nights," said she, "when everything was in order, and, the next day
being Sunday, I had no household cares to think of, I would amuse myself
in composing verses that were seldom shown to any one. Mr. Henshaw was a
most excellent man and a kind husband, but he had no taste for poetry,
and considered it a great waste of time. Another thing that helped to
set him against it was an unfortunate poem that I composed on the event
of a marriage that took place in the neighborhood. The gentleman had
courted the lady for a number of years without success; and after
praising his constancy, I dwelt on the beauteous Eliza's charms, and
said something about winning the goal at last. But they were very much
offended; they supposed that I was ridiculing them, and said that I had
represented them as doing a great many foolish things which they had
never thought of. There was no use in attempting to pacify them--I had
thrown away my poetry where it was not appreciated; and Mr. Henshaw
exclaimed in a tone of annoyance: 'Now do, I beg of you, never let me
see you again at the writing-desk! You have done as much mischief with
your pen as other women accomplish with their tongues.' So I never sent
poetry again to other people; but whenever I felt lonely, I sat down and
wrote, and it has really been a great comfort to me. One of these days,
Amy, I shall give this all to you."

When I returned home, the poetry was carefully laid in the bottom of my
trunk; but I have my suspicions that for sometime after Jane kindled the
nursery fire with it. While looking over her things one day. Aunt
Henshaw showed me an old-fashioned pair of ear-rings, which I admired
very much.

"I intended to give these to you, Amy," said she, "but I see that your
ears have not been pierced."