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A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
141
I
do
not
know
whether
it
was
fortunate
or
unfortunate
for
me
that
I
had
not,
by
nature,
what
is
called
literary
ambition.
I
knew
that
I
had
a
knack
at
rhyming,
and
I
knew
that
I
enjoyed
nothing
better
than
to
try
to
put
thoughts
and
words
together,
in
any
way.
But
I
did
it
for
the
pleasure
of
rhyming
and
writing,
indifferent
as
to
what
might
come
of
it.
For
any
one
who
could
take
hold
of
every-day,
practical
work,
and
carry
it
on
successfully,
I
had
a
profound
respect.
To
be
what
is
called
"capable"
seemed
to
me
better
worth
while
than
merely
to
have
a
taste
or
for
writing,
perhaps
because
I
was
conscious
of
my
deficiencies
in
the
former
respect.
But
certainly
the
world
needs
deeds
more
than
it
needs
words.
I
should
never
have
been
willing
to
be
only
a
writer,
without
using
my
hands
to
some
good
purpose
besides.
My
sister,
however,
told
me
that
here
was
a
talent
which
I
had
no
right
to
neglect,
and
which
I
ought
to
make
the
most
of.
I
believed
in
her;
I
thought
she
understood
me
better
than
I
understood
myself;
and
it
was
a
comfort
to
be
assured
that
my
scribbling
was
not
wholly
a
waste
of
time.
So
I
used
pencil
and
paper
in
every
spare
minute
I
could
find.
Our
little
home-journal
went
bravely
on
through
twelve
numbers.
Its
yellow
manuscript
pages
occasionally
meet
my
eyes
when
I
am
rummaging
among
my
old
papers,
with
the
half-conscious
look
of
a
waif
that
knows
it
has
no
right
to
its
escape
from
the
waters
of
oblivion.
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