Late October finds her preparing for the move to Boston.
"I have had what I may call a spasm of gratitude to God for His great goodness to me, sitting in my pleasant little parlor, with the lovely golden trees in near view, and the devotion of my children and great kindness of my friends well in mind. Oh! help me, divine Father, to merit even a very little of Thy kindness!"
In this autumn she was elected a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and in December she wrote for its first meeting a poem called "The Capitol." She greatly desired to read this poem before the association, and Maud, albeit with many misgivings, agreed to take her on to Washington. This was not to be. On learning of her intention, three officers of the association, William Dean Howells, Robert Underwood Johnson, and Thomas Nelson Page, sent her a "round-robin" telegram, begging her not to run the risk of the long winter journey. The kindly suggestion was not altogether well taken. "Ha!" she flashed out. "They think I am too old, but there's a little ginger left in the old blue jar!"
She soon realized the wisdom as well as the friendliness of the round robin, and confided to the Journal that she had been in two minds about it.
On Christmas Day she writes:—
"Thanks to God who gave us the blessed Christ. What a birth was this! Two thousand years have only increased our gratitude for it. How it has consecrated Babyhood and Maternity! Two infants, grown to man's estate, govern the civilized world to-day, Christ and Moses. I am still thankful to be here in the flesh, as they were once, and oh! that I may never pass where they are not!"
The winter of 1909-10 was a severe one, and she was more or less housed; yet the days were full and bright for her. "Life," she cried one day, "is like a cup of tea; all the sugar is at the bottom!" and again, "Oh! I must go so soon, and I am only just ready to go to college!"
When it was too cold for her to go out, she took her walk in the house, with the windows open, pacing resolutely up and down her room and the room opposite. She sat long hours at her desk, in patient toil. She was always picking up dropped stitches, trying to keep every promise, answer every note.
"Went through waste-paper basket, redeeming some bits torn to fragments, which either should be answered or recorded. Wrote an autograph for Mr. Blank. It was asked for in 1905. Had been put away and forgotten."
She got too tired that morning, and could not fully enjoy the Authors' Club in the afternoon.