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en of the genteel doll…world； and another was an expert at fine stitching； so delicately done that it was a pleasure to see or to wear anything her needle had touched。 I had none of these gifts。 I looked on and admired； and sometimes tried to imitate； but my efforts usually ended in defeat and mortification。
I did like to knit； however； and I could shape a stocking tolerably well。 My fondness for this kind of work was chiefly because it did not require much thought。 Except when there was 〃widening〃 or 〃narrowing〃 to be done； I did not need to keep my eyes upon it at all。 So I took a book upon my lap and read； and read； while the needles clicked on； comforting me with the reminder that I was not absolutely unemployed； while yet I was having a good time reading。
I began to know that I liked poetry； and to think a good deal about it at my childish work。 Outside of the hymn…book； the first rhymes I committed to memory were in the 〃Old Farmer's Almanac；〃 files of which hung in the chimney corner； and were an inexhaust… ible source of entertainment to us younger ones。
My father kept his newspapers also carefully filed away in the garret； but we made sad havoc among the 〃Palladiums〃 and other journals that we ought to have kept as antiquarian treasures。 We valued the anecdote column and the poet's corner only； these we clipped unsparingly for our scrap…books。
A tattered copy of Johnson's large Dictionary was a great delight to me； on account of the specimens of English versification which I found in the Introduction。 I learned them as if they were so many poems。 I used to keep this old volume close to my pillow； and I amused myself when I awoke in the morning by reciting its jingling contrasts of iambic and trochaic and dactylic metre； and thinking what a charming occupation it must be to 〃make up〃 verses。
I made my first rhymes when I was about seven years old。 My brother John proposed 〃writing poetry〃 as a rainy…day amusement； one afternoon when we two were sent up into the garret to entertain ourselves without disturbing the family。 He soon grew tired of his unavailing attempts； but I produced two stanzas； the first of which read thus：
〃One summer day； said little Jane； We were walking down a shady lane； When suddenly the wind blew high； And the red lightning flashed in the sky。 The second stanza descended in a dreadfully abrupt anti…climax； but I was blissfully ignorant of rhetoricians' rules； and supposed that the rhyme was the only important thing。 It may amuse my child…readers if I give them this verse too：
〃The peals of thunder； how they rolled！ And I felt myself a little cooled； For I before had been quite warm； But now around me was a storm。〃
My brother was surprised at my success； and I believe I thought my verses quite fine； too。 But I was rather sorry that I had written them； for I had to say them over to the family； and then they sounded silly。 The habit was formed； however； and I went on writing little books of ballads； which I illustrated with colors from my toy paintbox； and then squeezed down into the cracks of the garret floor； for fear that somebody would find them。
My fame crept out among the neighbors； nevertheless。 I was even invited to write some verses in young lady's album； and Aunt Hannah asked me to repeat my verses to her。 I considered myself greatly honored by both requests。
My fondness for books began very early。 At the age of four I had formed the plan of collecting a library。 Not of limp； paper… covered picture…books； such as people give to babies； no！ I wanted books with stiff covers； that could stand up side by side on a shelf； and maintain their own character as books。 But I did not know how to make a beginning； for mine were all of the kind manufactured for infancy； and I thought they deserved no better fate than to be tossed about among my rag…babies and playthings。
One day； however； I found among some rubbish in a corner a volume； with one good stiff cover； the other was missing。 It did not look so very old； nor as if it had been much read； neither did it look very inviting to me as I turned its leaves。 On its title…page I read 〃The Life of John Calvin。〃 I did not know who he was； but a book was a book to me； and this would do as well as any to begin my library with。 I looked upon it as a treasure； and to make sure of my claim； I took it down to my mother and timidly asked if I might have it for my own。 She gave me in reply a rather amused 〃Yes；〃 and I ran back happy； and began my library by setting John Calvin upright on a beam under the garret eaves； my 〃make…believe〃 book…case shelf。
I was proud of my literary property； and filled out the shelf in fancy with a row of books； every one of which should have two stiff covers。 But I found no more neglected volumes that I could adopt。 John Calvin was left to a lonely fate； and am afraid that at last the mice devoured him。 Before I had quite forgotten him； however； I did pick up one other book of about his size； and in the same one…covered condition； and this attracted me more； because it was in verse。 Rhyme had always a sort of magnetic power over me； whether I caught at any idea it contained or not。
This was written in the measure which I afterwards learned was called Spenserian。 It was Byron's 〃Vision of Judgment；〃 and Southey's also was bound up with it。 Southey's hexameters were too much of a mouthful for me； but Byron's lines jingled； and apparently told a story about something。 St。 Peter came into it； and King George the Third； neither of which names meant anything to me； but the scenery seemed to be somewhere up among the clouds； and I； unsuspicious of the author's irreverence； took it for a sort of semi…Biblical fairy tale。
There was on my mother's bed a covering of pink chintz； pictured all over with the figure of a man sitting on a cloud； holding a bunch of keys。 I put the two together in my mind； imagining the chintz counterpane to be an illustration of the poem； or the poem an explanation of the counterpane。 For the stanza I liked best began with the words；
〃St。Peter sat at the celestial gate； And nodded o'er his keys。〃
I invented a pronunciation for the long words； and went about the house reciting grandly；
〃St。 Peter sat at the kelestikal gate； And nodded o'er his keys。〃
That volume； swept back to me with the rubbish of Time； still reminds me； forlorn and half…clad； of my childish fondness for its mock…magnificence。
John Calvin and Lord Byron were rather a peculiar combination； as the foundation of an infant's library； but I was not aware of any unfitness or incompatibility。 To me they were two brother…books； like each other in their refusal to wear limp covers。
It is amusing to recall the rapid succession of contrasts in one child's tastes。 I felt no incongruity between Dr。 Watts and Mother Goose。 I supplemented 〃Pibroch of Donuil Dhu〃 and
〃Lochiel； Lochiel； beware of the day；〃
with 〃Yankee Doodle〃 and the 〃Diverting History of John Gilpin；〃 and with the glamour of some fairy tale I had just read still haunting me； I would run out of doors eating a big piece of bread and butter；sweeter than any has tasted since；and would jump up towards the crows cawing high above me； cawing back to them； and half wishing I too were a crow to make the sky ring with my glee。
After Dr。 Watts's hymns the first poetry I took great delight in greeted me upon the pages of the 〃American First Class Book；〃 handed down from older pupils in the little private school which my sisters and I attended when Aunt Hannah had done all she could for us。 That book was a collection of excellent literary extracts； made by one who was himself an author and a poet。 It deserved to be called 〃first…class〃 in another sense than that which was understood by its title。 I cannot think that modern reading books have improved upon it much。 It contained poems from Wordsworth； passages from Shakespeare's plays； among them the pathetic dialogue between Hubert and little Prince Arthur； whose appeal to have his eyes spared； brought many a tear to my own。 Bryant's 〃Waterfowl〃 and 〃Thanatopsis〃 were there also； and Neal's；
〃There's a fierce gray bird with a bending beak；〃
that the boys loved so dearly to 〃declaim；〃 and another poem by this last author； which we all liked to read； partly from a childish love of the tragic； and partly for its graphic description of an avalanche's movement：
〃Slowly it came in its mountain wrath； And the forests vanished before its path； And the rude cliffs bowed； and the waters fled； And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead。〃
In reading this； 〃Swiss Minstrel's Lament over the Ruins of Goldau；〃 I first felt my imagination thrilled with the terrible beauty of the mountainsa terror and a sublimity which attracted my thoughts far more than it awed them。 But the poem in which they burst upon me as real presences； unseen； yet known in their remote splendor as kingly friends before whom I could bow； yet with whom I could aspire；for something like this I think mountains must always be to those who truly love them；was Coleridge's 〃Mont Blanc before Sunrise；〃 in this same 〃First Class Book。〃 I believe that poetry really first took possession of me in that poem； so that afterwards I could not e