In 1875, “An Idyl of Work,” dedicated to working women, was issued by Osgood & Co. It is a long poem in blank verse, written chiefly in pentameters, and describes most beautifully the life of the Lowell factory girls, in “The Forties.” There is a song of delight in work, running through it all. The incidents of prosaic labor are invested with a charm; and the toiler’s lot is shown to have its bright side in the community of womanly interests that develop strong traits of character, and lead to lifelong attachments. It is an epic of labor, giving a history of an episode in American manufacture, that proved how mental and moral culture can be aided by hand-work, when the laborer looks upon his occupation as his privilege. In the following year, “Roadside Poems,” a well-edited compilation of mountain poetry, added a new interest to the country and the mountains, for the summer traveler. Shelley, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Browning, and Lowell, were made to act as interpreters of the wonders of the lane, and the beauty of the sunrise over mountain sanctuaries, and to explain the meaning of the storm reverberating among the hills. It is a little book filled with glimpses of the sky, the fragrance of flowers, the earth-smell of ferns, and the coloring of autumn leaves. TO J. G. WHITTIER. 83 WALTHAM STREET, BOSTON, January 1, 1878. ... Of course you must have grown very tired of the poetry written to you, and about you. I sent my verses to the “Transcript,” because I thought you seemed too much pleased to think I had spared you the infliction! Discipline can never come too late in life, I am confident! Still, I didn’t say a word more than the truth, and I think I spoke sincerely for many others. It is a great thing to have won a nation’s affection,--much greater than the greatest amount of mere fame. Judging from our own inside view, none of us deserve to be as well thought of by our friends as we are; but the beauty of it is, that real friendship knows us best after all, because it sees in us our best aim, endeavor, and possibilities, and lets our failures and imperfections pass by and be forgotten. Why not, when the judge is always so imperfect, too? The sum of which is, that we all think you a pretty good sort of man, as men go. Always thy friend, LUCY LARCOM. TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING. 83 WALTHAM STREET, January 17, 1878.