Brenda, Her School and Her Club

by Oliver Optic

  XV

  A POET AT HOME

  One day Julia had an adventure--not "a wildly exciting one," as some ofthe girls liked to describe what had happened to them, but one that shewas always to remember with pleasure. It was a windy day in earlyJanuary, and there was a fine glaze on the ground from a storm of theday before. As she was slipping along down Beacon street, on her wayhome from school, it was all that she could do to hold her footing. Onehand was kept in constant use holding down the brim of her hat whichseemed inclined to blow away. Luckily she had no books to carry, and sowhen suddenly she saw some sheets of letter paper whirling past her, shewas able to rush on and pick them up as they were dashed against alamp-post. Another moment, and they would have been driven by anothergust of wind down a short street leading to the river.

  "SHE WAS ABLE TO RUSH ON AND PICK THEM UP AS THEY WERE DASHED AGAINST A LAMP-POST"]

  When she had the papers safely in her possession, Julia naturally lookedaround to see to whom they belonged. The owner was not far away, forjust a few steps behind her was an old gentleman, not very tall, dressedall in black with a high silk hat. Under his arm he carried a book, andas he held out his hand towards her Julia had no doubt that he was theowner 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 theplace of the one that was so ready to--go to press against thatlamp-post.

  "There, that was not a very brilliant pun, was it?" he asked, for Julianow was walking along by his side.

  "Why, sir," she had begun to say, looking up in his face. Then suddenlyshe gave a start. Surely she had seen that face before! But where? Yetalmost in a shorter time than I have taken to tell it, she recognizedthe owner of the papers. He was certainly no other than Dr. OliverWendell Holmes, the famous Autocrat of the Breakfast table, several ofwhose poems she knew almost by heart. All her old shyness came back toher, she did not exactly dare to say that she recognized him, and allshe could think of was another question in relation to the manuscript."Were--were they some of your own poems?" she managed to stammer, "itwould have been dreadful if they had been lost."

  "Not half as dreadful," he replied smiling, "as if they had been writtenby some one else. As a matter of fact these were sent me by an unfledgedpoet who wished me to tell him whether he would stand a chance ofgetting them into a publisher's hands. He told me to take great care ofthem as he had no copy. I read his note at my publisher's just now, andI felt bound to carry the manuscript home. But I'm not sure that itwould not have been a good thing to lose a sheet or two to teach him alesson. 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, butthis was the drift of what he said, and it was in about this form thatshe 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 forbeing 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 meto call some afternoon to see him. He is always at home after four. Iwalked along until he reached his door step. Do you know that he livesvery near here. I was _so_ surprised to find it out. Have you ever beenthere, Brenda?"

  "No," said Brenda, shaking her head, "I did not exactly notice whom youwere talking about."

  "Why, Dr. Holmes," replied Julia.

  "Oh," said Brenda, with a stare that seemed to imply that this name didnot mean much to her.

  "Why, you know, Brenda, Oliver Wendell Holmes?" prompted her mother, andstill Brenda looked rather blank.

  "Brenda," said Mrs. Barlow, "I am surprised. Surely you remember howpleased you were with 'The Last Leaf' when I had you learn it lastsummer, and you _must_ remember that I told you that the poet who wroteit lives in Boston."

  "I dare say," answered Brenda carelessly, "but I had forgotten. I don'tsee why Julia should be so excited about meeting a poet. There must beever so many of them everywhere."

  "Ah! Brenda," responded her mother, "I do wish that you would take moreinterest in the affairs of your own city. Here is Julia who has been inBoston but a short time, and I am sure that she knows more about ourfamous 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 takeoffence.

  "I never shall be a book-worm," she said very good-naturedly. "I amwilling to leave all that to Julia."

  So when Julia asked her one afternoon, if she would not like to go withher to call on Dr. Holmes, she declined with thanks, and left Julia freeto invite Edith.

  As the two friends walked up the short flight of stone steps to thefront door, their hearts sank a little. To make a call on a poet wasreally a rather formidable thing, and they pressed each other's hands asthey heard the maid opening the door to admit them.

  "Just wait here for a moment," said the maid, after they had enquiredfor the master of the house, and she showed them into a small room atthe left of the entrance. It seemed to be merely a reception-room, butit was very pretty with its white woodwork and large-flowered yellowpaper. There was a carved table in the centre with writing materials andink-stand, and little other furniture besides a few handsome chairs.Tall bookcases matching the woodwork occupied the recesses, and theywere filled with books in substantial bindings.

  In a moment the maid had returned and asked them to follow her. At thehead of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing to meet themwith outstretched hand. When Julia mentioned Edith's name, "Ah," hesaid, "that is a good old Boston name, and if I mistake not, I used toknow your grandfather," and then when Edith had satisfied him on thispoint he turned to Julia, and in a bantering way spoke of the serviceshe 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 upbefore his open fire, and asked them one or two questions about theirstudies and their taste in literature. As he talked, Julia's eyeswandered to the bronze figure of Father Time on the mantelpiece, andthen to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not helpnoticing a number of volumes of Dr. Holmes' own works. The old gentlemanfollowing her glance, said:

  "They make a pretty fair showing for one man, but my publishers aregetting 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, heasked 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 bythe numbers of copies of verses that are sent to me to examine. Poetrydeals with common human emotion, and almost any one with a fairvocabulary thinks that he can express himself in verse. But nearlyeverything worth saying has been said. Words and expressions seem veryfelicitous to the writer, but he cannot expect other persons to see hiswork 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 forverse-makers. It has always seemed to me that the writer of verse isalmost in the position of a man who makes a mold for a plaster cast orsomething of that kind. Whatever liquid mixture he puts into that moldwill surely fit it. So the verse is the mold into which the poet putshis 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,--fromevery corner of the globe. Some contain poems in my honor, as specimensof what the poet can do. Others are accompanied by long manuscripts onwhich my opinion is asked. I am chary now about expressing any opinion,for publishers have a way of quoting very unfairly in theiradvertise
ments. If I write 'your book would be very charming were it notso carelessly written,' the publisher quotes merely 'very charming,' andprints this in large type."

  Both girls smiled at the expression of droll sorrow that came over thepoet's face as he spoke.

  "And I am so very unfortunate myself," he added, "when I try to get anautograph of any consequence. Now I sent Gladstone a copy of a work ontrees in which I thought he would be interested. He returned thecompliment with a copy of one of his books. But--" here he paused, "hewrote his thanks on a postcard!" Again the girls laughed. "Dear me!" heconcluded, "this cannot interest young creatures like you; do you carefor 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 youwould like to hear me read something?"

  The beaming faces that met his glance were a sufficient answer, andtaking a volume from the table, he began in a voice that was a triflehusky, 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. Holmesread to the end of the poem in his wonderfully musical voice. When itwas finished, the girls would have liked to ask for more, but the poetrose to replace the volume. "Come," he said, "you have listened to thepoem which of all I have written I like the best, now I wish to show youmy favorite view." Following him to the deep bay-window, they looked outacross the river. It was much the same view to which Julia wasaccustomed in her uncle's house, and yet it was looking at the riverwith new eyes to have the poet pointing out all the towns, seven oreight in number which he could see from that window. Somerville,Medford, Belmont, Arlington, Charlestown, Brookline, and one or twoothers, perhaps, besides Cambridge with its spires and chimneys.

  "In winter," said Dr. Holmes, "there is not much to see besides thetug-boats and the gulls. But in the early spring it is a delight to meto watch the crews rowing by, and an occasional pleasure-boat, ah! Iremember"--but what it was he did not say, for as Edith turned her eyestoward an oil painting on the wall near by he said, "Of course you knowwho that is; of course you recognize the famous Dorothy Q. Now look atthe portrait closely, and tell me what you think of that cheek. Couldyou imagine any one so cruel as to have struck a sword into it? Yetthere, if your eyes are sharp enough, you will see where a Britishsoldier of the Revolution thrust this rapier."

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

  Before they turned from the window he made them notice the tall factorychimneys on the other side of the river which he called histhermometers, because according to the direction in which the smokecurled upwards, he was able to tell how the wind blew, and decide inwhat direction he should walk.

  "Remember," he said, "when you reach my age always to walk with yourback to the wind," and at this the girls smiled, they feeling that itwould be many years before they should need to follow this advice. Yetduring their call how many things they had to see and to remember! Helet each of them hold for a moment the gold pen with which he hadwritten Elsie Venner and the Autocrat papers, and Julia turned over theleaves of the large Bible and the Concordance on the top of his writingtable. Dr. Holmes called their attention to the beautiful landscapehanging on one wall done in fine needlework by the hands of hisaccomplished daughter-in-law, and he told them a story or two connectedwith another picture in the room. Julia, as she looked about, thoughtthat she had seldom seen a prettier room than this with its cheerfulrugs, massive furniture, and fine pictures, all so simple and yet sodignified. When the poet pointed out the great pile of letters lying onhis desk, he told them that this was about the number that he receivedevery day.

  "But you don't answer them all," exclaimed Edith almost breathlessly.

  "No, indeed," and he laughed, "my secretary goes through them everymorning, and decides which ought to be given me to read, and then--wellif 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 thepossession of an autograph of a famous man is something to be ardentlydesired. But neither of them had quite dared to ask Doctor Holmes forhis. It is possible that he saw the little nudge, or perhaps he read theeager expression on their faces, for almost before they realized it hehad 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 somethingon that bare fly-leaf."

  So seating himself at his table with a quill pen in his hand, he wroteslowly and evidently with some effort, the name of each of them,followed by the words "With the regards of Oliver Wendell Holmes," andthen the year, and the day of the month. As he handed them the books, heopened the door, and with a word or two more of half bantering thanks toJulia for her assistance on that windy day, he bowed them down thestairs.

  So impressed were they by the visit that they had little to say untilthey reached home, where they found Mrs. Barlow a very sympatheticlistener. Brenda, who happened to be at home looked with interest at thelittle volumes of selections from Doctor Holmes' writings with theirvaluable autographs, and said, "Well, you might have taken me, too."

  "Why, Brenda, I am sure that I asked you," said Julia, "but you declaredthat you would not speak to a poet for anything in the world."

  They all laughed at this, a proceeding which this time did not annoyBrenda.

  Mrs. Barlow admired the little books.

  "But I hope that you did not stay too long," she said gently, "for Ihave been told that Doctor Holmes has a way of sending off a guest whotires 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 toopolite to show it, but I'm glad that we have the books."