The Seattle post-intelligencer. [volume] (Seattle, Wash. Terr. [Wash.]) 1888-1914, 1892-08-28

intemperances which kill, but in doing
this he merely drifted on the current of
his own desire. He has never had to deny
himself any or the dangerous luxuries,
because he never wished for any of them.
And as for the necessities of life, the
ravens have fed and covered and general
~ looked out for him.
While he was hoeing in his fathers
field, where he might have hoed his frail
young life away, his sister CHANGED to find
poem he had slyly written. She was a
raven, so she flew away with it to Garri-
sons newspaper, and no one knew whence
it had come. In few days the young
poet was shocked at seeing his verses in
print. The poem excited so much favora-
bic comment that the frightened boy
pleaded with his sister not to reveal the
authorship. But she was a raven, and a
girl, and glad sister. SO, of course, she
could not keep the secret. Then Garrison,
the great Garrison, came to see the blush
ing, barefoot boy, and caught him digging
potatoes. Garrison, too, was a raven-a
big, strong raven. as big as the bird that
flew off with Sinbad-and he snatched that
trembling boy out of the potato patch and
bore him away to school wherein,
whether he would or no, he was to learn
how to spell great words, such as Capital
F-r-double-e, Free, dom, dom, Freedom"
So John Greenleaf Whittier was flung.
in spite of his own remonstrance, into the
place designed for him; and. being there
he glorilied his name without knowing
how he did it. When l asked him today
how ne had written his poems what
method he had EN- ployed-he smiled and
said:
81 don't know. have no method. l
never had any,"
He made good boots, he made good po-
etry, and he made them both with the
hope that they would do somebody some
good Whether they would do him good,
whether he would be paid for them, did
not seem TO enter his mind. Somehow
he never knew how and he never cared
how, but somehow-bread enough found
its way to his hands, and he ate it and was
glad. He had no little troubles of his
own. All his troubles were great troubles
and always other peoples troubles. This
has been his life from first to last. He
has never taken care of himself He has
taken care of others and others have taken
care OF him.
For more than twenty-five years he was
hated by one-half his fellow countrrmen
and ieered at by almost the other half
His name at the head of poem was
finger post pointing toward the waste bas-
ket. But that was all right. He kept
along at his ordained work and the ravens
kept at theirs. After awhile there was 4
great clanking of chains and some millions
of Gods creatures stood blinded under the
bright, new sun of freedom. That was all
right, too. Then everybody began to look
about for the people who had ieered at
John u Whittier, but nobody could lind
them. They had all gone somewhere. and
publishers sat up ii c,a!nor far poems,
poems, poems-they al wanted Whiltier's
| poems.
Fame at last had found him. but it
could not lure him from his old, simple
WAYS. Gold was held ont before him and
he was begged TO write for It, but he could
not do it, He must have reason before
| he could write poem, and he could not
promise that reason would arise 80 he
could not engage and he never did engage
To write poem. Many times he has said
he wOuid never write again. Today he
said n me that his literary work is done.
hut Pr Garland, another of the many
| dear old Quaker ravens. said
Whittier, thee would write If thee took
| the notion.
| But the pale face of the feeble old poet
| looked IS ii he meant II this time when he
| repeated:
| 'Mv literary work is done. and turning
/ To Tae. added. III / we're disposed 70 write
| any more my physician would not let me- "
/ II would be hard to saw saere Mr.. " hit
] tier lives. de has houses al! up aud down