That evening was the first of many thus spent as the years rolled by; unexpected little courtesies came from the White House, and later from “Spiegel Grove”; a constant and unflagging interest followed each undertaking on which the boy embarked.  Opportunities were opened to him; acquaintances were made possible; a letter came almost every month until that last little note, late in 1892: 

MY DEAR FRIEND: 

I would write you more fully if I could.  You are always thoughtful and kind.

Thankfully your friend,

RUTHERFORD B. HAYES.

Thanks—­thanks for your steady friendship.

The simple act of turning down his wine-glasses had won for Edward Bok two gracious friends.

The passion for autograph collecting was now leading Edward to read the authors whom he read about.  He had become attached to the works of the New England group:  Longfellow, Holmes, and, particularly, of Emerson.  The philosophy of the Concord sage made a peculiarly strong appeal to the young mind, and a small copy of Emerson’s essays was always in Edward’s pocket on his long stage or horse-car rides to his office and back.

He noticed that these New England authors rarely visited New York, or, if they did, their presence was not heralded by the newspapers among the “distinguished arrivals.”  He had a great desire personally to meet these writers; and, having saved a little money, he decided to take his week’s summer vacation in the winter, when he knew he should be more likely to find the people of his quest at home, and to spend his savings on a trip to Boston.  He had never been so far away from home, so this trip was a momentous affair.

He arrived in Boston on Sunday evening; and the first thing he did was to despatch a note, by messenger, to Doctor Oliver Wendell Holmes, announcing the important fact that he was there, and what his errand was, and asking whether he might come up and see Doctor Holmes any time the next day.  Edward naively told him that he could come as early as Doctor Holmes liked—­by breakfast-time, he was assured, as Edward was all alone!  Doctor Holmes’s amusement at this ingenuous note may be imagined.

Within the hour the messenger brought back this answer: 

MY DEAR BOY: 

I shall certainly look for you to-morrow morning at eight o’clock to have a piece of pie with me.  That is real New England, you know.

Very cordially yours,

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Edward was there at eight o’clock.  Strictly speaking, he was there at seven-thirty, and found the author already at his desk in that room overlooking the Charles River.

“Well,” was the cheery greeting, “you couldn’t wait until eight for your breakfast, could you?  Neither could I when I was a boy.  I used to have my breakfast at seven,” and then telling the boy all about his boyhood, the cheery poet led him to the dining-room, and for the first time he breakfasted away from home and ate pie—­and that with “The Autocrat” at his own breakfast-table!