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.
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