“God never loved me in so sweet a way before:
’Tis he alone who can such blessings send:
And when his love would new expression find,
He brought thee to me, and he said, ‘Behold—a friend.’”
Exactly a month from the day Roger planned the Girl Papers for her,
Judith knocked at the study door with her manuscript in her hand. She
had written three papers; if he took sufficient interest in the first
she would read the others.
Beside the education for herself she had another thought in writing
them; she would send them to some child’s paper and earn money. She
knew that Marion had never depended upon the parsonage for money;
every month her father sent her a check; she had no father to send
her a check. No money had come to her from her Cousin Don since his
hurried marriage. Probably he considered her old enough to earn money
for herself. It would be hard to tell Aunt Affy when she needed a
dress, or shoes, or money, when she was not doing anything for Aunt
Affy’s comfort.
Last Sunday she had no money for Sunday-school or church; she had no
money for anything.
Her last story had been refused, and how she had cried over the
refusal. It was even hard to laugh when Roger told her that Queen
Victoria had sent an article to a paper under a “pen-name” and it had
been “returned with thanks.” She wished she were a dressmaker like
Agnes Trembly, or that she could go into a farmer’s kitchen, like
Jean Draper’s sister Lottie, and earn money and not be ashamed.
“Come in,” called Roger from among his books.
Her eyes were suspiciously red, she was relieved that his back was
toward her; he wheeled around in his chair as she seated herself, and
looked as though he had nothing in the world to do but listen to her.
“Have you leisure to hear my Girl Papers?” she asked, with some
embarrassment. “They are horrid. I tried an essay, and failed. It was
stilted and stupid. I can make girls talk, so I threw my garnered
information into a conversation. But you may not care for this style.”
“I can bear anything,” he said, making a comical effort at
self-control.
After the first was read, with an inward quaking, she was delighted
with his word of encouragement:
“Read the others; I cannot know how bad they are until you read them
all.”
More hopefully she began the second paper, which she read in a clear,
conversational tone:—
“Do you know,” began grandmother, “who said that she could be happy
anywhere with good health and a bit of marble?”
And then we were all astir with eager interest.
“Rosa Bonheur was ‘happy anywhere’ with canvas, colors, and brush;
and this girl loved marble just as well, and brought breathing life
out of the cold marble, as Rosa brought it out on her canvas. But
Harriet was an American child, born into a luxurious home, with no
brothers or sisters, and her mother soon died and left her alone with
her father. Her mother died with consumption, and her father had
buried his other child besides Harriet with the same disease, so no
wonder he was afraid for his little girl, and determined to give her
a playful childhood in air and sunshine. Harriet Hosmer was born in
Watertown, Mass., October 9th, 1830.”
“And now she’s older than you are, grandmother,” said Bess. “I like
to know about when grandmothers were little girls.”
“But she and Rosa Bonheur are not grandmothers. They have had canvas
and marble instead of a home with children and grandchildren in it.
As soon as little Harriet was old enough a pet dog was given to her,
and she ornamented it with ribbons and bells. Instead of tin cup and
iron spoon, which Rosa had, she revelled in all the pretty things
that children love. The River Charles ran past her home; her father
gave her a boat and told her to take her air and sunshine on the
water and learn to develop her muscles by the oars. And then he had
built for her a Venetian gondola with velvet cushions and silver prow.
“‘She will be spoiled,’ the neighbors foreboded, but her wise father
was not afraid; he knew how much happiness his child could bear and
not be rendered selfish. The next thing to help her become strong was
a gun; she soon became what your brothers would call a good shot. By
and by you will know how strong her hands and arms became and what
she could do with them. All this time, just as you are, girls, these
common days, she was being made ready for her own special work.”
Juliet grew radiant. She was hoping for “special work.”
“Her room was a museum. Gathered and prepared by her own eager and
wise hands she had beetles, snakes, bats, birds, stuffed or preserved
in spirits. From the egg of a sea gull and the body of a kingfisher
she made an ink-stand; she climbed to the top of a tree for a crow’s
nest. Miles and miles she learned to walk without being wearied. In
her work and habits and strength she was like a boy. She was fond of
books, but just as fond of the clay-pit in her garden where, to her
father’s delight as well as her own, she molded dogs and horses.
“When Harriet Hosmer was taken to a famous school (at home they
called her ‘happy Hatty’) the teacher said: ‘I have a reputation for
training wild colts; I will try this one.’ She stayed three years. On
her return home she began to take lessons in drawing, modeling, and
in anatomical studies, often walking fourteen miles to Boston and
back, with hours of work and study. Was not that a day’s work? She
went to the Medical College of St. Louis to take a thorough course in
anatomy.”
“You have to know things to get things out of marble,” remarked Ethel.
“Grandmother, how hard girls can work!” exclaimed Nan, who did not
love work.
“After she had finished her studies she traveled alone to New
Orleans, and then north to the Falls of St. Anthony, smoking the pipe
of peace with the chief of the Dakota Indians, explored lead mines in
Dubuque, and scaled a high mountain to which her name was afterward
given.”
“That was fun,” said Nan. “I’m glad she had some fun with her hard
work.”
“After work in her studio at home her father sent her to Rome. Girl
as she was, in her studio at home she wielded for eight or ten hours
a day a leaden mallet weighing four pounds and a half. And it was
then she told a friend that she would not be homesick, for she could
be happy anywhere with good health and a bit of marble. For seven
years she worked on her ‘bit of marble’ in Rome. She made beautiful
and wonderful things with her good health and her marble, with hard
work, and the insight into beauty that God, who makes all beautiful
things, gave to this ready and obedient child.
“The first work she copied for her teacher was the Venus of Milo;
when almost completed the iron, which held the clay firm, snapped,
and all her work was spoiled.”
“Oh!” sighed Ethel.
“But she did not shriek nor cry herself to sleep (that anybody knew),
but bravely went to work again. Her works were exhibited in Boston
and much admired. Her teacher said he had never seen surpassed her
genius of imitating the roundness and softness of flesh. Look at
other marble statues and see if the flesh looks soft and round like
Harriet’s. One of her works, a girl lying asleep, was exhibited in
London and in several American cities. She said once she would work
as though she had to earn her daily bread, and, strange to tell, very
soon after that her father wrote that he had lost his property and
could send her no more money. And then she hired a cheap room, sold
her handsome saddle-horse, and went to work in reality to earn her
daily bread. Her first work, in her time of sorrow, was a fun-loving,
four-year-old child. With the several copies she made from it she
earned for her daily bread thirty thousand dollars.”
“And oh! grandmother,” I said (for I am a poor girl myself), “when
our heavenly Father has work for us to do, it doesn’t matter whether
we are born poor or rich.”
“Either way it takes hard work,” said grandmother.