When vegetables go to the market in town
They wear the most wonderful frills on their frocks—
Broccoli and lettuce and gay Brussels sprouts
And plump country turnips in bright purple socks.
The cabbage comes wrapped in a satiny shawl,
The carrots in tight orange skirts,
Tomatoes all grinning like red country girls,
And parsley so fancy in little green curls,
Cucumbers with warts on each long, smileless face
That seems quite displeased with the town,
And beets very shabby with dull sweaters on,
Limp skirts with red streaks up and down.
Newsome, Effie Lee. “In the Market.” Gladiola Garden: Poems of Outdoors and Indoors for Second Grade Readers. Washington, DC: Associated Publishers, 1940, 61.
Contexts
Newsome worked among the many celebrated writers of the Harlem Renaissance, who included Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, James Weldon Johnson, Zora Neale Hurston, and Anne Spencer, many of them poets. Among her noteworthy contributions to that movement was her writing and editing for W. E. B. Du Bois’s magazine, The Crisis, the official publication of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). As John Claborn points out, Du Bois’s political goals embraced the idea of access to natural spaces, and the magazine featured environmental writing by such notable authors as Arna Bontemps, Claude McKay, and Hughes. Newsome contributed to and edited “The Little Page” (“Whimsies for the Younger Folk”), where much of her work emphasized nature. This poem, like many others in The Envious Lobster, whimsically enacts a natural history lesson.
Anonymous. Reading of Newsome’s poem, “The Bronze Legacy.” The illustrations for Gladiola Garden were done by prominent Black artist Loïs Mailou Jones (1905-1998).
Grasshopper, colored pring, late 17th-early 18th century. Attributed to Maria Sybilla Merian (1647-1717). Public Domain.
Johnny Greenjacket, a grasshopper, gay,
Gave a great banquet one midsummer day.
The geese were all present, some quail and a pheasant—
This part is unpleasant—
While waiting for dinner, just after the toast,
The guests became hungry,
And ate up their host.
Newsome, Effie Lee. “Johnny Greenjacket.” Gladiola Garden: Poems of Outdoors and Indoors for Second Grade Readers. Washington, DC: Associated Publishers, 1940, 10.
Contexts
Newsome worked among the many celebrated writers of the Harlem Renaissance, who included Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, James Weldon Johnson, Zora Neale Hurston, and Anne Spencer, many of them poets. Among her noteworthy contributions to that movement was her writing and editing for W. E. B. Du Bois’s magazine, The Crisis, the official publication of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). As John Claborn points out, Du Bois’s political goals embraced the idea of access to natural spaces, and the magazine featured environmental writing by such notable authors as Arna Bontemps, Claude McKay, and Hughes. Newsome contributed to and edited “The Little Page” (“Whimsies for the Younger Folk”), where much of her work emphasized nature. This poem, like many others in The Envious Lobster, whimsically enacts a natural history lesson.
Anonymous. Reading of Newsome’s poem, “The Bronze Legacy.” The illustrations for Gladiola Garden were done by prominent Black artist Loïs Mailou Jones (1905-1998).
Dust Jacket for Gladiola Garden, 1940. By Loïs Mailou Jones.
Mother Mud-dauber hurries all day,[1]
Bringing wet mud for her halls,
Her funny little walls.
What will she hide inside?
Guess, if you have not tried.
The spiders she stings,
Which can’t run away.
She puts them alive in her cells,
And they stay.
Then she lays an egg in each little cell,
And closes it with mud, and closes it well.
When the eggs come open on some fine day
There’ll be spider dinners waiting
In the pleasantest way.[2]
Newsome, Effie Lee. “Mother Mud-Dauber Wasp.” Gladiola Garden: Poems of Outdoors and Indoors for Second Grade Readers. Washington, DC: Associated Publishers, 1940, 21.
[1] Mud-dauber wasps come in several different varieties and colors, but many are beneficial in the garden, where they eliminate pests. The females build the nests, which look like concrete rectangles and are often attached to walls or ceilings, or under eaves.
[2] These wasps are natural predators of spiders, and poisonous black widow spiders are among their favorite prey. Many are quite beautiful.
Blue mud-dauber wasp. Courtesy University of Florida Extension.
Contexts
Newsome worked among the many celebrated writers of the Harlem Renaissance, who included Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, James Weldon Johnson, Zora Neale Hurston, and Anne Spencer, many of them poets. Among her noteworthy contributions to that movement was her writing and editing for W. E. B. Du Bois’s magazine, The Crisis, the official publication of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). As John Claborn points out, Du Bois’s political goals embraced the idea of access to natural spaces, and the magazine featured environmental writing by such notable authors as Arna Bontemps, Claude McKay, and Hughes. Newsome contributed to and edited “The Little Page” (“Whimsies for the Younger Folk”), where much of her work emphasized nature. Whimsically using the mother-offspring relationship, this poem teaches natural history about insects that children may initially find fearsome or repugnant.
Anonymous. Reading of Newsome’s poem, “The Bronze Legacy.” The illustrations for Gladiola Garden were done by prominent Black artist Loïs Mailou Jones (1905-1998).
Original illustration for “Insect Folk,” 1940. Woodcut print by Loïs Mailou Jones. Public Domain.
I only have to lift a stone
Up from the soft gray ground
To start the gayest insect folk
To bustling all around.
And often when I peel the bark
From off some brown old tree
A host of small white bugs trots out
Almost immediately.
They seem to have all sorts of plans,
And everywhere to go.
And off they rush, one after one,
Like autos in a row.
Newsome, Effie Lee. “Insect Folk.” Gladiola Garden: Poems of Outdoors and Indoors for Second Grade Readers. Washington, DC: Associated Publishers, 1940, 4.
Contexts
Newsome worked among the many celebrated writers of the Harlem Renaissance, who included Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, James Weldon Johnson, Zora Neale Hurston, and Anne Spencer, many of them poets. Among her noteworthy contributions to that movement was her writing and editing for W. E. B. Du Bois’s magazine, The Crisis, the official publication of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). As John Claborn points out, Du Bois’s political goals embraced the idea of access to natural spaces, and the magazine featured environmental writing by such notable authors as Arna Bontemps, Claude McKay, and Hughes. Newsome contributed to and edited “The Little Page” (“Whimsies for the Younger Folk”), where much of her work emphasized nature.
Anonymous. Reading of Newsome’s poem, “The Bronze Legacy.” The illustrations for Gladiola Garden were done by prominent Black artist Loïs Mailou Jones (1905-1998).
Original image and caption from “A South African Red Riding Hood” as it appeared in The Crisis, volume 14, number 6, from October 1917, p. 287.
(Selected by Monroe N. Work)
Once upon a time there was a Bechuana man who had a daughter named Tsélané.[1] One day he set off with his family and flocks to seek fresh pastures; but his daughter would not go with him. She said to her mother, “I won’t go. Our home is so pretty that I cannot leave it.”
Her mother said, “Since you are naughty you may stay here all alone. But shut the door fast, lest a Marimo (a cannibal) comes and eats you.”
With that the mother went away, but in a few days came back bringing food for the daughter She called “Tsélane, my child, Tsélané, my child, take this bread and eat it.”
“I hear my mother speaking.” said Tsélané, “like a bird coming out of the wood.”
For a long time the mother brought food to Tsélané. Whenever she came she would call, “Tsélané, my child, take this bread and eat it.”
One day Tsélané heard a gruff voice saying, “Tsélané, my child, Tsélané, my child, take this bread and eat it.”
Tsélané laughed and said, “That gruff voice is not my mother’s. Go away, naughty Marimo.”
The Marimo went away. He lit a big fire, took an iron hoe, heated it red hot and swallowed it to clear his voice. Then he came back and again tried to beguile Tsélane. But he could not, because his voice was still rough and harsh.
The Marimo went and heated another hoe and swallowed it red hot. Then he came back and said in a small voice, “Tsélane, my child, Tsélané, my child, take this bread and eat it.”
Tsélané thought it was her mother’s voice and opened the door. The Marimo entered, put her in his sack and carried her off. Soon he felt thirsty and, leaving his bag in the care of some little girls, went to a village to get some beer. The little girls peeped into the bag, saw Tsélané and ran and told her mother, who happened to be near. The mother let her daughter out of the bag and stuffed it, instead, with a dog, a scorpion, a snake, and bits of broken pots and stones.
When the Marimo got home with his bag and opened it, intending to take Tsélané out to cook and eat her, the stones bruised him, the bits of broken pots wounded him, the scorpion stung him, and the dog and snake bit him. In great pain and agony he rushed out and threw himself into a refuse heap and was changed into a tree.
The bees made honey in the bark of this tree. In the spring the young girls gathered the honey and made honey cakes.
This bit of African folk-lore reminds at once of two truths: first, how like the races of men are and how curiously their minds run in the same direction. Second, how peculiar and exquisite is African genius and how different from the ways of other folk. Could one conceive a more original tale than this?
George Harper Houghton, [Tree]. Photograph, 1861-62, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C. Public Domain.
“A SOUTH AFRICAN RED RIDING HOOD.” THE CRISIS 14, NO. 6 (OCTOBER 1917): 287.
[1] The Bechuanaland Protectorate, established in 1885 by the United Kingdom, became the Republic of Bostwana in 1966.
Contexts
Starting in 1912, the October issues of The Crisis, the official magazine of the NAACP, were dedicated to children. A typical edition of these children’s numbers would contain a special editorial piece and two or three literary works specifically for children, while still including the serious pieces about contemporary issues with a focus on race that The Crisis was known for. These October numbers were sprinkled with children’s photographs sent in by the readers.
In his first editorial for the Children’s number in 1912, W. E. B. Du Bois wrote that “there is a sense in which all numbers and all words of a magazine of ideas myst point to the child—to that vast immortality and wide sweep and infinite possibility which the child represents.”
The success of The Crisis’ children’s number led to the standalone The Brownies’ Book, a monthly magazine for African American children that circulated from January 1920 to December 1921 under the editorship of Du Bois, Augustus Granville Dill, and Jessie Fauset.
Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:
Bechuana: A member of a black African people inhabiting the country between the Orange and Zambezi rivers in southern Africa, and speaking a Bantu language, Tswana (formerly called Sechuana).
Resources for Further Study
The University of Southern Mississippi’s The Little Red Riding Hood Project gathers sixteen English versions of the well-known fairy tale that were published between 1729 and 1916.
The Oxford Bibliographies‘ overview of cannibalism or anthropophagy reveals that the term “cannibal” first came to use in the context of the European colonization of the Americas. The trope of cannibalism followed European imperialistic incursions in Africa and Southeast Asia, wherein, in some cases, accusations of cannibalism justified cruelty and conquest.
The Morgan State University’s African Folk Tale Library project seeks to gather African “folk tales from both historical sources and contemporary informants in the original language with English translations.”
Arthur Dove. Rain. Twigs and rubber cement on metal and glass, 1924, Avalon Fund. Public Domain.
Outside I hear the dashing rain
Fall full against the window pane.
On such a day, the fire aglow,
An easy chair, a book or so,–
What more would I that fortune bring?
Yet hark! I hear a step–a ring–
And close to heart and hearth I fold
My friend, who guessed my wish untold.
For other joys I do not pray,
Content am I this rainy day.
Starting in 1912, the October issues of The Crisis, the official magazine of the NAACP, were dedicated to children. A typical edition of these children’s numbers would contain a special editorial piece and two or three literary works specifically for children, while still including the serious pieces about contemporary issues with a focus on race that The Crisis was known for. These October numbers were sprinkled with children’s photographs sent in by the readers.
In his first editorial for the Children’s number in 1912, W. E. B. Du Bois wrote that “there is a sense in which all numbers and all words of a magazine of ideas myst point to the child—to that vast immortality and wide sweep and infinite possibility which the child represents.”
The success of The Crisis’ children’s number led to the standalone The Brownies’ Book, a monthly magazine for African American children that circulated from January 1920 to December 1921 under the editorship of Du Bois, Augustus Granville Dill, and Jessie Fauset.
Dixon’s “A Rainy Day” also appeared in 1916 in American Cookery, a monthly journal published in New York.
Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:
dashing: That dashes; that beats violently against something; splashing.
Egon Schiele. Small Tree in Late Autumn. Oil on wood, 1911, Leopold Museum, Vienna, Austria. Public Domain.
Annotations by Rene Marzuk
Plum Street is a firm believer in “signs.” It is not an ordinary street—not even physically, for it begins at Ludlow, stops on Clark where the trolley passes, picks itself up a half block south on Clark and rushes across the railroad straight uphill to the Fair Grounds. In the early nineties it was the thoroughfare for the “southend,” but Jasper Hunley, who bought Lester Snyder’s house at public auction, proved to be a “fair” Negro. Then the Exodus![1] In 1919 Negroes had been in undisputed possession for twenty years.[2]
Like the colors of their faces, the houses vary. There is Jasper Hunley’s big brown house with built-in china cabinet and bookcases, hardwood floors and overstuffed furniture. On either side of him in white houses live the Reverend Burns and Policeman Jenkins in a little less state, with portable furniture sparsely upholstered, and carpets. Across the street lives Mother Stewart and Reverend Gordon in plain barefaced houses with scarred pine furniture.
At the close of the January day, Mary Hunley sat watching at her window for Eva Lou’s home-coming from the office. Again she recalled vividly the June day she had sat with bed-ridden Mother Stewart while Lucy went to market. She had been sitting at the second story window feasting her eyes upon her hardwon home across the street—a big house in a big yard with flowers and young trees in spring garb. The roses were beginning to open. She had smiled contentedly as her eyes lingered on each bush and shrub but a puzzled frown crossed her brow as she noticed her youngest maple had yellowed. She wondered if worms were at its root.
She turned her eyes to gaze down at the Reverend Mr. Gordon, who pulled his broad brimmed hat further over his eyes, squared himself on his bare board bench in the corner of the yard and sank into a revery. Unpainted palings enclosed the tiny grassless yard about his unpainted weather-stained house, distinguished from its neighbors only by a bright blue screen door. The Reverend, tall, broad, his brown face growing darker with age, had lived on Plum street ever since he had been called from the janitorship of the Mecklin Building to the pastorate of the St. Luke’s Baptist Church. He had come to be the oracle of the street.
His dreams were respectfully broken by the greetings of returning marketers. Mary listened idly until Lucy stopped for a conversation. They spoke of the movies and the man there to whom the whole town was flocking for advance information on the future. Lucy thought his amazing replies all a trick. Mr. Gordon concurred.
Mary Vaux Walcott. Carolina Maple. Watercolor on paper, 1923, Smithsonian American Art Museum. Public Domain
“Yet,” he said, “the Lawd do give wahnin’ of things t’come t’them that believes, Miss Lucy. Ah’m not a-tall supstitious but when ah gits a sign ah knows it.”
“Yassuh,” Lucy nodded.
“Las’ yeah,” he continued, “ah says to Mrs. Reveren’ Burns that somebody in that house on the cornuh o’ Clark would die ‘fore spring come agin. She laffed. In Feb’uary the oldest boy died o’ consumption. The new leaves on d’tree in d’front yahd turned yeller. When a tree does that, Miss Lucy, death comes in the fam’ly fore a yeah is gone.”
He paused portentously. Mary Hunley leaned unsteadily closer to the window. He spoke solemnly as he pointed his long finger.
“That tree yonde’ in Jasper Hunley’s yahd turned yeller las’ night. This is June, Miss Lucy. The Lawd do give wahnin’s to them as believes.”
Mary Hunley never knew how she got home. She only knew the Lord had sent her warning. She had always believed in signs—and the few times she had ignored them they had told truth with a vengeance.
When but a girl a circus fortune-teller had drawn a picture of her future husband who should bring money and influence. When Jasper Hunley, carpenter, came a-wooing, his likeness to the picture made the match. She never really loved him, but he was her Fate so they married.
William Bullard. Portrait of Martha (Patsy) Perkins. Photograph, 1901, courtesy of Frank Morrill, Clark University and the Worcester Art Museum. Public Domain.
The first year of her marriage she dreamed three nights that they had moved into a big brown house. When Lester Snyder went bankrupt—Jasper bought the house. They moved in and their neighbors moved out. Racial gregariousness was stronger than economy, so houses went for a song.[3] Enough of them came to Jasper to make him potential potentate of Plum street. But Jasper was slow, not given to show, and contented to be hired.
Mary came to realize that he would only bring the money. She must make the influence. She had received diploma and inspiration from one of those Southern Missionary Schools for colored youth, and she had thoroughly imbibed “money and knowledge will solve the race problem.” [4] In ten years she had made Jasper a contractor. She read, she joined “culture clubs,” she spoke to embroidery clubs on suffrage when it was a much ridiculed subject, she managed Jasper’s business, drew up his contracts, and still found time to keep Eva Lou the best dressed child in Plum street school.
On Plum street as in some other Negro communities color of skin is a determining factor in social position.[5] Mary had cared for that. Jasper was fair and she became fair. From the days of buttermilk and lemon juice to these of scientific “complexion beautifier” she kept watch on herself and Eva Lou.[6] When Eva Lou came back from school in Washington she was whiter and more fashionable than ever; the street wondered, envied, resented.
Gradually Mary grew to feel that the glory of her ambition would come through her daughter. She centered all her love and energies upon Eva Lou—the promise and fulfillment of her life. Occasionally she thought Eva Lou indiscreet in bringing city fashions among small town people, yet she trusted her to have learned on her expensive trips what the great world does. Eva Lou and a few kindred spirits who had ventured far afield—to Chicago and Washington, Boston and New York—had established a clique of those who wore Harper’s Bazaar clothes unadulterated, smoked cigarettes in semi-privacy, and played from house to house. Plum street’s scandalized gossip joyfully reported by Lucy she ascribed to envy. Lucy, black and buxom, hated Eva Lou’s lithe pallor. Mary smiled. Only those in high places are envied.
William Bullard. Portrait of Betty and Willis Coles. Photograph, circa 1902, courtesy of Frank Morrill, Clark University and the Worcester Art Museum. Public Domain.
That June morning as she sat at Mother Stewart’s window, she had breathed a sigh of relief. At last, she could relax. Jasper was a thirty-third degree Mason and Eva Lou was engaged to Sargeant Hawkins of Washington.[7]
Then Gordon’s prophecy smashed in upon her soul. For one panic stricken hour she was filled with terror. But the qualities that had fought for her family for twenty-five years came to her rescue. She knew the prophecy was of Eva Lou. And she who had believed implicitly and fearfully set out to give that yellow tree the lie. She shuddered with dread but she would not retract.
“If I tell Babe,” she reasoned, “wor’y will make her sick. I’ll just have to fight it out alone.”
January was here now. Never a winter before had Eva Lou been so plagued with good advice and flannels. At first she had listened civilly but unheedingly. Finally she firmly refused both. She wore as many as she needed. As for spats and rubber—
“Well, I’ll say not. Pumps ah the thing this wintuh. An’ what if I do cough! Ev’rybody’s got a cold this weathuh. You have yuhself.”
Daily tears did not move her. Fear and a hacking cough were breaking the splendid courage of Mary. Plum street, informed by Lucy, waited the prophecy’s fulfillment in sympathetic certainty.
Down the street Mary saw Dr. Dancey’s car come slowly rolling. She had heard him say flu and pneumonia were rampant again. Suppose Eva should get either! She could not recover. That yellow tree would win and life come crashing to her feet.
“I’ll just have to take care of myself and get rid o’ this grip I have—”[8]
Dr. Dancey was stopping at her door and helping Eva Lou alight.
“O Babe!” Mary cried as she dragged her unwilling body to the door and snatched it open. “Babe, are you sick? Are y’sick?”
Dr. Dancey tried to quiet her. Eva Lou had an attack of grip—nothing more. A hot bath, hot drink, and long night’s sleep would set her right. Mary knew he lied. Grip did not make you look as Babe did. Mary knew for days that the aching limbs and throbbing head she had were signs of grip. When she asked Babe she said she just felt weak.
After Jasper and Eva Lou were asleep, Mary lay in bed and racked her fevered brain for means to thwart the threatening evil. Ah—the sure solution shone clear before her. Her tortured mind felt free and calm. A smile of cunning triumph crept over her face. She eased out of bed, slipped on her flannelette kimono and bedroom slippers. She crept in to look at Babe. She stared, then stooped and kissed the girl’s hot lips. Sweet little Babe! Mother would save her. She raised her head and smiled in calm defiance across the sleeping girl at the shrouded figure of the waiting Death Angel near the window. Not yet would it get her!
She smiled with cunning triumph again at the silent figure. Why didn’t it move? She knew. It was sorry. It had come in vain.
Down the back stairs and into Jasper’s tool room she floated. All pain had left her. Her thinking was clear and her body light as air. As she bent over the tool box she chuckled. She had never felt so certain of success since the day she married Jasper. Softly she drew out the bright, keen saw. In the kitchen she stopped for salt to sprinkle on the ice. She might slip. She floated around the house and to the youngest maple. Carefully she anointed its ice covered trunk and limbs with salt. Every crackle of the melting ice brought joy to her heart. When she felt a bare wet space on the tree she began sawing—haltingly, unrhythmically. Over and over she whispered exultantly.
“The yellow tree lied! The yellow tree lied!”
Once she stopped to wonder why she was not cold, but she was so light and warm it seemed a waste of time. Not even her feet were cold.
The saw was almost through the tree. She raised herself to gloat over its fall.
But it was not a tree. It was that same Angel of Death. The laugh froze in her throat. His face was uncovered and he was smiling. He swayed toward her once —twice. Suppose he should rush over her and get Babe anyway! She laughed now— sweet, carefree. She still would win. She would hold him—if it were forever. The Angel swayed again and fell into her outstretched arms. They held each other.
Early in the morning slow moving Jasper found her there on the ice with the tree over her.
They buried her yesterday. Eva Lou wore white mourning. Lucy, voicing the query of Plum street, asked Reverend Gordon why the yellow tree took the wrong one.
Anne Brigman. The Heart of the Storm. Print, 1914, The J. Paul Getty Museum, LA, Gift of the Michael and Jane Wilson Collection. Public Domain.
BUSEY, DEREATH BYRD. “THE YELLOW TREE: A STORY.” THE CRISIS 24, NO. 6 (OCTOBER 1922): 253-56.
Jun Fujita. Couple Moving During the 1919 Chicago Race Riots. Photographic print, 1919, Chicago History Museum. Public Domain.
[1] A likely reference to the Great Migration (1910-1970), one of the largest movements of people within the United States. Almost six million African American southerners moved to Northern, Midwestern, and Western states to escape racial violence and pursue better opportunities.
[2] In the year 1919, a particularly brutal outburst of violence against African Americans across the United States became what we know now as the Red Summer.
[3] “White flight,” which refers to the movement of white city residents to the suburbs to escape the influx of minorities, explains why racial gregariousness would have caused house prices to drop in African American neighborhoods. Redlining and blockbusting promoted a wave of “white flight” to the suburbs after World War II; however, a new study suggests that “white flight” really started during the first decades of the twentieth century.
[4] During Reconstruction (1863-1877), missionary societies and African Americans established over 3,000 schools in the South for the pubic education of freedmen.
[5] Colorism, which refers to the prejudice against dark skin, is prevalent within African American communities.
[6] In her essay “Black No More: Skin Bleaching and the Emergence of New Negro Womanhood Beauty Culture,” Treva B. Lindsey connects the popularity of bleaching products and procedures in African American communities during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to “perceived and real desires for social mobility and aesthetic valuation within a cultural hierarchy premised upon white cultural supremacy.”
Illustration From a Prince Hall Masonic Convention, 1920. Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.
[7] Jasper Hunley probably belonged to the Prince Hall Masons, a Masonic lodge for African American men that dates back to 1787. Due to racism and segregation, African Americans could not join most Masonic lodges until the late twentieth century. The thirty-third degree is an honorary Masonic degree.
[8] The grip is a common name for epidemic influenza (flu).
Contexts
Original cover from The Crisis‘ number that included “The Yellow Tree.”
Starting in 1912, the October issues of The Crisis, the official magazine of the NAACP, were dedicated to children. A typical edition of these children’s numbers would contain a special editorial piece and two or three literary works specifically for children, while still including the serious pieces about contemporary issues with a focus on race that The Crisis was known for. These October numbers were sprinkled with children’s photographs sent in by the readers.
In his first editorial for the Children’s number in 1912, W. E. B. Du Bois wrote that “there is a sense in which all numbers and all words of a magazine of ideas myst point to the child—to that vast immortality and wide sweep and infinite possibility which the child represents.”
The success of The Crisis’ children’s number led to the standalone The Brownies’ Book, a monthly magazine for African American children that circulated from January 1920 to December 1921 under the editorship of Du Bois, Augustus Granville Dill, and Jessie Fauset.
exodus: The departure or going out, usually of a body of persons from a country for the purpose of settling elsewhere. Also, the title of the book of the Old Testament which relates the departure of the Israelites out of Egypt.
for a song: For a mere trifle, for little or nothing.
This uncredited photograph appeared alongside “The Fairy Goodwilla” in The Crisis, Vol. 8, No. 6, p. 294.
In the good old days when the kind spirits knew that people trusted them, they allowed them selves to be seen, but now there are just a few human beings left who ever remember or believe that a fairy ever existed, or rather does exist. For, dear children, no matter how much the older folks tell you that there are no fairies, do not believe them. I am going to tell you now of a clear, good fairy, Goodwilla, who has been under the power of a wicked enchanter called Grafter, for many years.
Goodwilla was once a very happy and contented little fairy. She was a very beautiful fairy; she had a soft brown face and deep brown eyes and slim brown hands and the dearest brown hair that wouldn’t stay “put,” that you ever saw. She lived in a beautiful wood consisting of fir trees. Her house was made of the finest and whitest drifted snow and was furnished with kind thoughts of children, good words of older people and everything which is beautiful and pleasant. She was always dressed in a white robe with a crown of holly leaves on her head.[1] In her hand she carried a long magic icicle, and whatever she touched with this became very lovely to look upon. Snowdrops always sprang up wherever she stepped, and her dress sparkled with many small stars.
The children loved Goodwilla, and she always welcomed them to her beautiful home where she told them of Knights and Ladies, Kings and Queens, Witches and Ogres and Enchanters. She never told them anything to frighten them and the children were always glad to listen. You must not think that Goodwilla always remained at home and told the children stories, for she was a very busy little fairy. She visited sick rooms where little boys or girls were suffering and laid her cool brown hands on their heads, whispering beautiful words to them. She touched the different articles in the room with her magic icicle and caused them to become lovely. Wherever she stepped her beautiful snowdrops were scattered. At other times she went to homes where the father and mother were unhappy and cross. She was invisible to them, but she touched them without their knowing it and they instantly became kind and cheerful. Other days she spent at home separating the good deeds which she had piled before her, from the bad deeds. So you see with all of these things to do Goodwilla was very busy.
Now, there was an old enchanter who lived in a neighboring wood. He was very wealthy, but people feared him, although they visited him a great deal. His house was set in the midst of many trees, all of which bore golden and silver apples.[2] The house was made of precious metal and the inside was seemingly handsome. But looking closely one could see that the beautiful chairs were very tender and if not handled rightly they would easily break. Music was always being played softly by unseen musicians, but one who truly loved music could hear discords which spoiled the beauty of all. In fact, every thing in his palace, although seemingly beautiful, if examined closely, was very wrong. Grafter, which was the enchanter’s name, spent all of his time in instructing men how to be prosperous and receive all that they could for nothing. He did not pay much attention to the children, although once in a while a few listened to his evil words. He was always very busy, but somehow he did not at all times get the results he expected. He scratched his head and thought and thought. Finally, one day he cried, “Ah, I have it, there is an insignificant little fairy called Goodwilla who is meddling in my affairs, I’ll wager. Let me see how best I can overcome her.” The old fellow who could change his appearance at will, now became a handsome young enchanter and looked so fine that it would be almost impossible for the fairy herself to resist him. He made his way to her abode and asked for admittance to her house. She gladly bade him enter, for, although she knew him, she thought she could persuade him to forego his evil ways and win men by fair means.
Now something strange happened. Every chair that Grafter attempted to take became invisible when he started to seat himself and he found nothing but empty air. After this had happened for a long while, he became so angry that he forgot the part he was trying to play and acted very badly indeed. He stormed at poor Goodwilla as if she had been the cause of good deeds and kind words to vanish at his touch. “You, Madam,” said he, “are the cause of this, and I know now why I cannot be successful in my work. You fill the children’s heads full of nonsense and when I have almost persuaded the fathers to do something which will benefit them as well as their children, these brats come with their prattle and undo all that I have done. Now I have stood it long enough. I shall give you three trials, and if you do not conquer, you shall be under my power for seven hundred years.”
The Good Fairy listened and felt very grieved, but she knew that Grafter was stronger than she, as minds of men turned more to his commanding way than they did to hers. Nevertheless she determined to do her best and said, “Very well, Grafter, I shall do as you wish and if I do not succeed I am in your hands, but later everything will be all right and I shall rule over you.” Grafter, who had not expected this, now be came alarmed and thought by soft words he could perhaps coax her to do his way, but Goodwilla was strong and would not listen to his cajoling and flattering. “Then, Madam,” he said, “I shall force you to perform these tasks or be my slave:
“First, you must cause all of the people in the world to help and give to others for the sake of giving and not for what they shall receive in return.
“Secondly, you must cause all of the rich to help the poor instead of taking from them to swell their already fat pocketbooks, and thirdly, you must cause men and women to really love for love’s sake and not because of worldly reasons.”
The poor little fairy sighed deeply, for she knew that she could not perform these tasks in the three days that Grafter had allowed her. She talked to the children, but they were being dazzled by Grafter since he had become so handsome. Goodwilla continued to work though, and had just commenced to open men’s eyes to Grafter as he really was, when the three days expired.
She was immediately whisked off by the wicked old fellow, who chuckled with glee. He did not know that there were many people in whose hearts a seed had been planted (which would grow) by this good little fairy and that she herself had a plan for helping all when she was released. Grafter, after having locked her up, departed on his way rejoicing. He has been prosperous for a long, long time, but the seven hundred years are almost up now, and soon Goodwilla will come forth stronger and more beautiful than ever with the children as her soldiers.
Anne Brigman. The Breeze. Gelatin silver print, 1909 (printed in 1915), Wilson Centre for Photography, London, UK. Public Domain.
JONES, MINIBELLE. “THE FAIRY GOOD WILLA.” THE CRISIS, VOL. 8, NO. 6 (OCTOBER 1914): 294-96.
[1] The symbolism of holly plants and holly leaves reaches back to antiquity. Druids thought the hollies were sacred and, according to some legends, these plants were a refuge for faeries and nature spirits during winter. In the Christian tradition, the holly is associated with Christ’s crown of thorns.
[2] Apples have had a long life in mythology. Greek and Teutonic myths feature golden apples.
Contexts
Starting in 1912, the October issues of The Crisis, the official magazine of the NAACP, were dedicated to children. A typical edition of these children’s numbers would contain a special editorial piece and two or three literary works specifically for children, while still including the serious pieces about contemporary issues with a focus on race that The Crisis was known for. These October numbers were sprinkled with children’s photographs sent in by the readers.
In his first editorial for the Children’s number in 1912, W. E. B. Du Bois wrote that “there is a sense in which all numbers and all words of a magazine of ideas myst point to the child—to that vast immortality and wide sweep and infinite possibility which the child represents.”
The success of The Crisis’ children’s number led to the standalone The Brownies’ Book, a monthly magazine for African American children that circulated from January 1920 to December 1921 under the editorship of Du Bois, Augustus Granville Dill, and Jessie Fauset.
Resources for Further Study
A brief history of fairies, courtesy of the World History Encyclopedia collective.
An article onfairies‘ folklore scholarship, with copious references and suggestions for further reading.
Odilon Redon. The Seashell. Pastel, 1912, Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. Public Domain.
Fair, fragile Una, golden-haired,
With melancholy, dark gray eyes,
Sits on a rock by laughing waves,
Gazing into the radiant skies;
And holding to her ear a shell,
A rosy shell of wondrous form;
Quite plaintively to her it coos
Marvelous lays of sea and storm.
It whispers of a fairy home
With coral halls and pearly floors,
Where mermaids clad in glist’ning gold
Guard smilingly the jeweled doors.
She listens and her weird gray eyes
Grow weirder in their pensive gaze.
The sea birds toss her tangled curls,
The skiff lights glimmer through the haze.
Oh, strange sea-singer! what has lent
Such fascination to thy spell?
Is some celestial guardian
Prisoned within thee, tiny shell?
The maid sits rapt until the stars
In myriad shining clusters gleam;
“Enchanted Una,” she is called
By boatmen gliding down the stream.
The tempest beats the restless seas,
The wind blows loud, fierce from the skies;
Sweet, sylph-like Una clasps the shell,
Peace brooding in her quiet eyes.
The wind blows wilder, darkness comes,
The rock is bare, night birds soar far;
Thick clouds scud o’er the gloomy heav’ns
Unvisited by any star.
Where is quaint Una? On some isle,
Dreaming ‘mid music, may she be?
Or does she listen to the shell
In coral halls within the sea?
The boatmen say on stormy nights
They see rare Una with the shell,
Sitting in pensive attitude,
Is it a vision? Who can tell?
Winslow Homer. A Swell of the Ocean. Watercolor over Graphite on Wove Paper, 1883, Fine-Arts Museum of San Francisco. Public Domain.
RAY, H. CORDELIA. “THE ENCHANTED SHELL,” IN THE UPWARD PATH: A READER FOR COLORED CHILDREN, ED. MYRON T. PRITCHARD AND MARY WHITE OVINGTON, 63-5. NEW YORK: HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, 1920.
Contexts
Ray’s poem was included in The Upward Path: A Reader for Colored Children, published in 1920 and compiled by Myron T. Pritchard and Mary White Ovington. The volume’s foreword states that, “to the present time, there has been no collection of stories and poems by Negro writers, which colored children could read with interest and pleasure and in which they could find a mirror of the traditions and aspirations of their race.”
Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:
lay: A short lyric or narrative poem intended to be sung.
scud: To run or move briskly or hurriedly; to dart nimbly from place to place. Also, to sail or move swiftly on the water. Now chiefly (and in technical nautical use exclusively), to run before a gale with little or no sail.
skiff: A small seagoing boat, adapted for rowing and sailing.
Resources for Further Study
Read other poems by H. Cordelia Ray at the Poetry Foundation‘s website.
H. Cordelia Ray’s father, Charles Bennett Ray (1807-1886), was a member of the American Anti-Slavery Society, “conductor” of the Underground Railroad, and editor of The Colored American newspaper (1837-1841).
Winslow Homer. Light Blue Sea at Prout’s Neck. Watercolor on paper, c. 1893-94, Hirsch & Adler Galleries. Public Domain.
It’s a long way the sea-winds blow
Over the sea-plains blue,—
But longer far has my heart to go
Before its dreams come true.
It’s work we must, and love we must,
And do the best we may,
And take the hope of dreams in trust
To keep us day by day.
It’s a long way the sea-winds blow—
But somewhere lies a shore—
Thus down the tide of Time shall flow
My dreams forevermore.
BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. “IT’S A LONG WAY,” IN THE UPWARD PATH: A READER FOR COLORED CHILDREN, ED. MYRON T. PRITCHARD AND MARY WHITE OVINGTON, 181-82. NEW YORK: HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, 1920.
Contexts
Braithwaite’s poem was included in The Upward Path: A Reader for Colored Children, published in 1920 and compiled by Myron T. Pritchard and Mary White Ovington. The volume’s foreword states that, “to the present time, there has been no collection of stories and poems by Negro writers, which colored children could read with interest and pleasure and in which they could find a mirror of the traditions and aspirations of their race.”
Resources for Further Study
Find other poems by William Stanley Braithwaite at Poets.org.
