ed, for I had even stronger inclinations
in other directions; and art, really noble art, requires the entire
devotion of a lifetime.

I seldom thought seriously of becoming an author, although it seemed to
me that anybody who had written a book would have a right to feel very
proud. But I believed that a person must be exceedingly wise before
presuming to attempt it: although now and then I thought I could feel
ideas growing in my mind that it might be worth while to put into a
book,--if I lived and studied until I was forty or fifty years old.

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.

All my thoughts about my future sent me back to Aunt Hannah and my
first infantile idea of being a teacher. I foresaw that I should be
that before I could be or do any thing else. It had been impressed upon
me that I must make myself useful in the world, and certainly one