John T. Trowbridge (1827-1916) is one of the important figures in modern literature for young folks. He wrote a popular series of books for them beginning withCudjo's Cave, and many poems, the most famous of which are "The Vagabonds" and the one given below. Trowbridge's autobiography will interest children with its story of a literary life devoted to the problems of their entertainment. "Darius Green and His Flying Machine" first appeared inOur Young Folksin 1867. It is to be read for its fun—fun of dialect, fun of character, and fun of incident. If it has any lesson, it must be that dreamers may come to grief unless they have some plain practical common sense to balance their enthusiasm!
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,Wise or otherwise, good or bad,Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jumpWith flapping arms from stake or stump,Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail,Take a soaring leap from post or rail,And wonder why he couldn't fly,And flap and flutter and wish and try,—If ever you knew a country dunceWho didn't try that as often as once,All I can say is, that's a signHe never would do for a hero of mine.An aspiring genius was D. Green;The son of a farmer,—age fourteen;His body was long and lank and lean,—Just right for flying, as will be seen;He had two eyes as bright as a bean,And a freckled nose that grew between,A little awry;—for I must mentionThat he had riveted his attentionUpon his wonderful invention,Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,And working his face as he worked the wings,And with every turn of gimlet and screwTurning and screwing his mouth round too,Till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent,Around some corner, of new-baked pies,And his wrinkled cheek and his squinting eyesGrew puckered into a queer grimace,That made him look very droll in the face,And also very wise.And wise he must have been, to do moreThan ever a genius did before,Excepting Daedalus of yoreAnd his son Icarus, who woreUpon their backs those wings of waxHe had read of in the old almanacs.Darius was clearly of the opinion,That the air was also man's dominion,And that with paddle or fin or pinion,We soon or late should navigateThe azure as now we sail the sea.The thing looks simple enough to me;And, if you doubt it,Hear how Darius reasoned about it:"The birds can fly, an' why can't I?Must we give in," says he with a grin,"'T the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n we be?Jest fold our hands, an' see the swallerAn' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren,No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men?Jest show me that! er prove 't batHez got more brains than's in my hat,An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"He argued further: "Ner I can't seeWhat's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee,Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;—Ain't my business importanter'n his'n is?That Icarus was a silly cuss,—Him an' his daddy Daedalus;They might 'a' knowed wings made o' waxWouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks:I'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other."And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned:"But I ain't goin' to show my handTo nummies that never can understandThe fust idee that's big an' grand.They'd 'a' laft an' made funO' Creation itself afore it was done!"So he kept his secret from all the rest,Safely buttoned within his vest;And in the loft above the shedHimself he locks, with thimble and threadAnd wax and hammer and buckles and screws,And all such things as geniuses use;—Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;An old hoop-skirt or two, as well asSome wire, and several old umbrellas;A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;A piece of harness; and straps and strings;And a big strong box, in which he locksThese and a hundred other things.His grinning brothers, Reuben and BurkeAnd Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurkAround the corner to see him work,—Sitting cross-leggèd, like a Turk,Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,And boring the holes with a comical quirkOf his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.But vainly they mounted each other's backs,And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;With wood from the pile and straw from the stacksHe plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks;And a bucket of water, which one would thinkHe had brought up into the loft to drinkWhen he chanced to be dry,Stood always nigh, for Darius was sly!And, whenever at work he happened to spy,At chink or crevice a blinking eye,He let a dipper of water fly:"Take that! an', ef ever ye git a peep,Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"And he sings as he locks his big strong box;"The weasel's head is small an' trim,An' he is leetle an' long an' slim,An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb,An', ef yeou'll be advised by me,Keep wide awake when ye're ketching him!"So day after dayHe stitched and tinkered and hammered away,Till at last 'twas done,—The greatest invention under the sun."An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!"'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather was dry,And not a cloud was on all the sky,Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,Half mist, half air,Like foam on the ocean went floating by,Just as lovely a morning as ever was seenFor a nice little trip in a flying-machine.Thought cunning Darius, "Now I shan't goAlong 'ith the fellers to see the show:I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!An' then, when the folks have all gone off,I'll hev full swing fer to try the thing,An' practyse a little on the wing.""Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"Says brother Nate. "No; botheration!I've got sich a cold—a toothache—I—My gracious! feel's though I should fly!"Said Jotham, "Sho! guess ye better go."But Darius said, "No!Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though,'Long 'bout noon, ef I git redO' this jumpin', thumpin' pain in my head."For all the while to himself he said,—"I tell ye what!I'll fly a few times around the lot,To see how 't seems; then soon's I've gotThe hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,I'll astonish the nation, an' all creation,By flying over the celebration!Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull;I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple;I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people!I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow;An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,'What world's this here that I've come near?'Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon;An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!"He crept from his bed;And, seeing the others were gone, he said,"I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head."And away he sped,To open the wonderful box in the shed.His brothers had walked but a little way,When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,"What on airth is he up to, hey?""Don'o',—the's suthin' er other to pay,Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day."Says Burke, "His toothache's all'n his eye!He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July,Ef he hadn't got some machine to try."Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!Le's hurry back, an' hide'n the barn,An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!""Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back,Along by the fences, behind the stack,And one by one, through a hole in the wall,In under the dusty barn they crawl,Dressed in their Sunday garments all;And a very astonishing sight was that,When each in his cobwebbed coat and hatCame up through the floor like an ancient rat.And there they hid; and Reuben slidThe fastenings back, and the door undid."Keep dark," said he,"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."As knights of old put on their mail,—From head to foot in an iron suit,Iron jacket and iron boot,Iron breeches, and on the headNo hat, but an iron pot instead,And under the chin the bail,—(I believe they call the thing a helm,—)And, thus accoutred, they took the field,Sallying forth to overwhelmThe dragons and pagans that plagued the realm;So this modern knight prepared for flight,Put on his wings and strapped them tight—Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,—Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,—Ten feet they measured from tip to tip!And a helm he had, but that he wore,Not on his head, like those of yore,But more like the helm of a ship."Hush!" Reuben said, "he's up in the shed!He's opened the winder,—I see his head!He stretches it out, an' pokes it aboutLookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,An' nobody near;—Guess he don'o' who's hid in here!He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!He's climbin' out now—Of all the things!What's he got on? I vum, it's wings!An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail!And there he sets like a hawk on a rail!Steppin' careful, he travels the lengthOf his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength,Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that,Fer to see 'f the's anyone passin' by;But the's o'ny a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.They turn up at him a wonderin' eye,To see—The dragon! he's goin' to fly!Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!Flop—flop—an' plump to the ground with a thump!Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump!"As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,Heels over head, to his proper sphere,—Heels over head, and head over heels,Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,—So fell Darius. Upon his crown,In the midst of the barnyard, he came down,In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,Broken braces and broken springs,Broken tail and broken wings,Shooting stars, and various things,—Barnyard litter of straw and chaff,And much that wasn't so sweet by half.Away with a bellow flew the calf,And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door,And he hears the voice of Jotham crying;"Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?"Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,Darius just turned and looked that way,As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff,"Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"He said, "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sightO' fun in't when ye come to light."I just have room for the MORAL here:And this is the moral,—Stick to your sphere;Or, if you insist, as you have the right,On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,The moral is,—Take care how you light.
The poem of "Beth Gêlert" (Grave of Gêlert) is really a verse version of an old folk story that has localized itself in many places over the world. In Wales they can show you where Gêlert is buried, which illustrates how such a favorite story takes hold of the popular mind. The poem by William Robert Spencer (1769-1834) has so much of the spirit of the old ballads which it imitates that it was believed at first to be a genuine example of one.
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,And cheerly smiled the morn;And many a brach, and many a hound,Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.And still he blew a louder blast,And gave a lustier cheer,"Come, Gêlert, come, wert never lastLlewellyn's horn to hear."Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam.The flow'r of all his race,So true, so brave,—a lamb at home,A lion in the chase?"'Twas only at Llewellyn's boardThe faithful Gêlert fed;He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,And sentineled his bed.In sooth he was a peerless hound,The gift of royal John;But now no Gêlert could be found,And all the chase rode on.And now, as o'er the rocks and dellsThe gallant chidings rise,All Snowdon's craggy chaos yellsThe many-mingled cries!That day Llewellyn little lovedThe chase of hart and hare;And scant and small the booty proved,For Gêlert was not there.Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,When, near the portal seat,His truant Gêlert he espied,Bounding his lord to greet.But, when he gained his castle door,Aghast the chieftain stood;The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;His lips, his fangs, ran blood.Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise;Unused such looks to meet,His favorite checked his joyful guise,And crouched, and licked his feet.Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed,And on went Gêlert too;And still, where'er his eyes he cast,Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.O'erturned his infant's bed he found,The blood-stained covert rent;And all around the walls and groundWith recent blood besprent.He called his child,—no voice replied—He searched with terror wild;Blood, blood he found on every side,But nowhere found his child."Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,"The frantic father cried;And to the hilt his vengeful swordHe plunged in Gêlert's side.His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,No pity could impart;But still his Gêlert's dying yellPassed heavy o'er his heart.Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,Some slumberer wakened nigh:What words the parent's joy could tell,To hear his infant's cry!Concealed beneath a tumbled heapHis hurried search had missed,All glowing from his rosy sleep,His cherub boy he kissed.Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,But, the same couch beneath,Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,Tremendous still in death.Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!For now the truth was clear;His gallant hound the wolf had slainTo save Llewellyn's heir:Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;"Best of thy kind, adieu!The frantic blow which laid thee lowThis heart shall ever rue."And now a gallant tomb they raise,With costly sculpture decked;And marbles storied with his praisePoor Gêlert's bones protect.There, never could the spearman pass,Or forester, unmoved;There, oft the tear-besprinkled grassLlewellyn'ssorrow proved.And there he hung his horn and spear,And there, as evening fell,In fancy's ear he oft would hearPoor Gêlert's dying yell.And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,And cease the storm to brave,The consecrated spot shall holdThe name of "Gêlert's Grave."
This old ballad is one of the best of the humorous type. Many old stories turn upon some such riddling series of questions, generally three in number, to which unexpected answers come from an unexpected quarter. Of course the questions are intended to be unanswerable. As a matter of fact they are, but a clever person may discover a riddling answer to a riddling question. King John bows, not to a master in knowledge, but to a master in cleverness.
An ancient story I'll tell you anonOf a notable prince, that was called King John;And he ruled England with maine and with might,For he did great wrong and maintein'd little right.And I'll tell you a story, a story so merrye,Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;How for his house-keeping and high renowne,They rode poste for him to fair London towne.An hundred men, the king did heare say,The abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,In velvet coates waited the abbot about."How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.""My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne,I never spend nothing but what is my owne;And I trust your grace will do me no deereFor spending of my owne true-gotten geere.""Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,And now for the same thou needest must dye;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie."And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,With my crown of golde so faire on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe."Secondlye tell me, without any doubt,How soone I may ride the whole worlde about.And at the third question thou must not shrinke,But tell me here truly what I do thinke.""O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;But if you will give me but three weekes space,I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace.""Now three weekes space to thee will I give,And that is the longest thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy living are forfeit to mee."Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,And he mett his shephard a-going to fold:"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;What newes do you bring us from good King John?""Sad newes, sad newes, shephard, I must give;That I have but three days more to live:For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie."The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crowne of golde so faire on his head,Among all his liege-men so noble of birthe,To within one penny of what he is worthe."The seconde, to tell him without any doubt,How soone he may ride this whole worlde about:And at the third question I must not shrinke,But tell him there truly what he does thinke.""Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man witt?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel."Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,I am like your lordship, as ever may bee;And if you will but lend me your gowne,There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.""Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.""Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say,"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee."And, first, when thou see'st me here in this stead,With my crown of golde so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,Tell me to one penny what I am worthe.""For thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jewes, as I have bin told:And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than Hee."The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel,"I did not think I had been worth so littel!—Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt,How soone I may ride this whole world about.""You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,Until the next morning he riseth againe;And then your grace need not make any doubt,But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone,"I did not think it could be done so soone!—Now from the third question you must not shrinke,But tell me here truly what I do thinke.""Yes, that shall I do and make your grace merry:You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterburye;But I'm his poor shephard, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,"I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!""Now nay, my liege, be not in such speede,For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.""Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me;And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
Most of the authors in the following list wrote other books of a realistic nature, in some cases greater books than the one mentioned. The book named is usually the first important one in this field by its author and has, therefore, unusual historical value.
1765. Goldsmith, Oliver,The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes.1783-1789. Day, Thomas,The History of Sandford and Merton.1792-1796. Aikin, Dr. John, and Barbauld, Mrs. L. E.,Evenings at Home.[?]-1795. More, Hannah,The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.1796-1800. Edgeworth, Maria,The Parent's Assistant, or Stories for Children.1808. Lamb, Mary and Charles,Mrs. Leicester's School.1818. Sherwood, Mrs. M. M.,The History of the Fairchild Family.1840. Dana, Richard Henry,Two Years Before the Mast.1841. Martineau, Harriet,The Crofton Boys.1856. Yonge, Charlotte M.,The Daisy Chain.1857. Hughes, Thomas,Tom Brown's School Days.1863. Whitney, Mrs. A. D. T.,Faith Gartney's Girlhood.1864. Trowbridge, J. T.,Cudjo's Cave.1865. Dodge, Mary Mapes,Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates.1867. Kaler, James Otis,Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with a Circus.1868. Alcott, Louisa May,Little Women.1868. Hale, Edward Everett,The Man without a Country.1871. Eggleston, Edward,The Hoosier Schoolmaster.1876. Twain, Mark,Adventures of Tom Sawyer.1878. Jackson, Helen Hunt,Nelly's Silver Mine.1879. Ewing, Juliana Horatia,Jackanapes.1882. Hale, Lucretia P.,Peterkin Papers.1883. Stevenson, Robert Louis,Treasure Island.1887. Wiggin, Kate Douglas,The Birds' Christmas Carol.1890. Jewett, Sarah Orne,Betty Leicester.1895. Bennett, John,Master Skylark.1897. Kipling, Rudyard,Captains Courageous.1899. Garland, Hamlin,Boy Life on the Prairie.1906. Stein, Evaleen,Gabriel and the Hour-Book.1908. Montgomery, L. M.,Anne of Green Gables.1912. Masefield, John,Jim Davis.1917. Crownfield, Gertrude,The Little Taylor of the Winding Way.1920. Latham, Harold S.,Jimmy Quigg, Office Boy.
Origin.The history of realistic stories for children may well begin with the interest in juvenile education awakened by the great French teacher and author Rousseau (1712-1778). He taught that formal methods should be discarded in juvenile education and that children should be taught to know the things about them. The new method of education is illustrated, probably unintentionally, inThe Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, the first selection in this section. Rousseau directly influenced the thought of such writers as Thomas Day, Maria Edgeworth, Dr. Aiken, and Mrs. Barbauld. The stories produced by these authors in the last quarter of the eighteenth century are among the first written primarily for the purpose of entertaining children. To these writers we are indebted for the creation of types of children's literature that modern authors have developed into the fascinating stories of child life, the thrilling stories of adventure, and the interesting accounts of nature that now abound in libraries and book stores.
The didactic period.When we read these first stories written for the entertainment of children, we can hardly fail to observe that each one presents a lesson, either moral or practical. The didactic purpose is so prominent that the term "Didactic Period" may be applied to the period from 1765 (the publication ofGoody Two-Shoes) to 1825, or even later. The small amount of writing for children before this period was practically all for the purpose of moral or religious instruction; hence it was but natural for these first writers of juvenile entertainment stories to feel it their duty to present moral and practical lessons. It would be a mistake, however, to assume that these quaint old stories would not be interesting to children today, for they deal with fundamental truths, which are new and interesting to children of all ages.
In addition to the writers already mentioned, and represented by selections in the following pages, there were several others whose books are yet accessible and now and then read for their historical interest if not for any intrinsic literary value they may possess. One of these was Mrs. Sarah K. Trimmer (1741-1810), who, associated with the early days of the Sunday-school movement, wrote many books full of the overwrought piety which was supposed to be necessary for children of that earlier time. One of her books,The History of the Robins, stands out from the mass for its strong appeal of simple incident, and is still widely popular with very young readers. Hannah More (1745-1833) occupied a prominent place in the thought of her day as a teacher of religious and social ideas among the poorer classes. HerRepository Tracts, many of them in the form of stories, were devoted to making the poor contented with their lot through the consolations of a pious life. "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" was the most famous of these story-tracts, and there are still many people living whose childhood was fed upon this and like stories.Mrs. Sherwood'sHistory of the Fairchild Familyhas never been out of print since the date of its first publication (1818), and in recent years has had two or three sumptuous revivals at the hands of editors and publishers. The almost innumerable books of Jacob Abbott and S. G. Goodrich ("Peter Parley") in America belong to this didactic movement. They were, however, more devoted to the process of instilling a knowledge of all the wonders of this great world round about us, and were considerably less pietistic than their English neighbors.The Rollo Books(24 vols.) are typical of this school.
The modern period.Charles Lamb apparently was one of the first to get the modern thought that literature for children should be just as artistic, just as dignified in its presentation of truth, and just as worthy of literary recognition, as literature for adults. In the hundred years since Lamb advanced his theory, students have gradually come to recognize the fact that good literature for children is also good literature for adults because art is art, whatever its form. In this connection, Lamb's feeling about the necessity for making children's books more vital found expression in a famous and much-quoted passage in a letter to Coleridge:
"Goody Two-Shoesis almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at Newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems must come to a child in theshape of knowledge, and his empty noodle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learnt that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the while he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would have been now, if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!"
"Goody Two-Shoesis almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at Newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems must come to a child in theshape of knowledge, and his empty noodle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learnt that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the while he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would have been now, if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!"
The danger Lamb saw was averted. The bibliography on a preceding page indicates that about the middle of the nineteenth century many writers of first-rate literary ability began to write for young people. Among the number were Harriet Martineau, Captain Marryat, Charlotte M. Yonge, Thomas Hughes, and others. As we pass toward the end of that century and the beginning of the twentieth, the great names associated with juvenile classics are very noticeable, and with Miss Alcott, Mrs. Ewing, "Mark Twain," Stevenson, Kipling, Masefield, and a kindred host, childhood has come into its own.
For tracing the stages in the development of writing for children consult the books named in the General Bibliography (p. 17, II, "Historical Development.")
For tracing the stages in the development of writing for children consult the books named in the General Bibliography (p. 17, II, "Historical Development.")
Among those authors of the past whom the present still regards affectionately, Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) holds a high place. At least five of his works—a novel, a poem, a play, a book of essays, a nursery story—rank as classics. He had many faults; he was vain, improvident almost beyond belief, certainly dissipated throughout a part of his life. But with all these faults he had the saving grace of humor, a kind heart that led him to share even his last penny with one in need, a genius for friendships that united him with such men as Burke and Johnson and Reynolds. Always "hard up," he wrote much as a publisher's "hack" in order merely to live. It was in this capacity that he probably wrote the famous story that follows—a story that stands at the beginning of the long and constantly broadening current of modern literature for children. While it has generally been attributed to Goldsmith, no positive evidence of his authorship has been discovered. It was published at a time when he was in the employ of John Newbery, the London publisher, who issued many books for children. We know that Goldsmith helped with theMother Goose's Melodyand other projects of Newbery, and there are many reasons for supposing that the general attribution ofGoody Two-Shoesto him may be correct. Charles Welsh, who edited the best recent edition for schools, says it "will always deserve a place among the classics of childhood for its literary merit, the purity and loftiness of its tone, and its sound sense, while the whimsical, confidential, affectionate style which the author employs, makes it attractive even to children who have long since passed the spelling-book stage." The version that follows has been shortened by the omission of passages that have less importance for the modern child than they may have had for that of the eighteenth century. The story is thus rendered more compact, and contains nothing to draw attention away from the fine qualities mentioned above. The quaint phrasing of the title, in itself one of the proofs of Goldsmith's authorship, furnishes a good comment on the meaning of the story: "The history of little Goody Two-Shoes/otherwise called Mrs. Margery Two-Shoes/the means by which she acquired her learning and wisdom, and in consequence thereof her estate; set forth at large for the benefit of those/
Who from a state of Rags and Care,And having Shoes but half a Pair;Their Fortune and their fame would fix,And gallop in a Coach and Six."
[For the benefit of those who may overlook the point, it may be explained that "Mrs." was formerly used as a term of dignified courtesy applied to both married and unmarried women.]
ASCRIBED TO OLIVER GOLDSMITH
All the world must allow that Two-Shoes was not her real name. No; her father's name was Meanwell, and he was for many years a considerable farmer in the parish where Margery was born; but by the misfortunes which he met with in business, and the wicked persecutions of Sir Timothy Gripe, and an overgrown farmer called Graspall, he was effectually ruined. These men turned the farmer, his wife, Little Margery, and her brother out of doors, without any of the necessaries of life to support them.
Care and discontent shortened the days of Little Margery's father. He was seized with a violent fever, and died miserably. Margery's poor mother survived the loss of her husband but a few days, and died of a broken heart, leaving Margery and her little brother to the wide world. It would have excited your pity and done your heartgood to have seen how fond these two little ones were of each other, and how, hand in hand, they trotted about.
They were both very ragged, and Tommy had no shoes, and Margery had but one. They had nothing, poor things, to support them but what they picked from the hedges or got from the poor people, and they lay every night in a barn. Their relatives took no notice of them; no, they were rich, and ashamed to own such a poor little ragged girl as Margery and such a dirty little curl-pated boy as Tommy. But such wicked folks, who love nothing but money and are proud and despise the poor, never come to any good in the end, as we shall see by and by.
Mr. Smith was a very worthy clergyman who lived in the parish where Little Margery and Tommy were born; and having a relative come to see him, he sent for these children. The gentleman ordered Little Margery a new pair of shoes, gave Mr. Smith some money to buy her clothes, and said he would take Tommy and make him a little sailor.
The parting between these two little children was very affecting. Tommy cried, and Margery cried, and they kissed each other an hundred times. At last Tommy wiped off her tears with the end of his jacket, and bid her cry no more, for he would come to her again when he returned from sea.
As soon as Little Margery got up the next morning, which was very early, she ran all round the village, crying for her brother; and after some time returned greatly distressed. However, at this instant, the shoemaker came in with the new shoes, for which she had been measured by the gentleman's order.
Nothing could have supported Little Margery under the affliction she was in for the loss of her brother but the pleasure she took in her two shoes. She ran out to Mrs. Smith as soon as they were put on, and, stroking down her ragged apron, cried out, "Two shoes, mamma, see, two shoes!"
And she so behaved to all the people she met, and by that means obtained the name of Goody Two-Shoes, though her playmates called her Old Goody Two-Shoes.
Little Margery was very happy in being with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, who were very charitable and good to her, and had agreed to breed her up with their family. But at last they were obliged to send her away, for the people who had ruined her father commanded them to do this, and could at any time have ruined them.
Little Margery saw how good and how wise Mr. Smith was, and concluded that this was owing to his great learning; therefore she wanted, of all things, to learn to read. For this purpose she used to meet the little boys and girls as they came from school, borrow their books, and sit down and read till they returned. By this means she soon got more learning than any of her playmates, and laid the following scheme for instructing those who were more ignorant than herself. She found that only the following letters were required to spell all the words in the world; but as some of these letters are large and some small, she with her knife cut out of several pieces of wood ten sets of each of these:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z
And six sets of these:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
And having got an old spelling-book, she made her companions set up all the words they wanted to spell, and after that she taught them to compose sentences. You know what a sentence is, my dear.I will be good, is a sentence; and is made up, as you see, of several words.
Every morning she used to go round to teach the children, with these rattletraps in a basket. I once went her rounds with her. It was about seven o'clock in the morning when we set out on this important business, and the first house we came to was Farmer Wilson's. Here Margery stopped, and ran up to the door, tap, tap, tap.
"Who's there?"
"Only little Goody Two-Shoes," answered Margery, "come to teach Billy."
"Oh! little Goody," said Mrs. Wilson, with pleasure in her face, "I am glad to see you. Billy wants you sadly, for he has learned all his lesson."
Then out came the little boy. "How do, Doody Two-Shoes," said he, not able to speak plain. Yet this little boy had learned all his letters; for she threw down this alphabet mixed together thus:
b d f h k m o q s u w y z a c e g i l n p r t v x j
and he picked them up, called them by their right names, and put them all in order thus:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z.
The next place we came to was Farmer Simpson's. "Bow, bow, bow," said the dog at the door.
"Sirrah," said his mistress, "why do you bark at Little Two-Shoes? Come in, Madge; here, Sally wants you sadly; she has learned all her lesson."
Then out came the little one.
"So, Madge!" says she.
"So, Sally!" answered the other. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes, that's what I have," replied the little one in the country manner; and immediately taking the letters she set up these syllables:
ba be bi bo bu,ca ce ci co cu,da de di do du,fa fe fi fo fu,
and gave them their exact sounds as she composed them.
After this, Little Two-Shoes taught her to spell words of one syllable, and she soon set up pear, plum, top, ball, pin, puss, dog, hog, fawn, buck, doe, lamb, sheep, ram, cow, bull, cock, hen, and many more.
The next place we came to was Gaffer Cook's cottage. Here a number of poor children were met to learn. They all came round Little Margery at once; and, having pulled out her letters, she asked the little boy next her what he had for dinner. He answered, "Bread." (The poor children in many places live very hard.) "Well, then," said she, "set the first letter."
He put up the letterB, to which the next addedr, and the nexte, the nexta, the nextdand it stood thus, "Bread".
"And what had you, Polly Comb, for your dinner?" "Apple-pie," answered the little girl: upon which the next in turn set up a greatA, the two next apeach, and so on until the two wordsAppleandpiewere united and stood thus, "Apple-pie."
The next had Potatoes, the next Beef and Turnips, which were spelt, with many others, until the game of spelling was finished. She then set them another task, and we went on.
The next place we came to was Farmer Thompson's, where there were a great many little ones waiting for her.
"So, little Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes," said one of them. "Where have you been so long?"
"I have been teaching," says she, "longer than I intended, and am afraid I am come too soon for you now."
"No, but indeed you are not," replied the other, "for I have got my lesson, and so has Sally Dawson, and so has Harry Wilson, and so have we all"; and they capered about as if they were overjoyed to see her.
"Why, then," says she, "you are all very good, and God Almighty will love you; so let us begin our lesson."
They all huddled round her, and though at the other place they were employed about words and syllables, here we had people of much greater understanding, who dealt only in sentences.
The Lord have mercy upon me, and grant I may always be good, and say my prayers, and love the Lord my God with all my heart, and with all my soul, and with all my strength; and honor government and all good men in authority.
Little Margery then set them to compose the following: