Poor novels and stories I
did not read. I do not remember being forbidden them; but, by that
parental art finer than denial, they were absent from my convenience.
It needed no instruction in the canons of art, however, to teach me
that to do a good thing, one must work hard for it. So I gave the best
part of a month to the study of the Pemberton Mill tragedy, driving to
Lawrence, and investigating every possible avenue of information left
at that too long remove of time which might give the data. I visited
the rebuilt mills, and studied the machinery. I consulted engineers
and officials and physicians, newspaper men, and persons who had been
in the mill at the time of its fall. I scoured the files of old local
papers, and from these I took certain portions of names, actually
involved in the catastrophe; though, of course, fictitiously used.
When there was nothing left for me to learn upon the subject, I came
home and wrote a little story called "The Tenth of January," and sent
it to the "Atlantic Monthly," where it appeared in due time.
This story is of more interest to its author than it can possibly
be now to any reader, because it distinctly marked for me the first
recognition which I received from literary people.
Whittier, the poet, wrote me his first letter, after having read
this story.
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