Collected by Katharine Berry Judson, Charles Fletcher Lummis
Annotations by Ian McLaughlin/JB
Artist unknown. Untitled (Coyote and Turtle). Carved, varnished, and painted walnut, c. after 1930, Smithsonian American Art Museum and its Renwick Gallery, Washington, D.C. [2]
THE COYOTE AND THE BEAR
Once upon a time Ko-íd-deh (the Bear) and Too-wháy-deh (the Coyote), [3] chanced to meet at a certain spot, and sat down to talk. After a while the Bear said:
“Friend Coyote, do you see what good land this is here? What do you say if we farm it together, sharing our labor and the crop?”
The Coyote thought well of it, and said so; and after talking, they agreed to plant potatoes in partnership.
“Now,” said the Bear, “I think of a good way to divide the crop. I will take all that grows below the ground, and you take all that grows above it. Then each can take away his share when he is ready, and there will be no trouble to measure.”
The Coyote agreed, and when the time came they plowed the place with a sharp stick and planted their potatoes. All summer they worked together in the field, hoeing down the weeds with stone hoes and letting in water now and then from the irrigating-ditch. When harvest-time came, the Coyote went and cut off all the potato-tops at the ground and carried them home, and afterward the Bear scratched out the potatoes from the ground with his big claws and took them to his house. When the Coyote saw this his eyes were opened and he said:
“But this is not fair. You have those round things, which are good to eat, but what I took home we cannot eat at all, neither my wife nor I.”
“But, friend Coyote,” answered the Bear, gravely, “did we not make an agreement? Then we must stick to it like men.”
The Coyote could not answer, and went home; but he was not satisfied.
The next spring, as they met one day, the Bear said:
“Come, friend Coyote, I think we ought to plant this good land again, and this time let us plant it in corn. But last year you were dissatisfied with your share, so this year we will change. You take what is below the ground for your share, and I will take only what grows above.”
This seemed very fair to the Coyote, and he agreed. They plowed and planted and tended the corn; and when it came harvest-time the Bear gathered all the stalks and ears and carried tehm home. When the Coyote came to dig his share, he found nothing but roots like threads, which were good for nothing. He was very much dissatisfied; but the Bear reminded him of their agreement, and he could say nothing.
That winter the Coyote was walking one day by the river (the Rio Grande), when he saw the Bear sitting on the ice and eating a fish. The Coyote was very fond of fish, and coming up, he said:
“Friend Bear, where did you get such a fat fish?”
Edward Kemeys. Bear. Bronze, c. before 1907, Smithsonian American Art Museum and its Renwick Gallery, Washington, D.C.
“Oh, I broke a hole in the ice,” said the Bear, “and fished for them. There are many here.” And he went on eating, without offering any to the Coyote.
“Won’t you show me how, friend?” ansked the Coyote, fainting with hunger at the smell of the fish.
“Oh, yes,” said the Bear. “It is very easy.” And he broke a hole in the ice with his paw. “Now, friend Coyote, sit down and let your tail hang in the water, and very soon you will feel a nibble. But you must not pull it till I tell you.”
So the Coyote sat down with his tail in the cold water. Soon the ice began to form around it, and he called:
“Friend Bear, I feel a bite! Let me pull him out.”
“No, no! Not yet!” cried the Bear, “wait till he gets a good hold, and then you will not lose him.”
So the Coyote waited. In a few minutes the hole was frozen solid, and his tail was fast.
“Now, friend Coyote,” called the Bear, “I think you have him. Pull!”
The Coyote pulled with all his might, but could not lift his tail from the ice, and there he was—a prisoner. While he pulled and howled, the Bear shouted with laughter, and rolled on the ice and ha-ha’d thill his sides were sore. There he took his fish and went home, stopping every little to laugh at the thought of the Coyote.
There on the ice the Coyote had to stay until a thaw liberated him, and when he got home he was very wet and cold and half starved. And from that day to this he has never forgiven the Bear, and will not even speak to him when they meet, and the Bear says, politely, “Good morning, friend Too-wháy-deh.”
Is that so?” cry the boys.
“That is so,” says Felipe. “But now it is time to go home. Tóo-kwai!”
The story-telling is over for to-night. Grandmother Reyes is unrolling the mattresses upon the floor; and with pleasant “good-nights” we scatter for our homes here and there in the quaint adobe village.
Original editor’s footnote: The Coyote, you must know, is very stupid about some things; and in almost all Pueblo fairy stories is the victim of one joke or another. The bear, on the other hand, is one of the wisest of animals.
A long, long time ago, the people became tired of feeding on grass, like deer and wild animals, and they talked together how fire might be found. The Ti-amoni said, “Coyote is the best man to steal fire from the world below,” so he sent for Coyote.
When Coyote came, the Ti-amoni said, “The people wish for fire. We are tired of feeding on grass. You must go to the world below and bring the fire.”
Coyote said, “It is well, father. I will go.”
Will James. Coyote-Clown of the Prairies. Pen and ink, 1921, Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Online Catalog.
So Coyote slipped stealthily to the house of Sussistinnako [5]. It was the middle of the night. Snake, who guarded the first door, was asleep, and he slipped quickly and quietly by. Cougar, who guarded the second door, was asleep, and Coyote slipped by. Bear, who guarded the third door, was also sleeping. At the fourth door, Coyote found the guardian of the fire asleep. Slipping through into the room of Sussistinnako, he found him also sleeping.
Coyote quickly lighted the cedar brand which was attached to his tail and hurried out. Spider awoke, just enough to know some one was leaving the room. “Who is there?” he cried. Then he called “Some one has been here.” But before he could waken the sleeping Bear and Cougar and Snake, Coyote had almost reached the upper world.
COYOTE AND THE FAWNS (Sia, New Mexico)
Another day when he was traveling around, Coyote met a deer with two fawns. The fawns were beautifully spotted, and he said to the deer, “How did you paint your children? They are so beautiful!”
Deer replied, “I painted them with fire from the cedar.”
“And how did you do the work?” asked Coyote.
“I put my children into a cave and built a fire of cedar in front of it. Every time a spark flew from the fire it struck my children, making a beautiful spot.”
“Oh,” said Coyote, “I will do the same thing. Then I will make my children beautiful.”
William L. Finley. Coyote Hunt. Photograph, 1908, Digital Public Library of America.
He hurried to his house and put his children in a cave. Then he built a fire of cedar in front of it and stood off to watch the fire. But the children cried because the fire was very hot. Coyote kept calling to them not to cry because they would be beautiful like the deer. After a time the crying ceased and Coyote was pleased. But when the fire died down, he found they were burned to death. Coyote expected to find them beautiful, but instead they were dead.
Then he was enraged with the deer and ran away to hunt her, but he could not find her anywhere. He was much distressed to think the deer had fooled him so easily.
JUDSON, KATHARINE BERRY., ED. “The Theft of fire,” in MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF california and the old southwest, 83-84. A. C. MCCLURG & CO., 1912.
JUDSON, KATHARINE BERRY., ED. “Coyote and the fawns,” IN MYTHS AND LEGENDS, 162-163.
LUMMIS, CHARLES FLETCHER. “The Coyote and the bear,” in THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE MOON AND OTHER PUEBLO INDIAN FOLK-STORIES, 30-33. THE CENTURY CO., 1894.
[1] The Coyote is a core character in the southwestern tribal mythologies. His stories are usually used to teach children how—or how not—to act. His stories should only be told in winter.
[3] These names are from the Tée-wahn language, spoken at several Pueblos, most notably the Isleta Pueblo. (Lummis)
[4] The modern spelling is Zia. The Zia sun symbol is used—without the pueblo’s permission—on the state flag of New Mexico. Judson includes the tribal origins of each tale with the title.
[5] Sussistinnako is the first of all living creatures, the Great Spider, and the grandparent of all humanity in Zia mythology.
Contexts
Trickster tales like these permeate world cultures: from the Biblical Jacob; to China’s Sun Wukong; to Loki from Norse Mythology; to Indra the Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain deity; to the African Ananse; the trickster archetype is a core of folklore. Trickster characters typically display several of the following six traits (according to Hynes and Doty; see resource below): fundamental ambiguity, deceitfulness, the ability to shape-shift or disguise, frequent desire to invert situations, imitation of or acting as messengers for gods, and being sacred and lewd do-it-yourself types.
The Man Who Married the Moonby Charles Lummis (also published under the title Pueblo Indian Folk-Stories) is an excellent resource on the stories and culture of the Tée-wahn pueblos of New Mexico.
[2] From the gallery label: “This carving seems to portray a Hopi tale about Coyote and Turtle…While the carver of this sculpture is unknown, the imagery resembles illustrations done by Fred Kabotie (1900-86), a Hopi from the second Mesa, for Taytay’s Tales, published in 1922.
Warren S. Parker. Old Omnibus. Photograph, c. 1870-1930, Thomas Crane Public Library, Quincy, MA.
“Chips, ma’am? Only five cents a basket,” said a little voice, as I stood at my gate one morning, deciding which way I should walk. [1]
Looking around, I saw a small yellow-haired, blue-eyed boy, smiling at me with such a cheerful, confiding face, that I took the chips at once, and ordered some more.
“Where do you live?” I asked, as we waited for Katy, the girl, to empty the basket.
“In the old bus, ma’am.”
“The what?” I exclaimed.
“The old omnibus down on the flats, ma’am. It’s cheap, and jolly, now we are used to it,” said the boy.
“How came you to live there?” I asked, laughing at the odd idea.
“We are Germans; and when the father died, we were very poor. We came to this city in the spring; but couldn’t get any place, there were so many of us and we had so little money. We stopped one night in the old bus that was left to tumble to pieces down on the flats behind the great stables. The man who owned it laughed when my mother asked if we might stay there, and said we might for a while; so we’ve been there ever since, and like it lots.”
While the boy spoke, I took a fancy that I’d like to see this queer home of his. The flats were not far off; and I decided to go that way and perhaps help the poor woman, if she seemed honest. As Katy handed back the basket, I said to the lad,
“Will you show me this funny house of yours, and tell me your name?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am; I’m just going home, and my name is Fritz.”
I saw him look wistfully at a tray of nice little cakes which Katy had put to cool on the window-seat, and I gave him one, saying, as he put it in his pocket very carefully,
“How many of you are there?”
“Six besides the mother.”
I just emptied the tray into the basket, and we went away together. We soon came to the flats behind the stables, and there I saw a queer sight. A great, shabby omnibus, of the old-fashioned sort, with a long body, high steps, and flat roof, with the long grass growing about its wheels, and smoke coming out of a stove- pipe poked through the roof. A pig dozed underneath it; ducks waddled and swam in a pool near by; children, of all sizes, swarmed up and down the steps; and a woman was washing in the shadow of the great omnibus.
“That’s mother,” said Fritz, and then left me to introduce myself, while he passed his cake-basket to the little folks.
A stout, cheery, tidy body was Mrs. Hummel, and very ready to tell her story and show her house.
“Hans, the oldest, works in the stables, ma’am, and Gretchen and Fritz sell a many chips; little Karl and Lotte beg the cold victuals, and baby Franz minds the ducks while I wash; and so we get on well, thanks be to Gott,” said the good woman, watching her flock with a contented smile.
She took me into the omnibus, where everything was as neat and closely stowed as on board a ship. The stove stood at the end, and on it was cooking a savory-smelling soup, made from the scraps the children had begged. They slept and sat on the long seats, and eat on a wide board laid across. Clothes were hung to the roof in bundles, or stowed under the seats. The dishes were on a shelf or two over the stove; and the small stock of food they had was kept in a closet made in the driver’s seat, which was boarded over outside, and a door cut from the inside. Some of the boys slept on the roof in fine weather, for they were hardy lads; and a big dog guarded the pig and ducks, as well as the children.
“How will you manage when the cold weather comes?” I asked.
She shook her head, and looked sober for a minute as she stroked the white head of baby Franz, who clung to her gown; then a smile broke over her face, and she answered trustfully:
“I do my best, ma’am, and keep a brave heart in me; for I remember that the dear Gott is a father to such as these; and he won’t let them suffer.”
“You may be sure of that,” I said heartily; and resolved that her beautiful faith should be rewarded by finding friends close by her.
“We are saving to get clothes for Gretchen and Fritz to go to school in the winter, ma’am. Karl and Lotte make toy furniture, as the father taught them; and when the bad weather comes, they can sit warm in the bus, and make their bits of chairs and tables as well as ever. They can earn but little yet; still they are so good I can leave Franz with them, and old Spitz, the dog, while I go out washing when it gets too cold to work here.”
Meade Brothers Studio. Meade Family Children. Waxed salted paper print, 1857, National Portrait Gallery, Washington, D.C.
“Perhaps some kind person would take one of the children, and so lessen your care,” I said; for I rather coveted pretty Lotte.
“Ah, but no! I could not spare one even to you, best madam. They are my treasures, and I keep them all, all, as long as I can find bread to give them,” cried the mother, gathering her flock into her arms, and feeling herself rich in spite of poverty. I said no more, but slipped a bit of money into pretty Lotte’s hand, and said good-by.
A happier, healthier, busier set I never saw; each had work to do, and did it cheerfully. Often they had hunger and cold to bear, but bore it patiently. Very seldom did any of the pleasant things that children like come to them; but they were contented, and enjoyed playing with oyster-shells, old shoes, and broken crockery as much as many children enjoy their fine toys. Few mothers have more loving children, or do more for them than good Mrs. Hummel; and I think I never saw a happier family than those little red-cheeked, yellow-haired Germans, as they gratefully smiled and nodded at me from the steps of their funny omnibus home.
Alcott, Louisa May. “Living In an Omnibus: A True Story.” Merry’s Museumand Woodworth’s cabinet 24, no. 1 (July, 1867): 103-05.
Contexts
This piece is a selection from Merry’s Museum and Woodworth’s Cabinet, a continuation of Robert Merry’s Museum, a popular children’s literary magazine in the 19th century. Robert Merry’s Museum was founded in 1841 by Samuel Griswold Goodrich and edited by Alcott from 1867 to 1870. In 1872, the magazine was absorbed by The Youth’s Companion.
Note from Pat Pflieger: “The family—now three children and a mother and renamed ‘Schmidt’—appears in Alcott’s ‘The Autobiography of an Omnibus,’ published in the October 1874 issue of St. Nicholas (pp. 719-723). Told from the bus’s point of view, the story winds through the vehicle’s early years, before it is abandoned and the Schmidts—Hans, Lotte, Lina, and their mother—find a benefactor in the owner of the factory where Hans works; when winter comes, he gives them a house, and the omnibus becomes Lina’s play-house. The Hummel family had, of course, by this time appeared in Little Women (1868).” This story was reprinted in The Youth’s Companion in November 1867 as a “Merry’s Museum” column and in The Hub in May 1879.
Definitions from Oxford English Dictionary:
omnibus: A large public vehicle carrying passengers by road, running on a fixed route and typically requiring the payment of a fare; a bus. Now chiefly historical (esp. with reference to a horse-drawn vehicle of this kind).
Pierre Joseph Redouté. Persica vulgaris. Pêcher commun. (Peach on a branch). Print, circa 1801 to 1819, New York Public Library Digital Collections.
Last evening, (I continued,) I took supper with Lydia’s father and mother. Before supper, Lydia, her parents, and myself, were sitting in the room together, and her little brother Oliver was out in the yard, drawing his cart about. The mother went out and brought in some peaches; a few of which were large, red-cheeked rare-ripes—the best small, ordinary peaches. The father handed me one of the rare-ripes, gave one to the mother, and then one of the best to his little daughter, who was eight years old. He then took one of the smaller ones, and gave it to Lydia, and told her to go and give it to her brother. He was four years old. Lydia went out, and was gone out about ten minutes, and then came in.
“Did you give your brother the peach I sent him?” asked the father.
Lydia blushed, turned away, and did not answer.
“Did you give your brother the peach I sent him?” asked the father again, a little more sharply.
“No, father,” said she, “I did not give him that.”
“What did you do with it?” he asked.
“I ate it,” said Lydia,
“What! Did you not give your brother any?” asked the father.
“Yes, I did, father,” said she. “I gave him mine.”
“Why did you not give him the one I told you to give?” asked the father, rather sternly.
“Because, father,” said Lydia, “I thought he would like mine better.”
“But you ought not to disobey your father,” said he.
“I did not mean to be so disobedient, father,” said she; and her bosom began to heave, and her chin to quiver.”
“But you were, my daughter,” said he.
“I thought you would not be displeased with me, father,” said Lydia, “if I did give brother the biggest peach;” and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“But I wanted you to have the biggest,” said the father; “you are older and larger than he is.”
“I want you to give the best things to brother,” said the noble girl.
“Why?” asked the father, scarcely able to contain himself.
“Because,” answered the dear, generous sister, “I love him so—I always feel best when he gets the best things.”
“You are right, my precious daughter,” said the father, as he fondly and proudly folded her in his arms. “You are right, and you may be certain your happy father can never be displeased with you for wishing to give up the best of every thing to your affectionate little brother. He is a dear and noble little boy, and I am glad you love him so. Do you think he loves you as well as you do him?”
“Yes father,” said the girl, “I think he does; for when I offered him the largest peach, he would not take it, and wanted me to keep it; and it was a good while before I could get him to take it.”
“Stories for Children: The best peach.” Massachusetts ploughman 5, no. 39, (JUNE 1846): 4.
Contexts
Massachusetts Ploughman was a weekly newspaper published in Boston from 1841 to 1866. It evolved from Yankee Farmer, and Newsletter, which was published in Portland, Maine, and Boston in 1838, which became Yankee Farmer, and New England Cultivator from 1839 to 1840. The Yankee Farmer split off to an independent Boston newspaper for the beginning of 1841; after 1866 it was known as Massachusetts Ploughman and New England Journal of Agriculture until 1906, when it combined with Boston Cultivator and Vermont Farmer to become American Cultivator until its end in 1915.
White agricultural families in New England at this time were experiencing the shifts that industrialization was causing for farm households, including significant changes for women. In an 1851 town centennial address to farmers in Litchfield County, Connecticut, Horace Bushnell predicted, “This transition from mother- and daughter-power to water- and steam-power is a great one, greater by far than many have as yet begun to conceive—one that is to carry with it a complete revolution of domestic life and social manners” (Bidwell 694). Women increasingly found employment outside the farm “by their leaving the farms and taking employment in the rapidly growing urban centres, either in factories, or as school teachers, or in domestic service; [or] by the introduction of new industrial occupations in the home” (Bidwell 696).
Women in agricultural families often suffered greatly; see these few passages below as examples:
“Whatever general hardships, such as poverty, isolation, lack of labor-saving devices, may exist on any given farm, the burden of these hardships falls more heavily on the farmer’s wife than on the farmer himself. In general her life is more monotonous and the more isolated, no matter what the wealth or the poverty of the family may be.” —Report of the Commission on Country Life,1911
“The farmers’ wives! what monotonous, treadmill lives! Constant toil with no wages, no allowance, no pocket money, no vacations, no pleasure trips to the city nearest them, little of the pleasures of correspondence; no time to write, unless a near relative is dead or dying. Some one says that their only chance for social life is going to some insane asylum!” —Kate Sanborn, Adopting an Abandoned Farm, 1891
“When you bring to bear on these poor, weak souls, made for love and gentleness and bright outlooks [, the effects of] the daily dullness of work, the brutality, stupidness, small craft, and boorish tyranny of husbands, to whom they are tied beyond escape, what wonder is it that a third of all the female lunatics in our asylums are farmers’ wives? that domestic tragedies, even beyond the scope of a sensation novel, recur daily in these lonely houses, far beyond human help or hope?” —Rose Terry Cooke, “The West Shetucket Railway,” 1872.
Harry Fenn. Untitled artwork for Our Young Folks. 1869.
To-day I must keep myself hid. A loaded gun stands behind the door. The shots are intended to go through my body.
“Scat!” is an odious[1] word. It has a sound which no cat can endure. Why are people so rude? Gentleness is pleasing to all. It does me no good, all this rough treatment. I do not need to be driven out. If they would but open the door and point,—why, I trust I can take a hint. I am not the cat to stay where my company is unwished for. But they stamp. But they stamp. They cry, “Scat! Scat!” They use the broom, and I hurry away to hide myself and my tears. I hurry to the garden. There, in shady corners, where juicy catnip grows, I meet my friends. We tell one another our wrongs, and mourn together.
When the king of the cats comes,—which is always at night,—we assemble upon some convenient roof, and pour forth our sorrows. These are called the Nights of Lamentation[2]. We use, then, the real court language, which is part Egyptian; for we sprang from an Egyptian race[3].
The king of the cats is brave, but full of pity. He has told us that, when every dog has had his day, then the days of the cats will begin. It will then be his first duty to abolish[4] mouse-traps. To him we have to give an account of all our actions,—how many mice we gave caught, how many we have smelt, whether we have charmed any birds, sucked eggs, stolen new-born chickens, scratched small children, or licked the butter.
Last night he came, and we assembled by starlight on the gentle slope of a roof. There were many present. The place was convenient; the dogs were chained up, the bad boys were put to bed, the brooms behind the door.
First, the members had to be seated. Lady Maltese had caught seventeen mice, the highest number, and was therefore shown to a seat on the ridgepole. Her husband, Sir Tom Maltese, having fought a bloody battle with a rat, was allowed to touch noses with the king. To him was given the highest place,—the top brick of a chimney. The young Miss Whiteys, twins, came dressed exactly alike, in white fur with black trimmings. They were full of frolic, racing and tumbling, and always in the way. These young persons were requested to take a back seat; and old Ma’am Mouser, who never had a family of her own, offered to make them behave. Poor Madame Purr was full of sorrow; for her whole family had just been drowned. She came in dark slate-colored furs, and preferred a low seat, where her weeping would not be observed. Miss Whitefoot, who had discovered a new way of opening pantry doors, was loudly welcomed, and seated on the martin-house. Mrs. Loudmew, by great watchfulness, and by finding good hiding-places, had succeeded in raising her whole family. Not one had been shot or drowned. To her was given a very high seat,—the top round of a ladder, leading to the roof above.
The King had a central position on the scuttle window[5].
Sweet Kitty Gray, who lives in our yard, had a question to ask, and was requested to stand on the end of the stove funnel[6]. She wished to know whether, when a small child swung her over his shoulder by her tail, she should scratch or only mew. This question being left for us all to answer, we cried out, with one voice, “Mew, mew!: But, being asked which we ourselves did on such occasions, all remained silent. For none wished to be so impolite as to speak first.
After several had spoken of their trials, a lean, dingy, sorrowful cat of unknown color, a stranger to all present, asked permission to relate her story. Her smellers[6] having been examined, she was declared worthy to speak in court, and, being unable to mount the funnel, was requested to step a little forward from the ring. She advanced with trembling steps, and began her story as follows:—
Henry Wolf, Girl with Cat, 1902, photomechanical wood engraving on paper. Smithsonian American Art Museum, 1973.130.192, CCO.
“I was once pure white,—whiter than the white meat of a chicken,—whiter than new milk. This dirty string about my neck was then a beautiful blue ribbon, tied in a bow.
“O my friends, of blue ribbons, new milk, and chickens’ meat I have now only the memory!” (Here the court were much affected.) “In those pleasant days, my name was Happy Minty. A lovely child held me in her arms. A soft bed was made up for me near her own. It has a spread. The sheets were marked ‘ H. M.’ I was taken to ride in a coach of silk velvet, and with feathers in my hat. With her own hands the lovely child fed me with frosted cake, and warmed for me the delicate vanilla ice-creams. O how sweet were those days of my youth! But alas! I grew,—grew in wisdom, grew in size. Ah, why was it expected of me always to be a kitten? Why was I urged to chase my own tail, after I had seen the folly of it?”
Here we all exclaimed, in court language, “Ah, why?” “Ah, why?”
But the king of the cats waved his tail, and commanded silence.
O, nothing can be more beautiful than the pure black of our king[7], unless it be the majestic yellow of his large round eyes. And then he is so grand and stately! Not one speck of white! for, if but one white hair were discovered, he would be known as an imposter, and no true king, and would be eaten by dogs.
When silence was restored, the unhappy stranger went on with her story.
“There came,” said she, “or was brought to the house, a new kitten. A meddlesome, per young miss; not pretty, for she was neither pure white, nor a royal black, nor a soft Maltese, nor a genteel gray, but an odious yellow!”
Here sweet Kitty Gray trod on the tail of Happy Minty, to hush her. But it was too late. The words had been spoken. A furious yellow cat leaped down from the rain-water spout, but up his back, and with much sputtering demanded whether he were to be insulted in open court. This caused great confusion. The king, after restoring order in his usual happy manner, remarked that it was very plain the stranger was not aware the gentleman in yellow was present. Still, as he felt himself insulted, if it would be any satisfaction to him to claw her, he might have that satisfaction.
Happy Minty, who had been looking very steadily at the gentleman in yellow, at last said to him, quite gently:—
“Excuse me sir, for gazing at you so boldly. It is because of your fine appearance. Mere color is nothing. How stately is your form! How firm your tread! What magnificent whiskers! You must have come from some nobler race. Born with so much strength and grace and courage, I really must believe you were also born—without claws[8].”
Here young Miss Whitey put up her paw and winked behind it at sweet Kitty Gray, and then winked at her sister, and her sister winked at her; and they fairly twisted themselves heels over head, that they might not die of laughing. A box[9] on the ear soon quieted them.
The gentleman in yellow, however, seemed quite pleased at being praised so highly; said he had perhaps misunderstood the interesting stranger, and begged she would proceed with her story. He then gallantly[10] conducted sweet Kitty Gray to her seat on a flower-pot, saying, as he did so, that no lovelier flower ever bloomed there. He seemed much pleased with this young person. Everyone is. And no wonder, seeing that she is so pretty and gentle in all her ways. After we had gone home, I heard him singing to her a serenade. It was in the court language, which, as I said before, is part Egyptian.
"O lovely creature!
How elegant is your form!
How graceful your motions!
The fall of your feet is like the falling of snow-flakes,
The gentle wave of your tail is like the wave of a soldier's plume.
Your eyes are greener than the leaves of the sacred catnip.
I know a land where the dogs have no teeth,—
A land where the mice are white,
A land o'erflowing with milk.
Let us journey to that happy country!
Let us seek those peaceful shores."
Of course the song was not all true. But there is no time to speak of that now, as I wish to finish the account of Happy Minty.
After the two Miss Whiteys had been boxed on the ear, and order fully restored, the wretched wanderer proceeded with her story as follows:—
“To that foolish young kitten,” said she, “were given all my comforts. And the bold thing made herself quite at home. Nothing was too good for her. She hopped into everybody’s lap, she was under everybody’s feet. She must receive great attentions. For her, now, were the rides in the coach, the soft bed, the silk-velvet cloak, the frosted cake, the warmed vanilla creams. She could jump through a hoop! What great deed was that?
“From this time I was scarcely noticed. But little food was given me, and that little was poor. In fact, I was made to feel, in various ways, that my company was not wanted.
“Being extremely hungry, I one night crept into the pantry. Four pans of milk stood there. I only took a little,—just licked off the top. Yet, the next night, a cruel deed was done. I was taken by an unkind young man for an evening walk, as I thought. But, at the end of a long lane, he laid me down on the cold grass, and left me!—yes, he left me!
“‘Aha!’ says I, ‘Not so fast! I am going to!’ But, alas! there was a stone tied to my leg. I could not step. And O, it was a dismal place! The rain fell, the winds blew, and, not far away, I heard the terrible bark of a water-dog!”
Here one of the Miss Whiteys was so much affected with pity that she nearly fell from the roof. A hop-pole saved her life. After she had received another box on the ear, Happy Minty went on.
“I gnawed off the string,” said she, “but not till the flesh was worn to the bone. No hair has grown over the place; you can see it now. Then some cruel boys found me, and—But I will not dwell upon this, I will not harrow up the feelings of the court. You all know what we have to expect from cruel boys. It is enough to say, that, for three days and nights, I was dragged after me, by my tail, a tin pan, or it might have been a porringer, I cannot say, so weakened is my mind by suffering. Oh! was I once pure white? Was this dirty string a beautiful blue ribbon, tied in a bow? Was I once Happy Minty, indeed?” (Here all the court were moved to tears.)
“Ever since that evening walk with the unkind young man,” said she, “I have lived a wretched, wretched life, without food, without shelter, stoned by boys, worried by dogs. And now what am I? what am I? Draggled, lean, starved,—a wreck of a cat,—no more. Just a strip of fur hanging over sharp bones! IF any of you will, you may make your paws meet through my body. Will someone try?”
At this several stepped forward. But command was given that only those who had had their claws cut should be allowed to try. Immediately all stepped back; for, although many had been obliged to have their claws cut, none wished to have it known.
Happy Minty stood patiently waiting, her eyes were closed, her tail drooped, her limbs trembled. Sweet Kitty Gray sprang forward, and offered her shoulder for a support. The Miss Whiteys, being young and thoughtless, began to make sport of her because she staggered. And when at last she fell down, they sputtered, and began to go heels over head again. Old Ma’am Mouser said they needed another boxed ear. And this they would have got, had not sweet Kitty Gray just then spoken out, and said:—
“Please, ma’am, excuse them. They will do better next time. Perhaps no one has ever told them how to behave. Poor things! they have no mother. I’ve a pretty story to tell, which they will like to hear. I call it ‘The Sweet-Pea Story.'”
She was going on with “The Sweet-Pea Story,” when the king of the cats, with a majestic wave, remarked that it was getting late, and, as he wished to say a few parting words, it would be well to defer “The Sweet-Pea Story” until the next assembling of the court. Then, after expressing his sympathy for the afflicted stranger, he went on with his closing remarks.
“My children,” said he, “bear your troubles bravely. It is not to be expected that your backs will always be stroked the right way, or even stroked at all. Be cheerful. When the fences are too narrow, walk on the ground. Don’t fret. Many are worse off than we. Across the sea, in the Isle of Man, there is a race of cats who have no tails. Among us that sacred privilege to all. Long may it wave! (Cheers.) Consider your blessings. We always fall upon our feet; this is a great mercy. And we have nine lives; think of that! Then there is a whole race—the race of mice—created expressly for our eating. And, as to our appearance, of what have we to complain? Our fur is handsome, our motions are graceful, and our mewing is so melodious that even the birds, so famous for musical talent, sometimes imitate it. And we share, more than any other creature, the dwellings of men. We are permitted even in the presence of kings. For what says the proverb? ‘A cat may look upon a king.’[11] That is, no doubt, owing to our high descent. Let us not forget that we are of noble blood. The king of beasts is our near relative. Does the dog despise us? He does. He is full of pride. He follows after man, and even barks at the moon. Let him. But let him also seek out his relatives in the forest. But this he will never do. He is ashamed of them. For wolves are his cousins, so are the sneaking foxes, the jackals, and the laughing hyenas. But our ancestors came from Egypt. Our family portraits are in the pyramids. We are akin to the mighty panther, the cougar, the jaguar, the royal Bengal tiger, and greater than all, to the majestic lion, who reigns king of the forest!”
At this we could no longer be restrained, but all sprang to our feet, waved our tails, and burst forth into rousing cheers for the cats, and hisses for the dogs, and made the ridge-poles ring. But suddenly there fell among us, form attic windows, a shower of blacking-boxes and boot-jacks. The king of the cats gave a royal leap, which was the signal for breaking up the court.
Last evening, after we were assembled on the gently sloping roof, one of the Miss Whiteys appeared with a stick of wood fastened to her neck. She was also quite lame, and dripping with wet. Being asked the cause of all this, she replied that, in order to make everything clear, it would be necessary to begin by telling her dream.
Sir Tom Maltese objected to this, on the ground that telling dreams would be trifling with the court. There was, however, a learned member present, who remarked that telling dreams at court was an old Egyptian custom[12], and must, therefore, be proper. This settled the whole matter.
Miss Whitey then stated that, about noon, as she lay on a high shelf, in the act of watching a mouse-hole, she fell asleep.
“And in my sleep,” said she, “I dreamed of lying upon grass that was smoother and softer than a velvet easy-chair; and in a tree, high above me, was the most beautiful bird I ever saw. He was white as snow, except about his neck, where there was a bright scarlet collar. His singing was so loud and sweet that all the other birds had stopped to listen.
“I crouched close to the ground. I kept my eyes fixed steadily upon him until his song grew fainter, fainter, fainter, fainter, and at last was heard no longer. He then spread his wings and flew three times around the tree, alighting[13] on a lower branch. I never lost sight of him, but looked exactly into his eyes. The next time he only flew twice around the three, and then settled himself upon a still lower branch. He then tried to fly away. But this he could not do, for I held him with my eyes. They turned away not one moment. He flew once around the tree, and, after that, flew no more; but only hopped down, one branch lower, one branch lower, until he reached the lowest branch of all. And there he sat, trembling, fluttering his wings, and making little cries of distress. Then I knew that he would soon be within my reach. I stretched myself close to the earth, creeping along slowly, softly, and glared my eyes very wide open, that he might feel all their power. At last he gave one weak cry, spread his wings, and dropped slowly to the ground, not two yards from my mouth.
“Then, in my dream, I gave a quick spring, and caught, not a beautiful white bird, but a good beating. For I had sprung from the shelf, doing great damage to the crockery, and had landed with my paws in a dish of hot gruel. You have now learned the cause of my lameness.
“After this it was decided that drowning would be good for me. Dick offered to do it;—he’s a famous boy for bragging. ‘O, he knew how to drown a cat! Nobody need tell him how to drown a cat! It was just as easy!’
“My sister was in great distress. I said to her, ‘Don’t worry, dear. He talks big. ‘T is I, I, I,—great I! who but I? Be easy, dear; these bragging boys are always the greatest simpletons. Be easy.’
“Just after dark, he took me along, very carefully to the wood-box. ‘Ah, now,’ said he, ‘this stick of wood is just the thing for me.’ ‘Yes,’ said I to myself, ‘just the thing for me.’ He fastened it on, paddled off a little way into the pond, and dropped me in. The wood floated me ashore, and here I am. My sister will now bite off the string.”
After Miss Whitey had finished, sweet Kitty Gray was asked to tell “The Sweet-Pea Story” which she had promised us. She seemed, at first, a little bashful; but that in a young person is very becoming. The gentleman in yellow conducted her to stand, and bade her take courage and speak. She then took courage, and spoke as follows:—
“By hiding often in the garden, I have come to understand very well the language of the place. And vastly amusing it is to sit and listen to all that is going on among the flowers, birds, and insects.
“The funniest of all is to hear the bees making bargains with the flowers for their honey. They come for it with bags. The bumble-bee brings his gold with him. They are on hand early in the day; but the flowers are quite ready for them, and those who keep the pure article never lack for customers.
“The sunflowers and hollyhocks hang their signs out high, but their honey is not considered the best. The rose and the heliotrope put a fragrance into theirs which is much admired. The violet keeps in an out-of-the-way place, but is well known to the trade. The syringa offers a very rich article. The sweet-pea has a growing business, and attracts crowds of buyers. The honeysuckle and running rose have gone into partnership, and mean to stand highest in the market.
“Perhaps the court would be pleased to hear a little of what is sometimes said in the way of trade. I will call it
"A TALK IN THE HONEY MARKET.
"Flowers. Good morrow, good bees, full early ye fly;
What will ye buy? what will ye buy?
"Bees. We'll buy your honey, if fresh and sweet,
And good enough for our queen to eat,
And we'll store it away for our winter's treat;
For when comes the snow,
And icy winds blow,
The flowers will all be dead, you know.
"Flowers. And what will ye pay, what will ye pay,
If we provide for that wintery day?
"Bees. O, we'll tell you fine tales. Great news ye shall gain,
For we've travelled afar over valley and plain.
And the whispering leaves of the forest-trees,
They tell all their secrets to wandering bees.
We linger about where the little brooks flow,
And we hear all they sing, though they murmur so low.
We have played by the shore with the sweet Rose-Marie,
And we have heard the moan of the sorrowful sea.
We spend long hours
In the woodland bowers,
And have news from your kindred, the dear wild-flowers.
We know the swamp pinks, with their fragrance so fine,
The lupine, the aster, and bright columbine[14].
We know where the purple geranium blows,
And fragrant sweetbrier, and pretty wild rose.
And perhaps we'll tell,
If your honey you'll sell,
Why everyone loveth the wild-flowers so well.
"Flowers. O tell us this secret, and take all our store!
Tell us how to be loved, and we'll ask nothing more."
The court were much interested in this little account of the doings in the garden, and sweet Kitty Gray, seeing that she had given us pleasure, took more courage, and related “The Sweet-Pea Story,” as follows:—
“It is known to you all that a board fence separates the back yard from the garden. One pleasant morning last May, as I was sunning myself after a rain on the top of this fence, little Amy came singing across the yard. She stooped down near me, and began making holes in the earth. I hopped upon her shoulder and peeped over to see what would happen. And I saw that she dropped into every hole a small round seed. She then smoothed the earth over the seeds, and ran singing into the house.
“Towards noon I stretched myself upon the ground near by, a cooler place being more than agreeable. It is a very good stand there, being exactly on the track of the field-mice. I laid my ear close to the earth, and listened to the low, murmuring sound which seemed to come from below. It was the small round seeds complaining. ‘O how hard it is to stay in the dark! Here it is cold and damp. No air, no sunshine. O how sad!’
“Then I whispered down to them,—for the flower language is very easy to me,—I whispered down to them, ‘Wait. Something beautiful will come of it. I have seen many small round seeds hidden away in the earth, and always something beautiful came of it.’
“After that there were cold rains and chilling winds, and I said to myself, ‘Poor little seeds! How long they have to wait! I fear they may die of cold.’ But one bright morning, when the fields were green, and the trees were white, and there was sunshine enough for all the world, I happened to look down from my post, and saw a fine sight. Just where the seeds had been hidden away something beautiful had come of it,—a row of pretty, green sprouts! And, as I watched them day by day, I observed that they were determined to rise in the world. For they very soon put on garments of lovely green, and adorned themselves with rings.
“Now this is the way I found out their names. One day Amy came singing into the yard,—it is so pleasant when children come singing!—she came singing into the yard, and she said, ‘Now I must string my sweet-peas.’ And then I knew they were sweet peas.
Harry Fenn. Untitled artwork for Our Young Folks. 1869.
“She took a ball of white cord from her pocket, and began at the end of the row, giving to each one a string by which to climb the fence. But there was not quite enough of the white cord. And on this account she gave to one a dark, rough, knotted string, and one was left without any at all.[15]
“Now it has been vastly entertaining for me to follow these two sweet-peas. In fact, nearly all of my leisure time has been spent in watching them, for I have kept the run of them all summer. The one to whom the dark string was given had by no means a contented disposition. As I sat near her one morning, catching flies the best way I could, she made to me the most bitter complaints.
“‘Look across the yard,’ said she. ‘Those plants have all the sunshine, and we have all the shade.’
“I whispered, ‘Wait till afternoon. Then they will have the shade, and you will have the sun. None have the sunshine always. Some shade is good for all.’
“‘Well,’ she said, ‘why is this dark, rough, knotty string given to me? I have a great desire to go up. The yellow-birds sing of fine things to be seen from the fence-top. They sing of gardens blooming with flowers, and of bees, and painted butterflies, and sparkling waters. And I’ve heard that, higher up, the air is pure and sweet. It must be very delightful. But I can never climb by that dark, rough string. I’d rather stay below. The earthworm tells me it is quite pleasant here; and he, for one, never wished to go higher. Robin Runaway is a pleasant playfellow, and sometimes the ladybugs come,—and the ladybugs are quite genteel people. To be sure there is a strong smell of earth, but one gets accustomed to that. I will creep about here and amuse myself with the beetles. This burdock[16] is a fine protection from the rain. Who knows but some day a pleasanter way of climbing may be offered me? Meanwhile, the earthworm and I will be good friends together.’
“My friends, from that hour I watched her course. At first she ran about gayly enough, playing with the beetles and Robin Runaway; but when a young family of weeds sprang up, it became very troublesome to move about. Then the burdock spread out its broad leaves, taking from her every ray of sunshine. Scarcely a breath of pure air could reach her. The singing of the birds sounded far away. She bore one pale, sickly blossom,—no more. And now whoever passes that way may, if he will take the trouble, find her lying there, a yellow, feeble, miserable thing, giving pleasure to none. She has not strength enough to raise herself from the eart.
“But the sweet-pea who had no string given her conducted quite differently. She said, ‘I was not made to creep about here. There is something in me which says, “Go up! go up!” This earthy smell oppresses me. O, if one could only mount to where the birds are singing! I shall never be content to remain here with Robin Runaway and the earthworms. “Up!” is the word.’
“And when the yellow-birds sang to her of the beautiful things to be seen from above,—of gardens, and fountains, and the fragrant breath of flowers,—she could no longer remain quiet, but resolved to find some way of raising herself from the earth. And a pleasure it was for me to watch her progress. First she came to a blade of grass. ‘A blade of grass is not very high,’ said she, ‘but then it leads up, and at the top of this there may be found something higher.’ The blade of grass led her to a poppy-stalk. ‘A poppy-stalk is not very high,’ said she; ‘but it leads up, and who can tell what may be found at the top?’ She soon climbed the poppy, and found there the leaves of a currant-bush. ;A currant-bush is not very high,’ said she, ‘but it leads up, and from its top something may take me much higher.’ At the top of the currant-bush, the air seemed filled with sweetness. This came, although she did not know it, partly from her own blossoms. But the bees knew this, and the painted butterflies. These were constant visitors, and charming company they were. And when the humming-birds came,1why, that was the best of all.
“And it happened that the dark string led higher than all the rest, reaching even as far as the branch of a hawthorn. And now she is where the yellow-birds sing. The air is pure; no smell of earth reaches her there; and she is blooming all over with the flowers that everybody loves. A beautiful garden is spread out beneath, where happy children play, and fountains sparkle in the sun. A delightful place, where the butterflies come, every morning, to tell their dreams, and the birds every evening sing good night to the flowers. For flowers without number are blooming there. The air is full of sweetness. She herself is sweeter than they all. But this she does not know.”
Sweet Kitty Gray ended by giving us
THE BIRDS' GOOD-NIGHT SONG TO THE FLOWERS.
Good night, dear flowers;
Shadows creep along the sky,
Birdies now must homeward fly.
Good night, darling mignonette;
Good night, little violet.
Good night, pink and four-o' clock;
Good night, homely hollyhock.
Good night, feathery feverfew;
Heliotrope, good night to you.
Good night, lily; good night, rose;
Good night, every flower that blows.
Thank you for your lovely bloom,
Thank you for your perfume.
If you did not bloom so brightly,
We could never sing so lightly.
Now fairies wake, the watch to keep,
And birdies all may go to sleep.
Good night, dear flowers.
Diaz, A.M. “The cat’s diary.” Our Young Folks: an illustrated magazine, vol. 5 (1869): 88-98. https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007601761
[1] Unpleasant or repulsive.
[2] A passionate expression of grief or sorrow.
[3] Ancient Egypt is well-known for worshipping cats. According to Barbara S. Lesko, around “forty feline and lioness goddesses appear throughout the history of Egyptian Religion,” the most prominent being Bastet of Bubastis (151). For more about the presence of cats in Egyptian Religion, see The Great Goddesses of Egypt.
[4] To formally end, ban, or put a stop to a behavior or law.
[5] Also known as a porthole, a scuttle window is a small circular window that is usually present on ships but can be placed in buildings.
[6] Happy Minty’s “smellers” are her scent glands, likely her anal scent glands because cats will smell each other’s rears in order to identify each other (Cat Care Center).
[7] It’s noteworthy that the cats see their king’s black fur as beautiful and a symbol of his nobility because historically humans have considered black cats to be symbols of evil or bad luck (Foreman).
[8] It is unclear if Happy Minty is consciously making a joke at the gentleman in yellow’s expense, but the Miss Whiteys clearly catch something funny about her praise. The notion that the gentleman was “born without claws” could be read as an attack on the cat’s masculinity or true catliness, as being without claws would mean he was incapable of hunting his own food and taking care of himself.
[9] A “box” in this context is a slap.
[10] In a charming or chivalrous manner.
[11] The proverb was first printed in The Proverbs and Epigrams of John Heywood in 1562. The full proverb reads, “A cat may looke on a kyng, and what of that. When a cat so lookth: a cat is but a cat” (145).
[12] According to Emily Teeter. the Egyptians saw dreams as a way of accessing another realm of existence, specifically the realm of the gods. They believed that one could communicate with the gods and with the dead through dreams, though Egyptians were also wary of the dangers present in dreams and of nightmares. For more on the role of dreams in Egyptian Religion, see Religion and Ritual in Ancient Egypt.
[13] Descending or flying downward.
[14] This poem lists several different flowering plants that you may be curious about. The Old Farmer’s Almanac website has excellent written, visual, and video resources about gardening and all of the flower species that appear in this story.
[15] Sweat peas are climbing plants, which means they require at least 6 ft of nearby support structures to grow to their full potential. For more on the care and keeping of sweet peas, see Catherine Boeckmann work in The Old Farmer’s Almanac.
[16] Arcticum plants (more commonly known as burdock) have large heart-shaped leaves, hooked burrs, and thick roots. According to Ohio State’s Weed Guide, common burdock is generally considered to be a weed.
Contexts
Nineteenth-century America saw massive shifts in cultural attitudes towards animal cruelty and the need for legislation to protect animals from the kinds of cruelty depicted in “The Cat’s Diary.” While some efforts to legislate violence towards animals occurred in the early 1800s, it was not until 1866 that activist Henry Bergh pushed for the development of anti-cruelty statutes in New York. At the time “The Cat’s Diary” was published, the first piece of comprehensive legislation in the United States to criminalize animal cruelty had passed in the New York Legislature in 1867. For more on the history of anti-cruelty legislation in the United States, see David Favre and Vivien Tsang’s article, “The Development of the Anti-Cruelty Laws During the 1800’s.”
“The Cat’s Diary” is notable not only for its anthropomorphism of cats, but also for giving voice and personality to insects and plant life. The story is rife with potential for discussion both about the natural behaviors of the various plants and animals and of the sentience or emotional capacity of those same creatures.
See Carolyn L. Burke and Joby G. Copenhaver’s piece, “Animals as People in Children’s Literature,” for advice on incorporating animal literature into a curriculum or your child’s life.
See Education World’s Animal Diaries lesson for a creative and educational project idea.
Visit the ASPCA for ideas on how to discuss animal cruelty with children of various ages.
Alice Pike Barney. Peach Bloom. Pastel on canvas, n.d., Smithsonian American Art Museum and its Renwick Gallery, Washington, D.C.
A countryman brought home five peaches from the city, the most beautiful that could be seen.— His children saw the fruit for the first time. On this account they wondered, and were very much pleased over the beautiful peaches, with the rosy cheeks and soft down.
The father divided them among his four children, and one was received by the mother.
In the evening, as the children were going to their bedchambers, they were asked by their father:
“Well how did those fine peaches taste to you?”
“Excellent, dear father,” said the eldest. “It is a beautiful fruit, somewhat acid, and yet of so mild a flavor. I have saved the stone, and intend to rear a tree out of it.”
“Well done,” said the father; “that I call prudently providing for the future, as it becomes a husbandman.”[1]
“I have also eaten mine up,” said the youngest, “and thrown away the stone, and mother gave me the half of hers. Oh, it tasted so sweet, and melted in one’s mouth!”
“Well,” said the father, “to be sure, you have not acted prudently, but very naturally, as children are wont to do. For prudence there is still room enough in your life.”
Then began the second son:
“I picked up the stone which my little brother threw away, and cracked it. There was a little kernel therein that tasted as sweet as a nut. But my peach I sold, and I have received so much money for it that I can, when I go to the city, probably buy twelve.”
The father shook his head, and said,
“Wise it was, but not in the least childish or natural. May heaven preserve you from becoming a merchant!”
“And thou, Edmund?” said the father.
Candidly and openly answered Edmund:
“I took my peach to our neighbor’s son, the sick George, who has a fever. He was not willing to take it, but I laid it upon the bed and came away.”
“Well,” said the father, “who has, then, made the best use of his peach?”
Then cried they all three:
“Brother Edmund has.”
But Edmund remained silent, and the mother kissed him with tears in her eyes.
“OLd story of the five peaches.” The maine farmer 29, no. 48 (November 1861): 4.
[1] A “husbandman” is a farmer, or a person who cultivates land.
Contexts
Maine Farmer was a weekly newspaper published from 1844 to 1924. It included information for the population of white farming families, such as articles on livestock and crops, farming techniques, agricultural legislation, and sections designed for women and children that included poetry, stories, and homemaking tips. Children of white agricultural families at this time often worked on the farm, and according to 1870 U.S. Census data, fifteen percent of counted U.S. males age 10 to 15 worked as agricultural laborers, as did about two and a half percent of females of the same age. This did not include children who worked on small family farms, which were largely focused on subsistence farming, with any surplus limited to the local area. The official data is not an accurate reflection of women’s and girl’s contributions. Their household labor milking cows and tending hens, for example, often wasn’t enumerated.
Peaches do not grow particularly well in much of Maine, particularly in the colder north of the state, and colder temperatures in the 19th century would have made it more difficult. They may have been a luxury crop for the agricultural audience in Maine.
From the Maine Memory Network about the Wabanaki people, who were present in what is now called Maine long before European settlers arrived:
“Wabanaki means People of the Dawnland. As the first people to greet the sunrise, they are responsible for ‘holding up the sky.’
Wabanaki people, including the Maliseet, Micmac, Passamaquoddy, Penobscot, and Abenaki Nations, have inhabited what is now northern New England, the Canadian Maritimes, and Quebec, since time immemorial according to oral histories, and for at least 13,000 years according to the archaeological record.
Wabanakis are constantly adapting in response to dramatic changes in the environment. Their cultures also have changed over time, with the development of sophisticated political networks, evolving philosophies, and a deep understanding of the landscape.
For generations, Wabanaki people traveled seasonally, planting corn on the riverbanks in the spring, harvesting fish on the coast and gathering berries during the summer, and hunting game in the woods during wintertime. Their mobile lifestyle was prosperous, but radically changed with the coming of European settlers around 400 years ago, and later with the splitting of ancestral territory through the establishment of arbitrary international and state borders.”
Some indigenous populations in Maine and other areas of New England, including some Wabanaki people, are dedicated to growing and maintaining heritage crops.
Little Amelia accidentally caught a butterfly, in picking some flowers. But she did not wish to keep it prisoner. So she opened her hand and let it fly. Do you not think she felt more joy in giving it liberty than she could have felt in keeping it?
Williams, Ransom G. “Girl and Butterfly.” Slave’s Friend, vol. 3, no. 7, July 1838, pp. 2.
Little Girl with a Butterfly. http://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47da-7557-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99. Accessed 24 Oct. 2020.
[1] Originally published in The Slave’s Friend.
Contexts
The Slave’s Friend is a children’s abolitionist periodical/pamphlet produced from 1836-1838 by Ransom G. Williams for the American Anti-Slavery Society (AASS). The periodical was a mix of poetry, stories, anti-slavery writings and woodcut prints to speak to children. These writings were written for young children to understand the wrongs of slavery.
Its publication is over 20 years before the start of the Civil War (April 1861-May 1865).
“Girl and Butterfly” was included in The Slave’s Friend to provoke the minds of children to consider one’s right to freedom. This very short story of the girl who when catching the butterfly does “not wish to keep it prisoner” ultimately sets it free, is a likened to freedom for slaves.
Why does the girl feel the butterfly should be free?
How would the girl keeping the butterfly be like keeping it prisoner?
Artist unknown, The Owl, Printed by Arnold Print Works, N. Adams, Mass. Textile (engraved roller on plain weave cotton), 1892, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, New York, NY.
The following is a fair specimen of the animal myths current in ancient Hawaii, and illustrates the place held by the owl in Hawaiian mythology.
There lived a man named Kapoi, at Kahehuna, in Honolulu, who went one day to Kewalo to get some thatching for his house. On his way back he found some owl’s eggs, which he gathered together and brought home with him. In the evening he wrapped them in ti leaves[1] and was about to roast them in hot ashes, when an owl perched on the fence which surrounded his house and called out to him, “O Kapoi, give me my eggs!”
Kapoi asked the owl, “How many eggs had you?”
“Seven eggs,” replied the owl.
Kapoi then said, “Well, I wish to roast these eggs for my supper.”
The owl asked the second time for its eggs, and was answered by Kapoi in the same manner. Then said the owl, “O heartless Kapoi! why don’t you take pity on me? Give me my eggs.”
Kapoi then told the owl to come and take them.
The owl, having got the eggs, told Kapoi to build up a heiau, or temple, and instructed him to make an altar and call the temple by the name of Manua. Kapoi built the temple as directed; set kapu[2] days for its dedication, and placed the customary sacrifice on the altar.
News spread to the hearing of Kakuihewa, who was then King of Oahu, living at the time at Waikiki, that a certain man had kapued certain days for his heiau, and had already dedicated it. This King had made a law that whoever among his people should erect a heiau and kapu the same before the King had his temple kapued, that man should pay the penalty of death. Kapoi was thereupon seized, by the King’s orders, and led to the heiau of Kupalaha, at Waikiki.
That same day, the owl that had told Kapoi to erect a temple gathered all the owls from Lanai, Maui, Molokai, and Hawaii to one place at Kalapueo. [3] All those from the Koolau districts were assembled at Kanoniakapueo, [4] and those from Kauai and Niihau at Pueohulunui, near Moanalua.
It was decided by the King that Kapoi should be put to death on the day of Kane. [5] When that day came, at daybreak the owls left their places of rendezvous and covered the whole sky over Honolulu; and as the King’s servants seized Kapoi to put him to death, the owls flew at them, pecking them with their beaks and scratching them with their claws. Then and there was fought the battle between Kakuihewa’s people and the owls. At last the owls conquered, and Kapoi was released, the King acknowledging that his Akua (god) was a powerful one. From that time the owl has been recognized as one of the many deities venerated by the Hawaiian people.
Poepoe, Joseph m. “battle of the owls,” in hawaiian folk tales: a collection of native legends, ed. thomas g. thrum, 200-202. a.c. mcclurg & co., 1907.
[1] Ti leaves are leaves of Cordyline fruticosa, a tree that grows in the Pacific Islands. Its leaves are often used to wrap foods before cooking, similar to how corn husks are used for tamales.
[2] Kapu is a traditional code of conduct that governed many interpersonal, spiritual, and government interactions. By making “kapu days,” Kapoi would create holy days or dedicate them to a higher power. The word contemporarily means “taboo” or “avoid.”
[3] Situated beyond Diamond Head, a volcanic cone on Oahu.
[4] In Nuuanu Valley.
[5] When the moon is 27 days old.
Contexts
This story reminds us that while owls often signify death in some Native American tribes, particular tribal meanings or symbols are not universally true for all Indigenous peoples. It is also important to recognize that these are stories, not just myths. As stories, particularly Native Hawaiian stories (moʻolelos), there are many layers of meaning that a reader outside of that culture may not fully understand. For more information on moʻolelos, check out Kumakahi: Living Hawaiian Culture.
A certain man had a Donkey, which had carried the corn-sacks to the mill faithfully for many a long year; but his strength was going, and he was growing more and more unfit for work.
Then his master began to consider how he might best save his keep; but the Donkey, seeing that no good wind was blowing, ran away and set out on the road to Bremen.
“There,” he thought, “I can surely be town-musician.”[3]
When he had walked some distance, he found a Hound lying on the road, gasping like one who had run till he was tired.
“What are you gasping so for, you big fellow?” asked the Donkey.
“Ah,” replied the Hound, “as I am old, and daily grow weaker and no longer can hunt, my master wants to kill me. So I have taken to flight. But now how am I to earn my bread?”
“I tell you what,” said the Donkey, “I am going to Bremen, and shall be town-musician there. Come with me and engage yourself also as a musician. I will play the lute, and you shall beat the kettledrum.”
The Hound agreed, and on they went.
Before long, they came to a Cat, sitting on the path, with a face like three rainy days!
“Now then, old shaver, what has gone askew with you?” asked the Donkey.
“Who can be merry when his neck is in danger?” answered the Cat. “Because I am now getting old, and my teeth are worn to stumps, and I prefer to sit by the fire and spin,[4] rather than hunt about after mice, my mistress wants to drown me, so I have run away. But now good advice is scarce. Where am I to go?”
“Come with us to Bremen. You understand night-music, so you can be a town-musician.”
The Cat thought well of it, and went with them.
After this the three fugitives came to a farmyard, where the Cock was sitting upon the gate, crowing with all his might.
“Your crow goes through and through one,” said the Donkey. “What is the matter?”
“I have been foretelling fine weather, because it is the day on which Our Lady washes the Christ-child’s little shirts, and wants to dry them,” said the Cock. “But guests are coming for Sunday, so the housewife has no pity, and has told the cook that she intends to eat me in the soup to-morrow. This evening I am to have my head cut off. Now I am crowing at full pitch while I can.”
“Ah, but Red-Comb,” said the Donkey, “you had better come away with us. We are going to Bremen. You can find something better than death everywhere. You have a good voice, and if we make music together, it must have some quality!”
The Cock agreed to this plan, and all four went on together.
They could not, however, reach the city of Bremen in one day, and in the evening they came to a forest where they meant to pass the night. The Donkey and the Hound laid themselves down under a large tree. The Cat and the Cock settled themselves in the branches; but the Cock flew right to the top, where he was most safe.
Before he went to sleep, he looked round on all the four sides, and thought he saw in the distance a little spark burning. So he called out to his companions that there must be a house not far off, for he saw a light.
The Donkey said, “If so, we had better get up and go on, for the shelter here is bad.”
The Hound thought that a few bones with some meat would do him good too!
They made their way to the place where the light was, and soon saw it shine brighter and grow larger, until they came to a well-lighted robber’s house. The Donkey, as the biggest, went to the window and looked in.
“What do you see, my Grey-Horse?” asked the Cock.
“What do I see?” answered the Donkey; “a table covered with good things to eat and drink, and robbers sitting at it enjoying themselves.”
“That would be the sort of thing for us,” said the Cock.
“Yes, yes! ah, how I wish we were there!” said the Donkey.
Then the animals took counsel together as to how they could drive away the robbers, and at last they thought of a plan. The Donkey was to place himself with his forefeet upon the window-ledge, the Hound was to jump on the Donkey’s back, the Cat was to climb upon the Hound, and lastly the Cock was to fly up and perch upon the head of the Cat.
When this was done, at a given signal, they began to perform their music together. The Donkey brayed, the Hound barked, the Cat mewed, and the Cock crowed. Then they burst through the window into the room, so that the glass clattered!
At this horrible din, the robbers sprang up, thinking no otherwise than that a ghost had come in, and fled in a great fright out into the forest.
The four companions now sat down at the table, well content with what was left, and ate as if they were going to fast for a month.
As soon as the four minstrels[5] had done, they put out the light, and each sought for himself a sleeping-place according to his nature and to what suited him. The Donkey laid himself down upon some straw in the yard, the Hound behind the door, the Cat upon the hearth near the warm ashes, and the Cock perched himself upon a beam of the roof. Being tired with their long walk, they soon went to sleep.
When it was past midnight, the robbers saw from afar that the light was no longer burning in their house, and all appeared quiet.
The captain said, “We ought not to have let ourselves be frightened out of our wits;” and ordered one of them to go and examine the house.
The messenger finding all still, went into the kitchen to light a candle, and, taking the glistening fiery eyes of the Cat for live coals, he held a lucifer-match[6] to them to light it. But the Cat did not understand the joke, and flew in his face, spitting and scratching.
He was dreadfully frightened, and ran to the back door, but the Dog, who lay there, sprang up and bit his leg.
Then, as he ran across the yard by the straw-heap, the Donkey gave him a smart kick with his hind foot. The Cock, too, who had been awakened by the noise, and had become lively, cried down from the beam:
“Kicker-ee-ricker-ee-ree!”
Then the robber ran back as fast as he could to his captain, and said, “Ah, there is a horrible Witch sitting in the house, who spat on me and scratched my face with her long claws. By the door stands a man with a knife, who stabbed me in the leg. In the yard there lies a black monster, who beat me with a wooden club. And above, upon the roof, sits the judge, who called out:
“‘Bring the rogue here to me!’
so I got away as well as I could.”
After this the robbers did not trust themselves in the house again. But it suited the four musicians of Bremen so well that they did not care to leave it any more.
And the mouth of him who last told this story, is still warm[7].
[2] This folktale was originally collected and published by the Brothers Grimm.
[3] A city official whose duty was to superintend or take part in municipal events by providing music.
[4] This is a reference to spinning wool into yarn.
[5] A traveling musician, typically a singer. (OED)
[6] A friction match made usually of a splint of wood tipped with an inflammable substance ignitable on a roughened or otherwise prepared surface. (OED)
[7] This not only signals the end of the story but lends realism to the events.
Contexts
“The Bremen Town-Musicians” was originally a German folk tale. It was collected and edited by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm alongside versions of “Cinderella,” “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” “Hansel and Gretel,” and many many other famous (and not so famous) stories. Many of the Grimm brother’s stories have been translated and adapted to suit audiences of all ages.
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.
