Gwenyth Waugh. Old Man and the Bullberries. 1920. From the third volume of The Brownies’ Book, 80. W. E. B. Du Bois, ed., The Brownies’ Book, www.loc.gov/item/22001351/.
OLD MAN was walking along, very thirsty, so the first river he came to, he flung himself down to drink. Right after he had filled up, he noticed a branch full of bullberries [1], lying under the water.
“Say, that is fine,” exclaimed Old Man. “Berries! I guess I’ll dive in and get ‘em.”
He dived in, swam around under water, and felt for the berries; but not one could he find.
“That’s queer!” he gasped, coming to the surface. “I’ll look again.”
When the water cleared, he stared into it again. Sure enough, there were the berries.
Old Man dived a second time, and the poor fellow nearly suffocated, trying to stay under water long enough to find the berries. Finally he came up and blew a long breath and climbed out on the bank. After a minute, he turned to look and the berries were there as before!
“I don’t stay under long enough, that’s the trouble!” exclaimed Old Man. He found a stone and tied it around his middle and jumped in. He went down, like a stone, and flopped on the hard bottom of the river. Once there, he thrashed his arms about, looking for the berries. It was no use. At last, choking and bubbling, he tried to rise, but could not. The stone held him down.
“Do I die now?” he wondered.
“No,” answered his tomahawk,––“cut the cord!”
Old Man cut the cord, and the rock fell on his toes.
“OUCH!” he gurgled.
He shot to the surface. Now he was so exhausted that he had to lie on his back to recover breath. Suddenly he noticed, right above him a berry bush, leaning out over the river. It was the reflection of this bush that Old Man had dived for!
“So!” cried the Old Man to the berry bush, “you fooled me, did you!” He jumped up and picked out a stick and attacked the berry bush, beating it until he had knocked all of its berries.
“There!” he cried, as he ate the berries, “that is your punishment for fooling Old Man. After this, even the women will beat you!”
It was so. From that time, whenever the Indian women wanted berries, they beat the bullberry bushes with sticks, having first spread blankets to catch the berries. Old Man taught them that.
Gray Wolf, Chief of Winnebagoes. None. [Between 1865 and 1880] Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/95518265/.
Grey Wolf. “Old Man and the Bullberries.” The Brownies’ Book, ed. W. E. B. Du Bois, vol. 1, no. 3, New York, N.Y.: DuBois and Dill, March 1920. 80. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/22001351/>.
[1] Bullberries, also known as Buffalo berries, are shrubs found in the Great Plains and in more northern parts of Ho-Chunk territory.
Contexts
As is usual with Native American folk tales, not much is known about the origin of this story or the author. It is possible that Grey Wolf may be Gray Wolf, Chief of Winnebagoes, though there is not much known about Chief Gray Wolf either. The Winnebago Tribe, also known as the Ho-Chunks, lived in what is now central Minnesota and northern Illinois, and now the Tribe lives in Nebraska.
There is at least one contemporary children’s story related to Native characters and berries. Paul Goble’s Iktomi and the Berries: A Plains Indian Story, published in 1989, tells the story of a Trickster figure, Iktomi, who repeatedly dives for buffalo berries in the water.
Resources for Further Study
Alexander, Hartley Burr. Native American Mythology. Dover Publications: Mineola, New York, 2005. (Link to Google Book)
Bastian, Dawn E. and Judy K. Mitchell. Handbook of Native American Mythology. ABC-Clio, 2004. (Link to Google Book)
Gill, Sam D. and Irene F. Sullivan. Dictionary of Native American Myths. Oxford University Press, 1994. (Link to eBook)
Original illustration by William Nicholson, cover.[1]
There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy’s stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 14.
There were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges and a toy engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse, but the Rabbit was quite the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten.
For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn’t know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles. Even Timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by the disabled soldiers, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was connected with Government. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.
The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 18-19.
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
“The Boy’s Uncle made me Real,” he said. “That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.
There was a person called Nana who ruled the nursery. Sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards. She called this “tidying up,” and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones. The Rabbit didn’t mind it so much, for wherever he was thrown he came down soft.
One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn’t find the china dog that always slept with him. Nana was in a hurry, and it was too much trouble to hunt for china dogs at bedtime, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.
“Here,” she said, “take your old Bunny! He’ll do to sleep with you!” And she dragged the Rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the Boy’s arms.
That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy’s bed. At first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe. And he missed, too, those long moonlight hours in the nursery, when all the house was silent, and his talks with the Skin Horse. But very soon he grew to like it, for the Boy used to talk to him, and made nice tunnels for him under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in. And they had splendid games together, in whispers, when Nana had gone away to her supper and left the night-light burning on the mantelpiece. And when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the Boy’s hands clasped close round him all night long.
And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy–so happy that he never noticed how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier, and his tail becoming unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off his nose where the Boy had kissed him.
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 23.
Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border. And once, when the Boy was called away suddenly to go out to tea, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep unless he was there. He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.
“You must have your old Bunny!” she said. “Fancy all that fuss for a toy!”
The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands.
“Give me my Bunny!” he said. “You mustn’t say that. He isn’t a toy. He’s REAL!”
When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy, for he knew that what the Skin Horse had said was true at last. The nursery magic had happened to him, and he was a toy no longer. He was Real. The Boy himself had said it.
That night he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot-button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and said, “I declare if that old Bunny hasn’t got quite a knowing expression!”
That was a wonderful Summer!
Near the house where they lived there was a wood, and in the long June evenings the Boy liked to go there after tea to play. He took the Velveteen Rabbit with him, and before he wandered off to pick flowers, or play at brigands among the trees, he always made the Rabbit a little nest somewhere among the bracken, where he would be quite cosy, for he was a kind-hearted little boy and he liked Bunny to be comfortable. One evening, while the Rabbit was lying there alone, watching the ants that ran to and fro between his velvet paws in the grass, he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 26-27.
They were rabbits like himself, but quite furry and brand-new. They must have been very well made, for their seams didn’t show at all, and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved; one minute they were long and thin and the next minute fat and bunchy, instead of always staying the same like he did. Their feet padded softly on the ground, and they crept quite close to him, twitching their noses, while the Rabbit stared hard to see which side the clockwork stuck out, for he knew that people who jump generally have something to wind them up. But he couldn’t see it. They were evidently a new kind of rabbit altogether.
They stared at him, and the little Rabbit stared back. And all the time their noses twitched.
“Why don’t you get up and play with us?” one of them asked.
“I don’t feel like it,” said the Rabbit, for he didn’t want to explain that he had no clockwork.
“Ho!” said the furry rabbit. “It’s as easy as anything,” And he gave a big hop sideways and stood on his hind legs.
“I don’t believe you can!” he said.
“I can!” said the little Rabbit. “I can jump higher than anything!” He meant when the Boy threw him, but of course he didn’t want to say so.
“Can you hop on your hind legs?” asked the furry rabbit.
That was a dreadful question, for the Velveteen Rabbit had no hind legs at all! The back of him was made all in one piece, like a pincushion. He sat still in the bracken, and hoped that the other rabbits wouldn’t notice.
“I don’t want to!” he said again.
But the wild rabbits have very sharp eyes. And this one stretched out his neck and looked.
“He hasn’t got any hind legs!” he called out. “Fancy a rabbit without any hind legs!” And he began to laugh.
“I have!” cried the little Rabbit. “I have got hind legs! I am sitting on them!”
“Then stretch them out and show me, like this!” said the wild rabbit. And he began to whirl round and dance, till the little Rabbit got quite dizzy.
“I don’t like dancing,” he said. “I’d rather sit still!”
But all the while he was longing to dance, for a funny new tickly feeling ran through him, and he felt he would give anything in the world to be able to jump about like these rabbits did.
The strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close. He came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the Velveteen Rabbit’s ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.
“He doesn’t smell right!” he exclaimed. “He isn’t a rabbit at all! He isn’t real!”
“I am Real!” said the little Rabbit. “I am Real! The Boy said so!” And he nearly began to cry.
Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and the Boy ran past near them, and with a stamp of feet and a flash of white tails the two strange rabbits disappeared.
“Come back and play with me!” called the little Rabbit. “Oh, do come back! I know I am Real!”
But there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed. The Velveteen Rabbit was all alone.
“Oh, dear!” he thought. “Why did they run away like that? Why couldn’t they stop and talk to me?”
For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back. But they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came and carried him home.
Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn’t mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn’t matter.
And then, one day, the Boy was ill.
His face grew very flushed, and he talked in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him close. Strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little Velveteen Rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he knew that the Boy needed him.
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 35.
It was a long weary time, for the Boy was too ill to play, and the little Rabbit found it rather dull with nothing to do all day long. But he snuggled down patiently, and looked forward to the time when the Boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to. All sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the Boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear. And presently the fever turned, and the Boy got better. He was able to sit up in bed and look at picture-books, while the little Rabbit cuddled close at his side. And one day, they let him get up and dress.
It was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open. They had carried the Boy out on to the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, and the little Rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking.
The Boy was going to the seaside to-morrow. Everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor’s orders. They talked about it all, while the little Rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had played with in bed must be burnt.
“Hurrah!” thought the little Rabbit. “To-morrow we shall go to the seaside!” For the boy had often talked of the seaside, and he wanted very much to see the big waves coming in, and the tiny crabs, and the sand castles.
Just then Nana caught sight of him.
“How about his old Bunny?” she asked.
“That?” said the doctor. “Why, it’s a mass of scarlet fever[6] germs!–Burn it at once. What? Nonsense! Get him a new one. He mustn’t have that any more!”
And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house. That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. He had the potatoes to dig and the green peas to gather, but next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot.
That night the Boy slept in a different bedroom, and he had a new bunny to sleep with him. It was a splendid bunny, all white plush with real glass eyes, but the Boy was too excited to care very much about it. For to-morrow he was going to the seaside, and that in itself was such a wonderful thing that he could think of nothing else.
And while the Boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out. He was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him. Near by he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the Boy on bygone mornings. He thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden–how happy they were–and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower-bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken and the little ants ran over his paws; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was Real. He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one’s beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 39.
And then a strange thing happened. For where the tear had fallen a flower grew out of the ground, a mysterious flower, not at all like any that grew in the garden. It had slender green leaves the colour of emeralds, and in the centre of the leaves a blossom like a golden cup. It was so beautiful that the little Rabbit forgot to cry, and just lay there watching it. And presently the blossom opened, and out of it there stepped a fairy.
She was quite the loveliest fairy in the whole world. Her dress was of pearl and dew-drops, and there were flowers round her neck and in her hair, and her face was like the most perfect flower of all. And she came close to the little Rabbit and gathered him up in her arms and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying.
“Little Rabbit,” she said, “don’t you know who I am?”
The Rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before, but he couldn’t think where.
“I am the nursery magic Fairy,” she said. “I take care of all the playthings that the children have loved. When they are old and worn out and the children don’t need them any more, then I come and take them away with me and turn them into Real.”
“Wasn’t I Real before?” asked the little Rabbit.
“You were Real to the Boy,” the Fairy said, “because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to every one.”
And she held the little Rabbit close in her arms and flew with him into the wood.
It was light now, for the moon had risen. All the forest was beautiful, and the fronds of the bracken shone like frosted silver. In the open glade between the tree-trunks the wild rabbits danced with their shadows on the velvet grass, but when they saw the Fairy they all stopped dancing and stood round in a ring to stare at her.
“I’ve brought you a new playfellow,” the Fairy said. “You must be very kind to him and teach him all he needs to know in Rabbit-land, for he is going to live with you for ever and ever!”
And she kissed the little Rabbit again and put him down on the grass.
“Run and play, little Rabbit!” she said.
But the little Rabbit sat quite still for a moment and never moved. For when he saw all the wild rabbits dancing around him he suddenly remembered about his hind legs, and he didn’t want them to see that he was made all in one piece. He did not know that when the Fairy kissed him that last time she had changed him altogether. And he might have sat there a long time, too shy to move, if just then something hadn’t tickled his nose, and before he thought what he was doing he lifted his hind toe to scratch it.
And he found that he actually had hind legs! Instead of dingy velveteen he had brown fur, soft and shiny, his ears twitched by themselves, and his whiskers were so long that they brushed the grass. He gave one leap and the joy of using those hind legs was so great that he went springing about the turf on them, jumping sideways and whirling round as the others did, and he grew so excited that when at last he did stop to look for the Fairy she had gone.
He was a Real Rabbit at last, at home with the other rabbits.
Original illustration by William Nicholson, p. 42-43.
Autumn passed and Winter, and in the Spring, when the days grew warm and sunny, the Boy went out to play in the wood behind the house. And while he was playing, two rabbits crept out from the bracken and peeped at him. One of them was brown all over, but the other had strange markings under his fur, as though long ago he had been spotted, and the spots still showed through. And about his little soft nose and his round black eyes there was something familiar, so that the Boy thought to himself:
“Why, he looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I had scarlet fever!”
But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.
Williams, Margery. The Velveteen Rabbit. Garden City: Doubleday & Company Inc., 1922.
“Reality by Enchantment” by Ellen Handler Spitz compares The Velveteen Rabbit to the story of Pinnochio.
“Coming out in Flesh and Blood” from When Toys Come Alive: Narratives of Animation, Metamorphosis, and Development by Lois Rostow Kuznets discusses Margery Williams’ place in literary canon and history.
Hilda Wilkinson. Original illustration from The Brownies’ Book, p. 46.
FOLK TALES
The only thing that is nicer than telling a story is to listen to it. Did you ever stop to think that just as you sit very still in the twilight and listen to Father or Mother telling stories, just so children are listening, all over the world,—in Sweden, in India, in Georgia, and in Uganda? I think you probably know where the first three countries are, but maybe it would be best for me to tell you that Uganda is in beautiful, far-off, mysterious Africa.
Some people are specially fond of telling stories about animals. About twenty-five hundred years ago a poor Greek slave, Aesop, told many and amusing tales about the fox and the wolf and all the rest of them. And you High School boys and girls probably have already read the clever animal stories told by Jean de la Fontaine [1] in the seventeenth century.
Now here is a story about animals which African Fathers and Mothers tell to their little sons and daughters. The story is very old and has come down from father to son for many generations and has probably met with almost no changes. Such a story is called a folk tale. There are many folk tales to be gathered in Africa, and Mr. Monroe N. Work, of Tuskegee, has collected very many of them from various sources. This one, “The Hare and the Elephant,” has been selected by Mr. Work from Sir Harry Johnston’s book called “The Uganda Protectorate.”
Folk tales, folk songs, and folk dances can give us—even better than history sometimes—an idea of primitive people’s beliefs and customs.
The Hare and the Elephant
ONCE upon a time the hare and the elephant went to a dance. The hare stood still and watched the elephant dance. When the dance was over, the hare said,
“Mr. Elephant, I can’t say that I admire your dancing. There seems to be too much of you. Your flesh goes flop, flop, flop. Let me cut off a few slices and you will then, I think, dance as well as I.”
The hare cut off some huge slices and went home. The elephant also went home; but he was in agony. At length he called the buffalo and said,
“Go to the hare and ask him to return my slices.”
The buffalo went to the hare and asked for the slices.
“Were they not eaten on the road?” asked the hare.
“I heard they were,” replied the buffalo.
Then the hare cooked some meat,—it was a slice of the elephant, and gave it to the buffalo. The buffalo found it very tender and asked him where he got it.
Laura Wheeler. Original illustration from The Brownies’ Book, p. 48.
“I got it at a hill not far from here, where I go occasionally to hunt. Come hunting with me today.” So they went to the hill and set up some snares. The hare then said to the buffalo, “You wait here and I will go into the grass. If you hear something come buzzing ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo,’ hang down your head.”
The buffalo waited. Presently he heard, “Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo—”. He hung down his head. The hare threw a big rock, hit the buffalo’s head and killed him. The hare then skinned him and carried home the meat. When the buffalo did not return, the elephant sent an antelope to ask the hare to return his slices. But the hare disposed of him in the same manner as he had the buffalo and carried home his meat. The elephant sent a succession of messengers for the slices, but none of them returned. At last the elephant called the leopard and said, “Go to the hare and ask him to return my slices.”
The leopard found the hare at home. After they had dined, the hare invited the leopard to go hunting on the hill. When they arrived and had set up their snares, the hare said,
“Now you wait here and I will go into the grass. If you hear something come buzzing, ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo’, hang down your head.”
The hare then went into the grass and presently the leopard heard a buzzing, ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo’, but instead of hanging down his head, he held it up and a big stone just missed him. Then he hung down his head, fell over and pretended that he was dead. He laughed to himself,
“Ha! ha! Mr. Hare, so you meant to kill me with that stone. I see now what has happened to the other messengers. The wretch killed them all with his ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-o’, Nevermind, Mr. Hare, just wait.”
Laura Wheeler. Original illustration from The Brownies’ Book, p. 47.
The hare came out of the grass and when he saw the leopard lying stretched out, he laughed and jumped and scraped the ground. “There goes another messenger,” he said. “The elephant wants his slices back. Well, let him want them.”
Having said this, the hare hoisted the leopard on his head and walked off with him. The leopard enjoyed riding on the hare’s head. After the hare had carried him a little way, the leopard put forth his paw and gave the hare a deep scratch. He then drew in his paw and lay quite still. The hare at once understood how matters lay and put down the bundle. He did not, however, pretend that he knew, but said,
“Oh, there seems to be a thorn in the bundle.”
He then roped the bundle very firmly, taking care to tie the paws securely. He then placed the bundle on his head and went along to a stretch of forest. Here he placed the leopard in the woods and went off to get his knife.
As soon as the hare had gone, the leopard tore open the bundle and sat up to wait for the hare’s return. “I’ll show him how to hunt and to say, ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo, hang down your head’! I’ll show him how to cut slices off my friend, the elephant.” The leopard looked up and saw the hare returning with his knife.
When the hare saw the leopard sitting up, he ran into a hole in the ground.
“Come out,” said the leopard, sniffing vainly at the hole.
“Come in,” said the hare.
The leopard saw that it was useless to try to coax the hare to come out, so he said to a crow that sat on a branch just above the hole, “Mr. Crow, will you watch this hole while I run for some fire to burn out the hare?”
“Yes,” replied the crow, “but don’t be long away, because I will have to go to my nest soon.”
The leopard went for the fire. After a while the hare said,
“I am certain, Mr. Crow, that you are very hungry.”
“Yes, very,” replied the crow.
“Are you fond of ants? If you are, I have a lot of them down here.”
“Throw me up some, please.”
“Come near the hole and I will.”
The crow came near. “Now open your eyes and mouth wide.”
The crow opened his mouth and eyes as wide as he could. Just then the hare flung a lot of dust into them, and while the crow was trying to remove the dust, the hare ran away.
“What shall I do now?” said the crow, as he finished taking the dust out of his eyes. “The leopard will be angry when he finds the hare gone. I am sure to catch it. Ha! Ha! I have it. I will gather some ntengos (poison apples), and put them in the hole. As soon as the leopard applies the fire to the hole. the ntengos will explode and the leopard will think that the hare has burst and died.”
The crow accordingly placed several ntengos in the hole. After some time, the leopard came back with the fire.
Artist Unknown. Four Studies of Leopard Heads. Etching or engraving on paper, c. 1750-1850. Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, New York, N.Y.
“Have you still got him inside?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Has he been saying anything?”
“Not a word.”
“Now then, hare,” said the leopard, “when you hear ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo’, hold down your head. Do you hear?” No reply. “You killed all of the elephant’s messengers just as you tried to kill me; but it is all finished now with you. When I say, ‘Zoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-o’, hang down your head. Ha! ha!”
Then the leopard put the fire in the hole. There was a loud explosion. The leopard thought that the hare had burst and died. But instead, the hare was at home making a hearty meal of the last of the elephant’s steaks. None of the other animals ever bothered the hare after that. They remembered what happened to the elephant’s messengers.
Johnston, Harry. “The Hare and the Elephant.” The Brownies’ Book 1, no. 2 (February 1920): 46-48.
[1] Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695) was a French poet whose fables rank among the highest masterpieces of French literature. You can see some of Fontaine’s fables here.
Contexts
Laura Wheeler (1887-1948) was an American painter and educator who is known for her paintings featuring African American subjects. To supplement her income as a teacher, she took up painting. One year after she died, the Howard University Gallery of Art held an exhibit highlighting her works. See some of Wheeler’s paintings here. Hilda Wilkinson (1894-1981) was an artist and teacher from Washington, D.C. She is known for her paintings and her work as the main illustrator for The Brownies’ Book. You can see some of Wilkinson’s works here.
Original illustration by Hilda Wilkinson from The Brownies’ Book p.55.
ALONG the edge of a southern forest, flows a stream called the Isle of Hope River. Void of the rush and hurry of youth, slowly, silently it flows, with an air of quiet serenity and infinite calm; along the edge of the wood, past the villages of Isle of Hope and Thunderbolt, it flows, until it is lost in the waters of the Atlantic, eighteen miles away.
In one of the weatherbeaten fisherman’s huts, which nestle under the branches of the great, gnarled, twisted, live oaks which grow along the river’s bank, lived Helen La Rose. As the keynote of the stream’s personality was repose, the most striking thing about Helen’s character was its deep unrest and consuming ambition, coupled with a high-minded, lofty idea of the infinite power of the human will.
It was the week of our graduation from Beach Institute. Helen and I were walking along the water’s edge, discussing our future with all the enthusiasm of sixteen. I could talk of nothing but the wonderful career I expected to have in college the next year, for my parents were “well-to-do,” and I was the only child. Suddenly, in the midst of gay chatter, I stopped and looked at Helen.
“Oh, I’m so sorry you can’t go, too, Helen; what fun we would have together,” I burst out sorrowfully, for pretty, ambitious, Helen La Rose was very poor. Her father had all he could do to support his wife and seven children. Helen had paid her tuition at Beach by helping Mrs. Randolph before and after school and on Saturdays.
“But I am going to college,” said Helen, in her quiet voice. “I am going to college and I am going to become the greatest teacher that ever was, if I live long enough. Booker T. Washington worked his way through Hampton and Robert Dent is working his way and so did Mr. Ross. He told me so himself.”
“Yes, but they were all boys,” I said with emphasis.
“And I’m a girl,” replied Helen, “and as smart as any boy. Dad said so. Besides,” and her eyes grew large and deep and her voice tense, “I can do anything I want to, if I want to hard enough.”
The next week was commencement. Helen was “val,” and looked sweet and girlish in her cotton voile dress, fashioned by her own little brown, work-roughened fingers. For her eager face, lit up by the great eyes and a happy,––though rather tremulous––smile, did not require a fine toilette to make it attractive.
The weeks passed and I did not see Helen again until the middle of July. We were sitting in my room and I had been showing some dresses I had bought.
“I am going to begin making my things next week,” said Helen, happily. “Daddy has let me keep all the money I have earned this summer and I have put it all in the savings bank. Just think, I have been working only nine weeks and I’ve saved forty dollars. I’ll make forty more between now and October and that will be enough for railroad fare and my first quarter’s tuition. Mrs. Randolph is going to give me a letter of recommendation to a friend of hers in Chicago and I know I’ll get work. Oh, I am so happy! And everybody is so good to me!” Helen danced around the room, hugging herself for every joy.
Early in August, Mrs. La Rose contracted malaria and died after a short illness. Mr. La Rose was heartbroken. There were six small children, ranging in age from three and a half to thirteen years. Quietly, unobtrusively, Helen took her mother’s place in the household. She did not allow even her father to realize what the sacrifice of her plans meant to her. She cooked and scrubbed and washed and ironed and cared for her swiftly aging father and little brothers and sisters with loving devotion. The little house was spick and span, the children happy and contented; and Mr. La Rose, grown suddenly old, became as calm and placid as the river that flowed past his door.
Isle of Hope, Near Savannah, Ga. Historic Postcard Collection, courtesy of the Georgia Archives.
Four years passed and I received the degree of A. B. and soon after was appointed teacher of English in the high school. I lost no time in looking up my old school chum and telling her of my good fortune. She met me with a glad cry of welcome and rejoiced in her old, frank, exuberant way over my success. But after the first few moments of greeting, I could not help noticing the change in her appearance.
Her figure had grown thin and old-maidish; and the brown cheeks had lost their soft roundness. The eyes, that had held such a marvelous vision of achievement and such undaunted hope in the future, were as deep and dark as ever; but in their depth brooded a wistfulness and a poignant unrest that made me catch my breath, for there came to me a vague realization of the story those eyes told. Bitter must have been the battles waged between ambition and duty. Not a hint of this, however, was in her demeanor. There was not a trace of self-pity or jealousy in her manner as we talked of the past and the present and drew bright pictures of the future.
Then Mary, Helen’s eighteen-year-old sister, finished high school. Mary was not studious and had no desire to go to college.
“Now,” I said to myself, “Mary will take charge of the house and the younger children and Helen can have her chance. It is no more than right.” But I reckoned without my host. Six months after Mary’s graduation, she was engaged to be married.
The years flew by, swift as a bird on the wing, and Helen’s young charges grew to young manhood and womanhood. Mr. La Rose was dead. The baby was in his senior year at Howard University. Tom was in the mail service and Rose was the happy mistress of her own home. Helen, at thirty-five, was free to live her own life. I went to see her one bright sunny morning in June and found her sitting under her favorite oak tree, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes looking off across the water. She greeted me with a happy smile and a humorous glance of her fine eyes.
“Elise, do you remember our old saying, ‘You can do anything you want to, if you want to hard enough?’ I am going to college in the autumn!”
Madden, Ella T. “A Girl’s Will.” The Brownies’ Book 1, no. 2 (February 1920): 54-56.
Contexts
This story demonstrates the need for intersectional environmentalism. The connection between Helen (a poor Black woman) and the natural world should not be overlooked if teaching this story. Helen’s attachment to nature suggests that nothing should exclude people of color from traditional (white) natural spaces. People of color may also find solace in nature despite things out of their control. This story encourages young Black readers to persevere through the things they cannot control (home environment, class, race, gender, ability, etc.) and to seek comfort in nature.
Racial uplift is the ideology that educated Black people are responsible for the welfare of most or all other Black people. This ideology describes a prominent response of Black middle-class leaders, spokespersons, and activists to the crisis marked by the assault on African Americans’ civil and political rights primarily in the U. S. South from roughly the 1880s to 1914.
Resources for Further Study
As mentioned in the first paragraph, the Isle of Hope was originally established as a retreat in the 19th century for the elite of Savannah, Georgia. A small African American settlement in the historic district began after the Civil War when formerly enslaved people from Wormsloe Plantation settled there.
The first official school for African American children, The Beach Institute (mentioned in the story’s third paragraph), was founded in 1867 when Alfred Ely Beach donated $13,000 to The Freedmen’s Bureau.
W. E. B. Du Bois, the editor of The Brownies’ Book, and Booker T. Washington, while they shared a vision for ending racial prejudice, disagreed on how to proceed in the wake of slavery. Their differing views included how technology could be incorporated.
Down South in Georgia, it had been springtime so long that it was nearly time for summer. Old Mrs. Southwind[1] had decided to stay right at her work, and this had made Old Mr. Wolfwind[2] afraid to make any more visits to Georgia, so he stayed up North and howled about.
Armstrong, Margaret Neilson. White Lilies. 1911. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/393664.
All that day Boy, Waddy, and Happy had played in the big yard and garden and they had done some very naughty things, things that boys who love the kind of God who gave them the beautiful things you find in a garden should never do; but at last Happy went home to supper and to feed his black rooster and red hen. When he came back the little path to Colonel Jones’ house was very bright. Miss Lady Moon was smiling and she seemed so near that Happy was sure he could touch her if he had a long pole; her moonbeams were so brilliant that it made the cotton patch seem like day time. When he went around to the big, front steps there was Boy, Waddy, and Mrs. Colonel Jones in her white dress and she looked like one of the white lilies herself. Boy and Waddy were as clean and shiny as the moonbeams. Happy was glad Mammy Tibbets had let him wear his white suit, and he was smiling finer than the biggest moon could ever smile. Mrs. Colonel Jones cuddled Happy down by her side and they all sat very still listening to the mocking bird who sings at night down in Georgia; but after awhile Mrs. Colonel Jones sighed, just like she had thought of something not very nice.
“Let us go for a walk in my garden,” said she, taking Waddy’s hand while Boy and Happy followed her softly, because it seemed as if in that moon-lighted garden no one wanted to make a noise. They passed the fig tree, where the baby figs come out without any blossom dress on like other baby fruits. They went very softly pass the bushes where the yellow roses seemed to rain down; they passed the bed where the pansies live and each small purple face was dimpled with dew; then they came to the corner where the great white lilies grow with their golden throats.
“Oh! how I do love my lilies,” said Mrs. Colonel Jones stopping over to touch a very large lily, and behold—the white petals opened wider and wider until that lily was a beautiful white house and Miss Lady Moon flashed her most brilliant moonbeam into it so that it seemed like day time. Mrs. Colonel Jones gave a little cry of surprise and then just when the boys were going to ask about it, there stepped up Old Mr. Toad, dressed in a beautiful green and gray suit,—but one of his feet was bound up in a cloth and he limped terribly, as he came forward bowing to Mrs. Colonel Jones, and the lady who liked all the creatures in her garden felt very sorry for him.
“Oh, Friend Toad! what has happened to you?”
“Well, today when I was guarding your watermelon patch, a little boy came along and hit me with a stick, I don’t know why he did it. I was only guarding your melons from the worms so you would have some nice ones.”
“How could anyone hurt our best garden friend? Do you know his name?”
“I do not, dear lady; but won’t you go into the Lily House? White Butterfly lives there. Generally it’s a very nice house to visit, but to-night it is a House of Broken Things. I am guard at the door, so I will let you in.”
“And the three boys, may they come in?”
“Oh yes, but I am afraid they won’t enjoy it.”
They all walked in, but when Happy passed the poor, hurt toad he hung his head in shame. At the door of the Lily House, White Butterfly met them. She wore a nurse’s apron and carried medicines, spoons, and bandages. She seemed very sad too.
“Oh! I am so glad to have visitors; it seems so sad in here. Most of the time my Lily House is very gay, but today so many dreadful things have happened in the garden that I just had to turn my house into a House for Broken Things, but now that you and the little boys have come, maybe you can help me cheer things up.” The White Butterfly went very softly down the white hall with its golden carpet as soft as pussy fur. Soon she stopped by the side of a wee white bed, and there lay two tiny baby Caterpillars, only you couldn’t see much of them for bandages and tears, they were hurt so.
The next bed had poor old Beetle in it; he seemed so very ill with a crushed leg. “Old Beetle had been working in the wood pile when three little boys came along and pelted him with sticks and smashed his leg; it’s so badly hurt that I am not sure I can ever cure him,” said White Butterfly. In the next bed they found Lightening Bug, only he would never be a real lightening bug again, because, you see, when he was carrying his lantern about the garden to make it lighter until Miss Lady Moon came, a very small fat boy came and caught him and put him under a glass and the glass had broken his beautiful lantern off, so that now, even though he would get well, he never could help light the pretty garden again.
Original Brownies’ Book illustration by Hilda Rue Wilkinson
The White Butterfly said to Mrs. Colonel Jones, “This is very sad indeed. These little caterpillars were crossing the garden walk this morning, hunting some weeds, to eat, when a boy came along and put his hard shoe right down on them and broke most every part of them. I do so hope they get well.” Boy hid his head in his hands. They went to another bed, and there lay a little Honey Bee, and White Butterfly told about here! “Miss Honey Bee had heard you say that you hoped you would have some real good honey this year, so she went into the trumpet flower, and as she was coming out with a great load of honey, a boy whacked her with a stick and broke her wing. I think maybe it will be better tomorrow, but I know one thing, if folks don’t stop hurting the bees, there won’t be any honey for the hot biscuits.” Waddy looked over at Miss Honey Bee and hung his head in shame.
In the next bed lay Granddaddy Longlegs, propped up with milkweed pillows; one of his legs was gone, broken off, and he seemed to be in such pain. The White Butterfly gave him a week drop of medicine and said to Mrs. Colonel Jones:
“Granddaddy was out under the house steps asleep when a boy came and said to him: ‘Granddaddy gray, tell me where the cows are, or I’ll kill you right away.’ Now you know Granddaddy is so old that he couldn’t possibly know where the cows are, so he couldn’t tell that boy where they were, and that cruel boy dropped a rock on him and cut off his leg.”
“Oh! how terrible!” said Mrs. Colonel Jones.
In the next bed were three baby Ants, asleep; White Butterfly said someone had dug up their house and they had no home to go to. But it was the very next bed that made the boys feel sad. In it lay Lady Bug’s two wee children; they were crying very hard. White Butterfly told about them.
Original Brownies’ Book illustrations by Hilda Rue Wilkinson
“Someone saw Lady Bug when she was cleaning house for the strawberries and called ‘Lady But fly away home; your house is on fire and your children will burn!’ Of course this frightened Lady Bug very much and just as she started to run home, someone put her into a box and put a lid on it and carried it off. Now her children were alone at home, and when their mother didn’t come home, they started out to find her. I was afraid something would hurt them so I brought them here, and after giving them some supper I put them to bed, but the poor little things just keep crying for their Mama.”
Just then Happy stepped up beside the bed and took a little box from his pocket and opened it. Out hopped Lady Bug right among her babies. My! what a happy family they were, but Happy wasn’t very happy, he was so ashamed. He hid his fat little face behind Mrs. Colonel Jones’ dress.
As they walked along the white hall, White Butterfly began crying every so softly, for there in a small bed lay a small yellow Butterfly. It looked like a piece of fine lace. One of its pretty wings was sadly broken.
“This is my little boy,” said White Butterfly. “I have fixed his wing the best I could. Oh! do you think he will get well?”
Mrs. Colonel Jones stooped over the baby butterfly and looked at the broken wing. “Why yes; I think it will be well in a short time. There, don’t worry! but how did this happen?”
“Oh! it was awful! You see, I told him to play out in the pansy bed, as our garden has always been so safe and happy. I never thought anything could happen to him. He had just fluttered down to kiss a pansy girl, when a boy flopped his hat on him and broke his wing. I got him home right away. I hope he’ll get well.”
Boy hung his head, and Mrs. Colonel Jones put her silk shawl over his face. As that was all there was in the Lily House, they bid White Butterfly good night, and thanked poor Mr. Toad for letting them in. They went to the house, and Mrs. Colonel Jones gave each boy a large slice of chocolate cake.
The next day, the boys went back to the garden and looked for that Lily House, but although they hunted the garden over and looked into all the lilies, they could not find one that looked like a house. But really there was no need for a Lily House of Broken Things in that garden anymore. For whenever Boy, Happy, and Waddy started to chase or hurt the tiny creatures who lived in the garden, they always remembered the “House of Broken Things” and how sad it was, so they stopped harming the helpless things, the little people of the garden.
Poe, PEggy. 1921. “The House of Broken Things.” The Brownies’ Book, 2, no, 1, (Jan): 8-10.
[1] In an earlier story by Peggy Poe, “The Watermelon Dance,” Old Mrs. Southwind is described as “a very gay lady” who “spends most of her time visiting.” Because she tends to come and go whenever she feels like it during the Winter and Spring, the Georgia folks have to “wait for her to get through visiting before they plant their good things” (263).
[2] In”The Watermelon Dance,” we learn that old Mr. Wolfwind is so named because he comes “howling out of the north” when Old Mrs. Southwind goes visiting and tears up Mrs. Colonel Jones’ garden.
[3] Happy first appears in the very first issue of The Brownies’ Book in a story called “Pumpkin Land.”
Contexts
The Brownies’ Book was a popular children’s magazine edited by W. E. B. Du Bois, who hoped the periodical would “teach Universal Love and Brotherhood for all little folk—black and brown and yellow and white” as well as highlight the voices of writers of color. The magazine covered a wide variety of genres and topics, ranging from serious social and political news in the “As the Crow Flies” columns to nursery rhymes and illustrations. As Katharine Capshaw Smith observes, Du Bois made an effort to include pieces which sought to “inspire activism in child readers” and to make space for young writers in the monthly installments (161). However, there was also plenty of escapist stories and poems for young readers to enjoy, and writers like Peggy Poe particularly enjoyed combining southern folk lore and dialects with fairy tale tropes. Although scholars like Fern Kory have critiqued Poe’s work for attempting to fit black narratives into white literary traditions and creating a “problematic hybrid of the most didactic sort of fairy story and a conventional plantation story” (103) the significance of these early attempts to carve out a space for black fantasy stories cannot be overstated.
Poe, Peggy. 1920. “The Watermelon Dance.” The Brownies’ Book, 1, no. 9 (Sep): 263-265.
Smith, Katharine Capshaw. 2014. “The Crisis Children’s Page, The Brownies’ Book, and the Fantastic.” In Protest and Propaganda: W. E. B. Du Bois, the Crisis, and American History, edited by Amy Helene Kirschke and Phillip Luke Sinitiere, 156-172. Columbia: University of Missouri Press.
Kory, Fern. 2001. “Once upon a Time in Aframerica: The ‘Peculiar’ Significance of Fairies in the Brownies’ Book.” Children’s Literature 29, 91-112. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.
Pedagogy
Peggy Poe’s short story asks us to see animals as people with families, homes, and dreams just like us. If you want more ideas for talking with the young people in your life about the importance of compassion for animals, check out the following resources:
For advice on incorporating animal literature into a curriculum or your child’s life, see Carolyn L. Burke and Joby G. Copenhaver’s piece, “Animals as People in Children’s Literature.”
For an introduction to the psychology of empathy and ideas for teaching your child to be empathetic, see the Humane Society’s “The Empathy Connection.”
Battey. Untitled Cover of The Brownies’ Book. 1920. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/22001351/>.
ONCE there was a little fairy named Gyp. The king of fairies gave all of the little fairies work to do. And Gyp’s work for that day was to paint apples.
Early that morning Gyp went to the forest to work. He carried all his paints, but more of red and brown because he had a lot of apples to paint red and also the leaves to tint brown.
He soon came to the trees, and leaving the other paints on the ground, he carried the red up to paint apples.
The little children who lived in the forest thought it about time to find ripe apples, and some of them went out that same morning to get some.
After roaming a bit they came to the tree where Gyp was painting and found all his paints on the ground.
They began to amuse themselves by playing with the paints, until the wind blew some apples down.
But they soon tired and fell asleep. Gyp had noticed them meddling with his paints and saw that they liked red and brown best.
When he came down and found all asleep, he wondered what joke to play on them that would be pleasing. So after deciding on many things and changing, he determined to paint their faces, knowing they would be delighted.
So he painted their faces,––some red like the apples, and the others brown like the leaves. When they woke and looked at each other, they were startled and amazed. They went home never knowing why their faces changed colors.
Now their descendants still live. Those children who were at home remained white, but the little red children still love to roam about in the forest and on the plains.
The little brown children can be found most everywhere, carrying happiness and sunshine to all they see.
So when you read of the work of the little brownies, don’t forget the good fairy Gyp.
Brunner, Arnold William. Forest. 1891, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, CC0. https://www.si.edu/unit/cooper-hewitt.
Kilpatrick, A. T. “Gyp: A Fairy Story.” The Brownies’ Book, ed. W. E. B. Du Bois, vol. 1, no. 1. (1920): 31. www.loc.gov/item/22001351/.
Resources for Further Study
In the introduction to the 2019 volume of The Lion and The Unicorn, a contemporary journal that studies children’s literature, Katharine Capshaw and Michelle Martin draw parallels between The Brownies’ Book and the Black Lives Matter movement. Full citation for this source: Capshaw, Katharine, and Michelle H. Martin. “Introduction: From The Brownies’ Book to Black Lives Matter: One Hundred Years of African American Children’s Literature.” The Lion and the Unicorn, vol. 43, no. 2. (2019): v-vii. ProQuest, https://login.libproxy.uncg.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/docview/2330797298?accountid=14604, doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1353/uni.2019.0015.
For an analysis of fairies in The Brownies’ Book, see Fern Kory’s article, “Once Upon a Time in Aframerica: The ‘Peculiar’ Significance of Fairies in the Brownies’ Book” in the 2001 volume of Children’s Literature. Full citation for this source: Kory, Fern. “Once upon a Time in Aframerica: The “Peculiar” Significance of Fairies in the Brownies’ Book.” Children’s Literature, vol. 29. (2001): 91-112. ProQuest, https://login.libproxy.uncg.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/docview/195575070?accountid=14604.
Pedagogy
Possible discussion questions:
How does the positive diction in this story foreshadow its purpose?
Can this text be considered an origin story? Why or why not?
What does this story suggest about racial difference?
Detail of “William Bentley’s Snowflake 990” by William Bentley, c.1890, albumen print. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Record Unit 31, Image No. SIA2013-09130. CC/0
The little house is sugar,
Its roof with snow is piled,
And from its tiny window,
Peeps a maple-sugar child. [2]
Original text of “Winter Sweetness” as published in the January 1921 issue of The Brownies’ Book. Library of Congress, Rare Book and Special Collections Division.
Detail of “Winter in the Country” by George Henry Durrie, 1858, oil on canvas. National Gallery of Art, Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mellon. Open Access.
[1] “Winter Sweetness” was the first poem Langston Hughes published at 19.
