Snow, the Spirit of the Grey Rain, the Spirit of Mist, and the Spirit of Moonshine.
“So you think I am not beautiful when I say my prayers?” said Mr. Carpenter.
Emily gasped—realized what had happened—made a frantic grab at her Jimmy-book—missed it. Mr. Carpenter held it up beyond her reach and mocked at her.
She had given him the wrong Jimmy-book! And this one, oh, horrors, what was in it? Or rather, what wasn’t in it? Sketches of everyone in Blair Water—and a full—a very full—description of Mr. Carpenter himself. Intent on describing him exactly, she had been as mercilessly lucid as she always was, especially in regard to the odd faces he made on mornings when he opened the school day with a prayer. Thanks to her dramatic knack of word painting, Mr. Carpenter lived in that sketch. Emily did not know it, but he did—he saw himself as in a glass and the artistry of it pleased him so that he cared for nothing else. Besides, she had drawn his good points quite as clearly as his bad ones. And there were some sentences in it—“He looks as if he knew a great deal that can never be any use to him”—“I think he wears the black coat Mondays because it makes him feel that he hasn’t been drunk at all.” Who or what had taught the little jade these things? Oh, her goddess would not pass Emily by!
“I’m—sorry,” said Emily, crimson with shame all over her dainty paleness.
“Why, I wouldn’t have missed this for all the poetry you’ve written or ever will write! By gad, it’s literature—literature—and you’re only thirteen. But you don’t know what’s ahead of you—the stony hills—the steep ascents—the buffets—the discouragements. Stay in the valley if you’re wise. Emily, why do you want to write? Give me your reason.”
“I want to be famous and rich,” said Emily coolly.
“Everybody does. Is that all?”
