Chapter 15: A Poet at Home

One day Julia had an adventure—not “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. One hand was kept in constant use holding down the brim of her hat which seemed inclined to blow away. 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. Another moment, and they would have been driven by another gust of wind down a short street leading to the river.

“Brenda,” said Mrs. Barlow, “I am surprised. Surely you remember how pleased you were with ‘The Last Leaf’ when I had you learn it last summer, and you must remember that I told you that the poet who wrote it lives in Boston.”

“I dare say,” answered Brenda carelessly, “but I had forgotten. I don’t see why Julia should be so excited about meeting a poet. There must be ever so many of them everywhere.”

“Ah! Brenda,” responded her mother, “I do wish that you would take more interest in the affairs of your own city. Here is Julia who has been in Boston but a short time, and I am sure that she knows more about our famous 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 take offence.

“I never shall be a book-worm,” she said very good-naturedly. “I am willing to leave all that to Julia.”

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

As the two friends walked up the short flight of stone steps to the 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 enquired for the master of the house, and she showed them into a small room at the left of the entrance. It seemed to be merely a reception-room, but it was very pretty with its white woodwork and large-flowered yellow paper. There was a carved table in the centre with writing materials and ink-stand, and little other furniture besides a few handsome chairs. Tall bookcases matching the woodwork occupied the recesses, and they were filled with books in substantial bindings.

In a moment the maid had returned and asked them to follow her. At the head of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing to meet them with outstretched hand. When Julia mentioned Edith’s name, “Ah,” he said, “that is a good old Boston name, and if I mistake not, I used to know your grandfather,” and then when Edith had satisfied him on this point he turned to Julia, and in a bantering way spoke of the service she 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 up before his open fire, and asked them one or two questions about their studies and their taste in literature. As he talked, Julia’s eyes wandered to the bronze figure of Father Time on the mantelpiece, and then to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not help noticing a number of volumes of Dr. Holmes’ 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, as if reflecting, 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. But nearly everything worth saying has been said. Words and expressions 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.”