seen before in account-books and memoranda, and read eagerly some
trifling poems, which did not show much genius, nor much mastery of
language and rhythm,--such poems, in short, as a self-educated man, with
poetic taste and feeling rather than poetic inspiration or artistic
culture, might compose with credit, but not for fame. But suddenly, as
he turned over these "Occasional Pieces," Leonard came to others in a
different handwriting,--a woman's handwriting, small and fine and
exquisitely formed. He had scarcely read six lines of these last, before
his attention was irresistibly chained. They were of a different order
of merit from poor Mark's; they bore the unmistakable stamp of genius.
Like the poetry of women in general, they were devoted to personal
feeling,--they were not the mirror of a world, but reflections of a
solitary heart. Yet this is the kind of poetry most pleasing to the
young. And the verses in question had another attraction for Leonard:
they seemed to express some struggle akin to his own,--some complaint
against the actual condition of the writer's life, some sweet melodious
murmurs at fortune. For the rest, they were characterized by a vein of
sentiment so elevated, that, if written by a man, it would have run into
exaggeration; written by a woman, the romance was carried off by so many
genuine revelations of sincere, deep, pathetic feeling, that it was
always natural, though true to a nature for which you would not augur
happiness.

Leonard was still absorbed in the perusal of these poems when Mrs.
Fairfield entered the room.

"What have you been about, Lenny,--searching in my box?"

"I came to look for my father's bag of tools, Mother, and I found these
papers, which you said I might read some day."