Was This Romance?

by GRETCHEN FINLETTER

1

THAT reading could be a joy and a resource came to me as a glad surprise when I was given the Dotty Dimple and the Five Little Peppers books. It is difficult to analyze why a certain series becomes so popular with a child, but the ingredients that make for this success seem to be a large family, so that one can identify oneself with a character one’s own age, a day by day account of the characters, and great dullness. There is a fascination about dullness. It immediately eliminates competition.

Dotty was the youngest member of the Parlin family. She had two older sisters, Prudy and Susy, and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Parlin. There were also Aunt Madge, who visited them for many months, Mrs. Read, their Quaker grandmother, and a mischievous little cousin who lisped, called Flaxie Frizzle.

The sisters dressed in the morning, they went to school, they came home, they ate their meals, they played a little, they went to bed. It was as absorbing as an account of the Rorgias. I loved the Purlins. I worried over their troubles and rejoiced in their happiness. I secretly became Prudy. My only fear was that the books would end, but year after year Sophie May continued to play Boswell to this blameless family.

Mrs. Parlin was very unlike my own mother. She wore an apron and was always ready with a cookie and a bit of advice. When Prudy told her “white lie,” the climax of many chapters, Mrs. Parlin resorted to tears and an apple. The Parlin girls also wore aprons and bonnets and tippets. They had little duties to perform, like sweeping the hearth or getting father his slippers. I would have gladly brought my father his slippers, but he always changed his shoes in his own room and seemed to need no help.

When an older person addressed the girls, they answered, “Yes’m” or “No’m.”

“Thee must think before thee speaks, little Prudy,” said Grandmother Read.

“Yes’in,” answered Prudy earnestly.

Aunt Madge, who was pretty, sewed very well. The sisters would sit in her bedroom and would make the most remarkable variety of interesting things under the direction of “her nimble fingers.” Now I had an Aunt H. who was also very pretty. Rut she did not wear an apron. We never sat with her through the long afternoons while “her needle flashed in and out of the soft muslin.” We often went into her room. Rut it was to examine all the silver brushes and bottles she had on the dressing table, or to try on her hats.

The Five Little Peppers were much poorer than the Parlins. They lived in a little brown house and their mother was a widow. Mrs. Pepper was really up against it. Often there was no coal, the furniture was broken, and the lack of clothing was a serious problem. Rut such was the indomitable spirit of Mrs. Pepper that the little brown house was always full of hope.

Polly, the oldest girl, was the heroine of the series. She had brown hair which curled a little, and brown eyes, and she helped “Mamsie,” as the children called their mother, see the family through their troubles. Mamsie was not so gentle as Mrs. Parlin. It seemed to me she almost preferred the hard way.

“Oh, I wish,” said Joey discontentedly, pushing back his bowl of mush and molasses, “we could have something new to eat.”

“Better be glad you’ve got that, Joey,” said Mrs. Pepper, taking another cold potato and sprinkling a little salt on it.

In the town where the Peppers lived was a rich old man called Mr. King, who had a son Jasper just two years older than Polly. Jasper began to sneak away from his home full of mgs and conservatories and a grand piano, and go to the little brown house.

Well, you can imagine what happened. Mr. King was indignant and wanted the Peppers thrown out of the town. Little Phronsie Pepper, a girl of about five, went to see Mr. King and told him exactly how she felt. And as Jasper’s health had improved, — he was a delicate boy, — Mr. King swallowed his pride and called on Mamsie. Then, after considering the matter very briefly, Mr. King invited Mamsie and the five children to come and live with him in his carpeted home, and asked Mamsie to become his housekeeper. That he wanted her for this particular role was surprising, for Mrs. Pepper’s ideas of food were, to say the least, austere. But Mamsie always seemed to inspire confidence in older men. Several years later she married Dr. Fisher, a widower with gleaming spectacles, who adored the way she cooked.

As Polly grew older, I began to suspect that Jasper was falling in love with her. There was only a hint here, a hint there, but if one studied the passages very carefully, it was fair to conclude that something was happening. I had never read a love scene. Finally, in the sixth volume, the twenty-second chapter, I came to it. Polly had been away in the city as a music teacher and had just returned home.

Polly, in a soft white gown, sat on a low scat by Mother Fisher’s side, her head in Mamsie’s lap. It was after dinner and the gas was turned low.

“Mamsie,” said Polly, and she threw one hand over her head to clasp Alother Fisher’s strong fingers closer, “it’s so good to be home — oh! you can’t think how I wanted you.”

Just then somebody looked into Mother Fisher’s bedroom.

“Oh! beg pardon,” said Jasper, as he saw them. But there was so much longing in the voice that Polly called out, “Oh! Come, Jasper. May he, Mamsie? ”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Fisher, “come in, Jasper,” and made room for him to sit down by her side.

“Now isn’t this nice!” breathed Polly, lifting her head out of her mother’s lap to look at him on Mamsie’s other side.

“I want to tell you something,” began Jasper quietly to Mrs. Fisher, “— and to you too, Polly. Mrs. Fisher — may I speak?” He leaned over and looked into the black eyes above Polly’s shining brown hair.

“Yes,” said Alother Fisher as quietly.

“Polly,” said Jasper, “look at me, do, dear!”

Polly lifted her brown eyes quietly. “Why, Jasper?”

He put out his hand and Polly instinctively laid her own warm palm within it. “Do you think you could love me — I’ve loved you ever since the Little Brown House days, dear!”

“Oh, Jasper!” Polly cried, with a glad ring in her voice, “ how good you are,” and she clung to his hand across Mamsie’s lap.

“Will you, Polly?” cried Jasper, holding her hand so tight that she winced a bit, “ tell me quickly, dear.”

“Will I what?” asked Polly wonderingly.

“Love me, Polly.”

“Oh! I do — I do,” she cried, “you know it, Jasper. I love you with all my heart.”

“Polly, will you marry me? Tell her. Mrs. Fisher, do, and make her understand,” begged Jasper, turning to Alother Fisher imploringly.

“Polly, child,” said Mamsie, putting both arms around her, careful not to disturb Jasper’s hand over Polly’s, “Jasper wants you to be his wife — do you love him enough for that?”

Polly, not taking her brown eyes from Jasper’s face, laid her other hand upon his. “I love him enough,” she said, “for that; oh, Jasper!”

“I always wanted to call you Mamsie,” said Jasper looking into Mrs. Fisher’s face, “and now I can! ”

I was outraged. Was that the way a proposal was made? Was this romance? Dimly I felt that here art was not imitating nature. It was not true. I turned from the Peppers. I did not like them.

That same sense of fury came to me again a year or two later. But this time I had to believe it, for it was a great book — Little Women. I was reading about real, unpredictable people and everything seemed right, and then — Jo did not marry Laurie. Amy married him and Jo married Dr. Bhaer. I wonder how many people feel with me that a greatwrong was done by these alliances? Why did Laurie have to choose the blonde Amy? I never liked her. Why did he not win Jo, who was the grand character of them all? My resentment against Louisa Aleott on this score has never died.

2

ONE cannot read without sooner or later wanting to try to write oneself, and fortunately there was a door wide open to young authors — the St. Nicholas Magazine.

The first part of the St. Nicholas was an honest-togoodness magazine. There were short stories, articles, poems, pictures, and two serials. For many years Ralph Henry Barbour was its Trollope. He never stopped writing. Hardly had the last word appeared in The New Boy at Hilltop than Tom, Dick, and Harriet began. On the heels of Harry’s Island came Captain Chub and The Magic Foot-ball. Though the books were for boys, the girls read them. They were very exciting. A fine fellow was accused of cheating and took the blame so that it would not fall on his best friend, who was also under suspicion, and it was not until nearly the last chapter that the whole matter was cleared up and a very unpleasant boy was found to be the guilty one.

Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote Racketty-Packetty House for St. Nicholas. George Madden Martin wrote Emmy Lou and Abbie Ann. Alice Hegan Rice frequently contributed. The best writers were there. But the serial system was tantalizing and the words “To be continued” an agony. It was too long to wait a whole month to see what happened.

This torture was as nothing to the anticipation of a contributor to the St. Nicholas League. There were about eight pages of competitions in the back of the magazine. They were in Verse, Prose, Drawing, Photography, Puzzle Making, and Puzzle Answers. There were stern rules for the contestants. One was allowed to write on only one side of the paper, and the writing must be in ink. The contribution had to be in by a certain date. Parents or teachers countersigned the paper, attesting that they were convinced beyond doubt that the contribution had not been copied. But if one carefully lived up to all the rules, the possibilities of reward were enormous.

One could win a gold or silver medal. One could be on t he Roll of Honor. At one time there were cash prizes of five dollars. But best of all there was one’s own worked-over poem or story actually in print, like a book, under one’s own printed name.

The subjects were varied. The artists drew “A Heading for March” or “My Favorite Nook.” The photographers took pictures of “A Hot Day,” “A Busy Street,” or “An Animal Friend.” They were all snapped by Brownie Jr. Kodaks.

The poets and prose writers were the most persistently regular contributors. They drew the deepest on their own inspiration and worked the hardest. A silver medal for a poem meant much more than a silver medal for a snapshot. It was the real thing. The poets wrote verses on “The Land of Romance,” “The Star,” “A Patriot,” and “Friendship.” A girl called E. Vincent Millay won medal after medal. Two boys, S. V. Benét and Robert Hillyer, did exceptionally well.

In the prose articles the authors really let themselves go and ran the whole gamut of experience. “A Historic Christmas” or “A Family Tradition” produced fairly orthodox pieces. The Editors must have had in mind the training of future writers for the Reader s Digest when they asked for articles on “What Experience in My Life Has Been of the Greatest Help to Me.” But sometimes the subjects were too popular and the medals had to be given right and left. This occurred when the authors were asked to give an account of “Lost in a Storm.”

It seemed as though every reader of the Si. Nicholas had had this dreadful experience. Hundreds of harrowing stories poured in. America was full of children huddled under pine trees, deserted in ravines, nearly struck again and again by bolts of lightning, hanging desperately to overturned canoes, lost and lost again, and yet miraculously saved and able to describe their terrible adventures.

Rachel Field was a heavy contributor. She made many of the other authors jealous. They felt she must be showing off, she used such long words. A puzzle extremely difficult to solve was sent in by a boy named Hamilton Fish Armstrong. It was called “A Roman Zigzag.” For this he received a medal.

3

’THERE was still one further opportunity for writing, and that was to The Letter Box. Boys and girls from all over the world wrote in, describing their foreign homes and their glad excitement when the St. Nicholas arrived by camel or sled. Foreign children who were also members of the League sent greetings to the American members.

YALTA, CRIMEA, RUSSIA
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: —
I seldom see letters from Russia so I thought I would write you one. I am a pupil of the Imperial Lyceum at St. Petersburg. I am staying for my health in the Crimea, a few versts from Sevastopol. The railway goes no further than Sevastopol.
The Emperor has a palace called Livadia, about 2 versts from Yalta; almost every day we see some of the imperial family driving about. Yesterday there was a grand bazaar at which were present all the imperial family. The Empress and the four Grand Duchesses, her daughters, presided at the stalls.
My eldest sister who is now married to the Russian naval attache in Washington took you when she was a girl. I am taking you for the third year and I especially like the serial, “The Runaway.”
I am your very interested reader,
VLADIMIR RIMSKY-KORSAKOFF (age 14)

TOKIO, JAPAN
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: —
For a few months I have been getting you sent by a grown-up friend of mine. I have been your lover since I had you first given by him. ... I was sorry that I had no father, as he, who was an officer, fell in the Russo-Japanese War; but happy now as I have found a good friend in you. . . .
I am teaching English to myself by helps of some books. It seems to me a rather hard task to master certain language thoroughly. But I shall fight and conquer all the difficulties and I shall gain your prize. I wish to contribute you proses, in which I tell you something about Japan. . . . Japan is the romantic realm of the world; her national idea, sceneries, and what belongs to Japan is all romantic. I dare say, I am myself a romantic boy.

I always wish that many American boys could correspond with us the Japanese, as I believe that the correspondence would, no doubt, produce an appreciable friendship. . . . That friendship might be called “Little Jap-American Alliance.” . . .
With best wishes, I am
Your loving reader in Japan,
PENTARROW MOCHIZUKI

Editorial comment: —
Here is a very interesting and highly creditable letter from a “romantic” boy-reader of this magazine, in far away Japan. His resolve to master the difficult English language, and his evident friendly feeling for America are heartily to be commended.

4

IT MUST have rained a great deal in the days of St. Nicholas. I do not wish to pass a moral judgment on the virtue of rain, but there is no doubt that when the heavens opened and one was shut in the house, it was up to one’s own ingenuity to provide amusement.

There was making fudge. It took about forty minutes, and no one ever had sufficient patience to let it harden enough. The St. Nicholas gave a great deal of advice on fudge.

There was cutting out and pasting. We all had big scrapbooks which were called houses. We cut out of magazines pictures of elegant sofas and chairs and pasted them in the rooms. The kitchen was full of hardware advertisements, the garden a mass of seed catalogue suggestions.

We dressed up. We took what we dared of my mother’s dresses and hats and then we eit her played store or called on each other, talking in high-pitched and cultured voices which we had never heard used by any adult. As we poured water out of a china teapot into little cups, we crooked our fingers.

Polly always took the name of Madame Delton. Wearing a tall turban and a spotted veil, she would tell us how things were going in the Delton menage and we in turn would describe our own affairs. The point of the tea party was of course to do all the talking and keep the conversation on oneself. Then Polly would skillfully begin to hog the subject. She would throw out dark hints about Mr. Delton. He had not been around lately. She thought he might be in prison. It was almost discourteous not to ask what Mr. Delton had done. Polly seized her opportunity.

“The Inspector came to see me last night.”

Our own accounts of shopping expeditions and children’s diseases paled. Mr. Delton was not the best of husbands. He was in fact quite awful. But he had that rare quality of interest. No matter what new evil he dreamt up to inflict on the unfortunate Madame Delton, we grudgingly but inevitably wanted to hear the whole story.

The monsoons must have continued, for finally the St. Nicholas decided to do something about it. The editors ran a group of rainy-day suggestions for mothers and nurses. This was a great mistake. One of these was headed “How to Make a Suspension Bridge out of Old Spools,” and was full of diagrams with dotted lines. Another described “Useful Ornaments for the Home Made of Colored String.” No household had enough old spools or colored string. No nurses, much less mothers, wanted to be bothered. The projects were never finished. They were in fact impossible. The St. Nicholas decided to give up about the weather.

And they were right. These ideas were not really needed. When all the painting and pasting and dressing up was over, children turned to the bookshelves and hauled out the old red volumes of St. Nick of the eighties. Lying on their stomachs they turned the pages and were absorbed in the children of another day; those remote children who wore such different clothes, who had never seen an automobile, who studied by lamp instead of gas light. How strange not to have known of all the exciting things that were ahead of them. Those early children of St. Nicholas, so old-fashioned, so different, one could almost pity them. And yet in all the pictures they were laughing too.

Then, as the rain fell against the windows, children went into a strange, fantastic dream called the future. It was difficult to imagine, but it seemed that there would be a time when one would be grown-up oneself— say twenty years old, or maybe even thirty. Other children then would appear with new ways of doing things. It was not the new children that were so interesting: it was the thought of oneself as different. The dream went into materialistic channels — oneself with an automobile, oneself wearing clothes of one’s own choice.

People said the world changed. But it didn’t seem likely that much would happen. As one looked at the old books, there had been wars — the Civil War and Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders in the Spanish War. There wouldn’t be anything so exciting as that again. That was in history. No, the world seemed pretty well set. The changes would be in that eternally absorbing subject, oneself.