"Books and Reading"

by Hildegarde Hawthorne, May 1904

Miss Hawthorne addresses a number of subjects here, including the familiar ones of children reading good literature, but also that good literature, even if written for children, can be read equally by children and adults. Goodness! I always liked to write, but I'm glad my parents didn't assign me "a little composition" after I finished each book!

Regarding Misquotations.

One of the rules that even young writers and readers should bear in mind is this: "Verify your quotations." And, if possible, go to the original source rather than to rely on other authority. The reason for the rule is easy to see. Usually a quotation becomes popular because it is worth while, and to misquote is often to lose the value of the words. Thus people often say, "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing." But that is not true. All knowledge is worth having, even a little. They mean "half-knowledge," or incorrect knowledge, which is not really knowledge at all! What Pope wrote was: "A little learning is a dangerous thing"; and what he meant was that a little learning makes one presumptuous, while thorough learning gives humility—an idea likewise set forth in the saying that wisdom begins with the feeling that one is ignorant.

So, verify your quotations for fear you may put into currency a counterfeit note.

At the same time it is to be remembered that some few quotations have been improved by changes introduced by those who have misquoted. These improvements are rare, however, and it is safest to retain the old forms where there is any doubt.

Another usual misquotation besides that mentioned is —

"The quality of mercy is not strained;
It falleth as the gentle dew from heaven"—

which you may correct for yourself, and then may inquire whether it is likely that the popular change is an improvement, when the nature of dew is understood.

A Father's Encouragement.

From the father of a young citizen of New York comes a letter explaining his very successful method of making the reading of good books delightful to his son. He says: "I believe it is well he should read those books he has before acquiring new ones, and so we have entered into the following arrangement. For every book he reads himself from cover to cover, and of which he tells me in a little composition, I am to give him a new book of his own choosing; the right to veto the choice remaining with me, if I do not think the choice a good one." There comes with the letter one of the little "compositions," showing how this nine-year-old boy carries out his part of the agreement.

The idea seems an excellent one; but would it not be improved if the father also should write an opinion of the book, so that his son might be guided in his judgment? It might also be a good plan for the father to make suggestions as to the new book given as a reward—especially as the father writes us that his son's taste for books is inherited.

A Correspondent's Views on "Fables."

In one letter sent to this department a young girl writes that she finds "all fables dull," and cannot read any except the "Fables in Slang," a book that even the author would admit was only the merest fooling. Here, it would seem, is a taste that needs cultivating. Evidently this young reader prefers to read without much thinking. Fables are, at their best, wisdom-stories. The greatest teachers this world has ever seen have chosen fables as the means of conveying the deepest thoughts. Some of the most beautiful possessions in all literature are in this form. Indeed, the subject is so great that in writing of it one glances in bewilderment from one sort of fable to another, wondering which to choose in proof of their value. A greater part of ancient wisdom lies in fables, and in the mythology that is little more than one great series of fables—stories conveying the views of ancient people on the most important teachings about nature and life. Perhaps this young girl might learn to change her idea of fables if she should read a book like Ruskin's "Queen of the Air," an interpreting of the myth or fable of Athene, from whom the Parthenon at Athens was called the Maiden Temple. But it may be this young despiser of fables did not quite understand the meaning of the term she used. She may not like Aesop's Fables. Even then, one feels that this comes from hasty, thoughtless reading without setting the imagination to work. Let her look for the expansion of some of these fables by the poets, and we are sure she will find how much lies in the brief and suggestive little stories. Who will tell her where to find, for example, the story of "The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse," or of "Belling the Cat," told as some good poet tells it? It seems a pity for any young reader to lose the many delights to be found in Fableland and its outlying countries.

Companionship In Reading.

One of the advantages in reading the best books is in their fitting themselves to any age. If you keep to the so-called "juvenile books" you will lose the pleasure of having the sympathy and companionship of your parents in the reading. The best books are for older and younger readers alike, and parents and children may enjoy them together, thus doubling the pleasure of reading. That young readers love to discuss the books they read is evident from the letters sent to this department. It is enjoyable to find whether your views of a book, its incidents and characters, are shared by others. Agreement is gratifying, and disagreement is interesting, even if discussion should fail to convince either that the other has taken the correct view.

Kingsley's Water Babies.

This book is a good illustration that "one man's meat is another's poison." Some readers say, "I think it is babyish; I don't see anything in it." Some write, "I cannot find anything I like in it; it seems very foolish to me." Yet here is a letter from one who certainly finds more than one good quality in the same volume:

Richmond, Ind.

Dear St. Nicholas:

Your request for opinions on Water Babies gives me an opportunity of speaking a word for the book I never tire of commending. Although I am eighteen, I recently read it for the third or fourth time, and enjoyed it as much as when I read it for the first, about eight years ago. Not only has the fascinating story lost none of its charm, but my enjoyment has rather increased, since I am now able to see what qualities made the book so delightful to me when I was younger. For instance, I now see how much the easy conversational style adds. Was there ever such spontaneous, irresistible humor or such vivid imagination? And see with what art Kingsley has put in details of natural history and what not until his pictures seem so real that to turn from one and behold a real Water Baby would be no surprise! Everything is so novel, so original, and yet so natural that I am at a loss to see how any one could not like the book. Where can you find any finer literature than the description of Tom's journey over the moor, or where anything more ridiculously funny than those curious lists of things, the remedies the poor doctor had to take, or all that nonsense about those remarkable back stairs? I have heard it said that Water Babies means nothing to younger children, but I really think that if some older person reads it aloud to them, they will enjoy it as much as they would in later years. I say "read aloud" because the long words are truly formidable but do not detract from the story when the discouraging influence they might exert on the inexperienced little reader is obviated.

Yours sincerely, Gordon H. Graves.

Now—what is to be done? Shall we quote the old Latin proverb, "De gustibus non disputandum est"—"There is no use in argument as to tastes"? Or shall we content ourselves with the common-sense conclusion that different books suit different minds? There seems nothing strange in the belief that even a very excellent book may bring no message to you or to me. So let us be charitable with one another's tastes in reading, as in other things; remembering, however, that we all admit the possibility of good taste and bad taste, and believe bad tastes may be refined.

The Report From Librarians.

In the newspapers often appear lists of the books called for by the public. To one who cares what children are reading, it is very discouraging to see under the head of "Juvenile Fiction" the same old favorites repeated week in and week out. There is no reason to criticize these books; they are excellent books: but children owe it to themselves to widen their horizon a little. Librarians say that children keep calling for the same authors merely through mental laziness.

We don't believe that St. Nicholas readers do this. They seem, by their letters, to be reading much more widely and more wisely than these library reports indicate. If the St. Nicholas boys and girls are wiser, it would be kind of them to help their friends and playmates to know there are more than half a dozen writers for the young, and that some of the best books for young people may be found among those not appearing every week in the library lists. Who will do this missionary work?

"Now, or Then?"

by Gail Hamilton, December 1877

Things never change; here, over 100 years ago, the writer is still decrying the loss of good manners in young people. Imagine, the author met a man who remembers the surrender that ended the Revolutionary War!

I suppose the wise young women—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old—who read St. Nicholas, who understand the most complex vulgar fractions, who cipher out logarithms "just for fun," who chatter familiarly about "Kickero" and "Iuliuse Kiser," and can bang a piano dumb and helpless in fifteen minutes—they, I suppose, will think me frivolous and un-aspiring if I beg them to lay aside their science,—which is admirable,—and let us reason together a few minutes about such unimportant themes as little points of good manners.

A few months ago I had the pleasure of talking with a gentleman who thought he remembered being aroused from his midnight sleep by loud rejoicings in the house and on the streets over the news that Lord Cornwallis had surrendered the British to the American forces. He was only two years old at that time; but, he said, he had a very strong impression of the house being full of light, of many people hurrying hither and yon, and of the watchman's voice in the street penetrating through all the din with the cry—" Past twelve o'clock and Cornwallis is taken!"

Among many interesting reminiscences and reflections, this dignified and delightful old gentleman said he thought the young people of to-day were less mannerly than in the olden time, less deferential, less decorous. This may be true, and I tried to be sufficiently deferential to my courtly host, not to disagree with him. But when I look upon the young people of my own acquaintance, I recall that William went, as a matter of course, to put the ladies in their carriage; Jamie took the hand luggage as naturally as if he were born for nothing else; Frank never failed to open a door for them; Arthur placed Maggie in her chair at table before he took his own; Nelly and Ruth came to my party just as sweet and bright as if they did not know that the young gentlemen whom they had expected to meet were prevented from attending; while Lucy will run herself out of breath for you, and Mary sits and listens with flattering intentness, and Anne and Alice and—well, looking over my constituency, I find the young people charming.

It is true that all manners are less formal, that etiquette is less elaborate, now than a hundred years ago. Our grandfathers and grandmothers—some, indeed, of our fathers and mothers—did not sit at breakfast with their fathers and mothers, but stood through the meal, and never spoke except when spoken to. I cannot say I think we have deteriorated in changing this. The pleasant, familiar, affectionate intercourse between parent and child seems to me one of the most delightful features of domestic life. The real, fond intimacy which exists between parents and children seems a far better and safer thing than* the old fashion of keeping children at arm's length.

But in casting aside forms we are, perhaps, somewhat in danger of losing with them some of that inner kindness of which form is only the outward expression. Without admitting that we are an uncivil people, insisting even that we compare favorably with other nations, I wish our boys and girls would resolve that the courtesy of the Republic shall never suffer in their hands!

Does this seem a trivial aim for those who are bending their energies to attain a high standing in classics and mathematics? There is perhaps no single quality that does as much to make life smooth and comfortable—yes, and successful—-as courtesy. Logarithms are valuable in their way, but there are many useful and happy people who are not very well versed even in the rule of three. A man may not know a word of Latin, or what is meant by "the moon's terminator," or how much sodium is in Arcturus, and yet be constantly diffusing pleasure. But no man can be agreeable without courtesy, and every separate act of incivility creates its little, or large, and ever enlarging circle of displeasure and unhappiness.

One does not wish to go through life trying to be agreeable; but life is a great failure if one goes through it disagreeable.

Yes, little friends, believe me, you may be very learned, very skillful, very accomplished. I trust you are: I hope you will become more so. You may even have sound' principles and good habits; but if people generally do not like you, it is because there is something wrong in yourself, and the best thing you can do is to study out what it is and correct it as fast as possible. Do not for a moment fancy it is because you are superior to other people that they dislike you, for superiority never, of itself, made a person unlovely. It is invariably a defect of some sort. Generally it is a defect arising from training, and therefore possible to overcome.

For instance: two girls in the country have each a pony phaeton. One drives her sisters, her family, her guests, her equals, and never thinks of going .outside that circle. Another does the same; but, more than this, she often takes the cook, the laundress, or the one woman who often is cook, laundress, house-maid, all in one. And to them the drive is a far greater luxury than to her own comrades, who would be playing croquet or riding if they were not with her. Now and then she invites some poor neighbor, she takes some young sempstress or worsted-worker to town to do her shopping, she carries the tired housewife to see her mother, she asks three little girls—somewhat crowded but rapturously happy—three miles to see the balloon that has alighted on the hill; she drives a widowed old mother-in-Israel to a tea-drinking of which she would otherwise be deprived. These are not charities. They are courtesies, and this bright-faced girl is sunshine in her village home, and, by and by, when her box of finery is by some mistake left at the station, a stalwart youngster, unbidden, shoulders it and bears it, panting and perspiring, to her door-step, declaring that he would not do it for another person in town but Miss Fanny! And perhaps he does not even say Miss Fanny—only Fanny. Now she could get on very well without the villager's admiring affection, and even without her box of finery; yet the goodwill of your neighbors is exceeding pleasant.

Another thing Fanny excels in is the acknowledgment of courtesy, which is itself as great a courtesy as the performance of kindness. If she is invited to a lawn party or a boating picnic, whether she accept or not, she pays a visit to her hostess afterward and expresses her pleasure or her regrets; and she pays it with promptness, and not with tardy reluctance, as if it were a burden. If she has been making a week's visit away from home, she notifies her hostess of her safe return and her enjoyment of the visit, as soon as she is back again. If a bouquet is sent her,—too informal for a note, —she remembers to speak of it afterward. You never can remember? No; but Fanny does. That is why I admire her. If she has borrowed a book, she has an appreciative word to say when she returns it; and if she has dropped it in the mud, she does not apologize and offer to replace it. She replaces it first and apologizes afterward, though she has to sacrifice a much-needed pair of four-button gloves to do it! Indeed, no person has as little apologizing to do as Fanny, because she does everything promptly; and you may notice that what we apologize for chiefly is delay. We perform our little social duties, only not in good season, and so rob them of half their grace. It takes no longer to answer a letter to-day than it will take to-morrow. But if the letter requires an answer instantly, and you put it off day after day, your correspondent is vexed, and your tardy answer will never be quite a reparation. Remember that no explanation, no apology, is quite as good as to have done the thing exactly as it should be in the first place.

"How Paul Called Off the Dog"

by Lavinia S. Goodwin, September 1885

What to do when the dog appears more cunning than the humans? Don't you wish you could have taken a trip to Europe when such things could be seen, with people in national costume rather than the same old shirts and pants? Although I'm sure the French women are glad they don't have to scrub clothes this way any longer!

On the margins of the beautiful winding streams and rivers of France, washerwomen may often be seen at their work, presenting, under the leafy shade of the grand old trees, a very picturesque effect. No doubt you have seen pictures of these washing-places. They are furnished with a row of shallow, three-sided boxes, open toward the shore, and with the back resting on posts set in the water. Just below the surface of the water a smooth board slants downward, and the washerwoman, kneeling in the box, holds her piece of washing upon this slanting board with her left hand, while in her right she grasps a kind of paddle, with which she beats the linen, turning it again and again, until with the beating and the force of the running water it becomes entirely clean and white.

One summer day, many years ago, a washerwoman who was too fond a mother to leave her baby in any one else's care, brought it with her, and while at work, placed the child in the box where she was half kneeling, half sitting at her washing, and where she could occasionally bend down to fondle her darling baby. Suddenly, and without any warning, the child sprang from the mother's lap and slipped over the side of the washing-box into the bubbling river. The mother's shriek was echoed by the startled cries of the other washerwomen as the child was borne off by the current; and the poor mother was with difficulty restrained from leaping in after her child. At that moment, some one watching the tiny form perceived a dark object making its way from shore straight toward the drowning baby, still kept afloat by its clothing.

"A dog! it is a dog!" they cried. "See! he is swimming for the baby!"

The few seconds of suspense that followed seemed almost like hours. Then the watchers embraced the agonized mother, with words of cheer.

"He has her by her frock!" they cried. "See how he keeps the darling's head above the water! She is saved; yes, nearly saved!"

For a moment, the strong animal buffeted with the strong current and then struck out bravely,—but for the opposite shore. Then a new fear assailed the watchers, for that opposite shore was solitary and uninhabited; there were reports every season of prowling wolves that were seen there. What if this great creature were no dog, but a ferocious wolf that had saved the child only to devour it? And the dismayed women stepped before the weeping mother, so that she might not see the other shore.

The four-footed swimmer reached the land; he laid the rescued child on the ground, shook the water from his heavy coat, and then—calmly stretched himself panting and watchful by the silent form.

A cry of relief came from the watchers, and with swift feet they hurried to the ferryman's hut, not far up the stream. They found the old ferryman sitting in his boat, mending a rowlock, and chatting with his nine-year-old grandson, little Paul Dericker, who was on a visit to his grandfather from his home near Peaolo, on the Rhine. As soon as he heard the story, the ferryman untied his boat and quickly landed the excited washerwomen on the opposite bank. First to spring ashore, little Paul darted to the spot where the baby lay, but was speedily back with the information that the child was alive, for he had seen it move its arms and kick up its little feet, but that the dog would not let him come near.

Here was a dilemma. The dog guarded his prize determinedly, rolling a pair of fiery eyeballs and snarling savagely at the intruders when they attempted to approach. In the intervals, he would lick the face and hands of the infant, now cooing contentedly, and would give it the most affectionate attention. But let one of the party advance a step, and it was the signal for him to turn on them and drive them back. No coaxing had the least effect; and when one of the women, remembering a lunch of bread and meat in her pocket, tried to win him with food, he scorned to look at it. Losing patience, the ferryman provided himself with a club, and thought to try what a show of force could do. This merely enraged the dog, who was more than a match even for an armed man. Very much in earnest, then, Paul's grandfather sent the boy to bring from the boat his duck gun, declaring that the dog must be shot.

Away flew Paul, while the women set up such a lamentation because of the necessity of killing the dog that had saved the baby from drowning, that the ferryman made them go some distance away, lest the dog, if only wounded, should spring upon them indiscriminately, at a time when he would have all he could do to defend himself. But the gun, too, was a failure. It was evident the dog understood a gun. but supposed that they intended to shoot the child; for he protected its body so closely with his own, that to fire at one would be to fire at both. Completely baffled, the old man threw the weapon on the ground.

"Hold! Grandpa!" cried Paul, at his elbow, "I know what I can do!" And the swift feet were off toward the ferry once more.

"He is going to try a lasso on the beast—the way he caught the pig that broke out of the pen yesterday," said grandfather to himself; and then he shouted, but too late to be heard, "Don't take the rope that ties the boat, Paul! Don't let the boat loose!"

The women, waiting in terror for the report of the musket, saw Paul run past, and thought of him no more until three minutes later, when a cry for help attracted their attention, and Paul was seen to fall headlong over the boat's stern into the deep water. As he rose to the surface he grasped the rudder with one hand, but long before help could arrive, his hold slipped and he disappeared. The old man, running as fast as his stiff limbs could carry him, reached the boat at the same time as the women; but he was less frightened than they.

"Why—that chap can swim—like a duck," were his words, as he caught his breath. "He drowning?—I would n't—would n't have believed it!"

"He was frightened by the accident," some one remarked, while the old man worked at a disadvantage in getting off the boat, as he kept his eyes turned on the water.

"There! away yonder! so far down—oh!" came the cries from the shore, as the women, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands, caught sight of the lad's head and shoulders above the surface, nearly opposite the point where the child had been landed. All felt that he was drowning, but none dared say so to the fond old grandfather. In the same breath Paul gave one last, long, piercing cry, and sank gradually amid the curling waves.

That call had an instant effect. True to his lifesaving instincts, the great dog leaped into the river again, and swimming to the boy, drew him, a heavier burden than the baby, slowly ashore at the spot where the baby had lain. But the baby lay there no longer; for its mother, whom the shriek of distress had also aroused, had snatched it up, as the dog left it, and borne it away in joy and triumph. And as soon as Paul was on land, he stood up and hailed the boat, swinging his arms and shouting:

"All right, Grandpa. Carry over the womenfolks, and when I 'm ready presently, I 'll walk across."

He broke into a laugh that startled the echoes, the merriest laugh, those who heard it said, that ever fell on their ears.

"The young rascal," cried his grandfather, gayly, while a tear of gratitude stole down his bronzed cheek, "to frighten and fool us so!"

"But how fine for him to have fooled the dog!" said the women.

The dog did not appear to take the loss of his former prize to heart, as he had now secured a larger and better. In a little while the boat was seen approaching. Paul stood up on his feet, patting the rather astonished dog upon the head, and the pair trotted along shore to meet the ferryman.

"We were just going to swim across for sport—can't we, Grandpa?" cried Paul.

But his grandfather thought there had been enough of that kind of sport for one day, and so the boy and his new playmate crossed in the boat.

Some hours later a sportsman fully equipped appeared at the ferry, inquiring for a dog answering the description of the one that now, hearing his master's voice, came rushing out of the ferryman's cottage. Both were glad to meet again, and the sportsman, when he had heard the story, expressed his delight that his noble runaway had so well employed his time.