"No, we might as well wait until Philip comes back; he and Will couldn't resist going over there on the field to talk things over with some of their friends," said Mrs. Blair, "and I told them that I felt sure that you would excuse them."

"Why, of course," added Julia, and Ruth followed with a polite, "Yes, indeed." But Belle, looking a little discontented, said nothing. "What is the good," she was saying to herself, "of having two young men in your party, if they never stay with you, when so many of the other girls are at the game with only their fathers, or elderly relatives."

If she had thought carefully, she would have realized that the two boys had really sacrificed not a little fun to act as escorts to "a parcel of girls," as some of their student friends put it. Really they had been very polite, they had hardly laughed at the mistakes made by the girls in the use of terms during the game, and they had been more than willing to explain the fine points of the play. When they were with the girls, it was not Belle whom they thought the most about, but on Philip's part, it was Julia, and on Will's, Ruth with her bright face, and vivacious manner.

"Did you see papa?" cried Nora, "he was tossing his hat in the air, like a boy. I tried to make him look at us, but he would not do so. I suppose it was harder for him to recognize us than for me to distinguish him."

"No, I didn't see your father," replied Edith, "but I did see your brother Clifford. He, however, never looked our way for a second. He had his hat on the back of his head, and he and two or three other men seemed beside themselves."

"Oh, yes, I suppose he and his friends are dreadfully pleased. You know that Jefferson is a great friend of theirs."

"But he was hurt."

"Oh, that's nothing! As long as he wasn't killed it's all the more glory for him. He and Clifford are room-mates, and they are devoted to each other."

Then as the crowds from the benches swept past the girls, they saw many friends and acquaintances, and Belle's injured pride was salved by the return of Philip and Will just as two or three girls whom she especially disliked walked past escorted only by an uncle.

How pleasant the walk back to the Square through the college grounds was, with a few minutes in Philip's room, not long enough for the cup of tea which he wished to offer, but long enough to make them all enthusiastic to accept his invitation to come out to Cambridge some other afternoon and examine his trophies. Really there seemed to be few ornaments on the walls that were not connected in some way with college sports--flags, medals, certificates of membership in this society or that, photographs of the crew, of the teams,--but some time you may hear more about the room, and so I will leave my description of it until then.

To Julia the whole day had been more than delightful, she enjoyed every moment of it, and she began to feel so at home with Edith's friends, that not even Belle could rival her in quickness of repartee. Frances Pounder looked at her in astonishment, when some of her own little snubbing remarks fell one side without any effect. Ruth Roberts, too, proved herself a great acquisition to the party, especially at the dinner at Edith's. For Mrs. Blair gave an elaborate dinner to the group that had attended the game, increased by the addition of two friends of Philip's; and even if, as the worldly wise Frances Pounder suggested, the whole affair had been arranged to prevent Philip and his friends from joining the boisterous crowd of students in their Cambridge celebration of the victory, Philip certainly had occasion to congratulate himself on possessing a mother who would take so much trouble for her children. So Brenda ate raw oysters, and Belle entertained Will Hardon with an account of her last visit to New York, and Nora endeavored to eat and talk at the same time, and Edith smiled placidly on her friends while trying to remove the sting from some of Frances Pounder's sharp remarks, and Julia forgot her shyness, and Ruth Roberts impressed Mrs. Blair as a particularly intelligent girl, and all the boys, as well as the girls, said that they had never had a pleasanter afternoon. So who can say that the game had not proved itself a great success in more ways than one?

XV

A POET AT HOME

One day Julia had an adventure--not "a wildly exciting one," as some of the girls liked to describe what had happened to them, but one that she was always to remember with pleasure. It was a windy day in early January, and there was a fine glaze on the ground from a storm of the day before. As she was slipping along down Beacon street, on her way home from school, it was all that she could do to hold her footing. One hand was kept in constant use holding down the brim of her hat which seemed inclined to blow away. Luckily she had no books to carry, and so when suddenly she saw some sheets of letter paper whirling past her, she was able to rush on and pick them up as they were dashed against a lamp-post. Another moment, and they would have been driven by another gust of wind down a short street leading to the river.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHE WAS ABLE TO RUSH ON AND PICK THEM UP AS THEY WERE DASHED AGAINST A LAMP-POST"]

When she had the papers safely in her possession, Julia naturally looked around to see to whom they belonged. The owner was not far away, for just a few steps behind her was an old gentleman, not very tall, dressed all in black with a high silk hat. Under his arm he carried a book, and as he held out his hand towards her Julia had no doubt that he was the owner of the wandering ma.n.u.script.

"Thank you, my child," he said, as she held the sheets towards him.

"Another gust, and I should have had to compose a new poem to take the place of the one that was so ready to--go to press against that lamp-post.

"There, that was not a very brilliant pun, was it?" he asked, for Julia now was walking along by his side.

"Why, sir," she had begun to say, looking up in his face. Then suddenly she gave a start. Surely she had seen that face before! But where? Yet almost in a shorter time than I have taken to tell it, she recognized the owner of the papers. He was certainly no other than Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, the famous Autocrat of the Breakfast table, several of whose poems she knew almost by heart. All her old shyness came back to her, she did not exactly dare to say that she recognized him, and all she could think of was another question in relation to the ma.n.u.script.

"Were--were they some of your own poems?" she managed to stammer, "it would have been dreadful if they had been lost."

"Not half as dreadful," he replied smiling, "as if they had been written by some one else. As a matter of fact these were sent me by an unfledged poet who wished me to tell him whether he would stand a chance of getting them into a publisher's hands. He told me to take great care of them as he had no copy. I read his note at my publisher's just now, and I felt bound to carry the ma.n.u.script home. But I'm not sure that it would not have been a good thing to lose a sheet or two to teach him a lesson. He should not send a thing to a stranger without making a copy."

The poet of course did not speak to Julia in precisely these words, but this was the drift of what he said, and it was in about this form that she repeated it to her aunt and Brenda at the luncheon table.

"What else did he say?" her aunt had asked, with great interest.

"Oh, he thanked me again for picking up the papers, complimented me for being so sure-footed on such a slippery sidewalk, and what do you think, Aunt Anna, when he heard that I had not long been in Boston, he asked me to call some afternoon to see him. He is always at home after four. I walked along until he reached his door step. Do you know that he lives very near here. I was _so_ surprised to find it out. Have you ever been there, Brenda?"

"No," said Brenda, shaking her head, "I did not exactly notice whom you were talking about."

"Why, Dr. Holmes," replied Julia.

"Oh," said Brenda, with a stare that seemed to imply that this name did not mean much to her.

"Why, you know, Brenda, Oliver Wendell Holmes?" prompted her mother, and still Brenda looked rather blank.

"Brenda," said Mrs. Barlow, "I am surprised. Surely you remember how pleased you were with 'The Last Leaf' when I had you learn it last summer, and you _must_ remember that I told you that the poet who wrote it lives in Boston."

"I dare say," answered Brenda carelessly, "but I had forgotten. I don't see why Julia should be so excited about meeting a poet. There must be ever so many of them everywhere."

"Ah! Brenda," responded her mother, "I do wish that you would take more interest in the affairs of your own city. Here is Julia who has been in Boston but a short time, and I am sure that she knows more about our famous men and women than you who have lived here all your life."

For a wonder Brenda did not laugh at what her mother said, nor take offence.

"I never shall be a book-worm," she said very good-naturedly. "I am willing to leave all that to Julia."

So when Julia asked her one afternoon, if she would not like to go with her to call on Dr. Holmes, she declined with thanks, and left Julia free to invite Edith.

As the two friends walked up the short flight of stone steps to the front door, their hearts sank a little. To make a call on a poet was really a rather formidable thing, and they pressed each other's hands as they heard the maid opening the door to admit them.

"Just wait here for a moment," said the maid, after they had enquired for the master of the house, and she showed them into a small room at the left of the entrance. It seemed to be merely a reception-room, but it was very pretty with its white woodwork and large-flowered yellow paper. There was a carved table in the centre with writing materials and ink-stand, and little other furniture besides a few handsome chairs.

Tall bookcases matching the woodwork occupied the recesses, and they were filled with books in substantial bindings.

In a moment the maid had returned and asked them to follow her. At the head of the broad stairs they saw the poet himself standing to meet them with outstretched hand. When Julia mentioned Edith's name, "Ah," he said, "that is a good old Boston name, and if I mistake not, I used to know your grandfather," and then when Edith had satisfied him on this point he turned to Julia, and in a bantering way spoke of the service she had done him that windy day. Then he made them sit down beside him, one on each side, while he occupied a large leather armchair drawn up before his open fire, and asked them one or two questions about their studies and their taste in literature. As he talked, Julia's eyes wandered to the bronze figure of Father Time on the mantelpiece, and then to the little revolving bookcase on which she could not help noticing a number of volumes of Dr. Holmes' own works. The old gentleman following her glance, said:

"They make a pretty fair showing for one man, but my publishers are getting ready to bring out a complete edition of my works, and that, well that makes me realize my age." After a moment, as if reflecting, he asked quickly, "Does either of you write poetry?"

"Oh, no, sir," answered Edith quickly, "we couldn't."

"Why, it isn't so very hard," he said, "at least I should judge not by the numbers of copies of verses that are sent to me to examine. Poetry deals with common human emotion, and almost any one with a fair vocabulary thinks that he can express himself in verse. But nearly everything worth saying has been said. Words and expressions seem very felicitous to the writer, but he cannot expect other persons to see his work as he sees it."

"It depends, I suppose," said Edith shyly, "on whose work it is."

"I am afraid," replied the poet, "that there is no absolute standard for verse-makers. It has always seemed to me that the writer of verse is almost in the position of a man who makes a mold for a plaster cast or something of that kind. Whatever liquid mixture he puts into that mold will surely fit it. So the verse is the mold into which the poet puts his thought, and from his point of view it is sure to fit."

Though Edith may not have grasped the full force of the poet's meaning, Julia was sure that she understood him.

"Do you really have a great deal of poetry sent you to read?" she asked.

"Every mail," he answered, "brings me letters from strangers,--from every corner of the globe. Some contain poems in my honor, as specimens of what the poet can do. Others are accompanied by long ma.n.u.scripts on which my opinion is asked. I am chary now about expressing any opinion, for publishers have a way of quoting very unfairly in their advertis.e.m.e.nts. If I write 'your book would be very charming were it not so carelessly written,' the publisher quotes merely 'very charming,' and prints this in large type."

Both girls smiled at the expression of droll sorrow that came over the poet's face as he spoke.

"And I am so very unfortunate myself," he added, "when I try to get an autograph of any consequence. Now I sent Gladstone a copy of a work on trees in which I thought he would be interested. He returned the compliment with a copy of one of his books. But--" here he paused, "he wrote his thanks on a postcard!" Again the girls laughed. "Dear me!" he concluded, "this cannot interest young creatures like you; do you care for poetry?"