around to see to whom they belonged. The owner was not far away, for
just a few steps behind her was an old gentleman, not very tall, dressed
all in black with a high silk hat. Under his arm he carried a book, and
as he held out his hand towards her Julia had no doubt that he was the
owner of the wandering manuscript.
"Thank you, my child," he said, as she held the sheets towards him.
"Another gust, and I should have had to compose a new poem to take the
place of the one that was so ready to--go to press against that
lamp-post.
"There, that was not a very brilliant pun, was it?" he asked, for Julia
now was walking along by his side.
"Why, sir," she had begun to say, looking up in his face. Then suddenly
she gave a start. Surely she had seen that face before! But where? Yet
almost in a shorter time than I have taken to tell it, she recognized
the owner of the papers. He was certainly no other than Dr. Oliver
Wendell Holmes, the famous Autocrat of the Breakfast table, several of
whose poems she knew almost by heart. All her old shyness came back to
her, she did not exactly dare to say that she recognized him, and all
she could think of was another question in relation to the manuscript.
"Were--were they some of your own poems?" she managed to stammer, "it
would have been dreadful if they had been lost."
"Not half as dreadful," he replied smiling, "as if they had been written
by some one else. As a matter of fact these were sent me by an unfledged
poet who wished me to tell him whether he would stand a chance of
getting them into a publisher's hands. He told me to take great care of
them as he had no copy. I read his note at my publisher's just now, and
I felt bound to carry the manuscript home. But I'm not sure that it
would not have been a good thing to lose a sheet or two to teach him a
lesson. He should not send a thing to a stranger without making a copy."
The poet of course did not speak to Julia in precisely these words, but
this was the drift of what he said, and it was in about this form that
she repeated it to her aunt and Brenda at the luncheon table.
"What else did he say?" her aunt had asked, with great interest.
"Oh, he thanked me again for picking up the papers, complimented me for
being so sure-footed on such a slippery sidewalk, and what do you think,
Aunt Anna, when he heard that I had not long been in Boston, he asked me
to call some afternoon to see him. He is always at home after four. I
walked along until he reached his door step. Do you know that he lives
very near here. I was _so_ surprised to find it out. Have you ever been
there, Brenda?"
"No," said Brenda, shaking her head, "I did not exactly notice whom you
were talking about."
"Why, Dr. Holmes," replied Julia.
"Oh," said Brenda, with a stare that seemed to imply that this name did
not mean much to her.
"Why, you know, Brenda, Oliver Wendell Holmes?" prompted her mother, and
still Brenda looked rather blank.
"Brenda," said Mrs. Barlow, "I am surprised. Surely you remember how
pleased you were with 'The Last Leaf' when I had you learn it last
summer, and you _must_ remember that I told you that the poet who wrote
it lives in Boston."
"I dare say," answered Brenda carelessly, "but I had forgotten. I don't
see why Julia should be so excited about meeting a poet. There must be
ever so many of them everywhere."
"Ah! Brenda," responded her mother, "I do wish that you would take more
interest in the affairs of your own city. Here is Julia who has been in
Boston but a short time, and I am sure that she knows more about our
famous men and women than you who have lived here all your life."
For a wonder Brenda did not laugh at what her mother said, nor take
offence.
"I never shall be a book-worm," she said very good-naturedly. "I am
willing to leave all that to Julia."
So when Julia asked her one afternoon, if she would not like to go with
her to call on Dr. Holmes, she declined with thanks, and left Julia free
to invite Edith.
As the two friends walked up the short flight of stone steps to the
front door, their hearts sank a little. To make a call on a poet was
really a rather formidable thing, and they pressed each other's hands as
they heard the maid opening the door to admit them.
"Just wait here for a moment," said the maid, after they had enquired
for the master of the house, and she showed them into a small room at
the left of the entrance. It seemed to be merely a reception-room, but
it was very pretty with its white woodwork and large-flowered yellow
paper. There was a carved table in the centre with writing materials and
ink-stand, and little other furniture besides a few handsome chairs.
Tall bookcases matching the woodwork occupied the recesses, and they
were filled with books in substantial bindings.
In a moment the maid had returned and asked them to follow her. At the
head of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing to meet them
with outstretched hand. When Julia mentioned Edith's name, "Ah," he
said, "that is a good old Boston name, and if I mistake not, I used to
know your grandfather," and then when Edith had satisfied him on this
point he turned to Julia, and in a bantering way spoke of the service
she had done him that windy day. Then he made them sit down beside him,
one on each side, while he occupied a large leather armchair drawn up
before his open fire, and asked them one or two questions about their
studies and their taste in literature. As he talked, Julia's eyes
wandered to the bronze figure of Father Time on the mantelpiece, and
then to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not help
noticing a number of volumes of Dr. Holmes' own works. The old gentleman
following her glance, said:
"They make a pretty fair showing for one man, but my publishers are
getting ready to bring out a complete edition of my works, and that,
well that makes me realize my age." After a moment, as if reflecting, he
asked quickly, "Does either of you write poetry?"
"Oh, no, sir," answered Edith quickly, "we couldn't."
"Why, it isn't so very hard," he said, "at least I should judge not by
the numbers of copies of verses that are sent to me to examine. Poetry
deals with common human emotion, and almost any one with a fair
vocabulary thinks that he can express himself in verse. But nearly
everything worth saying has been said. Words and expressions seem very
felicitous to the writer, but he cannot expect other persons to see his
work as he sees it."
"It depends, I suppose," said Edith shyly, "on whose work it is."
"I am afraid," replied the poet, "that there is no absolute standard for
verse-makers. It has always seemed to me that the writer of verse is
almost in the position of a man who makes a mold for a plaster cast or
something of that kind. Whatever liquid mixture he puts into that mold
will surely fit it. So the verse is the mold into which the poet puts
his thought, and from his point of view it is sure to fit."
Though Edith may not have grasped the full force of the poet's meaning,
Julia was sure that she understood him.
"Do you really have a great deal of poetry sent you to read?" she asked.
"Every mail," he answered, "brings me letters from strangers,--from
every corner of the globe. Some contain poems in my honor, as specimens
of what the poet can do. Others are accompanied by long manuscripts on
which my opinion is asked. I am chary now about expressing any opinion,
for publishers have a way of quoting very unfairly in their
advertisements. If I write 'your book would be very charming were it not
so carelessly written,' the publisher quotes merely 'very charming,' and
prints this in large type."
Both girls smiled at the expression of droll sorrow that came over the
poet's face as he spoke.
"And I am so very unfortunate myself," he added, "when I try to get an
autograph of any consequence. Now I sent Gladstone a copy of a work on
trees in which I thought he would be interested. He returned the
compliment with a copy of one of his books. But--" here he paused, "he
wrote his thanks on a postcard!" Again the girls laughed. "Dear me!" he
concluded, "this cannot interest young creatures like you; do you care
for poetry?"
"Oh, yes indeed we do," cried Julia, "and we just love your poetry."
"Well, well," said the poet, with a twinkle in his eye, "perhaps you
would like to hear me read something?"
The beaming faces that met his glance were a sufficient answer, and
taking a volume from the table, he began in a voice that was a trifle
husky, though full of expression,
"This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its venturous wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea maids raise to sun their streaming hair."
When he had finished the stanza, he looked up enquiringly.
"The Chambered Nautilus," murmured Julia.
"Ah, you know it then?" said the poet.
"Oh, yes, I love it," she answered.
Then with a smile of appreciation, adjusting his glasses, Dr. Holmes
read to the end of the poem in his wonderfully musical voice. When it
was finished, the girls would have liked to ask for more, but the poet
rose to replace the volume. "Come," he said, "you have listened to the
poem which of all I have written I like the best, now I wish to show you
my favorite view." Following him to the deep bay-window, they looked out
across the river. It was much the same view to which Julia was
accustomed in her uncle's house, and yet it was looking at the river
with new eyes to have the poet pointing out all the towns, seven or
eight in number which he could see from that window. Somerville,
Medford, Belmont, Arlington, Charlestown, Brookline, and one or two
others, perhaps, besides Cambridge with its spires and chimneys.
"In winter," said Dr. Holmes, "there is not much to see besides the
tug-boats and the gulls. But in the early spring it is a delight to me
to watch the crews rowing by, and an occasional pleasure-boat, ah! I
remember"--but what it was he did not say, for as Edith turned her eyes
toward an oil painting on the wall near by he said, "Of course you know
who that is; of course you recognize the famous Dorothy Q. Now look at
the portrait closely, and tell me what you think of that cheek. Could
you imagine any one so cruel as to have struck a sword into it? Yet
there, if your eyes are sharp enough, you will see where a British
soldier of the Revolution thrust this rapier."
When both girls admitted that they could not see the scar, "That only
shows," he said, "how clever the man was who made the repairs."
Before they turned from the window he made them notice the tall factory
chimneys on the other side of the river which he called his
thermometers, because according to the direction in which the smoke
curled upwards, he was able to tell how the wind blew, and decide in
what direction he should walk.
"Remember," he said, "when you reach my age always to walk with your
back to the wind," and at this the girls smiled, they feeling that it
would be many years before they should need to follow this advice. Yet
during their call how many things they had to see and to remember! He
let each of them hold for a moment the gold pen with which he had
written Elsie Venner and the Autocrat papers, and Julia turned over the
leaves of the large Bible and the Concordance on the top of his writing
table. Dr. Holmes called their attention to the beautiful landscape
hanging on one wall done in fine needlework by the hands of his
accomplished daughter-in-law, and he told them a story or two connected
with another picture in the room. Julia, as she looked about, thought
that she had seldom seen a prettier room than this with its cheerful
rugs, massive furniture, and fine pictures, all so simple and yet so
dignified. When the poet pointed out the great pile of letters lying on
his desk, he told them that this was about the number that he received
every day.
"But you don't answer them all," exclaimed Edith almost breathlessly.
"No, indeed," and he laughed, "my secretary goes through them every
morning, and decides which ought to be given me to read, and then--well
if it is anything very personal I try to answer it myself. Often,
however, I let her write the answer, while I simply add the signature."
Edith gave Julia a little nudge; they were both at the age when the
possession of an autograph of a famous man is something to be ardently
desired. But neither of them had quite dared to ask Doctor Holmes for
his. It is possible that he saw the little nudge, or perhaps he read the
eager expression on their faces, for almost before they realized it he
had placed in the hand of each of them a small volume in a white cover,
and bidding them open their books he said, "Well, I must put something
on that bare fly-leaf."
So seating himself at his table with a quill pen in his hand, he wrote
slowly and evidently with some effort, the name of each of them,
followed by the words "With the regards of Oliver Wendell Holmes," and
then the year, and the day of the month. As he handed them the books, he
opened the door, and with a word or two more of half bantering thanks to
Julia for her assistance on that windy day, he bowed them down the
stairs.
So impressed were they by the visit that they had little to say until
they reached home, where they found Mrs. Barlow a very sympathetic
listener. Brenda, who happened to be at home looked with interest at the
little volumes of selections from Doctor Holmes' writings with their
valuable autographs, and said, "Well, you might have taken me, too."
"Why, Brenda, I am sure that I asked you," said Julia, "but you declared
that you would not speak to a poet for anything in the world."
They all laughed at this, a proceeding which this time did not annoy
Brenda.
Mrs. Barlow admired the little books.
"But I hope that you did not stay too long," she said gently, "for I
have been told that Doctor Holmes has a way of sending off a guest who
tires him, by bringing out one of these little gift books."
"Oh, I don't think we tired him," said Julia; "at any rate he was too
polite to show it, but I'm glad that we have the books."
XVI
AN HISTORIC RAMBLE
On a bright, sunny morning just before the beginning of the Christmas
holidays, Miss South asked Julia if she would care to go within a day or
two to visit some of the historic spots at the North End.
"It is not quite as good a season," the teacher had added, "as in the
early autumn or spring, but I have learned that it is never well to put
off indefinitely what can be as well done at once. Something may happen
to prevent our going later, and so if you can go with me this week I
shall be very glad."
"Oh, thank you, Miss South," replied Julia, "I should love to go, and
any day this week would do."
"And I may go, too, mayn't I?" cried Nora, who happened to be standing
by.
"Why, certainly," replied Miss South, "the more, the better; I should be
pleased to have all 'The Four' go."
As it happened, however, on the afternoon selected for the excursion,
only Julia and Nora really cared to go. Brenda and Belle had some
special appointment which nothing would induce them to break, and Edith
expressed decided objections against going again into that dirty part of
the town.
Even a Boston December can offer many a balmy day, and one could not
wish a pleasanter afternoon than that which Julia and Nora had for their
visit to the North End under the guidance of Miss South.
She made Faneuil Hall the beginning of the trip, and if I had time I
should like to repeat what she told them about this famous building and
its donor, old Peter Faneuil, the descendant of the Huguenots.
Nora was very much impressed by hearing that the first public meeting in
the building which Peter Faneuil had given to his native town was that
which assembled to hear Master Lovejoy of the Latin School pronounce a
funeral eulogy over the donor of the hall.
For his death happened less than six months after the town had formally
accepted his gift in 1742.
"You must remember," said Miss South, "that fire, and other causes have
led to many changes in the old building, both inside and out, and yet it
may still be considered the most interesting building in the country
historically, or at least of equal interest with Independence Hall in
Philadelphia."
As they walked about and looked at the portraits of Washington, and
Hancock, and Adams, and Warren and the other great men considered worth
a place in this famous hall, Miss South told them of a political meeting
which she had once attended there, and how interesting it had been to
look down from the galleries upon the mass of men standing on the floor
below. For no seats are ever placed in this part of the hall, and with
an exciting cause, or a noted speaker to attract, the sight of this
crowd of men close pressed together is well worth seeing.
"There is one time in particular," said Julia, "when I should have loved
to look in on the people in the hall."
"When was that?" asked Miss South.
"Why, during the Siege of Boston," she answered, "when the British
turned it into a play-house, and all the British officers in town were
attending 'The Blockade of Boston.'"
"Why, how can you remember?" exclaimed Nora.
"I don't know," said Julia; "I've always remembered it since I read it
in some history that just in the midst of the play the audience rose in
great excitement at the report 'The Yankees are attacking our works at
Charlestown.'"
"Yes, that was the beginning of the end for the British in Boston," said
Miss South. "We are going to see other things to remind us of them this
afternoon. But now we must hasten on, for the afternoon will hardly be
long enough for all that we wish to see."
Then after a short walk, she said, "I am taking you a little out of your
way to show you one or two spots that you might overlook yourself. Now
just here at this corner of Washington and Union streets, where we
stand, Benjamin Franklin passed much of his boyhood. Some persons
believe that his birthplace was here. But I am more inclined to accept
the Milk street location than this. Yet, here, almost where we stand,
his father hung out the Blue Ball sign for his tallow candle business,
and here, too, he lived with his wife and thirteen children.
"Not far away," she continued as they walked along, "was the Green
Dragon Tavern where John Adams, and Revere, and Otis and the other Sons
of Liberty used to hold their meetings, and this--let us stand here for
a moment--is the site of the home of Joseph Warren. Here, where this
hotel stands in Hanover street, he lived and practised his profession of
physician, and in this old house I suppose, the news was brought to his
children of his death at Bunker Hill."
To save their strength Miss South now signalled a passing street car,
and in a very few minutes they were taken to the corner of Prince
street. On the way Miss South had said that she wished to show them
North Square, and when they left the car, one turn from the main
thoroughfare brought them within sight of this noted locality.
The little corner shops, of which there were many in sight had signs
worded in Italian, and some of the shop windows displayed all kinds of
foreign-looking pastry and confections--less tempting, however, in
appearance than the fresh green vegetables shown in the windows and
doorways of other shops. The dark-browed men and women who passed spoke
to each other in Italian, and some of the women wore short skirts and
bright kerchiefs which made their whole costume seem thoroughly foreign.
"Down this Garden Court street," said Miss South, just before they
reached the square, "used to stand the house of Sir Harry Frankland."
"Oh, yes," cried Nora, "there's _one_ thing that I remember, the story
of Agnes Surriage. I've read the novel."
"Well, Agnes used to live here," said Miss South, "at least in this
neighborhood. No trace of the old mansion remains, although when built
it was the finest house in town, three stories high, with inlaid floor,
carved mantels, and other decorations that even to-day we should
probably admire. Many other houses in this neighborhood are old, and I
have a friend who can tell almost their precise age by studying the
style of the bricks and mortar, but the only one of great historic
interest is that little old wooden house," and she pointed to one on the
western side of the square.
"It does not look so very old," said Julia.
"No, because it has been clapboarded after the modern fashion. Aside
from that, however, you can see that its overhanging upper story makes
it unlike any house built in modern times. Here Paul Revere lived for
many years, and his birthplace is near-by. I hope that in time it may be
bought by some patriotic person, to be preserved as long as it will
stand. At present it is a tenement house, and liable to destruction by
fire at any moment through the carelessness of its occupants. Now we
must hurry on, but I wish that you could come to the square some time on
a holiday, when it is a centre for all the picturesque Italians of whom
there are so many now in this part of the city."
As they turned about under Miss South's guidance, she pointed out other
old houses--(one with the date 1724 above it) almost tumbling down,--and
she told them a little about the habits of the people living in the
narrow streets and alleys which they passed.
"On the whole these people are much better off than ever they were in
their own country. They have political liberty, and their children have
the chance of acquiring a good education. In that school over there they
are taught to speak English, and they do learn it in a very thorough
manner. The older people are slow in learning our language, and even
slower in acquiring our habits. They are so anxious to make money that
they live crowded together in a very unwholesome fashion. Sometimes a
whole family and one or two boarders will live in the same small room,
and the children will go without proper food or clothes while the father
is saving money enough to invest in a house or shop which he wishes to
own."
"Cannot this be prevented?" asked Julia.
"Only by teaching young and old better habits. That is the effort which
all the charity workers in this neighborhood make. The kindergartens,
and industrial schools, and all the other organizations are gradually
accomplishing this. But it is hard work. I should like to tell you more
about their difficulties, but now I suppose we must pay more attention
to history."
While Miss South had been talking she had led them up a narrow street
which in snowy weather must have lived up to its name "Snowhill street."
At the top of the hill after a turn or two they came upon an old
burying-ground.
"Copp's Hill," said Julia.
"Why of course," responded Nora.
"I brought you here to-day," said Miss South, "because I knew that the
gates would be open. One cannot always get in during the winter months
except by special arrangement. But in summer the old graveyard is like a
park, and the little children from all parts of the North End come here
to play, and mothers with their babies are thankful enough for a seat
under the trees where they can feel the cool breeze from the harbor."
"How quaint it is!" said Julia, looking down the narrow street, just as
they entered the gate. "Why there is Christ Church, isn't it?"
"How did you know it?" asked Nora, "I thought that you had never been
here before."
"Well, I haven't, but there are ever so many photographs, showing just
this view. What is that queer little house, Miss South?"
"I am glad that you asked, although I should not have forgotten to point
it out. That is a real Revolutionary relic, General Gage's headquarters
during part of the British occupation; it is one of the most interesting
houses left standing."
Now turning their steps away from the quaint, hilly street, they were
within the enclosure of the graveyard. It would take long to tell all
that they saw. There was the old gravestone which the British had made a
target, and marked with their bullets. There were some stones with
nothing but the name and date, and neither very legible, others with
rough carvings of cherubs' heads, or the angel of death, while some of
the vaults at the side had heraldic carvings, the arms of old Tory
families.