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Children's Stories
Sep. 6th, 2004 01:02 pmI think I read someone else's little piece about Crispin's Crispin years ago, so this is probably plagarized thinking. But it's interestintg to look at the children's books I read as a child, and think how they reflect their times. Or how they affected me.
We had lots of old books around, worn and disreputable in that way that old books get when they weren't made of good paper in the first place. (Do not get me geeking about pens and paper, I beseech thee.) So I got to read some real old ones.
My grandparents had three or four volumes about Billy Lamb and Freddy (I think it was) Wolf, and friends. It was a bit strange that Freddy would chase Billy to cover, and then while the lamb was hiding in shelter and the wolf was waiting outside to kill him, Freddy would settle down in friendly manner and tell Billy a story, usually with some moral ending. I don't remember that, I just remember the friendly relations between the would-be killer and his victim. That kind of creeped me out. There is something WRONG about being so cordial with those who want to skin you.
They also had a couple of Horatio Alger stories. You know the ones, about the cheerful shoeshine boy who was so virtuous that a rich man (and we all know that all the rich are virtuous) noticed him, hired him, and eventually made him heir to a huge fortune. Moral: If you're rich, you're virtuous. If you're not rich, you're morally degenerate. There you have the Gilded Age, in a nutshell. Or Rush Limbaugh Conservatism, for that matter.
On the other hand, there was Goody Twoshoes. You've probably heard the term but you might not know that Goody Twoshoes was a literary character.
She was a poor little girl who was so poor she only had one shoe. She was adopted by a loving, childless, and uberChristian couple, who cleaned her up and loved her and gave her a new pair of shoes. She ran around showing everyone because she was so happy. "Goody! Two shoes!" And so they called her that. Well, she got sick and died but we're supposed to be happy for her, and not think it's a tragedy, because God made her an angel. Moral, I suppose: Never mind how you're cheated and mistreated here, there'll be pie in the sky by and by.
Big Little Kitty. I remember that book. We're getting into the ones my folks bought for us, now. Through the wonders of the Internet I now know it was written by Jan D. Biggers and published 1953, but it reads as older than that. Karen Kay's kitten runs away to see the Big City, and Karen Kay weeps. But in the end the kitty returns, safe and sound, with three more kitties.
This book seems to have no social significance at all. I suppose the only thing this did to me was make me wait for pets who disappeared; and I'm still mourning them, and waiting for them to come home. But I do have this masochistic tendency to take in cats. Obnoxious as they are, I'm a sucker for 'em.
Another cat book was about Socks-- in fact, I think that was the cat's name. Socks was a black kitten with white feet and a white tailtip. But Socks's mom and brothers and sisters were all solid black. Socks was unhappy, until he learned to dip his feet and tail in ink so he was just the same as everyone else. Now, THERE is a 1950s book for you.
By the 1960s we had Mr. Dog, by somebody named Brown, about Crispin's Crispin, a dog who owned himself. He meets a boy, who wants him as a pet, but eventually they learn to live happily together without anyone owning anyone else, in peace and harmony and perhaps a cloud of pot smoke. Now, THERE is a 1960s book for you.
I gave up children's books fairly early, so I don't know what the new ones are like, except for some my sister has for her son. These are designed to promote Christian values (the good ones). As for children's books in general, I have no idea what facets of our society they reflect any more. I'm almost afraid to look and find out.
We had lots of old books around, worn and disreputable in that way that old books get when they weren't made of good paper in the first place. (Do not get me geeking about pens and paper, I beseech thee.) So I got to read some real old ones.
My grandparents had three or four volumes about Billy Lamb and Freddy (I think it was) Wolf, and friends. It was a bit strange that Freddy would chase Billy to cover, and then while the lamb was hiding in shelter and the wolf was waiting outside to kill him, Freddy would settle down in friendly manner and tell Billy a story, usually with some moral ending. I don't remember that, I just remember the friendly relations between the would-be killer and his victim. That kind of creeped me out. There is something WRONG about being so cordial with those who want to skin you.
They also had a couple of Horatio Alger stories. You know the ones, about the cheerful shoeshine boy who was so virtuous that a rich man (and we all know that all the rich are virtuous) noticed him, hired him, and eventually made him heir to a huge fortune. Moral: If you're rich, you're virtuous. If you're not rich, you're morally degenerate. There you have the Gilded Age, in a nutshell. Or Rush Limbaugh Conservatism, for that matter.
On the other hand, there was Goody Twoshoes. You've probably heard the term but you might not know that Goody Twoshoes was a literary character.
She was a poor little girl who was so poor she only had one shoe. She was adopted by a loving, childless, and uberChristian couple, who cleaned her up and loved her and gave her a new pair of shoes. She ran around showing everyone because she was so happy. "Goody! Two shoes!" And so they called her that. Well, she got sick and died but we're supposed to be happy for her, and not think it's a tragedy, because God made her an angel. Moral, I suppose: Never mind how you're cheated and mistreated here, there'll be pie in the sky by and by.
Big Little Kitty. I remember that book. We're getting into the ones my folks bought for us, now. Through the wonders of the Internet I now know it was written by Jan D. Biggers and published 1953, but it reads as older than that. Karen Kay's kitten runs away to see the Big City, and Karen Kay weeps. But in the end the kitty returns, safe and sound, with three more kitties.
This book seems to have no social significance at all. I suppose the only thing this did to me was make me wait for pets who disappeared; and I'm still mourning them, and waiting for them to come home. But I do have this masochistic tendency to take in cats. Obnoxious as they are, I'm a sucker for 'em.
Another cat book was about Socks-- in fact, I think that was the cat's name. Socks was a black kitten with white feet and a white tailtip. But Socks's mom and brothers and sisters were all solid black. Socks was unhappy, until he learned to dip his feet and tail in ink so he was just the same as everyone else. Now, THERE is a 1950s book for you.
By the 1960s we had Mr. Dog, by somebody named Brown, about Crispin's Crispin, a dog who owned himself. He meets a boy, who wants him as a pet, but eventually they learn to live happily together without anyone owning anyone else, in peace and harmony and perhaps a cloud of pot smoke. Now, THERE is a 1960s book for you.
I gave up children's books fairly early, so I don't know what the new ones are like, except for some my sister has for her son. These are designed to promote Christian values (the good ones). As for children's books in general, I have no idea what facets of our society they reflect any more. I'm almost afraid to look and find out.
