Mountain-Laurel and Maidenhair by Louisa May Alcott
iswhat she hums to herself when she's at work, and won't tell me aboutwhen I ask. Sly thing! to be so bashful and hide her gift. I'll teaseher a bit and see what she says. Oh dear, I wish _I_ could do it!Perhaps she'll be famous some day, and then I'll have the glory ofdiscovering her."
With that consolation Emily turned over the pages of the ledger andfound several more bits of verse, some very good for an untaught girl,others very faulty, but all having a certain strength of feeling andsimplicity of language unusual in the effusions of young maidens at thesentimental age.
Emily had a girlish admiration for talent of any kind, and being fond ofpoetry, was especially pleased to find that her humble friend possessedthe power of writing it. Of course she exaggerated Becky's talent, andas she waited for her, felt sure that she had discovered a feminineBurns among the New Hampshire hills, for all the verses were aboutnatural and homely objects, touched into beauty by sweet words or tendersentiment. She had time to build a splendid castle in the air and settleBecky in it with a crown of glory on her head, before the quiet figurein a faded sunbonnet came slowly up the slope with the glow of sunset ona tired but tranquil face.
"Sit here and have a good rest, while I talk to you," said Emily, eagerto act the somewhat dramatic scene she had planned. Becky sunk upon thered cushion prepared for her, and sat looking down at the animatedspeaker, as Emily, perched on a mossy stone before her, began theperformance.
"Becky, did you ever hear of the Goodale children? They lived in thecountry and wrote poetry and grew to be famous."
"Oh yes, I've read their poems and like 'em very much. Do you know 'em?"and Becky looked interested at once.
"No, but I once met a girl who was something like them, only she didn'thave such an easy time as they did, with a father to help, and a niceSky-farm, and good luck generally. I've tried to write verses myself,but I always get into a muddle, and give it up. This makes meinterested in other girls who _can_ do it, and I want to help my friend.I'm _sure_ she has talent, and I'd so like to give her a lift in someway. Let me read you a piece of hers and see what you think of it."
"Do!" and Becky threw off the sunbonnet, folded her hands round herknees, and composed herself to listen with such perfect unconsciousnessof what was coming that Emily both laughed at the joke and blushed atthe liberty she felt she was taking with the poor girl's carefullyhidden secret.
Becky was sure now that Emily was going to read something of her ownafter this artful introduction, and began to smile as the paper wasproduced and the first four lines read in a tone that was half timid,half triumphant. Then with a cry she seized and crumpled up the paper,exclaiming almost fiercely,--
"It's mine! Where did you get it? How dar'st you touch it?"
Emily fell upon her knees with a face and voice so full of penitence,pleasure, sympathy, and satisfaction, that Becky's wrath was appeasedbefore her friend's explanation ended with these soothing and delightfulwords,--
"That's all, dear, and I beg your pardon. But I'm sure you will befamous if you keep on, and I shall yet see a volume of poems by RebeccaMoore of Rocky Nook, New Hampshire."
Becky hid her face as if shame, surprise, wonder, and joy filled herheart too full and made a few happy tears drop on the hands so worn withhard work, when they ached to be holding a pen and trying to record thefancies that sung in her brain as ceaselessly as the soft sough of thepines or the ripple of the brook murmured in her ear when she sat herealone. She could not express the vague longings that stirred in hersoul; she could only feel and dimly strive to understand and utter them,with no thought of fame or fortune,--for she was a humble creature, andnever knew that the hardships of her life were pressing out the virtuesof her nature as the tread of careless feet crush the sweet perfume fromwild herbs.
Presently she looked up, deeply touched by Emily's words and caresses,and her blue eyes shone like stars as her face beamed with somethingfiner than mere beauty, for the secrets of her innocent heart were knownto this friend now, and it was very sweet to accept the first draught ofconfidence and praise.
"I don't mind much, but I was scared for a minute. No one knows butMother, and she laughs at me, though she don't care if it makes mehappy. I'm glad you like my scribbling, but really I never think or hopeof being anybody. I couldn't, you know! but it's real nice to have yousay I _might_ and to make believe for a little while."
"But why not, Becky? The Goodale girls did, and half the poets in theworld were poor, ignorant people at first, you know. It only needs timeand help, and the gift will grow, and people see it; and then the gloryand the money will come," cried Emily, quite carried away by her ownenthusiasm and good-will.
"Could I get any money by these things?" asked Becky, looking at thecrumpled paper lying under a laurel-bush.
"Of course you could, dear! Let me have some of them, and I'll show youthat I know good poetry when I see it. You will believe if somebank-bills come with the paper the verses appear in, I hope?"
Blind to any harm she might do by exciting vain hopes in her eagernessto cheer and help, Emily made this rash proposal in all good faith,meaning to pay for the verses herself if no editor was found to acceptthem.
Becky looked half bewildered by this brilliant prospect, and took a longbreath, as if some hand had lifted a heavy burden a little way from herweary back, for stronger than ambition for herself was love for herfamily, and the thought of help for them was sweeter than any dream offame.
"Yes, I would! oh, if I only _could_, I'd be the happiest girl in theworld! But I can't believe it, Emily. I heard Mrs. Taylor say that onlythe _very best_ poetry paid, and mine is poor stuff, I know wellenough."
"Of course it needs polishing and practice and all that; but I'm sure itis oceans better than half the sentimental twaddle we see in the papers,and I _know_ that some of those pieces _are_ paid for, because I have afriend who is in a newspaper office, and he told me so. Yours are quaintand simple and some very original. I'm sure that ballad of the old houseis lovely, and I want to send it to Whittier. Mamma knows him; it's thesort he likes, and he is so kind to every one, he will criticise it, andbe interested when she tells him about you. Do let me!"
"I never could in the world! It would be so bold, Mother would think Iwas crazy. I love Mr. Whittier, but I wouldn't dar'st to show him mynonsense, though reading his beautiful poetry helps me ever so much."
Becky looked and spoke as if her breath had been taken away by thisaudacious proposal; and yet a sudden delicious hope sprung up in herheart that there might, perhaps, be a spark of real virtue in the littlefire which burned within her, warming and brightening her dull life.
"Let us ask Mamma; she will tell us what is best to do first, for sheknows all sorts of literary people, and won't say any more than you wanther to. I'm bent on having my way, Becky, and the more modest you are,the surer I am that you are a genius. Real geniuses always _are_ shy; soyou just make up your mind to give me the best of your pieces, and letme prove that I'm right."
It was impossible to resist such persuasive words, and Becky soonyielded to the little siren who was luring her out of her safe, smallpool into the deeper water that looks so blue and smooth till theventuresome paper boats get into the swift eddies, or run aground uponthe rocks and sandbars.
The greatest secrecy was to be preserved, and no one but Mrs. Spenserwas to know what a momentous enterprise was afoot. The girls satabsorbed in their brilliant plans till it was nearly dark, then gropedtheir way home hand in hand, leaving another secret for the laurels tokeep and dream over through their long sleep, for blossom time was past,and the rosy faces turning pale in the July sun.
Neither of the girls forgot the talk they had that night in Emily'sroom, for she led her captive straight to her mother, and told her alltheir plans and aspirations without a moment's delay.
Mrs. Spenser much regretted her daughter's well-meant enthusiasm, butfearing harm might be done, very wisely tried to calm the innocentexcitement of both by the quiet matter-of-fact way in which she listenedto the expla
nation Emily gave her, read the verses timidly offered byBecky, and then said, kindly but firmly:--
"This is not poetry, my dear girls, though the lines run smoothlyenough, and the sentiment is sweet. It would bring neither fame normoney, and Rebecca puts more real truth, beauty, and poetry into herdutiful daily life than in any lines she has written."
"We had such a lovely plan for Becky to come to town with me, and seethe world, and write, and be famous. How can you spoil it all?"
"My foolish little daughter, I must prevent you from spoiling this goodgirl's life by your rash projects. Becky will see that I am wise, thoughyou do not, and _she_ will understand this verse from my favorite poet,and lay it to heart:--
With that consolation Emily turned over the pages of the ledger andfound several more bits of verse, some very good for an untaught girl,others very faulty, but all having a certain strength of feeling andsimplicity of language unusual in the effusions of young maidens at thesentimental age.
Emily had a girlish admiration for talent of any kind, and being fond ofpoetry, was especially pleased to find that her humble friend possessedthe power of writing it. Of course she exaggerated Becky's talent, andas she waited for her, felt sure that she had discovered a feminineBurns among the New Hampshire hills, for all the verses were aboutnatural and homely objects, touched into beauty by sweet words or tendersentiment. She had time to build a splendid castle in the air and settleBecky in it with a crown of glory on her head, before the quiet figurein a faded sunbonnet came slowly up the slope with the glow of sunset ona tired but tranquil face.
"Sit here and have a good rest, while I talk to you," said Emily, eagerto act the somewhat dramatic scene she had planned. Becky sunk upon thered cushion prepared for her, and sat looking down at the animatedspeaker, as Emily, perched on a mossy stone before her, began theperformance.
"Becky, did you ever hear of the Goodale children? They lived in thecountry and wrote poetry and grew to be famous."
"Oh yes, I've read their poems and like 'em very much. Do you know 'em?"and Becky looked interested at once.
"No, but I once met a girl who was something like them, only she didn'thave such an easy time as they did, with a father to help, and a niceSky-farm, and good luck generally. I've tried to write verses myself,but I always get into a muddle, and give it up. This makes meinterested in other girls who _can_ do it, and I want to help my friend.I'm _sure_ she has talent, and I'd so like to give her a lift in someway. Let me read you a piece of hers and see what you think of it."
"Do!" and Becky threw off the sunbonnet, folded her hands round herknees, and composed herself to listen with such perfect unconsciousnessof what was coming that Emily both laughed at the joke and blushed atthe liberty she felt she was taking with the poor girl's carefullyhidden secret.
Becky was sure now that Emily was going to read something of her ownafter this artful introduction, and began to smile as the paper wasproduced and the first four lines read in a tone that was half timid,half triumphant. Then with a cry she seized and crumpled up the paper,exclaiming almost fiercely,--
"It's mine! Where did you get it? How dar'st you touch it?"
Emily fell upon her knees with a face and voice so full of penitence,pleasure, sympathy, and satisfaction, that Becky's wrath was appeasedbefore her friend's explanation ended with these soothing and delightfulwords,--
"That's all, dear, and I beg your pardon. But I'm sure you will befamous if you keep on, and I shall yet see a volume of poems by RebeccaMoore of Rocky Nook, New Hampshire."
Becky hid her face as if shame, surprise, wonder, and joy filled herheart too full and made a few happy tears drop on the hands so worn withhard work, when they ached to be holding a pen and trying to record thefancies that sung in her brain as ceaselessly as the soft sough of thepines or the ripple of the brook murmured in her ear when she sat herealone. She could not express the vague longings that stirred in hersoul; she could only feel and dimly strive to understand and utter them,with no thought of fame or fortune,--for she was a humble creature, andnever knew that the hardships of her life were pressing out the virtuesof her nature as the tread of careless feet crush the sweet perfume fromwild herbs.
Presently she looked up, deeply touched by Emily's words and caresses,and her blue eyes shone like stars as her face beamed with somethingfiner than mere beauty, for the secrets of her innocent heart were knownto this friend now, and it was very sweet to accept the first draught ofconfidence and praise.
"I don't mind much, but I was scared for a minute. No one knows butMother, and she laughs at me, though she don't care if it makes mehappy. I'm glad you like my scribbling, but really I never think or hopeof being anybody. I couldn't, you know! but it's real nice to have yousay I _might_ and to make believe for a little while."
"But why not, Becky? The Goodale girls did, and half the poets in theworld were poor, ignorant people at first, you know. It only needs timeand help, and the gift will grow, and people see it; and then the gloryand the money will come," cried Emily, quite carried away by her ownenthusiasm and good-will.
"Could I get any money by these things?" asked Becky, looking at thecrumpled paper lying under a laurel-bush.
"Of course you could, dear! Let me have some of them, and I'll show youthat I know good poetry when I see it. You will believe if somebank-bills come with the paper the verses appear in, I hope?"
Blind to any harm she might do by exciting vain hopes in her eagernessto cheer and help, Emily made this rash proposal in all good faith,meaning to pay for the verses herself if no editor was found to acceptthem.
Becky looked half bewildered by this brilliant prospect, and took a longbreath, as if some hand had lifted a heavy burden a little way from herweary back, for stronger than ambition for herself was love for herfamily, and the thought of help for them was sweeter than any dream offame.
"Yes, I would! oh, if I only _could_, I'd be the happiest girl in theworld! But I can't believe it, Emily. I heard Mrs. Taylor say that onlythe _very best_ poetry paid, and mine is poor stuff, I know wellenough."
"Of course it needs polishing and practice and all that; but I'm sure itis oceans better than half the sentimental twaddle we see in the papers,and I _know_ that some of those pieces _are_ paid for, because I have afriend who is in a newspaper office, and he told me so. Yours are quaintand simple and some very original. I'm sure that ballad of the old houseis lovely, and I want to send it to Whittier. Mamma knows him; it's thesort he likes, and he is so kind to every one, he will criticise it, andbe interested when she tells him about you. Do let me!"
"I never could in the world! It would be so bold, Mother would think Iwas crazy. I love Mr. Whittier, but I wouldn't dar'st to show him mynonsense, though reading his beautiful poetry helps me ever so much."
Becky looked and spoke as if her breath had been taken away by thisaudacious proposal; and yet a sudden delicious hope sprung up in herheart that there might, perhaps, be a spark of real virtue in the littlefire which burned within her, warming and brightening her dull life.
"Let us ask Mamma; she will tell us what is best to do first, for sheknows all sorts of literary people, and won't say any more than you wanther to. I'm bent on having my way, Becky, and the more modest you are,the surer I am that you are a genius. Real geniuses always _are_ shy; soyou just make up your mind to give me the best of your pieces, and letme prove that I'm right."
It was impossible to resist such persuasive words, and Becky soonyielded to the little siren who was luring her out of her safe, smallpool into the deeper water that looks so blue and smooth till theventuresome paper boats get into the swift eddies, or run aground uponthe rocks and sandbars.
The greatest secrecy was to be preserved, and no one but Mrs. Spenserwas to know what a momentous enterprise was afoot. The girls satabsorbed in their brilliant plans till it was nearly dark, then gropedtheir way home hand in hand, leaving another secret for the laurels tokeep and dream over through their long sleep, for blossom time was past,and the rosy faces turning pale in the July sun.
Neither of the girls forgot the talk they had that night in Emily'sroom, for she led her captive straight to her mother, and told her alltheir plans and aspirations without a moment's delay.
Mrs. Spenser much regretted her daughter's well-meant enthusiasm, butfearing harm might be done, very wisely tried to calm the innocentexcitement of both by the quiet matter-of-fact way in which she listenedto the expla
"This is not poetry, my dear girls, though the lines run smoothlyenough, and the sentiment is sweet. It would bring neither fame normoney, and Rebecca puts more real truth, beauty, and poetry into herdutiful daily life than in any lines she has written."
"We had such a lovely plan for Becky to come to town with me, and seethe world, and write, and be famous. How can you spoil it all?"
"My foolish little daughter, I must prevent you from spoiling this goodgirl's life by your rash projects. Becky will see that I am wise, thoughyou do not, and _she_ will understand this verse from my favorite poet,and lay it to heart:--