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A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
51
A
proud
and
happy
child
I
was,
when
I
was
permitted
to
dip
a
goose
quill
into
an
inkstand,
and
make
written
letters,
instead
of
printing
them
with
a
pencil
on
a
slate.
My
sister
prepared
a
neat
little
writing-book
for
me,
and
told
me
not
to
make
a
mark
in
it
except
when
she
was
near
to
tell
me
what
to
do.
In
my
self-sufficient
impatience
to
get
out
of
"pothooks
and
trammels"
into
real
letters
and
words
I
disobeyed
her
injunction,
and
disfigured
the
pages
with
numerous
tell-tale
blots.
Then
I
hid
the
book
away
under
the
garret
eaves,
and
refused
to
bring
it
to
light
again.
I
was
not
allowed
to
resume
my
studies
in
penmanship
for
some
months,
in
consequence.
But
when
I
did
learn
to
write,
Emilie
was
my
teacher,
and
she
made
me
take
great
pains
with
my
p's
and
q's.
It
is
always
a
mistake
to
cram
a
juvenile
mind.
A
precocious
child
is
certainly
as
far
as
possible
from
being
an
interesting
one.
Children
ought
to
be
children,
and
nothing
else.
But
I
am
not
sorry
that
I
learned
to
read
when
so
young,
because
there
were
years
of
my
childhood
that
came
after,
when
I
had
very
little
time
for
reading
anything.
To
learn
hymns
was
not
only
a
pastime,
but
a
pleasure
which
it
would
have
been
almost
cruel
to
deprive
me
of.
It
did
not
seem
to
me
as
if
I
learned
them,
but
as
if
they
just
gave
themselves
to
me
while
I
read
them
over;
as
if
they,
and
the
unseen
things
they
sang
about,
became
a
part
of
me.
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