They turned to go out of the building, and then Paul said, "Patty, where were you going this afternoon?"

"To Kalorama,” said the little girl.

"What is Kalorama?" said Paul, looking curiously at the child.

"I don't know," said Patty, "only Decatur was buried there, and mamma used to go there a good deal when she was young."

"Would you like to see a picture of Decatur?" said Paul, and Patty looked up with a sparkle in her eyes. They crossed the square, passing once more between the statue of Jackson and the White House, and went up the steps of the Navy Department.

Here Patty saw pictures of the Guerrière and the Constitution, and a great many pictures, poorly painted, of the men who fought England on the sea, in what we still call the last Paul stopped in front of the portrait of

war.

Decatur.

"I could have painted as well as that myself," said he; "but he was a right smart Yankee." "He was a Southerner," said Patty, with dignity. "What sharp eyes he had! He looks all alive."

They stood a few moments, and then Paul took Patty's hand.

"Now let us go to Kalorama," said he, and stooped for a moment to tie Patty's hat. He saw the strings were floating.

"Thank you," said Patty, drawing back. "I always tie my own hat; but, Paul, you don't like to go anywhere. What are you going to Kalorama for?"

"I don't know," said Paul, making up a face; "but I guess it is because it is disagreeable. Who lived at Kalorama?"

"I believe it was Colonel Bumford," said Patty, hesitating; "but I don't know who he was."

"See what it is to be famous," said Paul; "why, Kalorama was built by the great Joel Barlow; and here is a little girl, who prides herself on being an American, and she never heard a word about it."*

"Who was he, then?" said Patty, meekly.

*It was because Barlow was Decatur's friend that he was buried at Kalorama. Barlow and Colonel Bumford married sisters, and Mrs. Barlow left the place to the Bumfords when she died. A fire has lately destroyed the house; the tomb remains.

"He was a Connecticut boy," said Paul; "he ended by being a soldier, a preacher, a lawyer. He sold land; he made verses. He was an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a Yankee. He was a trader and an ambassador, a man who knew everybody's business, and yet contrived to do his own. He wrote one poem called Hasty Pudding,' and another called the Vision of Columbus!"

"Paul," said Patty, very gravely, "those are certainly fibs."

I'm

"I knew you would say so," said Paul, pretending to scowl. "You must ask mamma. an Irishman, and can't pretend to know; but, Patty, Joel Barlow was once a very great man in America, and now nobody ever speaks of him. He was minister to France, consul at Algiers, and the friend of Washington. No man ever spoke bolder words for liberty; yet I dare say you never heard of it, just because he made one mistake."

"What was that?" said Patty.

"He thought he was a poet. 'Hasty Pudding' was the best verse he ever wrote; but he persisted in writing long poems that nobody

wanted to read, and he printed them so splendidly that nobody had money enough to buy them if they did want to."

"Oh, Paul!" said Patty, laughing; "but tell me something to remember; that is all non

sense!"

"Well," said Paul, "here it is. He was a bold, free man, determined to do a great work in the world, and not very well prepared to do it. At a time when nobody in America could think about books, he printed his poem about Columbus, and filled it with beautiful pictures. He planned a great Academy of Literature and Science to be formed under the protection of the government, and nobody had time to attend to his plan; so it was left for your friends Sumner and Wilson to carry out a few years ago. He was sent to Algiers and Tripoli to look after Americans held as slaves; he freed them, and sent them home, and made the Dey sign a treaty promising never to make any more. What do you think of that?"

"Oh, that was splendid," said Patty; "but, Paul, I thought it was Decatur who did that?”

"No; Decatur went twenty years after, with

guns and ships, and battered down their towns because the Dey did not keep the promise he had made. Barlow worked for the poor slaves at the risk of his life. Nobody helped him, and all the kings in Europe tried to bother him; but he finished his work. When he came home, a rich man, he bought Kalorama, and lived there like a prince."

Patty and Paul had been walking all the time they were chatting about the great American poet. They now came to a neat porter's lodge, and turned into a winding carriage path, which led up the hill through the grove. Then they saw a pleasant-looking house, with one odd wing. Along this wing ran a broad piazza. It was glazed, and was now full of beautiful flowers. The upper story of the piazza had an awning over it. Paul crossed the lawn, Patty crying out with delight every now and then, as she caught a glimpse of the River, Rock Creek, Georgetown, or the Capitol. The day was warm, the grass looked a little green, the water sparkled in the sun.

"Why, Paul," said Patty, "it is just like Georgetown Heights. How glad I am I came !"