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Updated: June 12, 2025
Sigourney, and, not the least by far, Lucy Larcom, the truest poetess of that day in America, who gave us some of her most charming poems. She was teacher in a girls' school somewhere in Massachusetts, and I went to see her in one of my editorial trips.
He merges in their popularity the fame of a poet which I do not think will always suffer that eclipse, for his poems show him to have looked deeply into the heart of common humanity, with a true and tender sense of it. Miss Larcom scarcely seemed to change from date to date in the generation that elapsed between the time I first saw her and the time I saw her last, a year or two before her death.
There was water spilt on the table, and the fragments of a broken glass upon the floor. The moment Rachel saw her, she divined what had happened, and, gliding over, she placed her arm round her. 'You're better, darling. Open the window, Stanley. Send her maid. 'Aye, send her maid, cried Captain Lake to Larcom. 'This is your d d work. A nice mess you have made of it among you.
Lord Chelford, too, having looked on Lake with silent, but awful misgivings, longed for the arrival of the doctor; and was listening and silent when Buddle's short step and short respiration were heard in the passage. So Larcom came to the door to announce the doctor in a whisper, and Buddle fussed into the room, and made his bow to Lord Chelford, and his brief compliments and condolences.
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