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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
129
I
wrote
my
little
verses,
to
be
sure,
but
that
was
nothing;
they
just
grew.
They
were
the
same
as
breathing
or
singing.
I
could
not
help
writing
them,
and
I
thought
and
dreamed
a
great
many
that
were
ever
put
on
paper.
They
seemed
to
fly
into
my
mind
and
away
again,
like
birds
with
a
carol
through
the
air.
It
seemed
strange
to
me
that
people
should
notice
them,
or
should
think
my
writing
verses
anything
peculiar;
for
I
supposed
that
they
were
in
everybody's
mind,
just
as
they
were
in
mine,
and
that
anybody
could
write
them
who
chose.
One
day
I
heard
a
relative
say
to
my
mother,--
"Keep
what
she
writes
till
she
grows
up,
and
perhaps
she
will
get
money
for
it.
I
have
heard
of
somebody
who
earned
a
thousand
dollars
by
writing
poetry."
It
sounded
so
absurd
to
me.
Money
for
writing
verses!
One
dollar
would
be
as
ridiculous
as
a
thousand.
I
should
as
soon
have
thought
of
being
paid
for
thinking!
My
mother,
fortunately,
was
sensible
enough
never
to
flatter
me
or
let
me
be
flattered
about
my
scribbling.
It
never
was
allowed
to
hinder
any
work
I
had
to
do.
I
crept
away
into
a
corner
to
write
what
came
into
my
head,
just
as
I
ran
away
to
play;
and
I
looked
upon
it
only
as
my
most
agreeable
amusement,
never
thinking
of
preserving
anything
which
did
not
of
itself
stay
in
my
memory.
This
too
was
well,
for
the
time
did
lot
come
when
I
could
afford
to
look
upon
verse-writing
as
an
occupation.
Through
my
life,
it
has
only
been
permitted
to
me
as
an
aside
from
other
more
pressing
employments.
Whether
I
should
have
written
better
verses
had
circumstances
left
me
free
to
do
what
I
chose,
it
is
impossible
now
to
know.
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