“What is the history of ’The Chambered Nautilus’?” Edward asked.

“It has none,” came the reply, “it wrote itself.  So, too, did ’The One-Hoss Shay.’  That was one of those random conceptions that gallop through the brain, and that you catch by the bridle.  I caught it and reined it.  That is all.”

Just then a maid brought in a parcel, and as Doctor Holmes opened it on his desk he smiled over at the boy and said: 

“Well, I declare, if you haven’t come just at the right time.  See those little books?  Aren’t they wee?” and he handed the boy a set of three little books, six inches by four in size, beautifully bound in half levant.  They were his “Autocrat” in one volume, and his better-known poems in two volumes.

“This is a little fancy of mine,” he said.  “My publishers, to please me, have gotten out this tiny wee set.  And here,” as he counted the little sets, “they have sent me six sets.  Are they not exquisite little things?” and he fondled them with loving glee.  “Lucky, too, for me that they should happen to come now, for I have been wondering what I could give you as a souvenir of your visit to me, and here it is, sure enough!  My publishers must have guessed you were here and my mind at the same time.  Now, if you would like it, you shall carry home one of these little sets, and I’ll just write a piece from one of my poems and your name on the fly-leaf of each volume.  You say you like that little verse: 

  “‘A few can touch the magic string.’

“Then I’ll write those four lines in this volume.”  And he did.

  “A few can touch the magic string,
    And noisy Fame is proud to win them,—­
  Alas for those who never sing,
    But die with all their music in them!”
               OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

As each little volume went under the poet’s pen Edward said, as his heart swelled in gratitude: 

“Doctor Holmes, you are a man of the rarest sort to be so good to a boy.”

The pen stopped, the poet looked out on the Charles a moment, and then, turning to the boy with a little moisture in his eye, he said: 

“No, my boy, I am not; but it does an old man’s heart good to hear you say it.  It means much to those on the down-hill side to be well thought of by the young who are coming up.”

As he wiped his gold pen, with its swan-quill holder, and laid it down, he said: 

“That’s the pen with which I wrote ‘Elsie Venner’ and the ‘Autocrat’ papers.  I try to take care of it.”

“You say you are going from me over to see Longfellow?” he continued, as he reached out once more for the pen.  “Well, then, would you mind if I gave you a letter for him?  I have something to send him.”

Sly but kindly old gentleman!  The “something” he had to send Longfellow was Edward himself, although the boy did not see through the subterfuge at that time.

“And now, if you are going, I’ll walk along with you if you don’t mind, for I’m going down to Park Street to thank my publishers for these little books, and that lies along your way to the Cambridge car.”