“Then,” said the instructor, “you may take your slate and go out behind the schoolhouse, and there you can find something to write about; and then you can tell what it is, what it is for, and what is to be done with it; and that will be a composition.” Henry took his slate and went out. He went behind Mr. Finney’s barn, which chanced to be near; and, seeing a fine turnip growing, he thought he knew what it was, what it was for, and what would be done with it. A half hour had been allowed young Henry for his first undertaking in writing compositions. Before that time had expired he carried in his work, very neatly written on his slate. It was so well done that his teacher was both surprised and pleased. There has been published in the newspapers a very funny poem about a turnip, and some have said that it is the one which Longfellow wrote at this time. But the truth is, he never wrote it, for that first composition was rubbed off the slate and lost forever. This other poem was written years afterward by somebody for a joke. Here is the poem, however, for you to laugh about. You will clearly see that Longfellow could not have written it himself. MR. FINNEY’S TURNIP Mr. Finney had a turnip, And it grew, and it grew; And it grew behind the barn, And the turnip did no harm. And it grew and it grew, Till it could grow no taller; Then Mr. Finney took it up, And put it in the cellar. There it lay, there it lay, Till it began to rot; When his daughter Susie washed it, And put it in the pot. Then she boiled it, and she boiled it, As long as she was able; Then his daughter Lizzie took it, And she put it on the table. Mr. Finney and his wife Both sat down to sup; And they ate, and they ate, Until they ate the turnip up. When he was only thirteen years old Longfellow wrote a real poem, which, though it has never been published, is said to have been preserved in manuscript. It was entitled “Venice, an Italian Song.” The manuscript is dated “Portland Academy, March 17, 1820,” and is signed with the full name of the writer. It was not long after this that his first published poem appeared. It was entitled “The Battle of Lovell’s Pond,” and was printed in one of the newspapers of Portland. There were only two papers in that city then. Having written the ballad very carefully and neatly, Henry thought he would like to see it in print; but he was afraid to take it to the editor. One of his school-mates persuaded him, however, and he stole up one night and dropped it into the editorial box. He waited patiently for the next issue of the paper, and then scanned its columns for his poem, which he thought surely would be there. But it wasn’t. Many weeks passed and it did not appear. At last he went and asked to have his manuscript returned.