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Helen became especially interested in Dr. Holmes, as may be seen by her letter to the popular juvenile monthly.

SOUTH BOSTON, March, 1890.

DEAR SAINT NICHOLAS: -- I am very happy because you are going to print my little story. I hope the little boys and girls who read Saint Nicholas will like it. I wonder if any of them have read a sad, sweet story called "Little Jakey." I am very sure they would like it, for Jakey is the dearest little fellow you can imagine. His life was not so full of brightness as "Little Lord Fauntleroy's," because he was poor and blind; but I love them both, and call them my dear little friends. This is the way Jakey tells of his blindness: "Ven Gott make my eyes, my moder say he not put ze light in zem."

I used to think -- when I was a very small child, before I had learned to read -- that everybody was always happy, and at first I was grieved to know about pain and great sorrows; but now I understand that if it were not for these things people would never learn to be brave and patient and loving.

One bright Sunday, a little while ago, I went to see a very kind and gentle poet. I will tell you the name of one of his beautiful poems, and you will then be able to guess his name. The "Opening of the Piano" is the poem. I knew it and several others by heart; and I had learned to love the sweet poet long before I ever thought I should put my arms around his neck, and tell him how much pleasure he had given me, and all of the little blind children, -- for we have his poems in raised letters. The poet was sitting in his library, by a cheerful fire, with his much-loved books all about him. I sat in his great easy chair, and examined the pretty things, and asked Dr. Holmes questions about people in his poems. Teacher told me about the beautiful river that flows beneath the library window. I think our gentle poet is very happy when he writes in this room, with so many wise friends near him.

Please give my love to all of your little readers.

From your loving friend, HELEN A. KELLER.

This interest took form in an essay on the subject of Dr. Holmes's most beautiful poem.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

See! What a beautiful shell! And it is as curious as it is beautiful! It was once the home of a timid little animal called the Pearly Nautilus, -- because of its shell, which is as pure and beautiful as a pearl.

On very still nights, when there is not a breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus has sometimes been seen floating upon the water, with head and tentacles spread out, and the shell gliding over the blue ocean like a lovely fairy boat. That is why our clear poet has called it the "Ship of Pearl."

This wonderful child of the sea lives a solitary life, far away in the deep waters of the Indian Ocean. He belongs to the large and interesting family of mollusks; but he does not seem to enjoy the society of his less beautiful cousins, for he hides from them, in his own lovely shell.

In his babyhood the Nautilus lived in a wee curled shell, no larger than a pea; but, as his body grew, he stretched out the wonder-working mantle which Mother Nature has given to all mollusks, and took tiny bits of lime out of the water, and enlarged his shell with them. Silently and patiently he toiled, adding chamber after chamber to his dainty dwelling-place, until it was completed. Then he died, leaving us his beautiful home; and we love and admire it, because of the wonderful story it tells us. This is the way our dear poet tells the story: --

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil.
Still as the spiral grew
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up the idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

One can imagine the pleasure she took in writing this letter to the author.

SOUTH BOSTON, MASS., March 1, 1890.

DEAR, KIND POET: -- I have thought of you many times since that bright Sunday when I bade you goodbye; and I am going to write you a letter, because I love you. I am sorry that you have no little children to play with sometimes; but I think you are very happy with your books, and your many, many friends. On Washington's birthday a great many people came here to see the little blind children; and I read for them from your poems, and showed them some beautiful shells, which came from a little island near Palos.

I am reading a very sad story, called "Little Jakey." Jakey was the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and blind. I used to think -- when I was small, and before I could read -- that everybody was always happy, and at first it made me very sad to know about pain and great sorrow; but now I know that we could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only joy in the world.

I am studying about insects in zoölogy, and I have learned many things about butterflies. They do not make honey for us, like the bees, but many of them are as beautiful as the flowers they light upon, and they always delight the hearts of little children. They live a gay life, flitting from flower to flower, sipping the drops of honeydew, without a thought for the morrow. They are just like little boys and girls when they forget books and studies, and run away to the woods and the fields, to gather wild flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in the bright sunshine.