Bird and Nest. From Dodge, Mary Mapes. “Little Green Hummer.” In Rhymes and Jingles. New York: Scribner, Armstrong, 1875. Public domain.
Little green Hummer Was born in the summer; His coat was as bright As the emerald’s light. Short was his song, Though his bill it was long; His weight altogether Not more than a feather. From dipping his head In the sunset red, And gilding his side In its fiery tide, He gleamed like a jewel, And darted around, ‘Twixt sunlight and starlight, Ne’er touching the ground. Now over a blossom, Now under, now in it; Here, there, and everywhere, All in a minute. Ah! never he cared Who wondered and stared,— His life was completeness Of pleasure and sweetness; He revelled in lightness, In fleetness and brightness This sweet little Hummer That came with the summer.
Dodge, Mary Mapes. “Little Green Hummer.” In Rhymes and Jingles, 14. New York: Scribner, Armstrong and Company, 1875.
Contexts
Mary Mapes Dodge (1831-1905) was born in 1831 in New York. She made her most significant contribution to the body of late nineteenth and twentieth-century children’s literature and childhood education with her work as an editor of St. Nicholas Magazine. The magazine published poems, stories, and educational articles for children, and by children, on topics ranging from history to science to nature. Contributors included luminaries such as Louisa May Alcott, Rudyard Kipling, Mark Twain, and Frances Hodgson Burnett. The magazine remains a rich source of insight into the education of children during that era.
Of particular interest is the “St. Nicholas League” section of submissions from readers. Works included sketches, paintings, photographs, poems, and stories. The editors recognized the best works with awards and prizes. Several famous writers were first published in the magazine, including Edna St. Vincent Millay, E. B. White, and Bennet Cerf. St. Nicholas was in circulation from 1873 to 1943, and Dodge remained as editor until her death in 1905.
Dodge also worked as an associate editor for Hearth and Home magazine alongside Harriet Beecher Stowe. Like many nineteenth-century writers, Stowe was also fascinated hummingbirds. Search for her sketch, “Hum, the Son of Buz,” elsewhere in The Envious Lobster.
Resources for Further Study
Short biography of Mary Mapes Dodge and a selection of her poems.
Climate change is threatening hummingbirds by disrupting their patterns of migration and feeding routines. As bloom times change they may arrive at a known source of nutrition too early or too late. In short, they have become out of synch with nature. Scientists are still studying the problem and possible remedies, but you can help by turning your home into a hummingbird haven and following other tips in the article “Turn Your Yard Into A Hummingbird Spectacular,” published in Audubon Magazine.
George Shaw. Common Toad. Print, 1809, Digital Public Library of America.
CLOSE by the basement door-step,
A representative toad
Has made, all the sultry summer,
His quiet and cool abode;
And the way he bumps and bounces
About on the area stones,
Would break every bone in his body,
Except that he has no bones.
When a man is cringing and abject,
And fawns for a selfish end,
Why they should call him a toady
What mortal can comprehend?
Since for resolute independence,
Despising the courtier’s code,
And freedom from mean ambitions,
There's nobody like the toad.
Kenyon Cox. Untitled sketchbook page. Graphite on paper, 1875, Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum, Washington, D.C.
I know how strongly against him
Some popular whimsies go;
But the toad is never vicious,
Nor silly, nor stupid, nor slow.
Stupid? Perhaps you never
Noticed his jewel eyes?
Slow? or his tongue’s red lightning
Striking the darting flies?
Oh, but the mouth he carries
To make its dimensions clear,
One longs to describe it briefly,
As reaching from ear to ear;
But that no Professor of reptiles
Is able, (so far as appears
In books upon kindred subjects)
To locate batrachian ears.
No matter how stern and solemn
The markings about his eyes,
The width of his mouth preserves him
From wearing too grave a guise;
It gives him the look (no matter
How sad he may be the while
Or deep in profound abstraction)
Of smiling a chronic smile.
His ponderous locomotion,
Though brimful of nerve and force,
And well enough here in the area,
Would n’t do for a trotting-course;
Too modest to run for Congress,
Too honest for Wall street's strife,
His principles all unfit him
For aught but a virtuous life.
A hole in the ground contents him,—
So little he asks of fate;
Philosopher under a dock-leaf,
He sits like a king in state.
Should a heedless footstep mash him,
In gravel absorbed and blent,
He never complains or grumbles,
He knows it was accident.
No drudging scribe in a sanctum,
No writer of prose or rhyme,
Gets through with so much hard thinking
In the course of a summer-time;
And if sometimes he jumps at conclusions,
He does it with accurate aim
And after mature reflection,—
Would all of us did the same!
But what will he do this winter,
In the wind and snow and hail,
With his poor soft, unclad body
Unsheltered by wings or tail?
He cannot go south, poor fellow,
In search of a milder air,
For spring would be back triumphant,
Before he was half-way there!
But what are his plans for the future,
Or where he intends to go,
Or what he is weighing and planning,
Are things we shall never know,
He winks if you ask him a question,
And keeps his own counsel well;
For in fact, like the needy knife-grinder,
He has never a story to tell!
Kenyon Cox. Untitled sketchbook page. Graphite on paper, 1875, Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum, Washington, D.C.
Allen, Elizabeth Akers. “A Toad.” St. Nicholas 1, no. 9 (July 1874): 544.
Contexts
The same year as St. Nicholas published this poem, Allen moved back to her home state of Maine to work as the literary editor for the Portland Daily Advertiser. Allen was already an established and successful poet, having published her first collection, Forest Buds From the Woods of Maine,in 1856. Allen was also a member of Sorosis, a professional women’s club that included poets Alice and Phoebe Cary, many other authors, and women from a wide range of professions. She published more poetry before her time in Portland and would continue until her final collection in 1902, The Sunset Song and Other Verses. Her poem in the Saturday Evening Post, “Rock Me to Sleep, Mother,” became famous as a poem and set to music as a Civil War song.
Allen had to defend her copyright to this poem with legal proceedings after Alexander M.W. Ball claimed authorship.
Amphibian populations, including toads, are in decline worldwide, which led to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s Amphibians in Decline Initiative to fund conservation projects from 2010 to 2015. The IUCN Redlist details which toad species are endangered, vulnerable, or threatened and how their populations are trending.
Mielatz, C.F. William. Old House in Wind. Etching on paper, 1906, Smithsonian.
Who is tapping at my window
In the silence of the night?
The stars by clouds are hidden,
Who can come so late, unbidden,
Like a lost child sobbing in affright?
“It is I, your friend, the rain,[1]
Tapping at the window pane—
Let me in!
From beyond the farthest sea,
I have wandered far to thee;[2]
Waited, waited long, until
Sky and breeze should work their will—[3]
Lift me from the rose’s heart,
Make me of the clouds a part—
And from frost, from snow, from dew
I was changed, and formed anew,
Till at last, from birth to birth,
I have wandered back to earth.
Of my journeys to and fro
I can tell thee. Wouldst thou know
Secrets that the green leaves keep—
Secrets buried dark and deep
Underneath the restless waves—
In the depths of gem-starred caves?
How the sunset hues are made?
Why the rainbow glories fade?
Listen, ere I flee away
With the coming of the day—
Let me in.”
Who comes knocking at my door
In the waning of the night?
Pallid grows the east with dawn,
And the darkness almost gone
Falters in the growing light.
“It is I, your friend, the wind—
Let me in!
I have hastened far and fast,
Over land and water passed,
Over churchyards moaning crept,
Over hut and a palace swept.
Perfumes of the fir and pine,
These, to thee, as gifts, I bring—
Take the balmy offering!
Voices of all life I bear;
Sounds I bring from everywhere;
Song, and laugh, and wedding bell,
Sigh, and dirge, and funeral knell;
hum of traffic, words of cheer,
Shouts of triumph, shrieks of fear,
Prayers, from lips in anguish wrung,
Lullabys o’er cradles sung,
Chanting choir, and organ strain,
Martial music, groans of pain;
Rustling leaves that I have stirred,
Voice of insect, beast and bird,
Babbling brook and waterfall;
Shepherd’s pipe, and herdman’s call;
Pleasant news I have to tell
Of the one thou lovest well;
I caressed her forehead fair,
Played amid her shining hair;
Stole across her gentle eyes,
Dreaming under foreign skies;
Listening, caught, as I fled,
Pleasant words her sweet lips said;
Wilt thou listen? Wilt thou hear,
While I loiter, waiting near?—
Let me in!”
I pause to listen, but the sprites have flown—
The wind and rain.
Above the hills a deep’ning splendor breaks—
‘T is day again.
And thus forever hurrying on, like spirits vexed,
Their stories never told,
The wind shall still complain, the whispering rain
Sigh at the window pane,
And keep their secrets while the world grows old.
Gruelle, Richard Buckner. Indiana Landscape. Oil on canvas, 1894, Indianapolis Museum of Art (Indianapolis, IN).
KROUT, MARY HANNAH. “THE WIND AND RAIN.” THE LITTLE CORPORAL VOL. XVI, NO. 2 (FEBRUARY 1873): 42.
[1] Krout’s anthropomorphizes both the rain and the wind, which adds to the poem’s overall feeling of romantic engagement with nature.
[2] The author was a bit of a wanderer herself. An Indiana-born journalist, author, and women’s suffrage advocate, she travelled globally and reported extensively.
[3] Note how the rain is stereotypically characterized as a female figure throughout this stanza. Moreover, “her” dependence on the sky and breeze, with no equivalent in the characterization of the wind, suggests limited agency.
Contexts
“The Wind and Rain” was published in The Little Corporal magazine eight years after the American Civil War (1861-1865). Both the rain and the wind try to convince the speaker to let them in with lists of what they have learned or witnessed during their journeys. Their pleads suggest a unified world (perhaps even a unified America) where, interestingly, both natural and social elements combine.
Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:
affright: The state of being frightened; terror, fright.
dirge: A song sung at the burial of, or in commemoration of, the dead; a song of mourning or lament.
knell: The sound made by a bell when struck or run, especially the sound of a bell rung slowly and solemnly, as immediately after a death or at a funeral.
This is a story with a moral, but I will not keep you waiting to hear it until you come to the end. I will put my moral at the beginning. It is —
Mind your mother, — unless, of course, you are perfectly sure she is a foolish and unwise woman, and that you are always the more sensible of the two.
My friend, Miss Nelly Willis, was a little late at breakfast one morning, and as she took her chair she found the rest of the family talking over their plans for the day. Papa was going to his business, and Tom to his school in the city, as usual. Mamma was going to do some shopping, and lunch with a friend, and said that she should not be home until late in the afternoon. And Maggie, Nelly’s elder sister, was to spend the day with her aunt, who lived a few miles away, farther out in the country.
“So we shall leave the little girl all alone,” said Mrs. Willis to Nelly, “and what does she mean to do? I wish there was some one near who could come to play with you.”
“Mamma, dear,” said Nelly, “just this once can I have Jane Simmons for a little while? I won’t bring her into the house, and we won’t go out of sight, or carry out the best playthings, or do a bit of mischief. I don’t see why Mrs. Duncan stays away so long. I do miss Grace and Georgie so.”
“Nelly, dear,” said Mrs. Willis, “I am very sorry to hinder any pleasure of yours, but I don’t wish you to play with Jane. I wonder why you ask me, when I have told you so many times. She is a very naughty girl, and always teaches you bad words and bad manners, and tries to make you disobey me. I will tell you what I am going to do, though I meant it should be a surprise. I have asked Alice Russell to come out with me from town and make you a little visit.” (Alice was a very dear friend of Nelly’s.) “Now I think you had better put the play-room in order, because you will be there to-morrow, and you know Alice keeps her playthings looking very nice. I shall not be worried about you, for I am sure you will be good while I am gone.”
Just then the carriage was driven around to the door, and there was a great hurrying and running up and down stairs, and in a few minutes everybody had gone, and Nelly was left to her own devices. She went back to the breakfast room and had another saucerful of strawberries, with a great deal of sugar on them; then she watched Ann while she cleared away the table and washed the china and silver, shut the blinds, and pulled down the curtains, and hung the linnet’s cage and the parrot’s out on the west piazza, in the shade. Then our friend went up to the play-room, but unfortunately it was in better order than usual, so she did not find much to do. She had been dress-making the day before, and had left her work scattered on the floor, by one of the windows, but it does not take long to roll up pieces of cloth and put them into one of the doll’s trunks. Some she carried out to the rag-bag, and then went out to bring them back, thinking that she might wish some time to alter the over-skirt she had been making for Dora Mary. She dressed all the dolls in their best clothes, because some of Alice’s family would be sure to come, and they were dolls who thought a great deal of dress.
Nineteenth-century French fashion doll. Courtesy Mimi Matthews.
All this did not take long, and Nelly sat down in her rocking-chair in front of the doll-house, and wondered what she should do next. She thought of dressing herself in her mother’s or Maggie’s clothes, and parading about the house in great majesty with her long trains. She was very fond of this; but where would be the fun to-day, with nobody to see her? She had some worsted-work in which she had been interested, but she had used up all the worsted, and her mother was to buy more in town that day. She called to Susan, who was putting Maggie’s room in order, to ask if she wouldn’t tell her a story. Susan’s stories were always so interesting. But Susan said, “Bless you, dear! I can’t stop to talk in the middle of the forenoon. I promised to hurry with my work so as to help Nancy, — she’s dreadful busy; but I’m coming up by and by to sew, and perhaps I’ll think of a story then.”
Nelly was disappointed, and looked out of the window, and drummed with her feet against the chair. Anything was better than sitting there, so she went to the doll’s house and took dear Amelia, who had a very fair complexion and light hair, and looked so faded that Nelly always said she was ill. Poor thing! she had to take such quantities of medicine, and go without her dinner and stay in bed half her time. When she sat up it was only in an easy-chair, with pillows behind her and one of the largest doll’s blankets wrapped around her; and when she went out, she was made into such a bundle with shawls that I am afraid the fresh air did her no good.
“I think I will carry you out for a while, dear,” said Nelly, and poor Amelia was dressed warmer than usual, just to take up the time. She even had to wear a thick blue and white worsted scarf around her face and throat. They walked up and down the garden some time, but it was stupid, and when they went down by the carriage-gate to hunt for a bird’s nest which Tom had said was near there in the hedge, whom should they see coming up the street but the Simmons girl. Nelly was delighted, and thought, “I’ll call her in for just a few minutes, and then I can go into the house and leave her; she doesn’t dare to come near the house.” Then she remembered what her mother had said that morning, and with a great effort turned and walked away up the avenue. She had not gone far when she heard the little side-gate open, and looked back to see Jane coming in and bringing her brother with her. Jane looked unusually dirty that morning and very naughty. She was carrying her mother’s parasol, and the brother, who was never called anything but “The Baby,” was unbecomingly dressed in an old shawl, folded as small as possible; because he was so very short it trailed several inches upon the ground, and there were some little sticks and several burdock burrs tangled into the fringe. Jane had put a cast-off Shaker bonnet [1] of her own on his head; there was a great crack in the top of it, through which a tuft of hair showed itself, and fluttered in the wind. He had the dirtiest face you ever saw, and it always seemed to be the same dirt. Nelly hated The Baby. “What made her play with Jane?” Oh, I’m sure I don’t know. If Jane had not known any better, it would have been different; one would have pitied her; but she did know better than to be so naughty and so careless. There was certainly nothing to hinder her being good and kind and honest and clean, except that she would not take the trouble. In her heart, that day, Nelly was glad to see Jane, but she did not say much at first. “You’re p’lite, ain’t you?” said Jane. “See me coming and made believe you didn’t. I saw all the folks riding off to town a while ago, and mother said I might come over and play.”
Straw Shaker bonnet with silk neck covering. Public domain.
Nelly always tried to be polite, and this was not without effect. “What will she say if I tell her to go home?” she thought. “Mamma never tells her visitors to go home, even if she doesn’t like them,” and here there came a thought of how sorry she had been after the last time Jane came, and what sad mischances there had been. “But perhaps I had better keep her a little while and be pleasant to her, and then tell her I must go into the house, and that I am never going to play with her any more.” “I don’t see what made you bring The Baby, though,” said she, aloud.
“Oh, dear!” said Jane, “I have to lug him everywhere. Long as he couldn’t talk I wasn’t bothered with him, for if worst came to worst, I used to tie him to the lilac-bush and clear out, and only be sure to get back in time to unhitch him before mother came; now he goes and tells everything, but he is real good to-day, and you needn’t mind him. Going to play dolls, aren’t you?”
Botanical print, Syringa vulgaris (common purple lilac). W. Curtis, 1792. Public domain.
“No, I’d rather do something else,” said Nelly. “I have just finished clearing up the play-room, and I’m going to have company to-night.”
“Well, ain’t you got company now? You didn’t use to be so ‘fraid of your old dolls. I thought we would have a real nice party, and I’ve brought something splendid in my pocket that my aunt gave me last night. I’ve been saving it.”
“Poor thing!” thought Nelly. “It would be so cross in me not to let her have a good time. Mamma said I must always be kind to her. She’s very pleasant, and perhaps she is trying to be good, after all. [“]Here; you take care of Amelia and I’ll go in and get the tea-set and one or two dolls. Amelia is my sick doll, you know, and you must be very careful of her.”
“Yes’m,” said Jane, meekly, and as soon as Nelly was out of sight, she looked at poor Amelia’s clothes and robbed her of her flannel petticoat, which was prettily embroidered and new only the week before. When Nelly found out a few days later that it was gone, the doll was at once taken very ill, and did not sit up much for half the summer. One of the rooms in the baby-house was kept dark, and the dolls took turns in sitting up with her at night.
Nelly soon came back, carrying the tea-set box and the little tea-table, and a doll beside under each arm. “Here’s the table-cloth in my pocket,” said she, “and I brought a piece of pine-apple; there’s sugar in the sugar-bowl that we can put on after we have sliced it. It shall be your party, and you are Mrs. Simmons and must sit at the head of the table, and I am Mrs. Willis come to spend the day with you.”
This pleased Jane, and she was as good-natured as possible, and they set the table, while The Baby sat quietly on the ground and poked up ant-hills with a little stick.
“Now,” said Mrs. Simmons, when the table was ready, “let’s see what you have in your pocket.”
“I!” said Nelly, with surprise. “Why, I brought out nothing but the pineapple. It’s your party, you know, and I thought you had your pocket full of something that your aunt gave you.”
“So I have,” said Jane, “but I guess I’m not going to let you eat it all up.”
“I’m not a bit hungry,” answered Mrs. Willis, “I had a splendid breakfast. I don’t want any of your candy, or whatever it is. Mamma will bring me some from town.”
Mrs. Simmons was very angry. Her breakfast had not been “splendid,” though she had had enough of it, and she had counted on Nelly’s bringing out a quantity of good things, as she sometimes had before.
“Oh,” thought Nelly, “now she’s going to act, and be cross. I wish I had thought to hide when I saw her coming. I must bring out something to eat, or nobody knows what she will do.” And off she went to the house again, while Mrs. Simmons asked her to look for some cake with sugar on it.
She hunted in the china-closet and on the sideboard and could find no cake at all. Nancy told her there was not a bit in the house; Mrs. Willis was to bring some out from the city. “You’re not hungry again so quick as this?” said Ann, who came into the dining-room just then. Nelly did not dare to tell them that a tea-party was going on, or who the guests were, but after some search she carried out some macaroons and some plum-pudding, which she had not eaten at dinner the evening before, and was saving for her lunch that day. “It’s too bad to let her eat this all up,” thought Nelly. “Perhaps Nancy had some more put away. I’ve a great mind to tell Nancy to go out and send them home,” and all the time she was hurrying so Nancy would not call her back or follow her. Foolish child!
Mrs. Simmons was satisfied when Nelly showed the pudding, and while they finished arranging the table she told of a shop she was going to open in her wood-shed the next week, with wind-mills and darts and fly-boxes, and all sorts of delightful and useless things made of paper, besides molasses and water, at five pins for a drink in a toy tin dipper or one cent for a large mugful. Jane liked to get cents, and Nelly almost always had some in her pocket. “I’ll take down a whole paper of pins,” thought Nelly, “and buy ever so much.”[2] Jane was so friendly and quiet that her heart warmed toward her. “Poor thing!” she thought, “she doesn’t know any people but bad ones, and no wonder she swears, and throws stones, and does all sorts of things.” Just now Mrs. Simmons happened to come closer to her, and Nelly saw for the first time a most shocking and heathenish decoration. “Oh, Jane!” she cried, “what have you been doing to those poor flies, you horrid girl?”
“Want me to string you some?” said Mrs. Simmons, with a grin. “I did every bit of this this morning, before I came over. I’ll bring you one that will go round your neck twice, to-morrow, if you will give me two cents.”
It was a necklace of flies, on a long piece of white thread, to which the needle was still hanging. Oh! those dozens of poor flies. Some were dead, but others faintly buzzed.
Fly. Courtesy id-hub.com.
“Jane Simmons,” said Nelly, “you can eat the pudding, and then you go right straight home, and I never will play with you any more. How could you be so awful. Hurry up, or I will call Nancy.”
“I was going pretty soon, any way,” said Jane. “I guess there are flies enough left; you needn’t make such a fuss. They let them stick on papers and die, in your house. You’re an awful little ‘fraid cat. Who wants to play with you, any way?”
Nelly sat down on the grass, and would not say another word, and Jane ate the pudding as fast as she could. The Baby had not been satisfied with his share of the feast, and as she laid the best china saucer down he snatched it, and also the little cream-pitcher that belonged to the doll’s tea-set, and ran away with them.
“Oh, please stop him!” begged Nelly, and Jane tried to catch him, and (how can I tell it?) stepped on his trailing shawl. The Baby fell down and rolled over and over in the gravel, and the best china saucer and the cream-pitcher were both broken.
“What will mamma say?” said Nelly. “O Jane! it is one of the very best saucers that she likes so much, and I heard her tell Mrs. Duncan, the other day, that she couldn’t get any more, for she had tried a great many times.”
If Jane had been at all sorry, Nelly would have considered her only her companion in misfortune, but instead of that she seemed to think it was a great joke, and said something very provoking. Nelly shouted at the top of her voice for Thomas, forgetting that he had gone to get Maggie’s saddle horse a pair of new shoes at the blacksmith’s. But Jane, for a wonder, was a little frightened, and seizing The Baby’s hand, she hurried him home. She expected a messenger from Mrs. Willis for several days, and kept watch, whenever she was at home, so that if she saw anybody coming she could climb the fence behind the house and run.
Poor Nelly was very miserable. She gathered up the bits of china carefully, and put them in her pocket, and then sat down and cried a little, for it was such a dear cream-pitcher, with a blue and gold flower on each side, and a slender black handle.
There was nobody in the garden, and nobody saw her. It was very lonely. The dolls, in their best dresses, sat around the tea-table, and Nelly was almost provoked with them for looking just as they always did, and sitting up so straight and consequential when such a terrible thing had happened. Amelia, at least, ought to have been sympathizing, for was she not regretting the loss of her new petticoat? The corners of the table-cloth waved cheerfully in the wind, and some bright leaves from a red rose-bush near by came fluttering through the air, and a few lodged on the table among the tiny china dishes.
Just then Nelly happened to see The Baby’s Shaker bonnet lying on the grass at a little distance, and she jumped up, and taking it by the end of one string she ran to the gate and threw it as far as she could out into the street. When she came back she took the dolls and the tea-set box and the table in her arms, and went into the house. She hid the pieces of china down under some stockings at the back of one of her bureau drawers, and felt very guilty and sad. After a little while she had lunch alone and then she tried to play with the dolls; but it was no fun at all, even though two had scarlet-fever, and the black tea-poy was doctor, and usually had a good deal to say.[3] But Susan told a story after a while as she sat at her sewing, and Mrs Willis came home earlier than was expected, bringing Alice with her. It was very naughty of Nelly, but she did not tell her mother what had happened, and all through the evening she was miserable whenever any one went up-stairs, for fear they might go to her lower drawer and find the broken china. Still, she had a good time, for her sister Maggie had brought home a young lady to spend the night, who was very bright and funny, and she sang and played for the children to dance in the evening.
“Has Nelly been a good girl to-day?” Mrs. Willis asked Susan.
“Indeed, yes, ma’am,” said Susan. “As good as a kitten, playing with her little dolls in the garden, and I told her a story this afternoon while I was mending the ruffles on her blue dress.”
And Mrs. Willis smiled at Nelly in a way that made her feel like crying.
She and Alice had not seen each other for several weeks, and had a great deal to talk about and laugh about, so it was late before they were quiet. Alice went to sleep first, but Nelly was awake awhile, for she was so worried about what had happened. What would her mother say? and how sorry and grieved she would be to find that her little girl had done exactly what she asked her not to do, just before she went away. And Nelly wondered why she had played with Jane, and she remembered the fly-necklace with a shiver, and after a long time she went to sleep. Then she had a sad dream, and it was such an odd dream that I must tell you about it.
She thought that she heard a great rattling and clinking out in the hall, and she got up to look out and see what the matter was, and noticed, on the way, that the lowest bureau drawer was open. The moon was shining in brightly through the large hall windows, and Nelly dreamed that she saw the funeral procession of the best china saucer.
Antique flow blue china saucer. Public domain.
It was plain that he had been a favorite in the china-closet, for there was such a large attendance. Even the great punch-bowl had come from off the side-board, and that was a great honor. The silver was always locked up at night, but one tea-spoon was there, which had been overlooked. The dead saucer was in a little black Japanese tray, carried by the cruets from the castor, and next came the cup, the poor lonely widow. It is not the fashion for china to wear mourning, and she was dressed as usual in white with brilliant pictures of small Chinese houses and tall men and women. After her came the rest of the near relations, walking two and two, and after them the punch-bowl, looking large and grand, and as if he felt very sorry. It was a large elegant company, and reached from Nelly’s door far along the hall, to the head of the staircase, and how much farther than that she could not see.
“How will that clumsy punch-bowl go so far and get down the stairs again without cracking himself?” thought our friend, and wondered what they were waiting for.
But in a few moments the play-room door opened, and out came the poor, sad little doll’s tea-set. The tea-pots first, and then the sugar-bowl, and the cups and saucers, and the plates, all walking two by two, and then the little glass tumblers. It was remarkable that the cream-pitcher was the first of the family who had been broken, but Nelly had been very careful. There was one little plate badly cracked, and how dreadful if it should fall down the stairs and die on the way!
It worried her terribly, the thought of this, as foolish things do worry us in dreams. And next she thought, what if some of the other china should trip and fall, or if one of the heavy soup-tureens should go crashing down among the rest. She did not dare to watch any longer, and when the doll’s tea-set came up, and the great procession began to move, she rushed back to bed and opened her eyes to find that instead of moonlight it was morning, and Susan had come in to wake Alice and herself, and help them dress. Nelly did not wait until Alice had gone, to tell her mother, as she had meant to do the evening before. Mrs. Willis was very sorry indeed, you may be sure of that, when she heard Nelly’s story. “Poor Jane!” said she. “I am sorry for the naughty little girl. I wish I could have done something for her; I tried, but she always made you naughty, and I am afraid you cannot do her any good.”
This was the end of Nelly’s playing with Jane, at any rate, for the Simmonses moved away the very next week. The Duncans came back soon after, and they were Nelly’s best friends, so she was no longer solitary, but she always has wondered what it was that Jane had in her pocket for the party.
Jewett, Sarah Orne. “The Best China Saucer.” The Independent 24, no. 3 (June 1872): ***. Reprinted in Jewett’s play days: A Book of Stories for Children (boston: houghton, osgood, 1878), 71-84.
[1] A beautifully crafted bonnet made by the Shakers. See Contexts below.
[2] Straight pins for sewing were sold stuck in a paper for display.
[3] Scarlet fever is a serious bacterial infection affecting young children. It was often fatal in the nineteenth century. A teapoy is three-legged stand, often containing a tea set and used for serving tea.
Contexts
Founded in England in the eighteenth century and widespread in the U.S. during the nineteenth century, the Shakers were a utopian millennialist religious sect known for their ecstatic dancing. Believing in social, sexual, economic, and spiritual equality, they remained celibate and unmarried. When they joined a Shaker community they gave their property to the community. Valuing beautifully crafted objects for daily use—like the bonnet Jewett references—the Shakers were also successful entrepreneurs, selling items ranging from seeds and boxes to tables and other furniture. The Baby’s “cast-off” broken bonnet indicates that even though his mother was poor, she recognized its quality.
Dirt has long been associated with female sexuality as well as with working-class womanhood. While wealthy Nelly has servants and plays with expensive well-dressed dolls, Jane must tend her little brother because their mother has to work. “The Baby” is living proof of female sexuality, and Jane is frustrated at her prematurely maternal role. Jewett uses the language of flowers ironically as she speaks indirectly to an adult audience: lilacs signified “first love.” Jane’s necklace of live flies, which satirizes a rich woman’s jewelry, suggests her familiarity with the body—and with death.
Resources for Further Study
Formanek-Brunel, Miriam. Made to Play House: Dolls and the Commercialization of American Girlhood, 1830-1930. New Haven: Yale UP, 1993.
Heller, Terry. The Sarah Orne Jewett Text Project. In addition to reprinting all of Jewett’s texts with annotations, this comprehensive site also has information on Jewett, links to reviews of the author’s writing, and some scholarly links.
“Playthings of the Past.” National Park Service. A brief overview of various toys and their history.
Sherman, Sarah Way. “Party out of Bounds: Gender and Class in Jewett’s ‘The Best China Saucer.’” In Jewett and Her Contemporaries: Reshaping the Canon, ed. Karen L. Kilcup and Thomas S. Edwards, 223-48. Gainesville: UP of Florida, 1999.
Pedagogy
One activity for younger children might be inviting them to bring to school one of their favorite toys and asking them in class to explain why the toy is important to them.
For older students, teachers could ask them how possessions signify status—and how they feel about those associations.
For all readers: ask them to write about—or draw—what Jane has in her pocket.
Contemporary Connections
Although Jane knows the customs of girlhood, she’s clearly a tomboy, revolting against traditional motherhood and social niceties. Today she might claim a label like “nonbinary.” Pop singer Destiny Rogers explores fluid gender identity and class issues in her song “Tomboy.”
I have ever so many nephews and nieces all over the country, but they cannot all come and see me as Bertie does. I hear his “tap, tap” at my door, and he comes bounding in with something to tell me or some question to ask. Pretty soon he is up in my lap, with his arms around my neck, and “Now, auntie, tell me a story.”
And it must be a true story, too. Indeed, I never tell him any other. There are far more wonderful things that are true than any that people can make up out of their heads.
“Well, Bertie, what shall it be?”
Bertie thinks. “Oh! tell me how the apples grow.”
“Very well. Do you see that tree out there in the garden?”
“Yes, auntie.”
“You see there are no leaves on it now; but in the spring-time, when the frost goes away, and the sun shines all the long day, and the warm rains fall, by and by the buds begin to swell, and then they open, and the little green leaves come out, and the blossoms open pink and white and sweet all over the tree. And right in the middle of the pink and white blossoms the little apples begin to grow, not larger than a pea. Pretty soon the pink and white leaves fall to the ground, but the little apples stay on the tree; and the sun shines and the rains fall, and the apples grow larger and larger, till they are as big as Bertie’s thumb. Then they grow on till they are as big as Bertie’s fist, and by and by they are as big as auntie’s fist. Then they turn all red and yellow[1], and striped and sweet and juicy.”
“And will they be good to eat then?”
“Yes, they will be good for us all to eat; and Henry shall take a basket and go up into the tree.”
“On a tall, high ladder?”
“Yes, on a high ladder, and he will pick the apples and bring them down, and Molly will wipe them clean and put them on the dinner-table, and we will all have them to eat—papa and mamma and Bertie, and all the rest. God made them just right for us to eat, and they will do us good. God is very good to give us so many good things to eat.”
“And then what else do we do with the apples, auntie?”
“Oh! we make them into sauce and pies and puddings, and a great many good things.”
“And what else?”
“Oh! you tell.”
“Why, they make them into cider.”
“Who told you that?”
“Jimmie Barton. And he said they drink it[2], and that it is real good. How do they make cider, auntie?” They put the nice good apples into a big machine[3], and they crush them all to pieces, and then they squeeze out the juice, and they throw away the good apple or give it to the hogs. The juice they put into a big barrel, and let it stand till it gets all rotten and poison, and it makes people sick that drink it, and sometimes it makes them crazy too. It is horrid bad stuff. I think it is wicked to waste the nice rich apples that are so good for us in that way—spoil them so that they are not fit for anybody.”
“Don’t you drink cider, auntie?”
“No, Bertie; I never drink cider. I don’t wish to be poisoned. I would rather have the nice apples just as God made them to grow for us. Wouldn’t you, Bertie?”
“Yes, auntie, I would. I don’t want any cider. Oh! there’s mamma,” and away he goes; but to-morrow he will come back and ask to hear more about cider.
Anonymous. “Talks with Bertie: 1. How the Apples Grow.” Youth’s Temperance Banner. 11, No. 1 (January 1876): 2-3.
[1] Aunt Julia appears to be a pen name or a character who “authors” the Talks with Bertie series.
[2] It was common for children to drink diluted version of cider from colonial times through the 19th century.
[3] A cider press is the name of the machine Aunt Julia is describing.
Contexts
The Youth’s Temperance Banner was a periodical aimed at adolescents discouraging the consumption of alcohol and other harmful substances. It was published by the National Temperance Society and Publication House, a semi-religious society founded in 1865 aimed at promoting temperance, or abstinence from drinking alcohol. [1]
Cider, specifically, was popular in colonial America up until the 1800s due to poor water quality and the ability to preserve large apple harvests through fermentation. The Industrial Revolution, the rise in beer consumption in urban areas, and the temperance movement all contributed to the decline of cider’s popularity in the 19th century. [2]
Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign, D.A.R.E (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), and various campaigns to prevent underage drinking are all modern examples of the temperance movement. These organizations and community strategies aim to prevent children and teenagers from engaging with drugs and alcohol.
Rev. William Houghton, “British Fresh-Water Fishes.” London; W. Mackenzie, Harvard University Museum of Comparative Zoology, 1879, Plate: Sticklebacks (Illustration). Not in copyright.
In a late number of THE LITTLE CORPORAL, is an interesting description of “fishes at play.” The sight was wonderful and rare, and few of those who read the account, will ever see the like; but many of us may watch fishes at work, without going to the sea. For fishes do work, and I have often seen them.
On some parts of the Island of Aquidneck[1], where I live, the shores are marshy, with fresh streamlets, here and there, meandering down to the salt water.
There is one marsh in particular, at the edge of the bay, with still pools sunk in the peaty[2] soil. These are filled partly by rain, from the clouds, and partly by the sea, that sometimes overflows them at spring tides. Coarse grass droops around their margins, forming dark, sheltered recesses among its roots; while sea lettuce[3], and other marine plants, float in broad, green patches on the surface of the brackish water. Every spring, scores of little fishes find their way into these pretty lakelets, and lay their eggs, or, as we commonly say, spawn, in their quiet water.
Many an hour, from March to June, do I spend in watching their attractive ways, as, all unconscious of observers, they carry on their busy housekeeping.
My favorite, among them, is the two-spined stickleback. It is only two or three inches long, sharp nosed, straight backed, flat sided, rough tailed, and bony; with spines about it; the two upon its back as big and sharp as the prickles upon a gooseberry bush. Yet it is beautiful. Both male and female are green and brown above, and silvery below, with great, round eyes; but the male is much the handsomer of the two. His colors are deeper, and there are times when his cheeks and sides become of a brilliant red.
While the sun has shone through many long days, and the water is warm and clear, the sticklebacks know it is time to get ready a lodging for their eggs. The male finds his mate, and, side by side, the pair swim up and down, seeking a convenient place. Sometimes a whole day is spent, in searching about, and holding consultations.
At last, a spot is chosen, somewhere upon the bottom, and the male sets to work. He begins by clearing off whatever sticks, or other rubbish, may be in the way, carrying each bit to a distance. Then he takes away the sand, a mouthful at a time, until he has formed a hollow, of the size and shape of a watch crystal[4].
Sometimes a fragment of shell, or stone, sticks up, and the little fellow has to tug long and hard, to remove it.
When the nest is deep enough, he lines it with fronds of hollow-weed, sea lettuce, or some other smooth plant. These he cuts with his teeth, and lays the strips, one by one, strewing a little sand upon each, to keep it from being brushed aside. When the bottom of the nest is covered with a layer of strips, all lying one way, he spreads another layer across it, with all the pieces lying the other way, making a soft, even mattress. Often, he sinks down upon this bed, and presses it with his breast, fluttering his wing-like fins, much like a hen canary bird, when lining her nest.
All the while he is at work, his mate sails up and down, encouraging him by her presence, but taking no part in his toil. Every now and then, he swims swiftly toward her, and insists on her coming to see the nest. She does so willingly, bending down, and looking at it with silent approval.
Sometimes, she wanders in search of food, and gets out of sight. He does not always miss her at once, but when he does, you should be there to see. He drops his precious piece of silky frond, no matter how carefully he has shaped it; he quits the nest, and, like one bereft[5] of common sense, rushes wildly about, as if all his aims in life were lost. When he finds the unwitting truant, he seems to chide her, and with impetuous[6] haste, drives her back to the scene of his labors.
Calm and serene herself, she cannot share his frenzy; but she gently gives up her own will to his, although she sees no reason for his perturbation[7]. Then he forgets his fears, forgives the cause, and resumes his task.
Now and then he stops work for a few minutes and has a little frolic with his mate. They affect to bite each other, and lay their heads across each other’s necks, like friendly horses in a field. They swim, side by side, in narrow circles; they chase each other, rising one above the other in pursuit, like swallows sporting in the air.
Two days, or more, pass thus, and at last the nest is ready, and the eggs are in it.
Then the careful stickleback makes haste to cover them. Working more mightily than ever, he brings frond after frond of some delicate water plant, and spreads over them. Crossing these as before, he takes no rest while a chink remains, through which can be seen a single egg.
He goes further, and piles on more leaves, with so ingenious a show of carelessness, that no boy or girl would ever suspect that beneath his little patch of shredded weeds, there was hidden a fish’s cradle.
The stickleback’s tasks are not yet ended. He has other work to do. Some rude intruder may meddle with his charge. He must not leave it.
Accordingly, he sets himself to watch. All day he sails up and down, and round about, feeding scantily upon such morsels of food as drift within his beat; never losing sight of the nest.
All night he hovers above it, even sleeping with so much wakefulness as to be roused to vehement[8] action by the slightest stir in the water. If a strolling crab chances to sidle by, he rushes headlong upon it, and bites madly at its defenceless[sic] eyes. If an eel wriggles near, he erects his horrid spines, and dashes furiously against it, threatening to tip it up with these double daggers. He darts with the speed of lightning. The irides of his eyes, his cheeks, his sides, glow with vivid scarlet.
No foe dares resist him, but every one makes haste to quit the field.
For three weeks, this faithful sentinel keeps guard. Toward the close, his vigilance increases. He often draws very near the nest, and peers closely. Sometimes he touches it with his nose; puts down his head, as if listening.
Suddenly, he acts as if he had gone mad. He seizes the loose, outer covering, that served as a screen, and scatters the pieces right and left. He tears open the inner coverlid, that he had so carefully felted. He hangs breathless above the nest. What does he expect?
Presently, there issues from the rents[9], a train of fifty to a hundred tiny creatures, no bigger than midges[10], with filmy, transparent bodies, and wide, staring eyes.
The eggs have hatched, and these are the baby sticklebacks. They swim away, and the father’s work is done.
There is something beautiful in all this toil and watching, and anxiety, and bravery, and patience, of the little two-spined stickleback.
It is not for himself; it is wholly for others; for little ones that are to appear before him for a moment, and pass out of his sight, to be known no more.
When we see the self-devotion, that the Maker of us all has taught this humble fish shall we waste our higher lives in self pleasing? Let us rather learn from these lowly dwellers of the pool, that His works and His word teach the same lesson: Live for others, and not for yourselves.
Little, Rhoda. “Fishes at Work.” The Little Corporal: An Illustrated Magazine for Boys and Girls. 12,No. 6 (June 1871): 205.
[1] Aquidneck Island, also known as Rhode Island, is located in Narragansett Bay in the state of Rhode Island.
The many varieties of the stickleback fish have a mating ritual that is accurate to the one described in this essay. The Encyclopedia Brittanica describes the mating as “highly ritualized.” The male stickleback takes a large role in building and guarding the next as well as parenting the young once they’ve hatched. [1]
Winslow Homer, Spring Lamb, 1880, wood engraving. Cleveland Art Museum, 1942.1433. CC/O.
'Twas summer, and softly the ocean
Sang, sparkling in light and heat,
And over the water and over the land
The warm south-wind blew sweet.
And the children played in the sunshine,
And shouted and scampered in glee
O'er the grassy slopes, or the weed-strewn beach,
Or rocked on the dreaming sea.
They had roamed the whole bright morning,
The troop of merry boys,
And in they flocked at noontide,
With a clamor of joyful noise.
And they bore among them gently
A wee lamb, white as snow;
And, "O mamma, mamma, he's blind!
He can't tell where to go.
"And we found him lost and lonely,
And we brought him home to you,
And we're going to feed him and care for him!"
Cried the eager little crew.
"Look, how he falls over everything!"
And they set him on his feet,
And aimlessly he wandered,
With a low and mournful[1] bleat.
Some sign of pity he seemed to ask,
And he strove to draw more near,
When he felt the touch of a human hand,
Or a kind voice reach his ear.
They tethered[2] him in a grassy space
Hard by the garden gate,
And with sweet fresh milk they fed him
And cared for him early and late.
Winslow Homer, 1878, Shepherdess Tending Sheep, watercolor over graphite. Brooklyn American Art Museum, Dick S. Ramsay, 41.1088. CC/0.
But as the golden days went on,
Forgetful the children grew,
They wearied of tending the poor blind lamb,
No longer a plaything new.
And so each day I changed his place
Within the garden fence,
And fed him morn and noon and eve,
And was his Providence[3].
And he knew the rustle of my gown,
And every lightest tone,
And when he heard me pass, straightway
He followed o'er stock and stone.
One dark and balmy[4] evening,
When the south-wind breathed of rain,
I went to lead my pet within,
And found but a broken chain.
And a terror fell upon me,
For round on every side
The circling sea was sending in
The strength of the full flood-tide.
I called aloud and listened,
I knew not where to seek;
Out of the dark the warm wet wind
Blew soft against my cheek,
And naught was heard but the sound of waves
Crowding against the shore.
Over the dewy grass I ran,
And called aloud once more.
What reached me out of the distance?
Surely, a piteous[5] bleat!
I threw my long dress[6] over my arm,
And followed with flying feet.
Down to the edge of the water,
Calling again and again,
Answered so clearly, near and more near,
By that tremulous[7] cry of pain!
I crept to the end of the rocky ledge,
Black lay the water wide;
Up from among the rippling waves
Came the shivering voice that cried.
I could not see, but I answered him;
And, stretching a rescuing hand,
I felt in the darkness his sea-soaked wool,
And drew him in to the land.
Winslow Homer, Early Morning After a Storm at Sea, 1900-1903, oil on canvas. Cleveland Art Museum, Gift of J. H. Wade 1924.195. CC/O.
And the poor little creature pressed so close,
Distracted with delight,
While I dried the brine from his dripping fleece
With my apron soft and white.
Close in my arms I gathered him,
More glad than tongue can tell,
And he laid on my shoulder his pretty head;
He knew that all was well.
And I thought as I bore him swiftly back,
Content, close-folded thus,
Of the Heavenly Father compassionate,
Whose pity shall succor[8] us.
I thought of the arms of mercy
That clasp the world about,
And that not one of His children
Shall perish in dread and doubt.
For He hears the voices that cry to him,
And near his love shall draw;
With help and comfort he waits for us,
The Light and the Life and the Law!
Thaxter, celia. 1872. “the blind lamb.” our young folks: an illustrated magazine for boys and girls, EDS. J.T. trowbridge and lucy larcom, vol. 8: 674-676. https://login.libproxy.uncg.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/docview/137480100?accountid=14604.
[1] Expressing sadness, regret, or grief.
[2] Tied with a rope or chain.
[3]Protection or guidance from God, nature, or another spiritual power.
[4] Mild in temperature.
[5] Deserving or moving someone to kindness and compassion.
[6] A loose-fitting robe typically worn over nightwear.
[7] Nervous, shaking, or quivering.
[8] To help or give relief to someone suffering.
Contexts
According to Freeberg, the presence of blind people in America was largely hidden or ignored until 1832, when educational institutions for the blind were established in Boston, Philadelphia, and New York. For most sighted Americans who grew up with representations of blind people as helpless beggars in the Bible, “blindness seemed synonymous with dependency, marginalization, and poverty” (124). Moreover, while some Christians believed that blind children were being punished by God for an inherited sin, others rejected the notion that a good and just God would inflict blindness or visual impairment onto the innocent. However, nineteenth-century educators determined to help children with visual impairments went out of their way to not only improve the minds and independence of these children, but also to demonstrate to the public “that these children were apparently not bitter, but happy, not alienated from God, but thankful” (131). The lamb, a Christian symbol of innocence and purity, may be read in this poem as a stand-in for people struggling with physical disabilities who need a particular kind of care and support, but who may not receive it unless from particularly patient and compassionate individuals.
Resources for Further Study
Freeberg, Ernest. 2002. “The Meanings of Blindness in Nineteenth Century America. American Antiquarian Society vol. 110, no. 1: 119-52.
Protas, Allison, Geoff Brown, Jamie Smith, and Eric Jaffe. “Lamb.” 2001. Dictionary of Symbolism. Accessed 22 November 2020. http://umich.edu/~umfandsf/symbolismproject/symbolism.html/L/lamb.html.
Holloway, Laura Carter. 1889. “Celia Thaxter.” In The Woman’s Story: As Told by Twenty American Women. New York: Hurst & Co., Publishers.
Pedagogy
Celia Thaxter was well-known for both her love of the sea and for her poetry that consistently reflected on themes of morality, human compassion, and faith (Holloway). How do you see these themes playing out in “The Blind Lamb”? What lesson are we meant to learn from the story within the poem? Why do the children cease taking care of the lamb? What does it say about the narrator that she not only continues to care for the lamb, but also puts her own life at risk to rescue it from drowning?
Contemporary Connections
There are several organizations today that seek to care for animals with physical disabilities, including blindness. You can see their work and learn ways to support it by visiting their websites:
Frederick Stuart Church, An Artist Among Animals, 1893, printed in black ink on paper. Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum Collection, bequest of Erskine Hewitt, 1938-57-1070-166. CCO.
Robbie had two chickens. Little round fuzzy balls they were, with bright black eyes and pink toes. They didn’t live out in a cold coop in the yard,—no, indeed! They lived in a cosey box in a warm corner of the kitchen, and slept in a basket filled with cotton. They were not common chickens, scratching around in the dirt, and eating bugs and such things off the ground; on the contrary, they took their food from a dish,—like other people who live in houses, and drank out of one of Robbie’s mugs.
They were odd little fellows, altogether. You see, they had the misfortune to come out of their warm egg shell—houses just at the beginning of cold weather; and Mrs. Morris—who brought milk to Robbie’s mamma—tried to make them and their brothers and sisters comfortable in the barn. But one after another died, till only these two were left, and she brought them over in her pocket, and gave them to Robbie for pets. One was buff[2] and the other black, and they looked very cunning, running around the kitchen, and pecking at the floor as if it was good to eat. Robbie was perfectly delighted ,but mamma did not know what to do with them. “I don’t see where we can have them, Robbie,” she said. “I know someping,” said he, triumphantly. “I can six ’em! put ’em in a box!”
“But, dear me! they’ll be such a bother,” said mamma.
“’T won’t boder,”said Robbie, dancing around so full of happiness that mamma couldn’t say another word. “I can get dinner. I’m a cooker. Corn and oats,—the milk woman—said so. Papa’s got a whole crowd of oats out to the barn. Oh!—and water!” and he fairly jumped up and down with delight.
These two chickens soon got to be part of the family. They ran all over the house as tame as kittens. It would be funny if they were not tame, for one or the other of them was generally in Robbie’s arms. They would come when he called them, and eat out of his hands.
Now, nothing can be more cunning than wee bits of chickens, but they won’t stay chicks, you know; they insist on growing up into hens. Robbie’s chickens did just like their cousins who live in the poultry-yard, and by Christmas day they were almost hens. Droll[3] enough it looked to see two hens walking around the house.
Mamma wanted to put them out in the coop, but Robbie was horrified at the idea. “I couldn’t sink of it,” he said, when mamma proposed it; “they’d be all cold.” So they stayed in, and were dressed up for Christmas with blue ribbons tied around their necks, and had for their Christmas dinner just what Robbie did, for he got papa to fill a plate for them. Though I can’t say they ate much of it.
A few days after, Buffy got sick; she moped[4] around, refused to eat, and a great swelling came on her neck. Robbie was in great distress, and mamma sent to Mrs. Morris and borrowed a book. It was a sort of a doctor book for chickens, and had a great gilt[5] cock and hen on the cover. Mamma studied it, and made up her mind that Buffy was “crop bound[6],” and must have an operation performed, or die.
Now mamma wasn’t fond of surgical operations,—she could hardly bear to dig out a sliver. But there was Robbie full of grief, and the book said it wouldn’t hurt much. So she took Buffy, and went into her room and locked the door. Then with a pair of sharp scissors she just snipped the skin over the swelling on the chicken’s neck, and, sure enough, there was her crop stuffed full of corn and wheat. Buffy didn’t seem to mind it much. She took out a coffee-cup full, and then put a linen rag around the neck, and went out to the sitting room. “There, Robbie, I think she’ll get well now,” she said, putting her into her little basket.
If that chicken didn’t get well, it wasn’t for want of care, for Robbie was as fussy a little nurse as you ever saw. He brought her everything he could think of to eat, from corn and oats to soft bread and mashed potatoes; but not a speck would she touch. She just sat humped up in a corner of her box, and wouldn’t move. At last a cup of fresh water tempted her, and she took a few sips. Robbie was watching her, and in a minute he saw the water run out and wet the bandage on her neck.
“O mamma, mamma!” he cried, rushing into the sitting room—, with tears streaming down his cheeks, “the water all runned out! Buffy’s got a hole in her! put some camphor[7] on.”
“She don’t want camphor on,” said mamma, thinking a moment.
“I’ll fix her all right; bring her here.” Robbie took her up very carefully in his two little hands, and kissed the top of her head as he gave her to mamma.
“Now go to my medicine-box and get my court-plaster[8],” said she.
Robbie went and got the plaster; he knew it well enough, for he always had it on his fingers when he hurt them. Mamma cut a piece of the plaster, put aside the feathers, and stuck it over the little wound.
“Don’t put on that old rag,” said Robbie; “put on a hankerfish.” And he dove deep into his little pocket and brought out a specimen.
“Not that dirty one,” said mamma; “get a clean one.”
So Robbie ran to his drawer and took out a little clean one with a red border. Mamma tied it around Buffy’s neck, and let her go.
“Now, she looks ‘stonishing,” said Robbie. And she did look funny with her white collar.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said papa, when he came in. “Is Buffy getting to be a dandy, with a fancy necktie?”
“No,” said Robbie, earnestly, “Buffy got broke; she got a bounded crop; this is the doctor’s shop, and mamma’s the mother of it, and she must have dirt and gravel.”
“Why, what does mamma want with dirt and gravel?” said papa, soberly. “I didn’t know she liked such things.”
“No,—Buffy,” said Robbie; “she had to be cut with the fivers, and it didn’t hurt, and the water runned out, and she couldn’t eat wivout we put on coat plaster!”.
“A dreadful state of things!” said papa. “Hadn’t we better send her to the hospital till she grows up?”
“No, this is the grow place,” said Robbie. “She’ll get well in a mitit. “And she did get well in a few days, if not in a minute, as Robbie thought.
Thorne, olive. 1873. “Robbie’s chickens.” in our young folks: an illustrated magazine for boys and girls, edited by J. T. Trowridge and lucy larcom, 9: 356-358. https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007601761.
[1] Olive Thorne is the penname of Harriet Mann Miller.
[2] The color of buff leather, a beige or tan color..
[3] Strange in an amusing or funny way.
[4] To sulk or show signs of misery
[5] Coated in a thin layer of gold or gold-like substance
[6] A chicken’s crop is a pouch in their food pipe. An impacted or ‘bound’ crop happens when food doesn’t move from the crop to the stomach, and so there is a blockage in the chicken’s food pipe (The Chicken Vet).
[7] Camphor is a substance added to ointments and creams that can help with itchy skin, mild pain, and coughs (U.S. National Library of Medicine).
[8] A sticky fabric used for treating small wounds or for creating artificial beauty marks.
Contexts
Olive Thorne was an active bird watcher and member of the Illinois Audubon Society, a part of the larger National Audubon Society dedicated to the protection of birds and their habitats. The society was founded in 1886 by George Bird Grinnell, and though the first society was later discontinued, a stronger version of the Audubon Society was developed in 1895 by Harriet Hemenway and Minna B. Hall. This new Massachusetts Audubon Society was active in the community, joining together over 900 women in the first year alone to boycott the use of feathers in ladies garments and advocate for conservation legislation. Today, the National Audubon Society boasts twenty-three state programs, forty-one centers, and over four-hundred and fifty local chapters.
Resources for Further Study
Bailey, Florence Merriam. 1919. “Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller.” The Auk 36, no. 2 (April): 163-69. doi:10.2307/4073034.
The Chicken Vet. 2020. “The Advice Hub: Impacted Crop.” Accessed 22 November 2020. https://www.chickenvet.co.uk/impacted-crop.
National Center for Biotechnology Information. 2020. “PubChem Compound Summary for CID 2537, Camphor.” Accessed 22 November 2020. https://pubchem.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/compound/Camphor.
National Audubon Society. 2020. https://www.audubon.org/.
Pedagogy
If the young people in your life are interested in bird watching or in keeping chickens, check out the follow resources:
Hegeman, Annie May. Embroidered cushion cover of a rose wreath designed by William Morris. n.d. Cotton, mercerized cotton, Technique: plain weave embroidered with running (darning), stem, couching stitches, laid work over surface satin, Smithsonian Design Museum Collection, Gift of Annie May Hegeman, late 19th century. CCO.
There was once a little wild rose that was taken away from her country home to live with her city cousins. The Sweet Briar[1]family, you must know, were the highest aristocracy of all the country side. For more than a hundred generations, they had been lords of the soil, holding their real estate with their own armed retainers.[2] So, though quiet and unpretending, they were a proud and unapproachable old family.
When the city gardener came one day to take away the little, wild rose, Madam Sweet Briar received him with dignity, nodded and waved to him in a polite manner, sighed a sweet, little sigh, and smiled a rosy smile, and hoped he would treat her daughter tenderly. And as she said it, she slily gave him an ugly scratch, as a warning of what he might expect from the family, unless its members were treated with consideration, so the gardener took up the wild rose with the greatest tenderness and care, and bore her away. The tall ferns waved a gracious adieu, the clover blossoms bobbed homely, little courtesies to her, the hummingbird kissed her, the bumblebee buzzed about her and said he should come to see her in her new home very soon, and her mother, Madam Sweet Briar, wept and sighed and blessed her.
Away and away, over miles of dusty road, the little, lonely rose was carried. She began to faint and droop long before the journey was done, but the gardener placed her gently in the shade, and bathed her in cold water. So after awhile she grew strong and brave, and held up her head and took heart.
It was a fine place where she lived now, fine, but lonely. She missed the green, waving ferns, the clover blossoms, and the old rail fence she used to rest on. She had a pretty, painted lattice, now, but she did not take to it kindly for many days. But there were some brave, little roots working away at her feet; their active little mouths drew from old mother earth nourishing, strengthening food, and the falling rain soothed her, and the sun warmed her, and so she got over her homesickness, and grew well and strong and happy; and when the time for blossoms came, a beautiful, little, pink flower came timidly forth and crowned the rose.
A proud and happy rose was she that day. The gardener noticed her and praised her, and all the world looked beautiful. But there were other roses in the garden, whose cultivation had made them proud and vain.
“I wonder if she calls that a rose? the little, countrified thing!” said Madam Hundredleaf,[3]drawing herself up in pride, and bustling with spiteful thorns, as she said it.
“It looks like a dwarf apple blossom,” returned Madam Velvet Rose.[4] “Only five petals—and such a faint color! I wonder she has the impudence to hold her head up in our presence.”
“I am sure I think she is pretty,” said Mrs. White Rose,[5] who was a bride, and a very sweet, young creature. “Indeed, I have heard that our grandmothers were all like her, and it is only because we have been treated so kindly that we are any different.”
“For my part,” returned Mrs. Hundredleaf, “I never have believed that story about the low origin of the Rose family. Some spiteful gossip invented the whole story, I have no doubt.”
“That has always been my opinion,” said Mrs. Velvet, proudly. “But it is a shame and a disgrace to have that little, plain, countrified thing claim relation to us. It will only start the old story again.”
“That is true enough,” broke in Mrs. Damask Rose,[6] getting quite red in the face. “I am vexed at the little upstart. I could scratch her well if she was within reach.”
“Please don’t talk so loud,” pleaded the gentle, White Rose. “Please don’t; the poor, little thing will hear you, and she is lonesome and timid already.”
The caution had come too late. The poor, little wild rose had heard all the unkind words, and the world was beautiful no more. She looked down upon the little blossom that had seemed so lovely, but it appeared poor and small and pale; the wind passed over it, and the little pink petals fluttered to the earth; the merry, little buds wrapped their green coats tight about them, and hope and joy died in their hearts.
So they all hid their pretty faces in their green jackets and cried bitterly.
“We don’t ever want to be little, homely roses; make us larger, fuller, sweeter, and brighter. Oh dear! Oh dear!”
The poor, little wild rose was wilder than ever. When she heard the cry of the buds, she had not the least idea how to change the little plain flowers. Should she flounce them or crimp[7] them, or ruffle or scallup [sic][8] them? Should she put two or three together and make one large one? What could she do? She asked the sun, the rain, the earth, the wind. But no one could help her. The sun could paint them.
“Nothing but the regular tints, ma’am,” he said. “That is all I can possibly do for you. I’ve a vast deal of work, and can’t undertake any extras!” And away he glanced and danced.
“Dear me, don’t ask me,” said the wind. “I am so fidgety and nervous, I should die if I stood long in one place. I can’t be of any service to you, unless you need change of air.” And away he flew.
The rain could not help her, either.
“Sorry for you, if you are in trouble,” he cried; “but I can’t tell you anything about your ruffling and fussing. Just keep cool, keep cool—that’s always my advice—keep cool, I say, and soak your feet well.” And away he splashed and dashed.
“Oh dear! Oh dear!” moaned the little wild rose, wringing her hands till they bled from the scratches. “No one will help me! what shall I do?”
Then old mother earth made answer.
“Be your own sweet, simple self. Be true and natural, and you will be beautiful.”
But all in vain the wise mother spoke, all in vain the thirsty mouths sent the rich juices coursing through her veins. Her heart was dizzy and sick, and one by one the discontented buds dropped their heads and died. The wild rose watched them in sorrow. She longed unspeakably for her wildwood home, the waving of the ferns, the nodding of the clovers, the music of the brook, and the song of the birds.
The city garden blossomed in glory and pride. Lilies and roses and pansies and geraniums all flaunted their bright colors on the air. The greenery of June darkened into the deeper hue of midsummer, and flushed and flamed with the fevers of autumn. But the little wild rose was dead—its freshness, sweetness, beauty, life, were gone forever from earth.
Ah! little wild rose, you are not the only one who has come to dismay and death, by trying to be what you were not made to be.
Bentley, Mildred. “The Discontented Rose.” The Little Corporal: An Illustrated Magazine for Boys and GirlsI. 11, no. 4 (October 1, 1870): 112.
[1] The Sweet Briar Rose (Rosa rubiginosa), also known as eglantine, is native to Western Asia and Europe but has been cultivated in N. America (USDA). This rose represents poetry (Ingram, 1869, 110).
[2] Retainer: The act of a client by which the services of a lawyer, counselor, or adviser are engaged. (Merriam-Webster)
[3] The Hundred Leaf Rose (Rosa centifolia), also known as cabbage rose, are named for their ability to bloom with a hundred or more petals. (American Rose Society)
[5] The White Rose (Rosa alba) symbolizes silence according to Ingram (1869, 24).
[6] The Damask Rose (Rosa damascena) is highly fragrant and is used in producing perfume, rose water, and dried petals in potpourri. According to Ingram, “this…species has been held in high esteem for nearly two thousand years” (1869, 23).
[7] Crimp: To pinch or press together. (Merriam-Webster)
[8] Scallop: To shape or cut in a scallop pattern. (Merriam-Webster)
Contexts
Floriography: Floriography, or “the language of flowers,” is the tradition of attaching symbolic meaning to flowers in correspondence or coded messages. [1] Published one year before Bentley’s short story, Flora symbolica; or, The language and sentiment of flowers (1869) by John H. Ingram includes floral symbolism, illustrations, and poetic and literary references to flowers. On the rose, Ingram writes, “There is scarcely a willing tribute to the beauties of the ‘bloom of love’ and a collection comprising one tithe of all the choice things said of it would amply fill a very respectable-sized library'” (1869, 23).
The United States Dept. of Agriculture’s National Plant Germplasm System (NPGS) strives to “support agricultural production by acquiring, conserving, evaluating, documenting, and distributing crop germplasm” (NPGS).
The American Rose Society exists to “promote the culture, preservation and appreciation of the Rose” (ARS).
Giuseppe Barberi. Two Birds in Foliage with Seed Pods. Pen and brown ink, brush and brown wash, graphite on off-white laid paper, lined, c. 1780 to 1800, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, New York, NY.
In the elm-shaded street, Broad and dewy and cool, Loitered two little feet, On their way to school.
Two little wondering eyes Watched the swift wings fly Into the free blue skies From the elm-tops high.
“Heigh-ho! the fields are fair, And the woods, and the swirling brooks, And the birds, are free in the air,” he said; “What do I care for books?”
And a dozen saucy birds Sang loud his mood to share, Loud, bold, and clear, the words, “Tu-whit! what do we care?”
Then came another day, Fair and sunny and sweet, And over the shaded way There came the little feet.
But O, ‘t was a rueful face, With eyes and cheeks aflame, Where tears had left their trace, And penitence, and shame.
“Your wings should all be clipped, For the wicked things you say! I have been soundly whipped,” he said, “Because I ran away.”
And all the saucy birds Sang loud his ire to dare, — Sang bold and clear the words, “Tu-whit! what do we care?”
Averill, Anna Boynton. “What the Birds Said.” OUR YOUNG FOLKS: AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 9, No. 7 (July 1873): 403.
Contexts
This poem demonstrates that children avoiding school is not a new phenomenon. It is also an interesting take on other poems that use birds as symbols of freedom, such as “Bluebirds in Autumn.” While these other poems may end on an optimistic note, this one presents the harsh reality that more Romantic depictions of birds often avoided. This poem also presents an interesting conversation between the birds and their watchers; however, this conversation, much like the child’s punishment, is far from idealistic. During Reconstruction, when this poem was written, student populations were increasing across the South, especially among formerly enslaved people who were now free to pursue education. Schools throughout the South remained segregated, with government funding largely supporting schools for white students.
Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:
saucy: Of persons, their dispositions, actions, or language: Insolent towards superiors; presumptuous. Now chiefly colloquial with milder sense, applied to children and servants: Impertinent, rude, “cheeky.”
Resources for Further Study
The Quest for Education from the Smithsonian National Museum of American History’s Brown vs. Board of Education overview.
This poem contains some depiction of the typical Romantic notion of nature as an inspiration. As when Averill wrote this poem, humans today can use nature to escape everyday life stress. During the COVID-19 pandemic, nature has become a critical way to feel connected to the world. However, we should remember that, while escaping into nature, the rest of the world does not cease to exist.
