She took life seriously in the fashion of her generation. It was a time when every girl loved a diminutive; she wrote her name "Nellie" and signed her verses "Nellie C." Those were the days of the annuals, "Friendship's Wreath," "The Literary Garland" and the like, and to these after once she began to see herself in print, "Nellie C." became quickly a favorite contributor. She tasted the rapture of a poet born who first sees his verses in print, when she was fourteen. This is her account: "I used to rhyme as long ago as I can remember anything, and I sent my first contribution to a newspaper when I was fourteen years old.... I remember how secretly, and almost as if it were a crime, I sent it in; and when I found the paper one evening, upon calling at the post-office on my way home from school, and saw my lines--my very own lines--it seemed to me a much more wonderful and glorious event than has anything since that time.... Perhaps it was unfortunate for me that it was accepted at once, since it encouraged me in the habit of verse,--making a habit which future occupations confirmed. But one gain, at least, came to me,--the friendship and encouragement of authors whose work I loved. I was scarcely eighteen when my first book was published. I called it 'This, That, and the Other,' because it was made up of short stories, sketches (too brief and immature to call essays), and the rhymes into which, from the first, I put more of myself than into any other form of expression. Strangely enough, the book sold largely." This early poem was printed in a daily of Norwich, Connecticut, and no recognition of after years could ever give quite the same thrill as this first sight of her name and her own verse in print. Among her girl-friends was Virginia F. Townsend, later to be known also as a writer of stories and of verse, and the pair exchanged numerous rhymes, rather facile than poetic, but doubtless useful in the way of 'prentice work. A poem which Miss Chandler wrote in her sixteenth year and called "Lenore"--in those days every youthful rhymester rhymed to Lenore,--and designated as "for music," was much praised by the newspapers of the day. It is as admirably typical of the fashion of the day as the bonnets of the forties which one finds in a dusty attic. Hush thy footfall, lightly tread; Passing by a loved one's bed. Dust hath gathered on her brow, Silently she resteth now. Sank she into dreamless rest Clasping rosebuds to her breast; With her forehead pale and fair 'Neath the midnight of her hair.... There we laid her down to sleep Where the wild flowers o'er her weep. Earth below and blue sky o'er, Sweetly sleeps our own Lenore. Another lyric, written about this time to Governor Cleveland on the death of his only daughter, contained these lines: