Fanny J. Crosby: An Autobiography by Fanny J. Crosby

Even before I was eight years of age my imagination was occupied with all sorts of material that I was constantly weaving into various forms; and among these were rude snatches of verse, none of which, however, saw the light of the newspapers. My mother was in the habit of reading to me from the best poets; and I soon became so presumptuous as to believe that I could improve on some of the hymns that were composed by the deacons of our Presbyterian church. Such subjects as "The Moaning of the Wind for the Flowers" seemed especially beautiful; and some lines written on this topic were copied by a friend and sent to my grandfather, who immediately hailed me as a promising poet; but he was very careful not to say much about it in my presence, because he thought that any words of praise might blast my budding poetic genius through the pride that I might feel.

Nine years from that date the same dear man walked four miles and back again for the purpose of purchasing a copy of the New York "Herald," containing some verses I had written on the death of General Harrison.