A POET AT HOME

One day Julia had an adventure-not

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a wildly exciting

one," as some of the girls liked to describe what had happened to them, but one that she was always to remember with pleasure. It was a windy day in early January, and there was a fine glaze on the ground from a storm of the day before. As she was slipping along down Beacon street, on her way home from school, it was all that she could do to hold her footing.

Luckily she had no books to carry, and so when suddenly she saw some sheets of letter paper whirling past her, she was able to rush on and pick them up as they were dashed against a lamp-post. Then she naturally looked 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 the gentleman carried a book, and as he held out his hand toward 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 this one."

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Why, sir," Julia began to say; then looking up in his face, she suddenly gave a start. Surely she had seen that face before. But where? In an instant 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. "Were were they some of your own poems?" she managed to stammer, "it would have been dreadful if they had been lost."

"Not half so dreadful," he replied smiling, "as if they had been written by some one else. As a matter of fact they were sent to 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."

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

When Julia repeated this later at the table, her aunt was much interested. "What else did he say?" she inquired.

"Oh, he thanked me again for picking up the papers, and when he heard that I had not been long in Boston, he asked me to call some af

ternoon to see him. I walked along until he reached his door. Do you know that he lives near here?"

Her aunt knew, and approved of her making the call. A few afternoons later Julia and her friend Edith walked up the short flight of stone steps to the poet's 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 inquired for the master of the house. In a moment she returned and asked them to follow her. At the head of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing with outstretched hand to meet them. When Julia mentioned Edith's name, 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 Dr. Holmes talked, Julia's eyes wandered to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not help noticing a number of volumes of his 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, 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. Words and expression 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."

"Do you really have a great deal of poetry sent you to read?" Julia asked.

"Every mail," he answered, " brings me letters from strangers, from every corner of the globe. Some are accompanied

by long manuscripts on which my opinion is asked. I am chary now about expressing any opinion, for some 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 that he would be interested. He returned the compliment with a copy of one of his own books. But-" here he paused, "he wrote his thanks on a post-card!" Again the girls laughed. "Dear me!" he concluded, "this cannot interest young creatures like you; do you care for poetry?"

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Oh, yes indeed we do," cried Julia, " and we just love poetry." "Well, well," said the poet, with a twinkle in his eyes, "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, Dr. Holmes began:

"This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair."

When he had finished the stanza, he looked up inquiringly.

"The Chambered Nautilus," murmured Julia.

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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.

"In winter," he said, "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 pleasureboat. 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 his rapier."

When both of the girls admitted that they could not see the "That only shows," he said, "how clever the man was who made the repairs."

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