Harvest

As I write, I look out a window onto a crisp autumn day. The green woods, with daubs of color here and there, don't really look like fall is here, but as you sit still and listen, you hear the occasional patter of acorns falling to the ground, squirrels more busily going about their business, and even occasionally the honk, caw and cackle of various flocks beginning to gird themselves for their next big migration. The sun, instead of beating down from a bleached sky, as it did but a couple of months ago, now quietly slants in from the side, the air seeming crisper, the light more revealing. The shadows are different and the clean light plays about the leaves, showing off a broad palette of greens and yellows, grey and black.

There is something to love in every season and its turning. Once, years ago, I worked on a land-based oil rig for a few months. It was a rewarding experience but one of the things I enjoyed most, (and in contrast to most of working life), was that there were definable milestones and points of completion. You came onto a new site, you drilled the well, you finished it off and then moved to the next site. Planning, action, outcome. Progress.

Though most of us have long departed the land, Autumn is like that as well. In our culture, in our adages, in our folktales and in our storytelling, we still recognize Autumn as being that point where you do two things. You harvest the outcome of your efforts from the Spring and Summer. And related, but different from that, you prepare for the approaching trials of winter. In PoliSci terms, you might say that Autumn is the season of capitalists where you receive the return on your investments and manage your approaching risks.

In our separation from the land and our insulation from the vagaries of weather, we have removed ourselves and our children from some of these lessons which I think is unfortunate. As parents, one of the things we are constantly seeking to instill is a comprehension that there are consequences to actions. They may seem, from the perspective of a child, to be disproportionate, or unfair, or inconsistent but it is critical that they understand that there are consequences. No matter how much you may dislike them, there are decisions that need to be made, priorities established, hard choices elected and consequences borne. Nature's vagaries are a good reminder to children that the seeming unfairness of consequences are not something reserved to them but happen to us all.

I love the language of the King James Bible and one of my favorite passages is from Ecclesiastes 9:11,

I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

Every year in early October we have the privilege of sharing a weekend in the mountains of western North Carolina with a community of friends. One of our family traditions on these occasions, is to spend part of the morning on Sunday before our return to Atlanta, picking apples in an orchard crowning one of the high crests in these mountains. Were we to do nothing at all, it would still be beautiful, looking out over the magnificent spread of views of the Appalachians.

There is a delight to children and parents alike in this process: the little ones climbing to pick just the right apple that no one else can reach, the parents watching the running, eager excitement of fresh-faced kids. No one can long resist the temptation of eating one of the sun-ripened sweet (or tart) apples, with dripping, sticky juice getting out of hand. On our return home, the sack of apples sits there in the corner of the kitchen for a week or so, a daily challenge to eat as many as we picked, and in the end the sensory delight of apple pies and apple crumble.

But this year there was more of a lesson than a traditional picking experience. We had sharp, late spring frosts in the mountains, just as the apple trees were in blossom. What survived that, perished in the continuing drought we have experienced. The kids could not finish the weekend without at least visiting our favorite orchard. While there was no picking to be done, we were able to support the farmer by purchasing apples trucked in from Virginia - not the same experience, of course, but a token of concern.

It was a sobering reminder that harvest does not always bring us what we expect, that good efforts and planning can come to nought, and that there is an inherent unfairness in life that in fact is life. It is our preparation for the unexpected and our commitment and support of one another that makes things not only bearable but rewarding. These are complex lessons easily burdened down by seriousness but Autumn frames them clearly in ways that are very comprehensible to children.

The flip side of this experience, though, is the manifest richness and bounty all about us. I can never decide when Nature is at her most flagrant, Spring or Fall. Here in the US we of course have the wonderful traditional holiday of Thanksgiving that marks the celebration of harvest completed - marked by feasting and celebrating.

Below is a collection of stories marking the bringing in of the harvest, of Autumn, of pumpkins and of apple picking.


Picture Books

Christopher's Harvest Time by Elsa Beskow Recommended

The Thanksgiving Story by Alice Dalgliesh and illustrated by Helen Sewell Suggested

Little Red Hen by Paul Gadone Suggested

The Ox-Cart Man by Donald Hall and illustrated by Barbara Cooney Recommended

Johnny Appleseed by Reeve Lindbergh and Illustrated by Kathy Jakobsen Highly Recommended

Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey Highly Recommended

Puss In Boots by Charles Perrault and illustrated by Fred Marcellino Suggested

The Ant and the Grasshopper by Aesop and illustrated by Amy Lowry Poole Suggested

Little Red Hen by Jerry Pinkney Suggested

When the Frost is on the Punkin by James Whitcomb Riley and illustrated by Glenna Lang Out of Print Suggested

Little Red Hen by Margot Zemach

Independent Reader

The Classic Treasury of Aeseop's Fables by Aeseop and illustrated by Don Daily Suggested

The First Thanksgiving by Jean Craighead George and illustrated by Thomas Locker Suggested

Possum's Harvest Moon by Anne Hunter Suggested

N.C. Wyeth's Pilgrims by Robert D. San Souci and illustrated by N.C. Wyeth Suggested

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder Recommended

P.J. Lynch

Born March 2, 1962 in Belfast, Northern Ireland

P.J. Lynch, a Belfast born illustrator and winner of two Kate Greenaway medals is something of a J.D. Salinger of children's illustration. Despite our times that so often demand celebrity and self-exposure, it is rather hard to find much information about him, leaving you, as it mostly should be, to judge and enjoy him for the work he produces.

Lynch was born into a working class fmaily in Northern Ireland. His mother came from the country and he had the opportunity to spend periods of time in his childhood on the family farm. He took his art training in Brighton Art College. After Belfast, he lived for a period of time in England and then settled in Dublin, Ireland. As can be seen by the books he chooses to illustrate and as he has indicated himself, Ireland, its history and its culture have a continuing significant influence on his work.

Much of Lynch's works are illustrations of traditional tales and Irish legends, though, oddly, the two books for which he is most noted fall into neither category. He works in watercolor and gouache paints and is noted for the realism and accents of detail in his paintings. He is very much a traditionalist, looking to N.C. Wyeth, Maxfield Parrish, Edmund Dulac, and Arthur Rackham as inspirational influences on his work.

One of the pleasures of Lynch's work is how much detail he packs into his pictures. If you are unfamiliar with his style, take visit to the PJ Lynch Gallery to see some of his work. His realism is not that of a photographic snapshot but rather of an ambience with the realism accentuated by selected details. Lynch will often create an unusual angle of view of a scene that helps move a story along and, which combined with the telling details within the frame of the picture, is what I think make his style so effective.

Lynch spends a great deal of time researching the visual aspects of a story before he ever puts brush to canvas. This research takes the form of discussing with the author, sometimes visiting the locations where the tale is set, researching clothing and architectural styles for the period in which the story occurs, collecting pertinent photographs, etc. This research period along with the act of painting the pictures themselves means that Lynch has been producing about a book a year since his first publication in 1986 (A Bag of Moonshine by Alan Garner.)

The two books for which Lynch is most noted and for both of which he won the Kate Greenaway medal are The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski and published in 1995, and When Jessie Came Across the Sea by Amy Hest and published in 1997.

We were not familiar with Lynch's work at the time, but even so we were fortunate enough to pick up a copy of Jonathan Toomey, the year it was published and it has been a favorite Christmas-time story ever since. Although Toomey and Jessie, are about entirely different subjects, they both are emotional stories that are kept on a tight leash. There is not a lot of gushing but as you read them to your child, like as not, there will be a scene or two where your voice catches. Partly this controlled emotion is attributable to the respective authors, but I think part of it is also a testament to Lynch's visualization of the story and how to make it "work".

If you have not read any of the books illustrated by Lynch, I suggest starting with The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey and then add When Jessie Came Across the Sea. Catkin by Antonia Barber is not currently in print but has always been a favorite among our children. Catkin is told in the style of folktale and is basically a retelling of the Demeter and Persphone myth in an unidentified western European setting. I hope it will be republished soon, but till then, keep your eyes open in your local used book store. After that it kind of depends on your interests. I am inclined towards Oscar Wilde then the Irish folktales and then the Anderson stories but your children are likely to enjoy any of them even if solely for Lynch's beautiful paintings.




Picture Books

East O' the Sun and West O' the Moon by Author, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

Grandad's Prayers of the Earth by Douglas Wood, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

Ignis by Gina Wilson, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

Melisenda by Edith Nesbit, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

Oscar Wilde Stories for Children by Oscar Wilde, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

The Bee-Man of Orn by Frank RIchard Stockton, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Highly Recommended

The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christensen Anderson, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

When Jessie Came Across the Sea by Amy Hest, illustrated by . J. Lynch Recommended

Independent Reader

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

Tales from Shakespeare by Tina Packer, illustrated by P. J. Lynch Suggested

Bibliography
In order of publication

A Bag of Moonshine by Alan Garner and illustrated by P.J. Lynch
Raggy Taggy Toys by Joyce Dunbar and illustrated by P.J. Lynch
Melisande by E. Nesbit and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
Fairy Tales of Ireland by William Butler Yeats and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon translated by George W. Dasent and illustrated by P.J. Lynch
The Steadfast Tin Soldier by Hans Christian Anderson and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
The Candlewick Book of Fairy Tales by Sarah Hayes and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Anderson and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
Catkin by Antonia Barber and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Recommended
The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Highly Recommended
The King of Ireland's Son by Brendan Behan and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
When Jessie Came across the Sea by Amy Hest and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Recommended
An ABC Picture Gallery by P.J. Lynch Suggested
Grandad's Prayers of the Earth by Douglas Wood Suggested
The Names upon the Harp: Irish Myth and Legend by Marie Heaney and illustrated by P.J. Lynch
Ignis, by Gina Wilson and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
The Bee-Man of Orn, by Frank R. Stockton and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Suggested
A Christmas Carol, By Charles Dickens and illustrated by P.J. Lynch Recommended

HMS Victoria

Illustration of H.M.S. Victoria.
Source: Index to late 18th, 19th and early 20th Century Naval and Naval Social History


In last week's mention of Rudyard Kipling's "Soldier an' Sailor too" under the header The Birkenhead Drill, his final stanza mentions the "Victorier."

The HMS Victoria, so named in celebration of Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee, was a British battleship launched in 1887 and which sank in 1893 in the eastern Mediterranean following a tragic accident arising from miscommunication and obedient adherence to orders even when those orders were suspected to be erroneous.

I read of this incident as a relatively young child, perhaps eight or ten, in one of the first of many anthologies of sea mysteries, tragedies, shipwrecks, etc. which I have read over the years.

Admiral George Tryon commanded a squadron of British ships and was in the process of putting on a display of maneuvers. He had two lines of ships lined up in parallel and instructed that they were to turn in to each other and come around heading in the opposite direction in parallel with one another again, but now much closer together.

His watch officers questioned whether the distances were sufficient for such a maneuver but he dismissed their concerns and they obeyed their orders despite their misgivings.

The HMS Camperdown and the HMS Victoria, leading their respective lines, turned in towards one another. The distances were indeed insufficient and the Camperdown rammed the Victoria with the latter ship sinking within half an hour with the loss of more than half her crew; 358 men including Admiral Tryon who elected to remain at his post saying "It's all my fault."

I had never heard of the Royal Marines playing a particular role in this disaster so am not sure what Kipling is referencing but am guessing that this is the incident (rather than some other HMS Victoria) to which he is referring given that the ballad was written close to the time of the tragedy.

The wreck of the HMS Victoria was discovered by divers three years ago. Uniquely, the ship rests in a perpendicular position above the sea floor as reported at that time in the Cyber Diver News Network.

There is also a memorial to the Victoria in Portsmouth in the UK.

There is also a Wikipedia article on the incident.

A footnote to the sinking is that the one of the survivors was the executive officer, the second-in-command, of the HMS Victoria, John Jellicoe. Jellicoe later became Admiral and commanded the British fleet at the classic clash of battleships, the Battle of Jutland in World War I. Later in the war he became the First Sea Lord of the entire British navy.

The Metaphor by Louis Untermeyer

I have a ten year old in the house learning the elements of language, so this passage seemed especially pertinent when I came across it.

The metaphor is something more than an amusing literary device; it is a continual play of wit, an illuminating double entendre, a nimble magic in which writer and reader conspire to escape reality. Perhaps"escape" is the wrong word - the play of metaphor acts to enrich reality, even to heighten it. The average reader enjoys its intensification so much that he cannot help employing it. "My heart leaps," he says, knowing quite well that it contracts and expands quietly within the pericardium. Or, he declares still more mendaciously but earnestly, "my heart stopod still." Even while he scorns poetry, the ordinary man helps himself to its properties and symbols; his daily life is unthinkable without metaphor. Having "slept like a log," he gets up in the morning "fresh as a daisy" or "fit as a fiddle"; he "wolfs down" breakfast, "hungry as a bear," with his wife, who has a "tongue like vinegar," but "a heart of gold." He gets into his car, which "eats up the miles," steps on the gas, and, as it "purrs" along through the "hum" of the traffic, he reaches his office where he is "as busy as a one-armed paper-hanger with the hives." Life, for the average man, is not "a bed of roses," his competitor is "sly as a fox" and his own clerks are "slow as molasses in January." But "the day's grind" is finally done and, though it is "raining cats and dogs," he arrives home "happy as a lark."

Sea Adventures

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; These see the works of the LORD, and his wonders in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits' end. Then they cry unto the LORD in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven. Psalms, 107:23-30, KJV

The ships have gotten bigger and bigger, but there are fewer and fewer people that earn their living from the sea. How many people do you know that travel upon the water for their livelihood? It is sort of like farming; once nearly everyone made their living from the land, but we are down to one or two percent at this point. The jolly tar and salt-sea sailor are endangered species.

If there are fewer people than ever plowing the oceans, still the literature of the sea holds us in its grip. At the moment I am in the process of building a book list, Adventures on the High Sea. I knew there were going to be a lot of good candidate books when I started, but even so I have been taken aback by just how many there are. It seems every time I cast my mind to the list, I have thought of four or five more that I had overlooked.

What is it that holds our fascination so long after we have separated ourselves from the sea other than when we, lemming like, go down to the sea in summer, to wash away some of our city living and reconnect to that ancient body of water?

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
D.H. Lawrence "Whales Weep Not!"

Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Perhaps it is the ancestral sea from which we all emerged. It is said that the chemistry of our blood, in its mineral elements, matches that of the sea. Perhaps it is that for so many thousands of years we never strayed far from the shore. For the first twenty thousand years after emerging from Africa, modern man survived by living close to the shoreline, gathering sustenance from land and sea.

We are as near to heaven by sea as by land.
Last words of Sir Humphrey Gilbert (see Thing Finder)

Perhaps it is simply that the sea lends itself to great stories. A tale set at sea combines confined spaces on open waters, hierarchical control of the ship yet at the mercies of the unpredictable elements, the struggle for survival not only against the elements but often against fellow man, and the chance for nobility to be displayed in the face of peril (See Thing Finder for the story of the HMS Birkenhead). And always the peril, the ever-present danger.

No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into jail; for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned. . . . He who would go to sea by choice would go to hell for recreation.
Samuel Johnson in Boswell's Life

A ship in port is safe, but that's not what ships are built for.
Grace Murray Hopper

A great ship asks deep water.
George Herbert

Herman Melville uses this primeval attraction of the sea at the very beginning of his novel to launch Moby Dick.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth;
Whenever it is damp, drizzly November in my soul;
Whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing
before coffin warehouse,
And bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet;
And especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me
that it requires a strong moral principal to prevent me
from deliberately stepping into the street,
and methodically knocking people's hats off - then,
I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can

There is plenty of material for a speculative dissertation, but whatever its source, the tie between man and sea still exists, still fascinates. Stories, true and fictional, are still being written. Below is the barest smattering of books to do with the sea. Check out the book list Adventures on the High Sea for a more complete and ever growing list.

Picture Books

Tim and the Brave Sea Captain by Edward Ardizzone

The Little Ships by Louise Borden

Arabella by Wendy Orr

The Edmund Fitzgerald by Kathy-Jo Wargin and illustrated by Gijsbert Van Frankenhuyzen

The Ballad of the Pirate Queens by Jane Yolen and illustrated by David Shannon

Independent Readers

Shipwrecked The True Adventures of Japanese Boy by Rhoda Blumberg

Powder Monkey by Paul Dowswell

The Story of the H.L. Hunley and Queenie's Coin by Fran Hawk and illustrated by Dan Nance

Midshipman Bolithio by Alexander Kent

Young Adult

The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors by James D. Hornfischer

Endurance Shackleton's Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing

A Night to Remember by Walter Lord

The Cruel Sea by Nicholas Monsarrat

Master and Commander by Patrick O'Brian

In the Heart of the Sea The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex by Nathaniel Philbrick

The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk

Astrid Lindgren

Astrid Lindgren
Born November 14, 1907 in Vimmerby, Smaaland, Sweden
Died January 28, 2002 in Stockhol, Sweden

If you haven't read Astrid Lindgren's Pippi Longstocking, then you have a treat in front of you. If all you have read of Astrid Lindgren's work is Pippi Longstocking, then you have a feast.

This year is the centenary of Astrid Lindgren's birth and there are many celebrations underway in Sweden and around the world. She wrote more than a hundred books in her time, seventy of them for children. She was a strong activist in the cause of peace, animal rights and children's rights. She received rewards and recognition in Sweden, across Europe and the globe. Her books have sold close to 150 million copies and have been translated into more than ninety languages.

So who was this person? Before sketching her background, I think it is worth noting that, while she is best known for her Pippi Longstocking stories (Pippi Longstocking, Pippi Goes on Board , and Pippi in the South Seas),she actually wrote a number of series (Emil, Karlsson-on-the-Roof, Bill Bergson, and The Children of Noisy Village) each distinctly different from the others (though with some shared themes) as well as individual titles (Mio, My Son; Ronia The Robbers Daughter; Rasmus and the Vagabond; and The Brothers Lionheart), any of which on their own would have made the reputation of the author.

Astrid Anna Emilia Ericsson was born into a farming family in Småland, Sweden, November 14, 1907 and was the second of four children. Her childhood was a happy one with loving parents and lots of time spent outside among farm-workers or in fields and woods. When she was seventeen, Ericsson began working as a reporter for the local newspaper, Wimmerby Tidning. For all that Sweden has a libertine reputation, its deep Lutheranism is not far from the surface and this was especially true in the first half of the past century. Consequently when Ericsson, unmarried, became pregnant, it was a catastrophic event that greatly shocked her family. Her son Lars was born in 1926 and was temporarily given to a foster family. When she later married, Ericsson was able to take Lars back.

Ericsson moved to Stockholm, taking a job as a secretary in an office. She married Sture Lindgren in 1931 and had a daughter in 1934. As so often happens, her first stories were written by writing down the tales she told her children. In 1941 her seven year old daughter Karin was recuperating from a bout of pneumonia. She asked Lindgren to tell her a tale about a girl named Pippi Longstocking. As Lindgren recounted later, "I didn't ask her who Pippi Longstocking was. I just began the story, and since it was a strange name it turned out to be a strange girl as well." The first Pippi Longstocking story was published in 1945, was an immediate hit and was soon followed by the other two stories in the series.

Pippi has been way over-analyzed as is often the fate of popular children's books. I hate to add too much more. Simply said, Pippi lives the life most children hanker for, but wouldn't know what to do with if they had it. She is nine years old; her mother died when she was a child; her father, a sea captain, is shipwrecked somewhere in the South Pacific; and she has moved in to Villa Villekulla cottage, and lives alone save for her horse, Horse, who lives on the porch, and her monkey, Mr. Nilsson. Oh, and her cache of gold coins. She has all the power, resources and authority of an adult but lives the agenda of a nine year old. She sleeps with head at the foot of her bed, she scrubs the kitchen floor by tying brushes to her feet, and she does pretty much whatever she wants to do. She is saved from being a poster-child brat by not having a malicious bone in her body. Both the scrapes she gets into and the means by which she resolves them are the engine of humor that drives the stories.

I can still remember how I envied Pippi's independence, reading the stories when I was nine. There was certainly an air of unreality about Pippi: she was so strong she could lift Horse off the porch and her circumstances improbable, but they were also so desirable that Lindgren absolutely made me want to believe this story was possible.

While many of Lindgren's stories are cheery, light-hearted and humorous, she also dealt with more somber issues such as in The Brother's Lionheart where one brother gives his life to save another. Or slightly weightier issues such as in Ronia, The Robber's Daughter where you have a difficult, but ultimately happy love story set in the Middle Ages.

Lindgren's range of topics was broad but there is always a thread of hope, an expectation of sunny days, and a use of folklore and legends. Most identifiable is her concrete connection with nature. From Ronia: "They stood silently, listening to the twittering and rushing and buzzing and singing and murmuring in the woods. There was life in every tree and watercourse and every green thicket; the bright song of spring rang out everywhere." And from her memoir: "Memory - it holds unknown sleeping treasures: fragrances and flavors, sights and sounds of childhood past! I can still see and smell and remember the bliss of that rosebush in the pasture, the one that showed me for the first time what beauty means. I can still hear the chirping of the land rail in the rye fields on a summer evening, and the hooting of the owls in the owl tree in the nights of spring. I still know exactly how it feels to enter a warm cow barn from biting cold and snow. I know how the tongue of a calf feels against a hand, and how rabbits smell . . . and how milk sounds when it strikes the bottom of a bucket, and the feel of small chicken feet when one holds a newly hatched chick. Those may not be extraordinary things to remember. The extraordinary thing . . . is the intensity of these experiences when we were new here on earth."

Her specificity of writing calls to your own memories. From my own store of memories I would add the warmth of a granite boulder as you stretch across it in the mid-afternoon, the summer sun lapping you from a Scandinavian blue sky, storing up warmth for the coming winter, and the pure delicate white of lilies of the valley on a green hill in spring. Like all good writers, she conjures your own memories or provides them for you.

Following the success of Pippi Longstocking, Lindgren continued writing throughout the remainder of her long life. She was a vocal advocate of children's rights as well as animal rights, lobbying for a set of laws governing humane treatment of farm animals that became known as Lex Astrid (The Law of Astrid). She contributed significantly to a debate and through her writings to the reform of Sweden's tax laws when she pointed out that she was paying a tax rate of 102%.

For a farm girl from Sweden's bread-basket, Astrid Lindgren had an incredible life and has left us a remarkable and remarkably long list of wonderful children's stories. She won many of the international literature awards; had many places, schools, and streets named after her and her stories; had a series of stamps based on her stories, statues erected and so on. Her most tangible legacy, of course, is that of the pleasure her stories have given generation after generation of reading children.

Following are the Astrid Lindgren titles in print.

Picture Books

The Tomten by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Harald Wiberg Suggested

The Tomten and the Fox by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Harald Wiberg Suggested

Independent Reader

Christmas in Noisy Village by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland Suggested

Do You Know Pippi Longstocking? by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ingrid Nyman

Happy Times in Noisy Village by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland Recommended

Pippi Goes on Board by Astrid Lindgren Recommended

Pippi Goes to School by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Michael Chesworth

Pippi Goes to the Circus by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Michael Chesworth

Pippi in the South Seas by Astrid Lindgren Recommended

Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Louis S. Glanzman Highly Recommended

Pippi's Extraordinary Ordinary Day by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Michael Chesworth Suggested

Ronia, The Robber's Daughter by Astrid Lindgren and Alfred Lindgren Recommended

The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Michael Chesworth Highly Recommended

The Children of Noisy Village by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland Recommended

The Red Bird by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Marit Tornqvist Suggested

The Birkenhead Drill

The Birkenhead drill refers to the absolute discipline maintained by the Royal Marines as the HMS Birkenhead, having holed herself on an uncharted rock off the coast of South Africa, began to break up while they were still loading women and children into the few functioning lifeboats. Wikipedia has an entry for the Birkenhead incident and it is a story often recounted among maritime anthologies.

Though I am not particularly fond of his Barrack Room Ballads, one of Rudyard Kipling's poems pays tribute to those brave Royal Marines and the tradition they established of women and children first.

"Soldier an' Sailor Too"
(The Royal Regiment of Marines)
Rudyard Kipling

AS I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,
I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style.
'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"
Sez 'e, "I'm a Jolly—'Er Majesty's Jolly—soldier an' sailor too!"
Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through;
'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew.
'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite—soldier an' sailor too!

An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things,
Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings;
'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot, an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew,
An' 'e sweats like a Jolly—'Er Majesty's Jolly—soldier an' sailor too!
For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do—
You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe—
'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse—soldier an' sailor too.

We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock, and drunk with 'em in betweens,
When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids, an' we called 'em the Ass Marines;
But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,
We sent for the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!
They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves, and they never ask what's to do,
But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew.
Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes—soldier an' sailor too.

You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards,
Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards;
But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,
The same as the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!
They come of our lot, they was brothers to us; they was beggars we'd met an' knew;
Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you;
For they weren't no special chrysanthemums—soldier an' sailor too!

To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,
Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill is a damn tough bullet to chew,
An' they done it, the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!
Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;
Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps an' bein' mopped by the screw,
So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!

We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves, an' the rest are as rank as can be,
But once in a while we can finish in style (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).
But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends, an' the work you may 'ave to do,
When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!
Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know—they 'ave proved it plain and true—
That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do,
An' they done it, the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!

Sir Humphrey Gilbert

From Bartlett's Book of Anecdotes.

Gilbert, Sir Humphrey (?1539-1583) English soldier and navigator, half-brother of Sir Walter Raleigh

Despite the advice of his lieutenants, Gilbert refused to abandon his little ten-ton frigate, the Squirrel, which was overloaded and unseaworthy. Having paid a visit to his men onboard the other remaining ship in his fleet, the Golden Hind, he insisted on returning to the Squirrel. On the afternoon of September 9, 1583, the frigate was almost overwhelmed by the waves, but finally was recovered. Gilbert, sitting near the stern with a book in his hand, shouted out to the Golden Hind as it came within earshot, 'We are as near to heaven by sea as by land.' That night the watch on the Golden Hind saw the lights of the Squirrel suddenly vanish, and he cried out, 'The general is cast away.' This was indeed true, and of the five ships that set out on the expedition, only the Golden Hind returned to England to tell the tale, together with Gilbert's noble last words."

On this day in 1865

Eclipse of the Moon by Lars Ploughman License (cc-by-sa-2.0)

On the Eclipse of the Moon of October 1865
Charles Turner

One little noise of life remained--I heard
The train pause in the distance, then rush by,
Brawling and hushing, like some busy fly
That murmurs and then settles; nothing stirred
Beside. The shadow of our traveling earth
Hung on the silver moon, which mutely went
Through that grand process, without token sent,
Or any sign to call a gazer forth,
Had I not chanced to see; dumb was the vault
Of heaven, and dumb the fields--no zephyr swept
The forest walks, or through the coppice crept;
Nor other sound the stillness did assault,
Save that faint-brawling railway's move and halt;
So perfect was the silence Nature kept.

He Fell Among Thieves

I am a fan of Henry Newbolt's poetry and this poem is among my favorites. I had not ever known the background to the tale though I suspected it might be based on a true event. In this quarter's Slightly Foxed, Peter Gill, in his article Heading for the Hills, confirms that Newbolt wrote this poem in response to the murder in 1869 in Dardistan of one of those intrepid British explorers of Central Asia, George Hayward.




He Fell Among Thieves
Henry Newbolt

'YE have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end,
Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:
What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?'
'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five,
I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:
I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.'
'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope,
He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees;
All night long in a dream untroubled of hope
He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills
The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;
He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,
Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow,
The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;
He heard his father's voice from the terrace below
Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park,
The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead;
The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,
The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green,
The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,
The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,
His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof,
The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;
The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,
The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam,
He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;
He heard the passengers' voices talking of home,
He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,
And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood;
He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:
His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,
The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white;
He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last,
Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,
I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.'
A sword swept.
Over the pass the voices one by one
Faded, and the hill slept.