Categories
1850s Poem Water

Stop! Stop! Pretty Water

Stop! Stop! Pretty Water

By Eliza Lee Follen
Annotations by Rene Marzuk
Mary Nimmo Moran. Across the Water. Etching on paper, ca. 1880-1890,
Smithsonian Art Museum. Public Domain.
I.

“Stop! stop! pretty water,”
Said Mary one day,
To a frolicsome brook
That was running away.

II.

“You run on so fast!
I wish you would stay;
My boat and my flowers
You will carry away.

III.

“But I will run after;
Mother says that I may;
For I would know where
You are running away.”

IV.

So Mary ran on;
But I have heard say
That she never could find
Where the brook ran away.
FOLLEN, ELIZA LEE. “STOP! STOP! PRETTY WATER,” IN LITTLE SONGS, 16-7. BOSTON: WHITTEMORE & CO., 1856.

Contexts

Eliza Lee Follen (1787-1860) was an abolitionist, editor, and writer. In her preface to the first edition of Little Songs, published in 1833, she wrote:

“The little folks must decide whether the book is entertaining. To them I present my little volume, with the earnest hope that it will receive their approbation. If children love to lisp my rhymes, while parents find no fault in them, I ask no higher praise.”

Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:

frolicsome: Full of frolic; gay, merry, mirthful..

Categories
1850s Sketch Wild animals

The Lake Trip; Or, Going a Fishing

The Lake Trip; Or, Going a Fishing

By Fanny Fern
Annotations by Rene Marzuk
John Frederick Kensett. Lake George. Oil on canvas, 1869, Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY. Public Domain.

Oh! Aunty, it has done raining! The sun is shining so brightly; we are going to the Lake to fish — Papa says so — you and Papa, and Bell, and Harry, and Emma, and Agnes, and our dog Bruno.

Of course, Aunty, who was always on hand for such trips, wasn’t five minutes springing to her feet, and in less than half an hour Pat stood at the door with the carriage, (that somehow or other always held as many as wanted to go, whether it were five, or forty-five;) “Papa” twisting the reins over hats and bonnets with the dexterity of a Jehu;[1] jolt — jolt — on we go, over pebblestones — over plank roads — past cottages — past farms — up hill and down, till we reach “the Lake.”

Shall I tell you how we tip-toed into the little egg-shell boats? How, after a great deal of talk, we all were seated to our minds — how each one had a great fishing rod put into our hands — how Aunty, (who never fished before,) got laughed at for refusing to stick the cruel hook into the quivering little minnows used for “bait” — and how, when they fixed it for her, she forgot all about moving it round, so beautiful was the “blue above, and the blue below,” [2] until a great fish twitched at her line, telling her to leave off dreaming and mind her business — and how it made her feel so bad to see them tear the hook from the mouth of the poor fish she was so un-lucky as to catch, that she coaxed them to put her ashore, telling them it was pleasure not pain she came after — and how they laughed and floated off down the Lake, leaving her on a green moss patch, under a big tree — and how she rambled all along shore gathering the tiniest little shells that ever a wave tossed up —and how she took off her shoes and stockings and dipped her feet in the cool water, and listened to the bees’ drowsy hum  from the old tree trunk close by, and watched the busy ant stagger home, under the weight of his well earned morsel — and how she made a bridge of stones over a little streamlet to pluck some crimson lobelias, growing on the other side, and some delicate, bell-shaped flowers, fit only for a fairy’s bridal wreath,[3] — and how she wandered till sunset came on, and the Lake’s pure breast was all a-glow, and then, how she lay under that old tree, listening to the plashing waves, and watching the little birds, dipping their golden wings into the rippling waters, then soaring aloft to the rosy tinted clouds? Shall I tell you how the grand old hills, forest crowned, stretched off into the dim distance — and how sweet the music of childhood’s ringing laugh, heard from the far-off shore — or how Aunty thought ’twas such a pity that sin, and tears, and sorrow, should ever blight so fair a world?

But Aunty mustn’t make you sad; here come the children leaping from the boat; they v’e “caught few fish,” but a great deal of sunshine, (judging from their happy faces.) God bless the little voyagers, all; the laughing Agnes, the pensive Emma, the dove-eyed, tender-hearted Mary, the rosy Bell, the fearless Harry. In the green pastures by the still waters, may the dear Shepherd fold them.

Winslow Homer. Woman with Flower. Watercolor, 1880, Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.
FERN, FANNY. “The Lake Trip; Or, Going a Fishing,” IN Little Ferns for Fanny’s Little Friends, 27-9. Auburn and Buffalo: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1854.

[1] In the Bible’s Old Testament, before leading the revolt after which he would become king of Israel, Jehu was a commander of chariots.

[2] The line “with the blue above, and the blue below” comes from “The Sea,” a poem by English poet Bryan Waller Procter (1787-1874), who wrote under the pen name of Barry Cornwall. You can find the full poem here.

Mary Vaux Walcott. Cardinal Flower (Lobelia Cardinalis). Watercolor on paper, 1878, Smithsonian American Art Museum (D.C.). Public Domain.

[3] Cardinal flower (Lobelia Cardinalis) is a native American herbaceous perennial in the bellflower family. Its bright red flowers are pollinated by hummingbirds.

Contexts

Fanny Fern (born Sara Payson Willis; 1811-1872) was a very popular newspaper columnist, novelist, and children’s writer. She became the first woman columnist in the United States. From the 1850s to the 1870s, Fern wrote articles and columns for periodicals like Olive Branch, True Flag, Musical World and Times, and New York Ledger. She was known by her irreverent and unapologetic style. During her lifetime, she published three books for children: Little Ferns for Fanny’s Little Friends (1853), The Play-Day Book (1857), and The New Story Book for Children (1864).

Resources for Further Study
  • During the first half of the nineteenth century, American attitudes toward nature shifted in part due to the influence of Romantic and Transcendental writers like William Cullen Bryant, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau. Beautiful scenery, picturesque landscapes, and the aesthetic of nature in general began to be perceived as “important to people’s physical and spiritual health and communing with nature as communing with God.” These new perceptions developed into preservationist conservation ideas, to which we can trace, among others, the drive to create many of the protected spaces such as natural parks that we still enjoy today.
  • “Recreational Fishing in England and America” (Part 1 and Part 2).
  • Fanny Fern Collection at the University of New England’s Library.
Contemporary Connections

Richard Louv’s “Children and Nature Movement.”

Categories
1850s Birds Short Story Trees Wild animals

The Old Eagle Tree

The Old Eagle Tree

By John Todd
Annotations by Mary Miller/KK
John James Audubon. “White-Headed Eagle,” from Birds of America (1827-38), plate 31. Audubon.com.

In a distant field, stood a large tulip-tree, [1] apparently of a century’s growth, and one of the most gigantic. It looked like the father of the surrounding forest. [2] A single tree, of huge dimensions, standing all alone, is a sublime object.

            On the top of this tree, an old eagle, commonly called the “Fishing-Eagle” had built her nest every year, for many years, and undisturbed had raised her young. What is remarkable, as she procured her food from the ocean, this tree stood full ten miles from the sea-shore. It had long been known as the “Old Eagle-Tree.”

            On a warm, sunny day, the workmen were hoeing corn in an adjoining field. At a certain hour of the day, the old eagle was known to set off for the sea-side, to gather food for her young. As she this day returned with a large fish in her claws, the work-men surrounded the tree, and by yelling and hooting, and throwing stones, so scared the poor bird, that she dropped her fish, and they carried it off in triumph.

            The men soon dispersed, but Joseph sat down under a bush near by, to watch and to bestow unavailing pity. The bird soon returned to her nest, without food. The eaglets at once set up a cry for food so shrill, so clear, and so clamorous, that the boy was greatly moved.

            The parent-bird seemed to try to soothe them; but their appetites were too keen, and it was all in vain. She then perched herself on a limb near them and looked down into the nest with a look that seemed to say, “I know not what to do next.”

            Her indecision was but momentary; again she poised herself, uttered one or two sharp notes, as if telling them to “lie still,” balanced her body, spread her wings, and was away again for the sea!

            Joseph was determined to see the result. His eye followed her till she grew small, smaller, a mere speck in the sky, and then disappeared. What boy has not thus watched the flight of the bird of his country?

            She was gone nearly two hours, about double her usual time for a voyage, when she again returned, on a slow, weary wing, flying uncommonly low, in order to have a heavier atmosphere to sustain her, with another fish in her talons.

            On nearing the field, she made a circuit round it, to see if her enemies were again there. Finding the coast clear, she once more reached the tree, drooping, faint, and weary, and evidently nearly exhausted. Again the eaglets set up their cry, which was soon hushed by the distribution of a dinner, such as, save the cooking, a king might admire.

            “Glorious bird!” cried the boy, “what a spirit! Other birds can fly more swiftly, others can sing more sweetly, others scream more loudly; but what other bird, when persecuted and robbed, when weary, when discouraged, when so far from the sea, would do this?

            “Glorious bird! I will learn a lesson from thee to-day. I will never forget, hereafter, that when the spirit is determined, it can do almost any thing. Others would have drooped, and hung the head, and mourned over the cruelty of man, and sighed over the wants of the nestlings; but thou, by at once recovering the loss, hast forgotten all.

            “I will learn of thee, noble bird! I will remember this. I will set my mark high. I will try to do something, and to be something in the world; I will never yield to discouragements.

TODD, JOHN.  “THE OLD EAGLE TREE.” IN MCGUFFEY’S NEW FOURTH ECLECTIC READER, ED. WILLIAM HOLMES MONTGOMERY, 86-88. NEW YORK: WILSON, HINKLE, & CO., 1857.

[1] Tulip trees, also called tulip poplars, are native to the Eastern United States. Their spring blooms are attractive to bees. They are fast growing, reaching up to 20 feet tall and almost as wide in less than 10 years, ultimately ending up around 70-80 feet tall and 50 feet wide.

[2] Recent research confirms that there are “parent” trees in the forest, and that trees communicate with themselves and other elements of the forest ecology. Two great books on this topic are Finding the Mother Tree: Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest by Suzanne Simard, and The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben.

Contexts

School readers were an important tool in early America, especially in less settled regions where teachers were scarce. McGuffey published six readers, each advancing in level of difficulty, designed for students in kindergarten through high school. They provided a scripted tool to enable even untrained teachers to teach the basics in reading, writing, speaking and science, and to reinforce the predominant, mostly Christian values of American society. The pedagogical method was to have students memorize the materials and recite them in the classroom.

In his biography, John Todd: The Story of His Life Told Mainly by Himself, Todd relates an experience that led him to write the story of “The Old Eagle Tree.” He credits the lesson he learned from the eagle for his lifelong determination to do the right thing and to succeed.

“The Old Eagle Tree” is included in McGuffey’s Fourth Eclectic Reader, published in 1857. The McGuffey series of readers were used as instructional textbooks, primarily for reading, writing, articulation, and character building. The books include prose and poetry along with guidance for teachers. McGuffey’s Readers draw from a wide range of literary sources, including the Bible, and emphasize American writers and American values common between 1836 and 1920.

Resources for Further Study
Contemporary Connections

In The Old Eagle Tree a young boy learns the lesson of persistence and respect for nature. Today, many environmental educators emphasize that continuing exposure to nature, starting at an early age, is essential to raising environmentally responsible adults. Many schools now integrate environmental programs into their curriculums. The State of North Carolina has made a commitment to include environmental education in the curriculum for all K-12 students to capitalize on “children’s natural curiosity about animals, plants and other elements of nature.” The North Carolina Environmental Education Plan includes a quote from Dr. David Orr, who says, “We often forget that all education is environmental education — by what we include or exclude, we teach the young that they are part of or apart from the natural world. An economist, for example, who fails to connect our economic life with that of ecosystems and the biosphere has taught an environmental lesson all right, but one that is dead wrong. Our goal as educators ought to be to help students understand their implicatedness in the world and to honor mystery.”

Categories
1850s Poem

Fairy Song

Fairy Song

By Louisa May Alcott
Annotations by Mary Miller
Cover illustration by E. Barnes for the 1898 edition, published by the Henry Altemus Company in Philadelphia. Public Domain.

The moonlight fades from flower and tree,
+And the stars dim one by one;
And the Fairy feast is done.
+The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
The early birds erelong will wake:
+ ’T is time for the Elves to go. [1]

O’er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
+Unseen by mortal eye,
And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
+Through the quiet moonlit sky;—
For the stars’ soft eyes alone may see,
+ And the flowers alone may know,
The feasts we hold, the tales we tell:
+ So ’t is time for the Elves to go.

From bird, and blossom, and bee,
+ We learn the lessons they teach;
And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
+ A loving friend in each.
And though unseen on earth we dwell,
+ Sweet voices whisper low,
And gentle hearts most joyously greet
+ The Elves where’er they go.

When next we meet in the Fairy dell,
+May the silver moon’s soft light
Shine then on faces gay as now,
+ And Elfin hearts as light.
Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
+ With sunlight soon will glow.
The morning star shall light us home:
+ Farewell! for the Elves must go.

As the music ceased, with a soft, rustling
sound the Elves spread their shining wings,
and flew silently over the sleeping earth; the
flowers closed their bright eyes, the little winds
were still, for the feast was over, and the Fairy
lessons ended.

+++++++++ THE END.

Alcott, Louisa May. “Fairy Song.” In Flower Fables. Boston: George W. BRiggs & Company, 1855.

[1] Fairies and elves seem to be the same here. There are differences, starting with their physical appearance. Fairies look just like human beings, except they have wings, usually large and gossamer, whereas elves also look like humans but with pointed ears and other features. Learn more at mysticbeast.com, elf: mythology, and “A History of Elves.” See also the references below.

Contexts

As a young girl, Alcott lived across the road from Ralph Waldo Emerson and his family. Alcott dedicated this book to his daughter Ellen with whom she was close, with this inscription:

TO
ELLEN EMERSON,
FOR WHOM THEY WERE FANCIED,
THESE FLOWER FABLES
ARE INSCRIBED,
BY HER FRIEND,

THE AUTHOR.

Boston, Dec. 9, 1854.

Resources for Further Study

  • Biographical information about Louisa May Alcott.
  • In this poem the terms fairy and elves seem to be conflated. Many cultures have a rich history of the lore of little people and there are several sources of their mythological origins, notably The World Guide to Gnomes, Fairies, Elves, and Other Little People by Thomas Keightley, originally published in 1878 by G. Bell, London under the title The Fairy Mythology. This book provides a contemporaneous view of these creatures at the time this poem was written.
  • Elves have been a feature in some of the most popular books in the twentieth century, including J. R. Tolkien’s trilogy Lord of the Rings, and the associated films. Most children in the western world know of Santa’s elves. Elves (Magic, Myth, and Mystery) by Virginia Loh-Hagan is a good source for younger readers, as is Elves, (Creatures of Fantasy) by Joel Newsome.

Contemporary Connections

Elves, fairies, and other fantastical creatures continue to inspire the imagination of young people. There are many films and video games based on elven culture with which many students will be familiar. A popular game is The World of Warcraft series, and a Google search will return a plethora of other choices.

Categories
1850s Poem

The Cholera-King

The Cholera-King

By H. W. Ellsworth
Annotations by Kristina Bowers
Graves on the Oregon Trail Dated 1844 and 1845, Mile West of Burn Ranch. n.d. Photograph. Wyoming State Archives, Department of State Parks and Cultural Resources. Open access.
He cometh! a conqueror proud and strong,
    At the head of a mighty band
Of the countless dead, as he passed along,
    That he slew with his red right-hand[1];
And over the mountain, or down the vale, 
    As his shadowy train sweeps on,
There stealeth a lengthened note of wail
    For the loved and early gone!

He cometh! the sparkling eye grown dim, 
    And heavily draws the breath
Of the trembler who whispers low of HIM,
    And his standard-bearer, DEATH!
He striketh the rich man down from power, 
    And wasteth the student pale;
Nor ’scapes him the maid in her latticed bower[2],
    Nor the chieftain armed in mail.

He cometh! through ranks of steel-clad men,
    To the heart of the warrior-band;
Ye may count where his conquering step hath been,
    By the spear in each nerveless hand.
Wild shouteth he where, on the battle-plain,
    By the dead are the living hid,
As he buildeth up, from the foeman slain,
    His skeleton-pyramid!

There stealeth, ’neath yonder turret’s height.
    A lover with song and lute, 
Nor knoweth the lips of his lady bright
    Are pale, and her sweet voice mute:
For he dreameth not, when no star is dim,
    Nor cloud in the summer sky,
That she who from childhood lovéd him
    Hath laid her down to die!

She watcheth—a fond young mother dear,
    While her heart beats high with pride,
How she best to the good of life may rear
    The first-born by her side;
With a fervent prayer, and a love-kiss warm,
    She hath sunk to a dreamless rest,
Unconscious all of the death-cold form
    That she claspeth to her breast!

Sail ho! for the ship that tireless flies,
    While the mad waves leap around,
As she spreadeth her wings for the native skies
    Of the wanderers homeward bound:
Away! through the trackless waters blue!
    Yet, ere[3] half her course is done,
From the wasted ranks of her merry crew
    There standeth only one!

All hushed is the city’s busy throng, 
    Where it sleeps in the fold of death,
As the desert o’er which hath passed along
    The pestilent simoom’s[4] breath!
All hushed—save the chilled and stifling heart
    Of some trembling passer-by,
As he looketh askance on the dead man’s cart,
    Where it waiteth the next to die!

The fire hath died from the cottage-hearth;
    The plough on the unturned plain
Stands still, while unreaped to the mother earth
    Down droppeth the golden grain!
Of the loving and loved that gathered there,
    Each living thing hath gone,
Save the dog that howls to the midnight air,
    By the side of yon cold white stone!

He cometh! He cometh! No human power
    From his advent[5] dread can flee; 
Nor knoweth one human heart the hour
    When the Tyrant his guest shall be:
Or whether at flush of they rosy dawn,
    Or at noon-tide’s fervent heat,
Or at night, when, with robe of darkness on, 
    He treadeth with stealthy feet!

He cometh! A conqueror proud and strong, 
    At the head of a mighty band
Of the countless dead, as he passed along,
    That he slew with his right-hand:
And over the mountain, or down the vale, 
    As his shadowy train sweeps on, 
There stealeth a lengthened note of wail
    For the loved and early gone!

Ellsworth, H. W. “The Cholera—King.” The Knickerbocker; or New York Monthly Magazine. 39, no. 2 (Feb 1852): 128.

[1] “Red right-hand” most likely refers to the red right hand of God in John Milton’s Paradise Lost (2.174). In the poem, a demon is speculating God’s ability to plague the demons in heaven if they continue to war.

[2] Bower: A lady’s private apartment in a medieval castle. (Merriam-Webster)

[3] Ere: Before, earlier than. (Merriam-Webster)

[4] Simoom: A hot, dry, violent dust storm or wind occuring in Asian and African deserts. (Merriam-Webster)

[5] Advent: Coming into being or use. (Merriam-Webster)

Contexts

“The Cholera-King” was originally published in The Knickerbocker magazine in 1852.[1] This poem was later published in Early Indiana Trials and Sketches: Reminiscences (1858) by Oliver Hampton Smith and The Poets and Poetry of the West: With Biographical and Critical Notices (1860) by William T. Coggeshall. Biographical information about Ellsworth can also be found in Coggeshall’s book.

Cholera, a disease that causes excessive diarrhea and loss of water and electrolytes from the body, has spread through global pandemics seven times in recorded human history. It first reached the U.S. during the second global pandemic in the 1830s, starting in New York and Philadelphia. The third pandemic, lasting from 1852-1859, however, was the deadliest worldwide. [1]

During the third pandemic, cholera spread from the east coast to the Midwest due to the Gold Rush and was carried along routes like the Oregon Trail. Rosenberg writes in the book The Cholera Years: The United States in 1832, 1849, and 1866, “Gold-seekers carried the disease with them across a continent…The route westward was marked with wooden crosses and stone cairns, the crosses often bearing only a name and the world ‘cholera’…It was in the infant cities of the West, with no adequate water supply, primitive sanitation, and crowded with a transient population, that the disease was most severe” (1987, 115).

Resources for Further Study
Contemporary Connections

According to History.com, during the second global cholera pandemic, upon spreading to Great Britain, “Britain enacted several actions to help curb the spread of the disease, including implementing quarantines and establishing local boards of health. But the public became gripped with widespread fear of the disease and distrust of authority figures, most of all doctors. Unbalanced press reporting led people to think that more victims died in the hospital than their homes, and the public began to believe that victims taken to hospitals were killed by doctors for anatomical dissection, an outcome they referred to as “Burking.” This fear resulted in several “cholera riots” in Liverpool.” [1] Although not contagious in the same way, the 1918 Flu Pandemic and current 2020 COVID-19 pandemic have seen similar distrust in science and doctors along with protests against public health measures to curb the spread of these diseases including mask wearing, quarantines, and social distancing [2,3,4]. See this NY Times article “The Mask Slackers of 1918” for more information about anti-mask sentiment during this pandemic.

Categories
1850s Poem

The Nest.

The Nest.

By Elizabeth W. Townsend
Annotations by kathryn t. burt
E. C. and E. B. Kellogg, Active 1842-1849 and 1855-1866. The Wren, n.d., Graphic Arts-Print. Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. William Bulkeley, 1974.80.2. CC0.
  Farmer Gray had a field of sweet clover,
     The bees left the flowers to go to it;
  There were strawberries red in his garden bed,
     And the little brown singing birds knew it.

  He lived in a house with old out-spreading eaves,
     The swallows built there without number;
  At the dawning of day they twittered away,
     And roused the old man from his slumber.

  Yet he was not so old, tho' the neighbors did say,
     They remembered him when he was younger;
  The beggars would wait, at his old garden gate,
     Quite sure of relief from their hunger.

  He lived all alone—the dear happy old man—
     And care seemed afraid to molest[1] him,
  And gentle and wise were his tranquil[2] old eyes,
     Not a soul in the village but blessed him.

  I remember him well—I have sat on his knee,
     And played with his weather-browned fingers;
  And still in my dreams, kind and loving he seems,
     So freshly the memory lingers.

  He was healthy and hearty, the merry old man!
     And down on his shoulders the locks
  Of shining white hair used to float in the air,
     As white as the fleece of his flocks.

  One day as I passed by his moss-covered gate,
     He said, with his eyes full of glee,
  “Come here, little one, when your lessons are done,
     I have something will charm you to see.”

  All that day my lessons seemed,
     Very useless toil[3] to me;
  All that I could care for, was,
     That same “something” I should see.

  Verbs I had to conjugate[4],
     Weary lines of words to spell;
  Maps to study—it was all
     Dropping water in a well.

  Ah those days! the restless fly
     'Neath the ceiling circling round,
  Not more active was than I,
     More impatient of a bound!

  Noon at length, to dine and play,
     Then the short bright afternoon;
  Then dismissal—Farmer Gray
     I was with you very soon!

  Dancing down the garden path,
     With the child-like dear old man;
  Feeling in my eager heart,
     That which childhood only can:

  That expecting, open trust,
     Which no wonder can amaze;
  When the wildest, strangest dreams,
     Are the food of common days.

  Had he led me to a cavern
     Where the giants made their home;
  Had he shown me golden dwellings
     Fit for fairy or for gnome;

  Led me to the singing water,
     Flying fish, or talking bird;
  In those days my faith was ready,
     Trusting all I saw or heard.

  Not as wonders, not as marvels,
     Only beautiful and new;
  In those days I never questioned
     What was false or what was true.

  But the old man had no marvel,
     Roc's egg, or wild winged horse;
  Not a Hippogriff or griffin,
     To be but a thing of course.

  Only by the old stone gate-way,
     In the handle of a spade[5],
  With the strangest want of caution,
     Jenny Wren a nest had made.

  Trees were near, she might have built it
     Safely in their mossy arms;
  In the hedge was many a corner,
     More secure from all alarms.

  By her side all farm-yard travel,
     Inward, outward, daily led,
  There went prancing colts to pasture—
     Oxen bent with horned head.

  Bleating sheep, and lowing cattle,
     Frisking[6] calves and cows sedate[7];
  Crowing cocks and strutting bantams[8],
     Night and morning passed the gate.

  Jenny thought them all good neighbors,
     Never fluttered from her nest;
  While her mate in careless freedom,
     Came and went as pleased him best.

  Strange to tell, no careless passing,
     Injured nest or frightened bird;
  All day long their merry music
     Through the barn-yard could be heard.

  Days passed on—and every evening,
     Farmer Gray and I had peeped
  In the nest, and gently listened
     If the little wrens had cheeped.

  Days passed on—at last the mother,
     Underneath her downy wings,
  Hides four curious little creatures!
     And how proud the father sings.

  Now, indeed, may Jenny tremble,
     All her risk is more than doubled;
  Yet above her unfledged darlings,
     On her nest she sits untroubled.

  Wary, watchful, never tiring,
     Glancing here, and glancing there;
  One might think her fearless trusting,
     Made her every creature's care.

  Day by day the little fledglings,
     Grew more stout[9], and grew more strong;
  Day by day the busy parents,
     Came and went with merry song.

  Day by day the feathers gathered,
     Closer on their breast and wings;
  The warm nest was quite too narrow,
     Long to keep the restless things.

  Then what planning—what contriving[10]!
     No safe twigs were in their reach;
  How they twittered—how they chattered!
     Bird-talk, almost human speech.

  One by one, at last they ventured,
     First with slow and cautious play,
  Then with stronger, bolder freedom,
     One and all they flew away.
Townsend, Elizabeth W. 1855. “The Nest.” In The White Dove, and Other Poems For Children, 60-61. New York: James C. Derby & Park Place. ProQuest American Poetry.

[1] To pester or bother.

[2] Calm, peaceful, or serene.

[3] Difficult or exhausting work.

[4] To give the different forms of a verb such as past, future, and present tense.

[5] In other words, Jenny Wren made her nest in the opening of the handle on a shovel.

[6] Skipping or jumping about playfully.

[7] Quiet, calm, and dull.

[8] A small breed of chicken

[9] Wide or thick in build; fat.

[10] Deliberately bringing about or manufacturing.

Contexts

It’s difficult to determine just which species of Wren is the star of this poem because there are ten different Wren species living in North America! However, you can learn more about each of these species from the National Audubon Society’s Taxonomy Guide.

Pedagogy

In the second-to-last stanza, Townsend compares “bird talk” to human speech. You can listen to the sounds a Carolina Wren makes here. What do you think? Do the different bird songs sound like the rhythm of human speech? You can download the Audubon Society’s Bird Guide App to learn about and listen to other bird species! If the young people in your life are interested in bird watching, check out the following resources:

Jenny Wren chose a rather interesting place to make her nest, but birds of all species have been crafting strange and beautiful nests forever! Check out this article by Kate Hoffman for some fun photos of strangely located birds nests from 2019.

Categories
1850s Poem

The November Wind At Midnight

The November Wind At Midnight

By W.A.
Annotations by Abby Army/JB
Albert Pinkham Ryder. The Lorelei. Oil on canvas, c. 1896-1917, Smithsonian American Art Museum and its Renwick Gallery, Washington, D.C.
The sky is scowling on the earth
      With wrathful face,
And darkly-rolling clouds tumultuous rush
      Across the heavens
      As in a race;
Each scudding with noiseless step
  Through empty realms of space.

Among the leafless trees the wind
      In fury flies;
Now roaring like the distant thunder-peal
      On sultry eve;
      Anon it sighs,
Sad mem’ries walking in the soul,
  And then in silence dies.

Again it moans a plaintive dirge
      For faded flowers,
That bloomed in wild-wood and in shady dell,
      Or sweeter far,
      In fairy bowers,
Where love oft breathed its holy thoughts
  Through summer’s moonlight hours.

The rattling casement sends a chill
      Through every vein,
And creaking voices summon from their rest
      In mould’ring vaults
      A spectral train,
Who, flitting through the dark corridors,
  To nothing glide again!

Among the wrestling leaves it sweeps
      In church-yard lone,
Where weeping mourner often drops the tear
      While bending low
      O’er sculpted stone,
And Fancy might believe she heard
  From out the grave a groan.

Its solemn music stirs the heart
      Where all is gloom,
And softly whispers of the loved who sleep
      On dreamless bed
      Within the tomb,
Then wafts us to celestial shores
  Where they immortal bloom.

With sweetly melancholy notes
      That soothe my soul,
It singeth of that realm of purest bliss
      To which death leads— 
      Life’s radiant goal;
Where angry storms shall rise no more,
  While endless cycles roll.
W.A. “The November Wind At Midnight.” The Knickerbocker; or New York Monthly Magazine, American Periodicals 35, no. 1 (January 1850): 29.
Contexts

The Knickerbocker was a long-running literary magazine based in New York City. It was associated with the Knickerbocker writers, who Hamilton Wright Mabie wrote about in The Writers of Knickerbocker New York. The magazine specifically is the subject of Herman Everette Spivey’s thesis “The Knickerbocker Magazine, 1833-1865: A Study of its History, Contents, and Significance.

The painting above has interesting links to the German folklore tales of the Lorelei as well as the themes of love and death common in later 19th-century poetry; read more at the Smithsonian website.

Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:

casement: A vertically hinged frame containing glass, forming (part of) a window. Hence (more generally): a window.

scudding: Of clouds, foam, etc.: To be driven by the wind.

Categories
1850s Poem

A Longing for Spring

A Longing for Spring

By A New Contributor
Annotations by Abby Army/JB
John Henry Twachtman. Misty May Morn. Oil on canvas, 1899, Smithsonian American Art Museum
and its Renwick Gallery, Washington, D.C.
When from a sunnier land than ours
Will come the gentle Spring again,
With verdant fields and glowing flowers
And song and beauty in her train?

When will the sunshine, glad and warm,
Set the imprisoned waters free,
And calm the icy, foaming sea?

Within these narrow walls I pine
Out on the sunny hills to go,
Where the wild flower and running vine
And the green grass are wont to grow.

I long to tread the fields alone,
Where gliding streams, with voices mild,
Murmur for aye the quiet tone
That thrilled me even when a child.

I long to roam the pathless woods
Where all day long the shadows lie;
To shout within their solitudes,
And hear the fainting echo die:
Or lie upon some rocky steep,
And linger in the shining sun
Long hours, within valleys deep,
To hear the laughing waters run.

But more than all, I long to guide
The ploughshare in the fragrant soil,
And feel once more the joy and pride,
The jocund health, of peaceful toil.

I heed the Summer’s beauteous bloom, 
And Autumn’s gorgeous offering,
And Winter pale with storm and gloom;
But most I love the gentle Spring!
Claude-Marie Ferrier or Hugh Owen. Agricultural implements. Salted paper photoprint, 1851, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
A New Contributor. “A Longing for Spring.” The Knickerbocker; or New York Monthly Magazine 35, no. 4 (April 1850): 293.
Contexts

This poem was published amid significant events in the U.S. The year prior brought the California Gold Rush, which changed the nation’s development as it combined with existing expansion to drive white settlers west in much higher numbers and had a devastating effect on California Native Americans and people of Chinese, Mexican and Spanish descent. The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 made the federal government more active in upholding slavery. The mention of plowing in the penultimate stanza, which glorifies agriculture, must be read against the fact that slave labor was still prevalent at this time. In terms of technology, this was also an era of continuing development, such as the relatively new horse-drawn reaper made by Cyrus McCormick in 1834 and, starting in 1837 and continuing into the 1840s, the first commercially-successful steel plows, which included the designs created and manufactured by John Deere.

Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:

jocund: Feeling, expressing, or communicating mirth or cheerfulness; mirthful, merry, cheerful, blithe, gay, sprightly, light-hearted; pleasant, cheering, delightful.

ploughshare: The large pointed blade of a plough, which, following the coulter, cuts a slice of earth horizontally and passes it on to the moldboard.

verdant: Of a green hue or color.

wont: Accustomed, used; in the habit of (doing something).

Resources for Further Study

Categories
1850s Essay

The Cold Snap of January 10th

The Cold Snap of January 10th

By William Hoyt Coleman
Annotations by Maggie Kelly
Winter’s Enjoyment in Central Park by George Blair (ca. 1890). Image courtesy of Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum (CC0).

Bitter, bitter cold! Nine degrees below zero, says the thermometer in the city. Away to the northward, it creeps down to thirty and forty. The snow creaks under foot, and rings with a musical sound, as the heavy wheels roll over it, for Jack Frost can make music as well as paint pictures. What wonderful scenes grow under his busy hand on window-panes in hall and hovel! Trees, and flowers, and castle, and mountains, and fairies, glittering on the wrinkled panes of the Five Points, and on the plate-glass of Fifty Avenue. [1] But few people care to look at them. Glowing fires are pleasanter pictures to those in-doors. And who can stop in the biting air, outside, to look at anything?

People trot along the walks, slapping their sides, blowing their fingers, and now and then slipping up, and coming down with a heavy thump on some bit of ice.

Youthful beards are venerably gray; whiskers of every hue are edged with white, and even the horses have a fringe of icicles around their noses. Slim clerks and portly merchants, muffled in overcoats, shawls, furs, and comforters, rush hastily down-town-ward, puffing clouds of frosty breath like so many locomotives. The rivers are smoking too. Down in the bay a white mist is rising from the water. One would think old Neptune was getting up a good vapor-bath, or that some waggish imp were really “setting the river on fire.” [2] The poor omnibus drivers! Well may they dread this weather. Tough as they are, the nipping air touches them cruelly during their long, bleak drives. We do not wonder when the morning journal tells us that one poor fellow was taken senseless from his box.

Madison Square, New York, in the Evening by Charles Graham (1882). Wood engraving on paper. Originally appeared in Harper’s Weekly. Image is courtesy of Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum (CC0).

The sun shines bright, but there is no heat in his rays. One can look him in the face at noonday without harm; he is shorn of his strength. In-doors, furnaces, grates, and stoves are choked with coal, till the red-hot iron glares in fury. Jack Frost and the Fire King are in fierce contest. Folks shiver and shake, and confess Jack the victor.

So the day wears on. Night comes with increasing cold. Frozen noses, hands, and toes are to be met with in all parts of the city. People hie them home with all speed, and none walk that can ride. “The cold has got into the house,” says mother; and father believes it. Water-pipes are on a “bust,” and the meter won’t mete, unless it has plenty of whisky. [3] Extra cups of tea are taken at supper; and not a few warm their stomachs with something stronger. The spare blankets are brought out, the beds are loaded, and the household retire at an early hour, to curl themselves up into little balls, and shiver through the night; getting “warm as toast” just as the bell rings the next morning.

But how fare the poor to-night? In dwellings cold and cheerless, with scanty fires and scantier beds, or destitute of both, let imagination picture how. Let her picture those homeless ones, wandering through the streets, sleeping in coal-boxes, or on the bare ground—to awake in another world. I will not do it. And so New York passed through the Cold Snap, snapping its cold fingers at old Boreas, [4] as if he had no right in the city.

Coleman, William Hoyt. “The Cold Snap of January 10th.” Robert Merry’s Museum, March 1859.

[1] Five Points was the name of a 19th-century neighborhood in New York City.

[2] Neptune: the Roman god of the sea and freshwater; Waggish imp: a mischievous sprite

[3] In this sentence, the speaker is making a joke about the water pipers, which have frozen and burst, and the gas or electricity meter, which won’t record consumption unless it’s had an alcoholic beverage to warm it up.

[4] Boreas is the Greek god of winter and the North wind.

Contexts

This piece appeared in March 1859 edition of Robert Merry’s Museum, a popular children’s magazine at the time. The author of this short piece is William Hoyt Coleman; he “was one of the most popular and prolific subscribers to Robert Merry’s Museum; in letters spanning 13 years, he often wrote descriptions of life and times in New York state. He later became a journalist” (Pflieger). Coleman was 19 or 20 when this piece was published. If you’d like to learn more about Coleman, be sure to check out Pflieger’s bio of the author.

Resources for Further Study
  • For more information about Robert Merry’s Museum, be sure to check out Pat Pflieger’s extensive website on 19th century children’s literature; this website features a page dedicated to this magazine in particular, which not only has selections from the magazine, but historical information and scholarly resources as well.
Categories
1850s Short Story

Left-Handed Billy

Left-Handed Billy

By [Samuel Griswold Goodrich (?)]
Annotations by Maggie Kelly
Left-Handed Billy. Image from Robert Merry’s Museum (Dec. 1850). This image is courtesy of Harvard University (public domain).

There was once a boy whose name was William: but they used to call him Billy. He was a good-natured fellow, yet he had one fault—he chose to have his own way, and was never careful to mind his parents. [1]

Now Bill did not intend to be disobedient: but he was careless; he did not lay up good advice in his mind, and act according to it; but he usually forgot it, and pursued his own inclination. I will tell you an instance of this.

Billy had made himself a little garden, and he had planted in it a good many seeds. After a few days, the seeds came up, and the boy was greatly delighted at seeing them peep out of the ground. He could hardly keep away from his garden, so fond was he of seeing his budding flowers and plants.

You must know, that the garden was by the road-side, and in the road were a number of pigs. These were always prowling about, and if the gate was left open, they were sure to walk in and do some mischief. They had already got into the garden several times, and rooted up the peas, beans, and cabbages.

Now Billy was very apt to leave this gate open. He could not be made to feel the necessity of keeping it always shut. His mother told him, again and again, to be more careful; but the command went in at one ear, and out at the other.

Well, one day Billy had been to see his little garden, and then he set out to go to school. As usual, he left the gate open, and in walked a couple of pigs. They soon came to his beds of flowers and plants. They poked their long noses into the mellow earth, and in a few minutes the pretty garden was a heap of ruins.

When Bill came home from school, he saw the mischief that had been done.

He fretted a good deal and laid it all to the naughty pigs. His mother told him that he had only himself to blame; that the accident arose entirely from his careless habit of leaving the gate open.

After grumbling two or three days, Bill went to work and again planted his little garden. In a week the seeds began to shoot up from the soil, and once more Bill was full of joy. But, after a few days, he again forgot to shut the gate, and again the pigs marched in and rooted the beds all to pieces.

This incident will enable my reader to see what a heedless fellow Bill was. He did not intend to do wrong, but he was careless; he thought more of his play than his duty. Thus he adopted the habit of being careless, and we shall see how he suffered by it.

I must now tell you that Bill was naturally left-handed. [2] By this I mean, that he was more apt to use his left hand than his right. If he took a knife to cut with, or a pen to write anything, he took it in his left hand. His mother used great care to break him of this fault, but still careless Bill kept on using his left hand instead of his right.

Thus he adopted the habit of being left-handed, and he never got over it. This made him appear very awkward, and was a great trouble to him as long as he lived. Nor was this the only evil that flowed from his heedlessness: he grew up careless and awkward in everything. I must tell you one curious instance of this.

One day he went up into a tree which stood before his father’s house, to saw off a large branch. Well, he got upon the branch, took the saw in his left hand and went to work. But alas! the poor fellow got upon the wrong part of the limb, and, when it fell, Left-handed Bill fell with it. He had sawed himself down!

The boy was sadly bruised, and his mother told him she hoped it would teach him the folly of being so careless. But bad habits, once adopted and confirmed, are hard to cure, and Bill went on as heedless as before.

Thus he grew up, and, when he was a man, he received the title of Left-handed Billy. If he drove a team of cattle, he was sure to be on the wrong side, as you see him in the picture at the head of this article. [3] He never succeeded in anything, but became what is called an unlucky fellow. [4] The people used to say, if there was a wrong side, Bill was sure to take it. Such were the evils of growing up in habits of carelessness.

Goodrich, Samuel Griswold. “Left-handed billy.” ROBERT MERRY’S MUSEUM , December 1850.

[1] This story appeared in the December 1850 edition of Robert Merry’s Museum, a popular 19th century children’s magazine.

[2] See the Contexts section at the bottom of the page for a brief historical background of left-handedness.

[3] I have included the image mentioned here as it first appeared in Robert Merry’s Museum.

[4] Emphasis original throughout.

Contexts

It wasn’t until the mid-20th century that left-handedness began to be more widely accepted in the United States. Throughout history, left-handedness has been deemed evil, corrupt, backwards, and defective by a number of cultures; for these reasons, it was a common practice for centuries to discourage left-handedness. The reasons for these unsavory sentiments about left-handedness vary from religious ideologies about good and evil to practical, tactile reasons, such as the difficulty that using the left hand presented for Medieval European scribes (which often resulted in smeared ink, an expensive mistake).

This story displays the popular sentiment that being left handed meant that you also had a number of undesirable character traits such as carelessness and laziness. “Left-Handed Billy” is an attempt to not only avoid being left-handed but to also avoid the negative habits that were associated with this physical trait.

For a longer history on left-handedness, check out these articles from HistoryExtra and TIME.

Resources for Further Study
  • Check out Pat Pflieger’s website on 19th century children’s literature. Here’s the page dedicated to this particular story.
Contemporary Connections

Some famous lefties include: Leonardo Da Vinci, Lewis Carroll, Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, Helen Keller, Joan of Arc, Charlie Chaplin, Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Barack Obama, and Julia Roberts. For a list of 100 famous lefties, check out this article from The Guardian.

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