meagre share of the good things of life, when she was unsatisfied in
spite of the rich store showered upon her. She could not understand
it, and fell asleep wishing every one could be comfortable,--it was
so annoying to see them grubbing in kitchens, teaching in bleak
school-houses among snow-drifts, and wearing ugly calico gowns.
A week or two of quiet, country fare and the bracing mountain air
worked wonders for the invalid, and every one rejoiced to see the
pale cheeks begin to grow round and rosy, the languid eyes to
brighten, and the feeble girl who used to lie on her sofa half the
day now go walking about with her alpenstock, eager to explore all
the pretty nooks among the hills. Her mother blessed Mrs. Taylor for
suggesting this wholesome place. The tired “school marms,” as Emily
called the three young women who were their fellow-boarders,
congratulated her as well as themselves on the daily improvement in
strength and spirits all felt; and Becky exulted in the marvellous
effects of her native air, aided by mother's good cookery and the
cheerful society of the children, whom the good girl considered the
most remarkable and lovable youngsters in the world.
Emily felt like the queen of this little kingdom, and was regarded
as such by every one, for with returning health she lost her fretful
ways, and living with simple people, soon forgot her girlish airs
and vanities, becoming very sweet and friendly with all about her.
The children considered her a sort of good fairy who could grant
wishes with magical skill, as various gifts plainly proved. The boys
were her devoted servants, ready to run errands, “hitch up” and take
her to drive at any hour, or listen in mute delight when she sang to
her guitar in the summer twilight.
But to Becky she was a special godsend and comfort, for before the
first month had gone they were good friends, and Emily had made a
discovery which filled her head with brilliant plans for Becky's
future, in spite of her mother's warnings, and the sensible
girl's own reluctance to be dazzled by enthusiastic prophecies and
dreams.
It came about in this way. Some three weeks after the two girls met,
Emily went one evening to their favorite trysting-place,--Becky's
bower among the laurels. It was a pretty nook in the shadow of a
great gray bowlder near the head of the green valley which ran down
to spread into the wide intervale below. A brook went babbling among
the stones and grass and sweet-ferns, while all the slope was rosy
with laurel-flowers in their times, as the sturdy bushes grew
thickly on the hill-side, down the valley, and among the woods that
made a rich background for these pink and white bouquets arranged
with Nature's own careless grace.
Emily liked this spot, and ever since she had been strong enough to
reach it, loved to climb up and sit there with book and work,
enjoying the lovely panorama before her. Floating mists often gave
her a constant succession of pretty pictures; now a sunny glimpse of
the distant lake, then the church spire peeping above the hill, or a
flock of sheep feeding in the meadow, a gay procession of young
pilgrims winding up the mountain, or a black cloud heavy with a
coming storm, welcome because of the glorious rainbow and its shadow
which would close the pageant.
Unconsciously the girl grew to feel not only the beauty but the
value of these quiet hours, to find a new peace, refreshment, and
happiness, bubbling up in her heart as naturally as the brook gushed
out among the mossy rocks, and went singing away through hayfields
and gardens, and by dusty roads, till it met the river and rolled on
to the sea. Something dimly stirred in her, and the healing spirit
that haunts such spots did its sweet ministering till the innocent
soul began to see that life was not perfect without labor as well as
love, duty as well as happiness, and that true contentment came from
within, not from without.
On the evening we speak of, she went to wait for Becky, who would
join her as soon as the after-supper chores were done. In the little
cave which held a few books, a dipper, and a birch-bark basket for
berries, Emily kept a sketching block and a box of pencils, and
often amused herself by trying to catch some of the lovely scenes
before her. These efforts usually ended in a humbler attempt, and a
good study of an oak-tree, a bit of rock, or a clump of ferns was
the result. This evening the sunset was so beautiful she could not
draw, and remembering that somewhere in Becky's scrap-book there was
a fine description of such an hour by some poet, she pulled out the
shabby old volume, and began to turn over the leaves.
She had never cared to look at it but once, having read all the best
of its contents in more attractive volumes, so Becky kept it tucked
away in the farther corner of her rustic closet, and evidently
thought it a safe place to conceal a certain little secret which
Emily now discovered. As she turned the stiff pages filled with all
sorts of verses, good, bad, and indifferent, a sheet of paper
appeared on which was scribbled these lines in school-girl
handwriting:--
MOUNTAIN--LAUREL
My bonnie flower, with truest joy
Thy welcome face I see,
The world grows brighter to my eyes,
And summer comes with thee.
My solitude now finds a friend,
And after each hard day,
I in my mountain garden walk,
To rest, or sing, or pray.
All down the rocky slope is spread
Thy veil of rosy snow,
And in the valley by the brook,
Thy deeper blossoms grow.
The barren wilderness grows fair,
Such beauty dost thou give;
And human eyes and Nature's heart
Rejoice that thou dost live.
Each year I wait thy coming, dear,
Each year I love thee more,
For life grows hard, and much I need
Thy honey for my store.
So, like a hungry bee, I sip
Sweet lessons from thy cup,
And sitting at a flower's feet,
My soul learns to look up.
No laurels shall I ever win,
No splendid blossoms bear,
But gratefully receive and use
God's blessed sun and air;
And, blooming where my lot is cast,
Grow happy and content,
Making some barren spot more fair,
For a humble life well spent.
“She wrote it herself! I can't believe it!” said Emily, as she put
down the paper, looking rather startled, for she DID believe it, and
felt as if she had suddenly looked into a fellow-creature's heart.
“I thought her just an ordinary girl, and here she is a poet,
writing verses that make me want to cry! I don't suppose they ARE
very good, but they seem to come right out of her heart, and touch
me with the longing and the patience or the piety in them. Well, I
AM surprised!” and Emily read the lines again, seeing the faults
more plainly than before, but still feeling that the girl put
herself into them, vainly trying to express what the wild flower was
to her in the loneliness which comes to those who have a little
spark of the divine fire burning in their souls.
“Shall I tell her I've found it out? I must! and see if I can't get
her verses printed. Of course she has more tucked away somewhere.
That is what she hums to herself when she's at work, and won't tell
me about when I ask. Sly thing! to be so bashful and hide her gift.
I'll tease her 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 of discovering her.”
With that consolation Emily turned over the pages of the ledger and
found several more bits of verse, some very good for an untaught
girl, others very faulty, but all having a certain strength of
feeling and simplicity of language unusual in the effusions of young
maidens at the sentimental age.
Emily had a girlish admiration for talent of any kind, and being
fond of poetry, was especially pleased to find that her humble
friend possessed the power of writing it. Of course she exaggerated
Becky's talent, and as she waited for her, felt sure that she had
discovered a feminine Burns among the New Hampshire hills, for all
the verses were about natural and homely objects, touched into
beauty by sweet words or tender sentiment. She had time to build a
splendid castle in the air and settle Becky in it with a crown of
glory on her head, before the quiet figure in a faded sunbonnet came
slowly up the slope with the glow of sunset on a tired but tranquil
face.
“Sit here and have a good rest, while I talk to you,” said Emily,
eager to act the somewhat dramatic scene she had planned. Becky sunk
upon the red cushion prepared for her, and sat looking down at the
animated speaker, as Emily, perched on a mossy stone before her,
began the performance.
“Becky, did you ever hear of the Goodale children? They lived in the
country 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't have such an easy time as they did, with a father to help,
and a nice Sky-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 me interested 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 some way. Let me read you a piece of hers and see what you
think of it.”
“Do!” and Beck threw off the sunbonnet, folded her hands round her
knees, and composed herself to listen with such perfect
unconsciousness of what was coming that Emily both laughed at the
joke and blushed at the liberty she felt she was taking with the
poor girl's carefully hidden secret.
Becky was sure now that Emily was going to read something of her own
after this artful introduction, and began to smile as the paper was
produced 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 appeased before her friend's explanation ended with these
soothing and delightful words,--
“That's all, dear, and I beg your pardon. But I'm sure you will be
famous if you keep on, and I shall yet see a volume of poems by
Rebecca Moore of Rocky Nook, New Hampshire.”
Becky hid her face as if shame, surprise, wonder, and joy filled her
heart too full and made a few happy tears drop on the hands so worn
with hard work, when they ached to be holding a pen and trying to
record the fancies that sung in her brain as ceaselessly as the soft
sough of the pines or the ripple of the brook murmured in her ear
when she sat here alone. She could not express the vague longings
that stirred in her soul; 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, and never knew that the hardships of her
life were pressing out the virtues of her nature as the tread of
careless feet crush the sweet perfume from wild 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
something finer than mere beauty, for the secrets of her innocent
heart were known to this friend now, and it was very sweet to accept
the first draught of confidence and praise.
“I don't mind much, but I was scared for a minute. No one knows but
Mother, and she laughs at me, though she don't care if it makes me
happy. I'm glad you like my scribbling, but really I never think or
hope of being anybody. I couldn't, you know! but it's real nice to
have you say I MIGHT and to make believe for a while.”
“But why not, Becky? The Goodale girls did, and half the poets in
the world were poor, ignorant people at first, you know. It only
needs time and help, and the gift will grow, and people see it; and
then the glory and the money will come,” cried Emily, quite carried
away by her own enthusiasm and good-will.
“Could I get any money by these things?” asked Becky, looking at the
crumpled paper lying under a laurel-bush.
“Of course you could, dear! Let me have some of them, and I'll show
you that I know good poetry when I see it. You will believe if some
bank-bills come with the paper the verses appear in, I hope?”
Blind to any harm she might do by exciting vain hopes in her
eagerness to 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 accept them.
Becky looked half bewildered by this brilliant prospect, and took a
long breath, as if some hand had lifted a heavy burden a little way
from her weary back, for stronger than ambition for herself was love
for her family, and the thought of help for them was sweeter than
any dream of fame.
“Yes, I would! oh, if I only COULD, I'd be the happiest girl in the
world! But I can't believe it, Emily. I heard Mrs. Taylor say that
only the VERY BEST poetry paid, and mine is poor stuff, I know well
enough.”
“Of course it needs polishing and practice and all that; but I'm
sure it is 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 a friend who is in a newspaper office, and he told me
so. Yours are quaint and simple and some very original. I'm sure
that ballad of the old house is lovely, and I want to send it to
Whittier. Mamma knows him; it's the sort he likes, and he is so kind
to every one, he will criticise it, and be interested when she tells
him about you. Do let me!”
“I never could in the world! It would be so bold, Mother would think
I was crazy. I love Mr. Whittier, but I wouldn't dar'st to show him
my nonsense, though reading his beautiful poetry helps me ever so
much.”
Becky looked and spoke as if her breath had been taken away by this
audacious proposal; and yet a sudden delicious hope sprung up in her
heart that there might, perhaps, be a spark of real virtue in the
little fire 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
she knows all sorts of literary people, and won't say any more than
you want her 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; so you just make up your mind to give me the best of
your pieces, and let me prove that I'm right.”
It was impossible to resist such persuasive words, and Becky soon
yielded to the little siren who was luring her out of her safe,
small pool into the deeper water that looks so blue and smooth till
the venturesome paper boats get into the swift eddies, or run
aground upon the rocks and sandbars.
The greatest secrecy was to be preserved, and no one but Mrs.
Spenser was to know what a momentous enterprise was afoot. The girls
sat absorbed in their brilliant plans till it was nearly dark, then
groped their way home hand in hand, leaving another secret for the
laurels to keep 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's
room, for she led her captive straight to her mother, and told her
all their plans and aspirations without a moment's delay.
Mrs. Spenser much regretted her daughter's well-meant enthusiasm,
but fearing harm might be done, very wisely tried to calm the
innocent excitement of both by the quiet matter-of-fact way in which
she listened to the explanation Emily gave her, read the verses
timidly offered by Becky, and then said, kindly but firmly:--
“This is not poetry, my dear girls, though the lines run smoothly
enough, and the sentiment is sweet. It would bring neither fame nor
money, and Rebecca puts more real truth, beauty, and poetry into her
dutiful daily life than in any lines she has written.”
“We had such a lovely plan for Becky to come to town with me, and
see the world, and write, and be famous. How can you spoil it all?”
“My foolish little daughter, I must prevent you from spoiling this
good girl's life by your rash projects. Becky will see that I am
wise, though you do not, and SHE will understand this verse from my
favorite poet, and lay it to heart:--
“So near is grandeur to our Dust,
So nigh is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, 'Thou must!'
The youth replies, 'I can!'”
“I do! I will! please go on,” and Becky's troubled eyes grew clear
and steadfast as she took the words home to herself, resolving to
live up to them.
“Oh, mother!” cried Emily, thinking her very cruel to nip their
budding hopes in this way.
“I know you won't believe it now, nor be able to see all that I mean
perhaps, but time will teach you both to own that I am right, and to
value the substance more than the shadow,” continued Mrs. Spenser.
“Many girls write verses and think they are poets; but it is only a
passing mood, and fortunately for the world, and for them also, it
soon dies out in some more genuine work or passion. Very few have
the real gift, and those to whom it IS given wait and work and
slowly reach the height of their powers. Many delude themselves, and
try to persuade the world that they can sing; but it is waste of
time, and ends in disappointment, as the mass of sentimental rubbish
we all see plainly proves. Write your little verses, my dear, when
the spirit moves,--it is a harmless pleasure, a real comfort, and a
good lesson for you; but do not neglect higher duties or deceive
yourself with false hopes and vain dreams. 'First live, then write,'
is a good motto for ambitious young people. A still better for us
all is, 'Do the duty that lies nearest;' and the faithful
performance of that, no matter how humble it is, will be the best
help for whatever talent may lie hidden in us, ready to bloom when
the time comes. Remember this, and do not let my enthusiastic girl's
well-meant but unwise prophecies and plans unsettle you, and unfit
you for the noble work you are doing.”
“Thank you, ma'am! I WILL remember; I know you are right, and I
won't be upset by foolish notions. I never imagined before that I
COULD be a poet; but it sounded so sort of splendid, I thought maybe
it MIGHT happen to me, by-and-by, as it does to other folks. I
won't lot on it, but settle right down and do my work cheerful.”
As she listened, Becky's face had grown pale and serious, even a
little sad; but as she answered, her eyes shone, her lips were firm,
and her plain face almost beautiful with the courage and confidence
that sprung up within her. She saw the wisdom of her friend's
advice, felt the kindness of showing her the mistake frankly, and
was grateful for it,--conscious in her own strong, loving heart that
it was better to live and work for others than to dream and strive
for herself alone.
Mrs. Spenser was both surprised and touched by the girl's look,
words, and manner, and her respect much increased by the courage and
good temper with which she saw her lovely castle in the air vanish
like smoke, leaving the hard reality looking harder than ever, after
this little flight into the fairy regions of romance.
She talked long with the girls, and gave them the counsel all eager
young people need, yet are very slow to accept till experience
teaches them its worth. As the friend of many successful literary
people, Mrs. Spenser was constantly receiving the confidences of
unfledged scribblers, each of whom was sure that he or she had
something valuable to add to the world's literature. Her advice was
always the same, “Work and wait;” and only now and then was a young
poet or author found enough in earnest to do both, and thereby prove
to themselves and others that either they DID possess power, or did
not, and so settle the question forever. “First live, then write,”
proved a quietus for many, and “Do the duty that lies nearest”
satisfied the more sincere that they could be happy without fame.
So, thanks to this wise and kindly woman, a large number of worthy
youths and maidens ceased dreaming and fell to work, and the world
was spared reams of feeble verse and third-rate romances.
After that night Becky spent fewer spare hours in her nest, and more
in reading with Emily, who lent her books and helped her to
understand them,--both much assisted by Mrs. Spenser, who marked
passages, suggested authors, and explained whatever puzzled them.
Very happy bits of time were these, and very precious to both, as
Emily learned to see and appreciate the humbler, harder side of
life, and Becky got delightful glimpses into the beautiful world of
art, poetry, and truth, which gave her better food for heart and
brain than sentimental musings or blind efforts to satisfy the
hunger of her nature with verse-writing.
Their favorite places were in the big barn, on the front porch, or
by the spring. This last was Emily's schoolroom, and she both taught
and learned many useful lessons there.
One day as Becky came to rest a few minutes and shell peas, Emily
put down her book to help; and as the pods flew, she said, nodding
toward the delicate ferns that grew thickly all about the trough,
the rock, and the grassy bank,--
“We have these in our greenhouse, but I never saw them growing wild
before, and I don't find them anywhere up here. How did you get such
beauties, and make them do so well?”
“Oh, they grow in nooks on the mountain hidden under the taller
ferns, and in sly corners. But they don't grow like these, and die
soon unless transplanted and taken good care of. They always make me
think of you,--so graceful and delicate, and just fit to live with
tea-roses in a hot-house, and go to balls in beautiful ladies'
bokays,” answered Becky, smiling at her new friend, always so
dainty, and still so delicate in spite of the summer's rustication.
“Thank you! I suppose I shall never be very strong or able to do
much; so I AM rather like a fern, and do live in a conservatory all
winter, as I can't go out a great deal. An idle thing, Becky!” and
Emily sighed, for she was born frail, and even her tenderly guarded
life could not give her the vigor of other girls. But the sigh
changed to a smile as she added,--
“If I am like the fern, you are like your own laurel,--strong, rosy,
and able to grow anywhere. I want to carry a few roots home, and see
if they won't grow in my garden. Then you will have me, and I you. I
only hope YOUR plant will do as well as mine does here.”
“It won't! ever so many folks have taken roots away, but they never
thrive in gardens as they do on the hills where they belong. So I
tell 'em to leave the dear bushes alone, and come up here and enjoy
'em in their own place. You might keep a plant of it in your
hot-house, and it would blow I dare say; but it would never be half
so lovely as my acres of them, and I guess it would only make you
sad, seeing it so far from home, and pale and pining,” answered
Becky, with her eyes on the green slopes where the mountain-laurel
braved the wintry snow, and came out fresh and early in the spring.
“Then I'll let it alone till I come next summer. But don't you take
any of the fern into the house in the cold weather? I should think
it would grow in your sunny windows,” said Emily, pleased by the
fancy that it resembled herself.
“I tried it, but it needs a damp place, and our cold nights kill it.
No, it won't grow in our old house; but I cover it with leaves, and
the little green sprouts come up as hearty as can be out here. The
shade, the spring, the shelter of the rock, keep it alive, you see,
so it's no use trying to move it.”
Both sat silent for a few minutes, as their hands moved briskly and
they thought of their different lots. An inquisitive ray of sunshine
peeped in at them, touching Becky's hair till it shone like red
gold. The same ray dazzled Emily's eyes; she put up her hand to pull
her hat-brim lower, and touched the little curls on her forehead.
This recalled her pet grievance, and made her say impatiently, as
she pushed the thick short locks under her net,--
“My hair is SUCH a plague! I don't know what I am to do when I go
into society by-and-by. This crop is so unbecoming, and I can't
match my hair anywhere, it is such a peculiar shade of golden-auburn.”
“It's a pretty color, and I think the curls much nicer than a
boughten switch,” said Becky, quite unconscious that her own
luxuriant locks were of the true Titian red, and would be much
admired by artistic eyes.
“I don't! I shall send to Paris to match it, and then wear a braid
round my head as you do sometimes. I suppose it will cost a fortune,
but I WON'T have a strong-minded crop. A friend of mine got a lovely
golden switch for fifty dollars.”
“My patience! do folks pay like that for false hair?” asked Becky,
amazed.