that I will read to you from his
writings."
It sounded stagey at first, but the more we knew of this sweet-faced
widow of the poet the less we found about her that was not simple and
sweet and natural.
After wandering around, through the fascinating paths, under the great
cross of a thousand pine trees, among the roses, and flowers that he
had planted with his own hands, we came at last to the little house
that Mrs. Miller had called "The poet's own room," and there were we
refreshed with cool lemonade and cakes. In the littleness of my soul I
wondered when we were to pay for these favors, but the longer we
remained the more was I shamed as I saw that this hospitality was just
the natural expression of a woman, and a beautiful daughter's desire to
extend the hospitality of the dead poet himself, to any who loved his
writings.
There was the bed on which Miller lay for months writing many of his
greatest poems, including the famous "Columbus." There was his
picturesque sombrero, still hanging where he had put it last on the
post of the great bed. His pen was at hand; his writing pad, his chair,
his great fur coat, his handkerchief of many colors which in life he
always wore about his neck; his great heavy, high-topped boots. And
it was sunset.
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