0,49 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
In her curated anthology, "Children's Books 'Äì Premium Illustrated Collection," Kate Douglas Wiggin presents a rich tapestry of children's literature that captures the imagination and moral fiber necessary for young readers. This collection blends whimsical storytelling with moral teachings, showcasing the evolution of children's literature in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. With vibrant illustrations accompanying enchanting tales, Wiggin achieves a harmonious balance between narrative and visual artistry, reinforcing the book's importance in educational contexts and leisure reading alike. Kate Douglas Wiggin, an influential figure in American literature and a prominent educator, devoted her life to the betterment of children's lives through storytelling. As an advocate for children's rights and an early proponent of kindergarten education, her passion stemmed from her experiences teaching in a poor, immigrant neighborhood. This background imbued her work with a sense of social responsibility, emphasizing the need for nurturing literature that not only entertains but also imparts essential values. With its diverse selection of beautifully illustrated stories, this collection is a treasure trove for both educators and parents seeking to enrich children's reading experiences. Wiggin's anthology stands as a testament to the enduring power of storytelling, making it an invaluable resource that celebrates the importance of literature in childhood development. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - An Introduction draws the threads together, discussing why these diverse authors and texts belong in one collection. - Historical Context explores the cultural and intellectual currents that shaped these works, offering insight into the shared (or contrasting) eras that influenced each writer. - A combined Synopsis (Selection) briefly outlines the key plots or arguments of the included pieces, helping readers grasp the anthology's overall scope without giving away essential twists. - A collective Analysis highlights common themes, stylistic variations, and significant crossovers in tone and technique, tying together writers from different backgrounds. - Reflection questions encourage readers to compare the different voices and perspectives within the collection, fostering a richer understanding of the overarching conversation.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Ähnliche
CHILDREN'S BOOKS – Premium Illustrated Collection:
Table of Contents
Introduction
This collection gathers Kate Douglas Wiggin’s storytelling alongside a wide compass of fairy tales, fables, and poems to form a single conversation about childhood, imagination, and the shaping of character. Domestic scenes meet enchanted journeys; brief moral parables share space with songs of the seasons. Across forms and voices, the books foreground kindness, courage, wit, and wonder as children encounter community, nature, and the wider world of adventure.
The Rebecca of Sunnybrook sequence—REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM, NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA, and THE FLAG-RAISING—presents a lively portrait of growing up marked by humor, aspiration, and civic feeling. The titles suggest schooldays, neighborhood ties, and the dawning of a public spirit. Without leaving the realm of everyday experience, these works affirm creativity and resilience as sources of joy and belonging.
The other novels broaden the landscape of youthful experience. A SUMMER IN A CAÑON: A California Story hints at open-air discovery, while POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM: A Story for Girls touches on dilemmas of duty and choice. THE BIRD'S CHRISTMAS CAROL and THE ROMANCE OF A CHRISTMAS CARD turn to seasonal generosity and the bonds that letters and gifts can renew. TIMOTHY'S QUEST, MARM LISA, MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS, and THE DIARY OF A GOOSE GIRL suggest quests, households in transition, and pastoral observation, balancing playfulness with steady sympathy for the trials that shape maturity.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS: Their Best-known Tales introduces a gallery of marvels whose images have become part of shared cultural memory. The Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, The Story of the Fisherman and the Genie, The Story of Aladdin; Or, the Wonderful Lamp, The Story of the City of Brass, The Story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, The History of Codadad and His Brothers, and The Story of Sinbad the Voyager evoke enchanted objects, perilous bargains, hidden chambers, and far voyages. These narratives celebrate resourcefulness and curiosity, inviting readers to consider how wit and patience can carry a traveler through danger and delight.
TALES OF WONDER EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW and THE FAIRY RING place the marvelous in a global frame, arranging encounters with cranes that remember kindness, jackals and barbers who match wits, genies and moonlit paths, and princes such as Fire-Flash and Fire-Fade. From Scandinavian East O’ the Sun and West O’ the Moon and The Princess on the Glass Hill to English Tattercoats, from French The White Cat to German Rapunzel, The Queen Bee, and Snow-White and Rose-Red, from Russian The Magic Egg to East Indian The Grateful Cobra, the recurring patterns are clear: tests and helpers, disguises and recognitions, rewards for courage and compassion. The familiar sits beside the strange, and the ordinary gains radiance through encounters with the impossible.
THE TALKING BEASTS: A Book of Fable Wisdom gathers concise narratives in which animals illuminate human choices. Aesop and La Fontaine stand alongside Bidpai, the Hitopadesa, P. V. Ramaswami Raju, Malayan, Moorish, African, and Chinese traditions, with Krilof, the Spanish of Carlos Yriarte, and the voices of Gay, Cowper, and others completing the chorus. These fables, brief yet pointed, sharpen attention to cause and consequence, offering memorable emblems of prudence, fairness, and good humor.
THE STORY HOUR: A Book for the Home and the Kindergarten, GOLDEN NUMBERS: A Book of Verse for Youth, and THE POSY RING: A Book of Verse for Children anchor the collection in music, holiday, and the turn of the year. Pieces such as The Oriole’s Nest, The Babes in the Wood, The Story of Christmas, The First Thanksgiving Day, Little George Washington, and Great George Washington sit naturally beside the seasonal cadences of A CHANTED CALENDAR, GREEN THINGS GROWING, and WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING, and the playful or restful groupings of PLAY-TIME, STORY TIME, and BED TIME. Together they cultivate a daily rhythm of reflection and delight. Read as a whole, these books speak to present concerns with empathy, cultural curiosity, and ethical imagination, offering children and their companions an enduring vocabulary for home, friendship, festivity, and discovery.
Historical Context
Socio-Political Landscape
Kate Douglas Wiggin’s novels and the anthologies she edited with Nora Archibald Smith emerged amid Progressive Era reforms in the United States and the late-Victorian/Edwardian social order. Expanding compulsory schooling, settlement work, and women’s club networks created eager audiences for uplifting children’s books. Domestic spaces, small towns, and classrooms—central in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, New Chronicles of Rebecca, and The Story Hour—mirrored debates over child welfare, philanthropy, and the moral uses of leisure. Publishing for families and school libraries thrived within Protestant middle-class norms, while working-class immigration and uneven prosperity formed a backdrop that Timothy’s Quest and Marm Lisa register without straying into polemic.
Transnational materials—The Arabian Nights: Their Best-known Tales, The Fairy Ring, The Talking Beasts, and Tales of Wonder Every Child Should Know—circulated through imperial routes and missionary schools as much as through parlor shelves. Their monarchs, viziers, peasants, and sailors reflect hierarchical worlds of courts and guilds, while editorial selection tempered cruelty and eroticism to meet Anglo-American propriety. Bowdlerization interacted with Sunday-school gatekeeping and subscription publishing, enabling wide distribution yet narrowing tone. Within these networks, Aesop, Bidpai, La Fontaine, P. V. Ramaswami Raju, Krilof, Gay, and Cowper exemplified a didactic cosmopolitanism that seemed to harmonize empire’s reach with moral universalism, even when cultural frictions persisted beneath reassuring surfaces.
Industrialization and mass literacy, coupled with postal reforms and cheaper illustration, expanded print markets between the Gilded Age and World War I. The Bird’s Christmas Carol, The Romance of a Christmas Card, and Mother Carey’s Chickens situate generosity and household governance against anxieties about urban poverty and mobility. Meanwhile, Americanization campaigns and school readers shaped tastes mirrored by Golden Numbers and The Posy Ring. Overseas, absolutist and constitutional monarchies furnished the political imaginary of many fairy tales. War’s dislocations heightened nostalgia for village solidarities, while prudential optimism in Polly Oliver’s Problem and A Summer in a Cañon addressed girls’ ambitions within mutable gender codes.
Intellectual & Aesthetic Currents
Within American letters, Wiggin’s Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, New Chronicles of Rebecca, Timothy’s Quest, and The Diary of a Goose Girl exemplify regional realism and domestic comedy leavened by sentiment. Their emphasis on speech rhythms, school rituals, and seasonal rites conversed with The Story Hour’s pedagogical prose and the curated verse of Golden Numbers and The Posy Ring. These projects proposed taste-building as civic work, aligning narrative pleasure with character formation. The editors’ introductions and selections act as gentle manifestos, defending imagination while retaining moral clarity, a stance that allowed humor and pathos without overturning the era’s expectations for child-centered respectability.
Alongside realism, the collection cultivates a romantic folkloric continuum. The Fairy Ring gathers Scandinavian, English, French, Gaelic, German, Russian, Spanish, and East Indian narratives, while Tales of Wonder Every Child Should Know ranges from “The Buried Moon” to “Dapplegrim.” The Talking Beasts anchors this inheritance in fable craft from Aesop, Bidpai, La Fontaine, P. V. Ramaswami Raju, Krilof, Gay, and Cowper, condensing civic prudence into memorable creatures. The Arabian Nights: Their Best-known Tales demonstrates narrative arabesque—frame structures, magical causality, and urban marvels—reshaped for juvenile readers. Together, these currents affirm wonder as a disciplined tool, not a refusal of reason.
Technological change mattered. Steam printing, electrotyping, halftone reproduction, and cheaper color processes underwrote the “Premium Illustrated” promise, letting pictures scaffold comprehension and delight. Railroads and postal networks knit far-flung markets, while school recitations sustained the anthologies’ verse sections, from A Chanted Calendar to When Banners Are Waving. Theatricality—hinted by Pinafore Palace—echoed parlor performance culture. Scientific modernity, from electricity to new museums, fostered curiosity thematized in sections like The World of Waters and Green Things Growing. Even as manifesto-driven avant-gardes gathered elsewhere, these books advanced a middle way: accessible artistry joined to civic feeling and carefully curated multicultural reach.
Legacy & Reassessment Across Time
Subsequent decades reinterpreted the collection’s optimism. Film and radio adaptations of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm popularized its setting and heroine, while stage dramatizations and picture-book retellings drew on The Arabian Nights’ Aladdin, Ali Baba, and Sinbad episodes included here. As copyrights lapsed, library reprints and academic editions stabilized texts previously altered for children’s sensibilities. The Great Depression and postwar child-centered psychology shifted emphasis from moral uplift to emotional resilience, yet school anthologies still excerpted Golden Numbers and The Posy Ring. Digitization and public-domain status now widen access, while restoration projects recover variant readings suppressed by earlier propriety.
Critical debates have complicated reception without erasing affection. Post-colonial readings interrogate exoticism in Tales of Wonder Every Child Should Know, The Fairy Ring, and The Arabian Nights: Their Best-known Tales, urging notes on provenance and translation choices. Environmental critics revisit Green Things Growing and The World of Waters to foreground ecological education. Gender studies highlight girls’ agency and community care in Polly Oliver’s Problem, Mother Carey’s Chickens, and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, while reassessing sentimental tropes. Fable sections by Aesop, Bidpai, La Fontaine, Krilof, Gay, Cowper, and P. V. Ramaswami Raju invite comparative ethics, prompting classrooms to juxtapose prudence with empathy.
Synopsis (Selection)
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
A bright, imaginative girl leaves her impoverished farm home to live with two strict aunts, gradually winning over her New England community as she comes of age.
New Chronicles of Rebecca
Linked episodes follow Rebecca through later school years into early adulthood, highlighting her wit, kindness, and budding literary talent amid small‑town triumphs and trials.
The Flag-Raising
A companion Riverboro tale centered on a school flag ceremony that rallies townsfolk and showcases Rebecca’s patriotic zeal and community spirit.
A Summer in a Cañon: A California Story
A group of children spend a transformative summer in a Southern California canyon under a wise chaperone’s care, meeting new friends and learning resilience through outdoor adventures.
Polly Oliver's Problem: A Story for Girls
When illness changes her family’s fortunes, spirited Polly seeks creative ways to help at home, balancing duty, friendship, and her own artistic ambitions.
The Bird's Christmas Carol
A gentle, poignant Christmas story about a frail but joyful girl whose generosity brings hope to a struggling neighbor family.
The Romance of a Christmas Card
In a New England village, heartfelt holiday cards spark unexpected journeys and reunions, weaving small acts of kindness into life‑changing outcomes.
Timothy's Quest
An enterprising city orphan and his little companion flee hardship to a rural town, where their courage softens hearts and leads toward a true home.
Marm Lisa
A compassionate teacher and friends rescue an impoverished immigrant child, revealing how early education and community care can heal and transform a life.
Mother Carey's Chickens
After the family’s fortunes wane, ‘Mother Carey’ guides her children with cheer and thrift, turning setbacks into opportunity and home into a haven of love.
The Diary of a Goose Girl
Told as a witty diary, an American young woman takes a post tending geese on an English estate, chronicling rustic mishaps, village characters, and a quiet romance.
The Arabian Nights: Their Best-known Tales
Scheherazade’s enchanting frame narrative introduces classic adventures—Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad, and more—where wit, courage, and magic test fate and justice in the storied East.
Tales of Wonder Every Child Should Know
A globe‑spanning selection of wonder tales—quests, enchantments, tricksters, and moral turns—retold in accessible prose to showcase the variety and vitality of world folklore.
The Fairy Ring
An international treasury of fairy tales (Scandinavian, English, French, Spanish, Gaelic, German, Russian, East Indian) presenting princes and peasants, curses and cures, and the triumph of courage and cleverness.
The Talking Beasts: A Book of Fable Wisdom
A wide compendium of animal fables—from Aesop, Bidpai, La Fontaine, Krylov, and others—offering brisk, memorable stories that distill human folly and prudence into clear morals.
The Story Hour: A Book for the Home and the Kindergarten
Read‑aloud stories, legends, and seasonal pieces for young children that foster kindness, imagination, and early cultural literacy (from holiday tales to simple historical sketches).
Golden Numbers: A Book of Verse for Youth
A thematic anthology of poetry for older children and teens—nature and seasons, play and patriotism, humor and narrative—designed to cultivate taste, memory, and moral reflection.
The Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children
A companion poetry collection for younger readers, grouping lullabies, playtime rhymes, holiday pieces, nonsense, riddles, and gentle counsels to delight and soothe the nursery.
Author Biography
Introduction
Kate Douglas Wiggin (1856-1923) was a prominent American author and educator known for her influential children's literature and commitment to social reform. Among her major works is 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,' published in 1903, which remains a classic of children's literature. Wiggin's writings not only entertained young readers but also tackled themes of education, individuality, and social responsibility. Her historical significance lies in her efforts to elevate children's literature to a respected form of art and her advocacy for education reform, making her a pivotal figure in early 20th-century American literature.
Early Life
Wiggin was born on September 28, 1856, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, into a family deeply engaged in the arts and education. Raised in a nurturing, creative household, her mother, a talented musician, and her father, a lawyer, fostered a love for literature and the arts. The family soon moved to Maine, where Wiggin found great inspiration in the pastoral landscape and the stories of her New England heritage. These roots would later influence her writing, as she often portrayed idyllic rural life and strong female characters in her works.
Wiggin's family life was marked by a strong sense of duty and service to others. Her mother played a integral role in her upbringing, instilling values of compassion and education. Kate was particularly influenced by her older sister, who would later become an important figure in advocating for children's education. The household frequently engaged in discussions around literature and social reform, planting the seeds for Kate's future endeavors as both a writer and an educator. Her early fascination with storytelling and a deep empathy for children shaped her future career.
Education and Literary Influences
Wiggin's formal education began in Portland, Maine, where she attended public schools before moving on to private institutions. She exhibited a strong affinity for literature and teaching, which led her to establish a private kindergarten in San Francisco in the late 1880s. Her experiences there not only deepened her understanding of child development but also demonstrated the potential impact of innovative educational methods. Wiggin’s passion for pedagogy would later inform her writing, blending educational themes with engaging storytelling.
Throughout her life, Wiggin was influenced by significant literary figures, including Louisa May Alcott and Mark Twain. Alcott's portrayal of strong, independent female characters resonated with Wiggin, shaping her portrayal of young girls in her stories. Similarly, Twain's wit and humorous storytelling style inspired her narrative voice. Wiggin was also greatly affected by the philosophies of John Dewey, who emphasized experiential learning and the importance of a child’s individuality, themes she embraced and integrated into her pedagogical approach and literary works.
Adulthood and Key Life Events
In 1886, Wiggin published her first book, 'The Birds' Christmas Carol,' which was met with positive reception and established her as a children's author. This early success encouraged her to devote herself entirely to writing and education. Soon after, she married the successful publisher and editor, George E. Wiggin, reinforcing her literary ambitions. Their partnership blossomed in a creatively supportive environment, promoting her growing prominence in the literary circles of the time.
Wiggin faced personal tragedy when her husband died unexpectedly in 1903, leaving her to navigate life as a single mother. This event profoundly influenced her outlook and writing. In the wake of grief, she channeled her experiences into her work, emphasizing themes of resilience and the importance of community. During this time, she published her most famous work, 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,' capturing the essence of childhood with its mix of humor and poignancy, making it a cherished classic.
In 1907, Wiggin moved to New York, where she became increasingly involved in literary and social reform activism. She organized the first Kindergarten Association and advocated for educational reform for women and children. Her work with the association rekindled her dedication to childhood education, providing her with a platform to share her philosophies on teaching methods. This period saw Wiggin engage with various educators and writers, amplifying her voice in the world of children's literature.
Wiggin was also a prolific traveler, visiting Europe and other destinations, enriching her worldview and informing her writing. She was particularly captivated by the English countryside and often drew parallels between her experiences abroad and her American upbringing. These travels inspired many settings and themes in her stories. Through these journeys, she expanded her understanding of global education systems, enriching her advocacy efforts once she returned to the United States.
In 1915, Wiggin published 'The Story of Patsy,' further solidifying her status as one of the foremost authors in children's literature. The book reflected her belief in the importance of individuality and imagination, recurrent themes in her body of work. During this time, she also became a mentor for young writers, fostering a new generation of children's authors while continuing her own writing endeavors. Her support and guidance were instrumental to many aspiring authors, further embedding her influence within the literary community.
As a philanthropist, Wiggin remained committed to numerous causes, such as improving educational facilities and providing libraries for children. She believed that access to literature was crucial for personal and communal growth. Her dedication to these causes aligned with her own experiences in childhood, where libraries and schools had been vital spaces for her development. This commitment to education reform and support for disadvantaged children was a hallmark of her adult life.
Wiggin’s later years were marked by her ongoing dedication to both her writing and educational advocacy. She became involved in the broader feminist movement, connecting with other writers and activists who shared her beliefs. As women began gaining more rights, including suffrage, Wiggin felt inspired to advocate for these causes in tandem, emphasizing that education was a vital component in supporting women's empowerment.
In 1922, Wiggin published her last book, 'Sunnybrook Farm,' which served as a reflective look at her life and career. As she neared her final years, her writings highlighted the importance of family and community support, values she cherished throughout her life. Her literary career, marked by both triumphs and tribulations, illustrated her profound impact on American literature and education, leaving a legacy that would resonate long after her passing.
Literary Career
Wiggin's literary career began to flourish through her series of children's books, which combined moral teaching with engaging storytelling. Her writing style blended whimsical narratives with relatable characters, often portraying young girls in aspirational or adventurous roles. This approach resonated with both children and adults, earning her admiration and readership across generations. With a unique voice, she became a leading figure in children's literature, bridging the gap between education and entertainment.
Among her notable works, 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm' stands as her most celebrated title, telling the story of a young girl who embodies optimism and resilience. The book was lauded for its vivid portrayal of childhood and its exploration of themes such as identity and perseverance. Its success catapulted Wiggin into the limelight, establishing her as a formidable author in a male-dominated literary landscape.
Wiggin’s storytelling often incorporated her own experiences and reflections on education, aiming to instill strong values and a love of learning in her young readers. Her work often featured positive female role models, encouraging independence, intelligence, and creativity. This progressive approach not only entertained but also educated young minds, cementing her work's relevance in classrooms worldwide.
Critics praised Wiggin for her ability to tackle serious subjects within her narratives, often addressing real-life challenges faced by children. Her writing transcended mere entertainment, presenting moral lessons that resonated with parents and educators alike. As a result, she enjoyed a reputation as a thoughtful and compassionate storyteller, one who wholeheartedly cared about the values imparted to future generations.
Her career brought about various professional milestones. Wiggin served as the first director of the Pacific Publishing Company and became instrumental in promoting children's literature. Her contributions helped establish a new genre that respected children’s intelligence and feelings, elevating literature intended for young audiences. Her influence extended to various literary organizations, where she fought for a more inclusive representation of children's writers.
Wiggin professionally expanded her portfolio by editing anthologies and writing plays, connecting with other leading authors of her time. Her involvement in literary circles not only enriched her own work but also helped foster a sense of community among writers dedicated to elevating children's literature. Such collaborations allowed her writing to break new ground and reach wider audiences.
Wiggin received significant recognition during her lifetime, earning multiple awards for her contributions to literature. Her work was celebrated by literary societies, and she often spoke at public events advocating for children's education. The enduring popularity of her books ensures her a prominent place in American literary history, marking her contributions as both revolutionary and pivotal in shaping modern children's literature.
Greatest Achievements
Kate Douglas Wiggin's most notable literary achievements include the enduring success of 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,' which is widely regarded as a classic in children's literature. Her commitment to educational reform, alongside her prolific writing career, established her as a key figure in American literature. Her advocacy for children's rights and education and her role as a pioneer for women's contributions to literature solidified her legacy, earning her a place among the most respected authors of her time.
Beliefs and Advocacy
Wiggin's core beliefs centered around the importance of education, the empowerment of women, and the inherent value of childhood. She fervently believed that children should be nurtured in environments that foster creativity and individuality. This philosophy influenced her literary themes, where she often depicted children as resourceful, imaginative beings capable of navigating life's challenges.
Her advocacy extended beyond literature into actions aimed at improving educational systems for children. Wiggin supported the establishment of kindergartens and early childhood education, inspired by her own experiences. She pushed for reforms that would create inclusive and child-friendly learning environments, emphasizing the importance of both intellectual and emotional development.
Wiggin's works often reflected her advocacy for social causes, including women's rights. Her belief in women's empowerment allowed her to intertwine her personal life with her literary contributions, emphasizing that education was crucial for women to achieve independence and self-actualization. She used her prominence as a writer to address societal issues and advocate for tangible change.
Throughout her life, Wiggin remained committed to philanthropy, supporting numerous causes focused on education and children's welfare. She believed literature could not only entertain but also inspire social improvement, using her writing as a vehicle for change. This enduring commitment to advocacy and reform highlights the profound influence of her beliefs on her body of work.
Final Years
In her later years, Wiggin continued to write and engage with various causes, maintaining her interest in both literary pursuits and educational reform. Despite her declining health, she remained active in advocating for issues related to children and women. Her final works reflected reflections on her earlier experiences and emphasized the importance of community and family, consistent with her lifelong values.
Kate Douglas Wiggin passed away on August 24, 1923, in Hollis, Maine. Her death elicited significant notices of mourning across the literary community, reflecting on her life and accomplishments. Many of her contemporaries recognized Wiggin as a pioneering author whose contributions to children's literature and women's advocacy significantly shaped the literary landscape. Even after her death, her books continued to inspire and provoke thought among readers, ensuring her legacy endures.
Legacy
Kate Douglas Wiggin's legacy remains influential in both literature and educational reform. Her pioneering efforts in children's literature, characterized by strong narratives and progressive themes, continue to be celebrated in modern classrooms. Her advocacy for educational equity and the importance of literature in fostering empathy and creativity has left a lasting impact, inspiring future generations of authors and educators to continue her work in promoting a better understanding of childhood and its complexities.
CHILDREN’S BOOKS – Premium Illustrated Collection: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories, Fairy Tales, Fables & Poems for Children (Including Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm Series & The Arabian Nights)
Rebecca of Sunnybrook:
REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
Wordsworth.
Chapter I. “We Are Seven”
The old stage coach was rumbling along the dusty road that runs from Maplewood to Riverboro. The day was as warm as midsummer, though it was only the middle of May, and Mr. Jeremiah Cobb was favoring the horses as much as possible, yet never losing sight of the fact that he carried the mail. The hills were many, and the reins lay loosely in his hands as he lolled back in his seat and extended one foot and leg luxuriously over the dashboard. His brimmed hat of worn felt was well pulled over his eyes, and he revolved a quid of tobacco in his left cheek.
There was one passenger in the coach,—a small dark-haired person in a glossy buff calico dress. She was so slender and so stiffly starched that she slid from space to space on the leather cushions, though she braced herself against the middle seat with her feet and extended her cotton-gloved hands on each side, in order to maintain some sort of balance. Whenever the wheels sank farther than usual into a rut, or jolted suddenly over a stone, she bounded involuntarily into the air, came down again, pushed back her funny little straw hat, and picked up or settled more firmly a small pink sun shade, which seemed to be her chief responsibility,—unless we except a bead purse, into which she looked whenever the condition of the roads would permit, finding great apparent satisfaction in that its precious contents neither disappeared nor grew less. Mr. Cobb guessed nothing of these harassing details of travel, his business being to carry people to their destinations, not, necessarily, to make them comfortable on the way. Indeed he had forgotten the very existence of this one unnoteworthy little passenger.
When he was about to leave the post-office in Maplewood that morning, a woman had alighted from a wagon, and coming up to him, inquired whether this were the Riverboro stage, and if he were Mr. Cobb. Being answered in the affirmative, she nodded to a child who was eagerly waiting for the answer, and who ran towards her as if she feared to be a moment too late. The child might have been ten or eleven years old perhaps, but whatever the number of her summers, she had an air of being small for her age. Her mother helped her into the stage coach, deposited a bundle and a bouquet of lilacs beside her, superintended the “roping on” behind of an old hair trunk, and finally paid the fare, counting out the silver with great care.
“I want you should take her to my sisters’ in Riverboro,” she said. “Do you know Mirandy and Jane Sawyer? They live in the brick house.”
Lord bless your soul, he knew ‘em as well as if he’d made ‘em!
“Well, she’s going there, and they’re expecting her. Will you keep an eye on her, please? If she can get out anywhere and get with folks, or get anybody in to keep her company, she’ll do it. Good-by, Rebecca; try not to get into any mischief, and sit quiet, so you’ll look neat an’ nice when you get there. Don’t be any trouble to Mr. Cobb.—You see, she’s kind of excited.—We came on the cars from Temperance yesterday, slept all night at my cousin’s, and drove from her house—eight miles it is—this morning.”
“Good-by, mother, don’t worry; you know it isn’t as if I hadn’t traveled before.”
The woman gave a short sardonic laugh and said in an explanatory way to Mr. Cobb, “She’s been to Wareham and stayed over night; that isn’t much to be journey-proud on!”
“It WAS TRAVELING, mother,” said the child eagerly and willfully. “It was leaving the farm, and putting up lunch in a basket, and a little riding and a little steam cars, and we carried our nightgowns.”
“Don’t tell the whole village about it, if we did,” said the mother, interrupting the reminiscences of this experienced voyager. “Haven’t I told you before,” she whispered, in a last attempt at discipline, “that you shouldn’t talk about night gowns and stockings and—things like that, in a loud tone of voice, and especially when there’s men folks round?”
“I know, mother, I know, and I won’t. All I want to say is”—here Mr. Cobb gave a cluck, slapped the reins, and the horses started sedately on their daily task—“all I want to say is that it is a journey when”—the stage was really under way now and Rebecca had to put her head out of the window over the door in order to finish her sentence—“it IS a journey when you carry a nightgown!”
The objectionable word, uttered in a high treble, floated back to the offended ears of Mrs. Randall, who watched the stage out of sight, gathered up her packages from the bench at the store door, and stepped into the wagon that had been standing at the hitching-post. As she turned the horse’s head towards home she rose to her feet for a moment, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at a cloud of dust in the dim distance.
“Mirandy’ll have her hands full, I guess,” she said to herself; “but I shouldn’t wonder if it would be the making of Rebecca.”
All this had been half an hour ago, and the sun, the heat, the dust, the contemplation of errands to be done in the great metropolis of Milltown, had lulled Mr. Cobb’s never active mind into complete oblivion as to his promise of keeping an eye on Rebecca.
Suddenly he heard a small voice above the rattle and rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the harness. At first he thought it was a cricket, a tree toad, or a bird, but having determined the direction from which it came, he turned his head over his shoulder and saw a small shape hanging as far out of the window as safety would allow. A long black braid of hair swung with the motion of the coach; the child held her hat in one hand and with the other made ineffectual attempts to stab the driver with her microscopic sunshade.
“Please let me speak!” she called.
Mr. Cobb drew up the horses obediently.
“Does it cost any more to ride up there with you?” she asked. “It’s so slippery and shiny down here, and the stage is so much too big for me, that I rattle round in it till I’m ‘most black and blue. And the windows are so small I can only see pieces of things, and I’ve ‘most broken my neck stretching round to find out whether my trunk has fallen off the back. It’s my mother’s trunk, and she’s very choice of it.”
Mr. Cobb waited until this flow of conversation, or more properly speaking this flood of criticism, had ceased, and then said jocularly:—
“You can come up if you want to; there ain’t no extry charge to sit side o’ me.” Whereupon he helped her out, “boosted” her up to the front seat, and resumed his own place.
Rebecca sat down carefully, smoothing her dress under her with painstaking precision, and putting her sunshade under its extended folds between the driver and herself. This done she pushed back her hat, pulled up her darned white cotton gloves, and said delightedly:—
“Oh! this is better! This is like traveling! I am a real passenger now, and down there I felt like our setting hen when we shut her up in a coop. I hope we have a long, long ways to go?”
“Oh! we’ve only just started on it,” Mr. Cobb responded genially; “it’s more ‘n two hours.”
“Only two hours,” she sighed “That will be half past one; mother will be at cousin Ann’s, the children at home will have had their dinner, and Hannah cleared all away. I have some lunch, because mother said it would be a bad beginning to get to the brick house hungry and have aunt Mirandy have to get me something to eat the first thing.—It’s a good growing day, isn’t it?”
“It is, certain; too hot, most. Why don’t you put up your parasol?”
She extended her dress still farther over the article in question as she said, “Oh dear no! I never put it up when the sun shines; pink fades awfully, you know, and I only carry it to meetin’ cloudy Sundays; sometimes the sun comes out all of a sudden, and I have a dreadful time covering it up; it’s the dearest thing in life to me, but it’s an awful care.”
At this moment the thought gradually permeated Mr. Jeremiah Cobb’s slow-moving mind that the bird perched by his side was a bird of very different feather from those to which he was accustomed in his daily drives. He put the whip back in its socket, took his foot from the dashboard, pushed his hat back, blew his quid of tobacco into the road, and having thus cleared his mental decks for action, he took his first good look at the passenger, a look which she met with a grave, childlike stare of friendly curiosity.
The buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean, and starched within an inch of its life. From the little standing ruffle at the neck the child’s slender throat rose very brown and thin, and the head looked small to bear the weight of dark hair that hung in a thick braid to her waist. She wore an odd little vizored cap of white leghorn, which may either have been the latest thing in children’s hats, or some bit of ancient finery furbished up for the occasion. It was trimmed with a twist of buff ribbon and a cluster of black and orange porcupine quills, which hung or bristled stiffly over one ear, giving her the quaintest and most unusual appearance. Her face was without color and sharp in outline. As to features, she must have had the usual number, though Mr. Cobb’s attention never proceeded so far as nose, forehead, or chin, being caught on the way and held fast by the eyes. Rebecca’s eyes were like faith,—“the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like two stars, their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their glance was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their steadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of looking directly through the obvious to something beyond, in the object, in the landscape, in you. They had never been accounted for, Rebecca’s eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Temperance had tried and failed; the young artist who came for the summer to sketch the red barn, the ruined mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all these local beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child,—a small, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carrying such messages, such suggestions, such hints of sleeping power and insight, that one never tired of looking into their shining depths, nor of fancying that what one saw there was the reflection of one’s own thought.
Mr. Cobb made none of these generalizations; his remark to his wife that night was simply to the effect that whenever the child looked at him she knocked him galley-west.
“Miss Ross, a lady that paints, gave me the sunshade,” said Rebecca, when she had exchanged looks with Mr. Cobb and learned his face by heart. “Did you notice the pinked double ruffle and the white tip and handle? They’re ivory. The handle is scarred, you see. That’s because Fanny sucked and chewed it in meeting when I wasn’t looking. I’ve never felt the same to Fanny since.”
“Is Fanny your sister?”
“She’s one of them.”
“How many are there of you?”
“Seven. There’s verses written about seven children:—
“‘Quick was the little Maid’s reply, O master! we are seven!’
I learned it to speak in school, but the scholars were hateful and laughed. Hannah is the oldest, I come next, then John, then Jenny, then Mark, then Fanny, then Mira.”
“Well, that IS a big family!”
“Far too big, everybody says,” replied Rebecca with an unexpected and thoroughly grown-up candor that induced Mr. Cobb to murmur, “I swan!” and insert more tobacco in his left cheek.
“They’re dear, but such a bother, and cost so much to feed, you see,” she rippled on. “Hannah and I haven’t done anything but put babies to bed at night and take them up in the morning for years and years. But it’s finished, that’s one comfort, and we’ll have a lovely time when we’re all grown up and the mortgage is paid off.”
“All finished? Oh, you mean you’ve come away?”
“No, I mean they’re all over and done with; our family ‘s finished. Mother says so, and she always keeps her promises. There hasn’t been any since Mira, and she’s three. She was born the day father died. Aunt Miranda wanted Hannah to come to Riverboro instead of me, but mother couldn’t spare her; she takes hold of housework better than I do, Hannah does. I told mother last night if there was likely to be any more children while I was away I’d have to be sent for, for when there’s a baby it always takes Hannah and me both, for mother has the cooking and the farm.”
“Oh, you live on a farm, do ye? Where is it?—near to where you got on?”
“Near? Why, it must be thousands of miles! We came from Temperance in the cars. Then we drove a long ways to cousin Ann’s and went to bed. Then we got up and drove ever so far to Maplewood, where the stage was. Our farm is away off from everywheres, but our school and meeting house is at Temperance, and that’s only two miles. Sitting up here with you is most as good as climbing the meeting-house steeple. I know a boy who’s been up on our steeple. He said the people and cows looked like flies. We haven’t met any people yet, but I’m KIND of disappointed in the cows;—they don’t look so little as I hoped they would; still (brightening) they don’t look quite as big as if we were down side of them, do they? Boys always do the nice splendid things, and girls can only do the nasty dull ones that get left over. They can’t climb so high, or go so far, or stay out so late, or run so fast, or anything.”
Mr. Cobb wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gasped. He had a feeling that he was being hurried from peak to peak of a mountain range without time to take a good breath in between.
“I can’t seem to locate your farm,” he said, “though I’ve been to Temperance and used to live up that way. What’s your folks’ name?”
“Randall. My mother’s name is Aurelia Randall; our names are Hannah Lucy Randall, Rebecca Rowena Randall, John Halifax Randall, Jenny Lind Randall, Marquis Randall, Fanny Ellsler Randall, and Miranda Randall. Mother named half of us and father the other half, but we didn’t come out even, so they both thought it would be nice to name Mira after aunt Miranda in Riverboro; they hoped it might do some good, but it didn’t, and now we call her Mira. We are all named after somebody in particular. Hannah is Hannah at the Window Binding Shoes, and I am taken out of Ivanhoe; John Halifax was a gentleman in a book; Mark is after his uncle Marquis de Lafayette that died a twin. (Twins very often don’t live to grow up, and triplets almost never—did you know that, Mr. Cobb?) We don’t call him Marquis, only Mark. Jenny is named for a singer and Fanny for a beautiful dancer, but mother says they’re both misfits, for Jenny can’t carry a tune and Fanny’s kind of stiff-legged. Mother would like to call them Jane and Frances and give up their middle names, but she says it wouldn’t be fair to father. She says we must always stand up for father, because everything was against him, and he wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t had such bad luck. I think that’s all there is to tell about us,” she finished seriously.
“Land o’ Liberty! I should think it was enough,” ejaculated Mr. Cobb. “There wa’n’t many names left when your mother got through choosin’! You’ve got a powerful good memory! I guess it ain’t no trouble for you to learn your lessons, is it?”
“Not much; the trouble is to get the shoes to go and learn ‘em. These are spandy new I’ve got on, and they have to last six months. Mother always says to save my shoes. There don’t seem to be any way of saving shoes but taking ‘em off and going barefoot; but I can’t do that in Riverboro without shaming aunt Mirandy. I’m going to school right along now when I’m living with aunt Mirandy, and in two years I’m going to the seminary at Wareham; mother says it ought to be the making of me! I’m going to be a painter like Miss Ross when I get through school. At any rate, that’s what I think I’m going to be. Mother thinks I’d better teach.”
“Your farm ain’t the old Hobbs place, is it?”
“No, it’s just Randall’s Farm. At least that’s what mother calls it. I call it Sunnybrook Farm.”
“I guess it don’t make no difference what you call it so long as you know where it is,” remarked Mr. Cobb sententiously.
Rebecca turned the full light of her eyes upon him reproachfully, almost severely, as she answered:—
“Oh! don’t say that, and be like all the rest! It does make a difference what you call things. When I say Randall’s Farm, do you see how it looks?”
“No, I can’t say I do,” responded Mr. Cobb uneasily.
“Now when I say Sunnybrook Farm, what does it make you think of?”
Mr. Cobb felt like a fish removed from his native element and left panting on the sand; there was no evading the awful responsibility of a reply, for Rebecca’s eyes were searchlights, that pierced the fiction of his brain and perceived the bald spot on the back of his head.
“I s’pose there’s a brook somewheres near it,” he said timorously.
Rebecca looked disappointed but not quite dis-heartened. “That’s pretty good,” she said encouragingly. “You’re warm but not hot; there’s a brook, but not a common brook. It has young trees and baby bushes on each side of it, and it’s a shallow chattering little brook with a white sandy bottom and lots of little shiny pebbles. Whenever there’s a bit of sunshine the brook catches it, and it’s always full of sparkles the livelong day. Don’t your stomach feel hollow? Mine doest I was so ‘fraid I’d miss the stage I couldn’t eat any breakfast.”
“You’d better have your lunch, then. I don’t eat nothin’ till I get to Milltown; then I get a piece o’ pie and cup o’ coffee.”
“I wish I could see Milltown. I suppose it’s bigger and grander even than Wareham; more like Paris? Miss Ross told me about Paris; she bought my pink sunshade there and my bead purse. You see how it opens with a snap? I’ve twenty cents in it, and it’s got to last three months, for stamps and paper and ink. Mother says aunt Mirandy won’t want to buy things like those when she’s feeding and clothing me and paying for my school books.”
“Paris ain’t no great,” said Mr. Cobb disparagingly. “It’s the dullest place in the State o’ Maine. I’ve druv there many a time.”
Again Rebecca was obliged to reprove Mr. Cobb, tacitly and quietly, but none the less surely, though the reproof was dealt with one glance, quickly sent and as quickly withdrawn.
“Paris is the capital of France, and you have to go to it on a boat,” she said instructively. “It’s in my geography, and it says: ‘The French are a gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light wines.’ I asked the teacher what light wines were, and he thought it was something like new cider, or maybe ginger pop. I can see Paris as plain as day by just shutting my eyes. The beautiful ladies are always gayly dancing around with pink sunshades and bead purses, and the grand gentlemen are politely dancing and drinking ginger pop. But you can see Milltown most every day with your eyes wide open,” Rebecca said wistfully.
“Milltown ain’t no great, neither,” replied Mr. Cobb, with the air of having visited all the cities of the earth and found them as naught. “Now you watch me heave this newspaper right onto Mis’ Brown’s doorstep.”
Piff! and the packet landed exactly as it was intended, on the corn husk mat in front of the screen door.
“Oh, how splendid that was!” cried Rebecca with enthusiasm. “Just like the knife thrower Mark saw at the circus. I wish there was a long, long row of houses each with a corn husk mat and a screen door in the middle, and a newspaper to throw on every one!”
“I might fail on some of ‘em, you know,” said Mr. Cobb, beaming with modest pride. “If your aunt Mirandy’ll let you, I’ll take you down to Milltown some day this summer when the stage ain’t full.”
A thrill of delicious excitement ran through Rebecca’s frame, from her new shoes up, up to the leghorn cap and down the black braid. She pressed Mr. Cobb’s knee ardently and said in a voice choking with tears of joy and astonishment, “Oh, it can’t be true, it can’t; to think I should see Milltown. It’s like having a fairy godmother who asks you your wish and then gives it to you! Did you ever read Cinderella, or The Yellow Dwarf, or The Enchanted Frog, or The Fair One with Golden Locks?”
“No,” said Mr. Cobb cautiously, after a moment’s reflection. “I don’t seem to think I ever did read jest those partic’lar ones. Where’d you get a chance at so much readin’?”
“Oh, I’ve read lots of books,” answered Rebecca casually. “Father’s and Miss Ross’s and all the dif’rent school teachers’, and all in the Sunday-school library. I’ve read The Lamplighter, and Scottish Chiefs, and Ivanhoe, and The Heir of Redclyffe, and Cora, the Doctor’s Wife, and David Copperfield, and The Gold of Chickaree, and Plutarch’s Lives, and Thaddeus of Warsaw, and Pilgrim’s Progress, and lots more.—What have you read?”
“I’ve never happened to read those partic’lar books; but land! I’ve read a sight in my time! Nowadays I’m so drove I get along with the Almanac, the Weekly Argus, and the Maine State Agriculturist.—There’s the river again; this is the last long hill, and when we get to the top of it we’ll see the chimbleys of Riverboro in the distance. ‘T ain’t fur. I live ‘bout half a mile beyond the brick house myself.”
Rebecca’s hand stirred nervously in her lap and she moved in her seat. “I didn’t think I was going to be afraid,” she said almost under her breath; “but I guess I am, just a little mite—when you say it’s coming so near.”
“Would you go back?” asked Mr. Cobb curiously.
She flashed him an intrepid look and then said proudly, “I’d never go back—I might be frightened, but I’d be ashamed to run. Going to aunt Mirandy’s is like going down cellar in the dark. There might be ogres and giants under the stairs,—but, as I tell Hannah, there MIGHT be elves and fairies and enchanted frogs!—Is there a main street to the village, like that in Wareham?”
“I s’pose you might call it a main street, an’ your aunt Sawyer lives on it, but there ain’t no stores nor mills, an’ it’s an awful one-horse village! You have to go ‘cross the river an’ get on to our side if you want to see anything goin’ on.”
“I’m almost sorry,” she sighed, “because it would be so grand to drive down a real main street, sitting high up like this behind two splendid horses, with my pink sunshade up, and everybody in town wondering who the bunch of lilacs and the hair trunk belongs to. It would be just like the beautiful lady in the parade. Last summer the circus came to Temperance, and they had a procession in the morning. Mother let us all walk in and wheel Mira in the baby carriage, because we couldn’t afford to go to the circus in the afternoon. And there were lovely horses and animals in cages, and clowns on horseback; and at the very end came a little red and gold chariot drawn by two ponies, and in it, sitting on a velvet cushion, was the snake charmer, all dressed in satin and spangles. She was so beautiful beyond compare, Mr. Cobb, that you had to swallow lumps in your throat when you looked at her, and little cold feelings crept up and down your back. Don’t you know how I mean? Didn’t you ever see anybody that made you feel like that?”
Mr. Cobb was more distinctly uncomfortable at this moment than he had been at any one time during the eventful morning, but he evaded the point dexterously by saying, “There ain’t no harm, as I can see, in our makin’ the grand entry in the biggest style we can. I’ll take the whip out, set up straight, an’ drive fast; you hold your bo’quet in your lap, an’ open your little red parasol, an’ we’ll jest make the natives stare!”
The child’s face was radiant for a moment, but the glow faded just as quickly as she said, “I forgot—mother put me inside, and maybe she’d want me to be there when I got to aunt Mirandy’s. Maybe I’d be more genteel inside, and then I wouldn’t have to be jumped down and my clothes fly up, but could open the door and step down like a lady passenger. Would you please stop a minute, Mr. Cobb, and let me change?”
The stage driver good-naturedly pulled up his horses, lifted the excited little creature down, opened the door, and helped her in, putting the lilacs and the pink sunshade beside her.
“We’ve had a great trip,” he said, “and we’ve got real well acquainted, haven’t we?—You won’t forget about Milltown?”
“Never!” she exclaimed fervently; “and you’re sure you won’t, either?”
“Never! Cross my heart!” vowed Mr. Cobb solemnly, as he remounted his perch; and as the stage rumbled down the village street between the green maples, those who looked from their windows saw a little brown elf in buff calico sitting primly on the back seat holding a great bouquet tightly in one hand and a pink parasol in the other. Had they been farsighted enough they might have seen, when the stage turned into the side dooryard of the old brick house, a calico yoke rising and falling tempestuously over the beating heart beneath, the red color coming and going in two pale cheeks, and a mist of tears swimming in two brilliant dark eyes.
Rebecca’s journey had ended.
“There’s the stage turnin’ into the Sawyer girls’ dooryard,” said Mrs. Perkins to her husband. “That must be the niece from up Temperance way. It seems they wrote to Aurelia and invited Hannah, the oldest, but Aurelia said she could spare Rebecca better, if ‘t was all the same to Mirandy ‘n’ Jane; so it’s Rebecca that’s come. She’ll be good comp’ny for our Emma Jane, but I don’t believe they’ll keep her three months! She looks black as an Injun what I can see of her; black and kind of up-an-comin’. They used to say that one o’ the Randalls married a Spanish woman, somebody that was teachin’ music and languages at a boardin’ school. Lorenzo was dark complected, you remember, and this child is, too. Well, I don’t know as Spanish blood is any real disgrace, not if it’s a good ways back and the woman was respectable.”
Chapter II. Rebecca’s Relations
They had been called the Sawyer girls when Miranda at eighteen, Jane at twelve, and Aurelia at eight participated in the various activities of village life; and when Riverboro fell into a habit of thought or speech, it saw no reason for falling out of it, at any rate in the same century. So although Miranda and Jane were between fifty and sixty at the time this story opens, Riverboro still called them the Sawyer girls. They were spinsters; but Aurelia, the youngest, had made what she called a romantic marriage and what her sisters termed a mighty poor speculation. “There’s worse things than bein’ old maids,” they said; whether they thought so is quite another matter.
The element of romance in Aurelia’s marriage existed chiefly in the fact that Mr. L. D. M. Randall had a soul above farming or trading and was a votary of the Muses. He taught the weekly singing-school (then a feature of village life) in half a dozen neighboring towns, he played the violin and “called off” at dances, or evoked rich harmonies from church melodeons on Sundays. He taught certain uncouth lads, when they were of an age to enter society, the intricacies of contra dances, or the steps of the schottische and mazurka, and he was a marked figure in all social assemblies, though conspicuously absent from town-meetings and the purely masculine gatherings at the store or tavern or bridge.
