St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1892-10-21
The Little Playmate Whom
Whittier Cherished in
HIS Heart,
Even When Grasses on Her
Grave Had Forty Years
Been Growing.
A Story Which Is in Itself a
Tenderly Pathetic
Poem.

but Tor all that gueSSwOrk does not
always make so clean bull's-eye as it
did in the case of the one love which
first frightened and then saddened the
life of the poet Whittier. a e
For many years, says a writer in the
New York Recorder. people have sur
missed that his sweet ballad, I'm School
Days." was cloaked confession of
romance, the outcome of which would
In all probability have become matri-
mony had not death deprived the gentle
singer of his idol. But, so far as known,
Mr.. Whittier never explained his pretty
song to more than one person.
Away back in the days when Ames-
bury was the home of the poet an timer
ant newspaper man spent part of a
summer on a Naverhill farm. Ames-
bury and Haverhill are closely adjacent
to each other and stand in the midst of
meadows which are intersected by trout
streams. The scribe in question was at
that time an insatiate fisherman. All
his days were spent, rod i'll hand, along
the streams the Quaker poet loved so
well; but they were usually days spent
in vain, for few and small were the
trout he captured.
One day, when most of the bites had
come from mosquitoes and the fishing
apparatus seemed uncOmmonly useless,
the scribe quit fishing in disgust, and
for diversion set about carving his ill.,
itlals in a slab fence. But carving was
no more successful than fishing, for be-
fore the senblance of the first letter
was Whitfield out of the tough wood the
luckless scribe broke his knife.
Did he swear? Not audibly-but he
might have done so had not pleasant
voice then asked him: Would thee
like another knife?"
When the startled scribe looked up he
was considerably abashed; not because
he had been Oyertaken in the midst of
silly performance, but because his fish
ing kit was with him, and the newcomer
was Whittier. who held fishing to be
cruel sport. The genial poet was laugh
ing, however, In his quiet, yet merry
way, SO the newspaper man took cour-
age.
Ibid thee find success in the art pis-
catoriai?' inquired the poet, gravely.
= "None whatever" returned the scribe,
warmly, proud for once of his ability to
confess ill-fortune. II think l have
forgotten how to WOO fish from their ele-
ment. Not one trout has risen to my
flies in five mihutes.''
at is well. Then 1 will truly lend
thee my knife, so thee can finish mutt
ilating the fence-if thee must mar some
thing"
The offer was declined, whereupon
the poet began talking of the days when
the streams about Haverhill and AmeS-
bury were so full of fish that one could
scoop them out with his bare hands,
with no aid of fly or net.
II suppose you went fishing in those
days, MI. WhittIer?''
Yea. sometimes. Youth is ever a
time OF helpleSsness. Fishing, too, was
then means of providing food, which
is somewhat different than wanton
sport.''
"Oh, | eat my fish, too-when catch
any,. How long is it since you gave up
angling?'
MANY years. Many more than thee
hast yet seen. A little playfellow
taught me it was wrong, in school
days"
why, that is the title of one of your
poems, In School Daysv'
Thee sayest rightly. 1t truly was.'
And then the poet turned his face
slightly aside and looked dreamily at
the hills back of Haverhill.
Inc scribe scented a story. He had
already been told that 1t was among
these very hills that the supposed orig
mai OF I'm School Days" had lived and
died. And, as the scribe had known the
poet closely number of years, he
ventured to probe for the quarry he felt
he had flushed.
I'm my humble Judgment" said the
scribe. there are no lines in any poem
more tender than the ones where YOU
say:
Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child face is showing!
Dear girl, the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing.
He lives to learn in life's hard school.
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss
Like her, because they love him
"There is dainty, subtle something
about that which has always made me
believe that the real had a larger place
than the ideal in that song"
The eyes Of the poet were still fixed
on the hills.
MAY not the real and the ideal be
made to seem alike? Is not that the es-
pecial province of the .Imagination?" he
asked, turning his face tritle further
away from the scribe.
certainly. to great extent. But
there are occasional phrases in all liter
AZURE which impress most readers as
coming from the heart rather than out
OF the mind. The lines L refer to are |
of this character"
"DOst thee think there are others who |
are impressed the same way with nv
little song?'
MANY others. have often heard it !
said"
More attractive than ever grew the |
hills across the meadows. The face of |
the poet was now altogether turned |
from the scribe. Perhaps further per
sistence was cruel. but when it is once |
developed. the newspaper instinct can |
never be repressed.
"Of course" said the scribe, 'the |
business of the poet is ever to deal with |
the ideal, but the real cannot fail to |
sometimes be the incentive, or the in
spiration. Poetry itself is probably the
idealizlng of realities. That, perhaps. |
is why many of your friends believe |
that tender memories center Upon that
little grave where the grasses have
forty years been growing"
Here the poet faced abont. A smile |
which was somewhat too rare to be al
human played across his |
peaceful face. He did not look dis
turbed, but surprised.
. Thee hast brought me face to
face with fact, and facts are not