in the sky.

The second stanza descended in a dreadfully abrupt anti-climax; but I
was blissfully ignorant of rhetoricians' rules, and supposed that the
rhyme was the only important thing. It may amuse my child-readers if I
give them this verse too:

"The peals of thunder, how they rolled!
And I felt myself a little cooled;
For I before had been quite warm;
But now around me was a storm."

My brother was surprised at my success, and I believe I thought my
verses quite fine, too. But I was rather sorry that I had written them,
for I had to say them over to the family, and then they sounded silly.
The habit was formed, however, and I went on writing little books of
ballads, which I illustrated with colors from my toy paintbox, and then
squeezed down into the cracks of the garret floor, for fear that
somebody would find them.

My fame crept out among the neighbors, nevertheless. I was even invited
to write some verses in young lady's album; and Aunt Hannah asked me to
repeat my verses to her. I considered myself greatly honored by both
requests.

My fondness for books began very early. At the age of four I had formed
the plan of collecting a library. Not of limp, paper-covered
picture-books, such as people give to babies; no! I wanted books with
stiff covers, that could stand up side by side on a shelf, and maintain
their own character as books. But I did not know how to make a
beginning, for mine were all of the kind manufactured for infancy, and
I thought they deserved no better fate than to be tossed about among my
rag-babies and playthings.

One day, however, I found among some rubbish in a corner a volume, with
one good stiff cover; the other was missing. It did not look so very
old, nor as if it had been much read; neither did it look very inviting
to me as I turned its leaves. On its title-page I read "The Life of
John Calvin." I did not know who he was, but a book was a book to me,
and this would do as well as any to begin my library with. I looked
upon it as a treasure, and to make sure of my claim, I took it down to
my mother and timidly asked if I might have it for my own. She gave me
in reply a rather amused "Yes," and I ran back happy, and began my
library by setting John Calvin upright on a beam under the garret
eaves, my "make-believe" book-case shelf.

I was proud of my literary property, and filled out the shelf in fancy
with a row of books, every one of which should have two stiff cover