Seasonal Reading

A cool wind has been blowing all day today. The sky is heavy with clouds, there's a familiar smell in the air, and remembrances of all the things I have loved are coming in a rush: books and invented words and chess games and poetry, the smell of wind and rain and damp leaves, cloaks and scarves and boots and sweaters, apples and potatoes and the clink of dishes in the kitchen, walks in golden weather and reading under blankets afterwards;--even Latin verbs and putting on more socks to try to keep my feet warm (nostalgia can be a funny thing sometimes). Autumn is coming soon, and I'm making a list of books to read by the fire or under an open window. What are your favorites for Autumn reading?

Persuasion by Jane Austen
An Acceptable Time by Madeleine L'Engle
The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis
The Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

An Old Favorite

When I was young, there was a small town library that we used to go to, with a small but cozy children's section. I used to check out the same books a lot and re-read them. I don't remember what they all were, just snatches - I guess I was about 11, because we moved soon after that. Some of the books I've come across again as we've been homeschooling - Half Magic by Edward Eager, The Saturdays, The Railway Children. But my very favorite one, I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember much of anything about it (I guess I don't have a very good memory!) except that there were five kids, and the baby was called Honey. Mama Squirrel suggested that I ask at Stump the Bookseller, so I did - and within a couple of days someone had solved my mystery and provided me with the name and author of the book - The Children of the Old House by Ruth Bouchard (1963, Doubleday). So I ordered a copy - it's not an easy book to locate - and it's been sitting on my shelf for a long, long time. I'm finally getting around to reading it. J is away this week; he went to Biloxi with some guys at church to do some post-Katrina work, so I started reading this book to L because he's bored with his brother gone. And, as I'm reading, I'm remembering, and I'm sure this is the same book.

Here's what the inside book jacket says:

"What could be more exciting than to move from Grandfather's too-small house in town to a big house all one's own right near a river? That's what the children thought until they saw the house: it had no front door, only a big opening where a double door should have been. The sun poured through empty window holes and everything was dirty--but there was a garden, wild and beautiful, with plenty of room. Almost anything could happen in such a house and such a garden, and this the story of what did happen in the house in which Ruth, Michael, Peter, Inga and Honey grew up and had their funny, sad, and dangerous adventures. Moving to a new town meant the excitement of new friends and a new school--but it also meant lots of money needed for proper furnishings and house repairs. The brothers and sisters embarked on some hilarious projects to help make money, and through their loving and imaginative efforts, combined with several serious family crises, the family finally turned the old house into a real home."

What I liked about the book was that each child was allowed to choose a place in the house, any place they wanted, to be their very own, and after they had done something to earn the privilege, the father would fix it up for them as a private place.

The littlest one, Honey, was born at midnight on Midsummer Eve, and the mother is convinced that he's special. The rest of the family agree that he's a beautiful baby, with a honey-colored glow and honey brown eyes to match, but they don't see him as unusual. He's just a baby in the book and doesn't really come into the story too much.

The story feels like All-of-a-Kind Family, or The Moffats.

Anyway, here's how chapter 9 begins:

Almost An Accident

It was on Granny's birthday that something terrible very nearly happened. It was Ruth's fault. It was the greatest trouble she ever caused, but it came about through one of her usual faults--tormenting Michael.

Of late Ruth had been even nastier to Michael than usual. She did not want to, but she could not stop herself. The truth was she was jealous of Michael. For one thing, Ruth was jealous because she had not yet earned her own place. But she minded even more about Daddy. He had become quite interested in Michael's doings in the attic, and he often visited him there. Nobody else was allowed in Michael's own place. He had put up a notice: 'Private.'

... All this made Ruth jealous. She ran Michael down more than ever. Again and again she had to be told to leave the table. Again and again Mummy told her she had a proper poison tongue. And still she crossed Michael whenever she could.

Then Granny's birthday came along, and on that day something happened that did change Ruth at last ...

-----------------------------------------

The back of the book jacket lists 'Books About Children in Other Lands': Mario by Marion Garthwaite (Mexican), Ten and a Kid by Sadie Rose Weilerstein (Lithuanian), Aloha Susan by Helen Hoyt (Hawaii), Su-Mei's Golden Year by Marguerite Harmon Bro (Chinese), Esmeralda Ahoy by Elisabeth Fairholme and Pamela Powell (British), Sword of the Winds by Nancy Faulkner (Cornish), Children of the Soil by Nora Burglon (Scandinavian). This one is apparently the German one, although when I was a kid, I never saw any others in the series and never even realized that this was a story about turn-of-the-century Germany. Listen to some of the illustrators of this series: Kurt Weise (Ping), Peter Spier, Edgar Parin D'Aulaire, C. Walter Hodges.

Golden Windows by Laura E. Richards

I'm going to do a running post, a short summary of each chapter of this text, which is online here. Laura E. Richards is probably better known for her poem Eletelephony.

ch 1 The Golden Windows - a farm boy sees a house on a hill with windows made of gold and diamonds. One day his father gives him a day off, so he goes to see this house. When he gets there, he finds that the windows are just regular glass like his own house. But he meets a girl his age who tells him that she, too, has seen a house with windows made of gold and diamonds. She points to a house on a hill, and it's his own house!

Stories of the East From Herodotus by Alfred J. Church

I guess I should be doing narrations of what I'm reading.

I had to re-read this one; I read the first three chapters, but I'd gotten so hopelessly lost somewhere in chapter two that I ended up abandoning my whole reading schedule last week. I re-read cchapters 2 and 3, and then read chapter 4, and did much better this time. So here's what happened in those first 4 chapters.

Croesus is the king of Lydia, and this is during the time when Cyrus the Persian is conquering the world. Croesus has everything he could desire - wealth, power, family, friends, comfort. So he tries to impress Solon. After showing all that he has, he asks him, "Who is the happiest man in the world?" But Solon says that some poor man who was content and died peacefully after a good, long life is the happiest man of all. Croesus is offended that Solon doesn't say that he, Croesus, is the happiest, so he asks him why. Solon says that you can't truly judge a man's happiness until his life is over because a man might be very fortunate for the first part of life, but then have such bad misfortunes later that when his life ends, everyone thinks of his life as unhappy.

In the second chapter, Croesus asks the Greek gods on Olympus whether he'll be successful if he goes to war with Persia. The prophecy says that 'if you war with persia, a great kingdom will fall.' Croesus takes that as a good sign, but he wants confirmation, so he asks how long his kingdom will last, and the prophecy says that his kingdom will last until a mule reigns in his stead. he takes this as a good omen, too - how could a mule rule instead of him? So he attacks Persia, but by chapter three, Lydia has lost to Persia and Croesus has been taken prisoner. Cyrus puts Croesus on a pile of logs and sets fire to it, and Croesus remembers Solon's words. he cries, "Solon, Solon!" and Cyrus wonders why. So he asks him, and Croesus tells him the story of his meeting with Solon and how you can't tell whether a man's life is happy until you've seen the end of it. He tells Cyrus that he was once a rich, powerful, happy king like Cyrus, but he's come to this end. Cyrus has pity on him and sees the truth of Solon's words, so he sets Croesus free and grants him a boon. Croesus says he wants someone to go to Olympus and ask why the gods deceived him with their prophecies.

So Cyrus sends someone to ask, and here's the response: The prophecy about a great kingdom falling meant that Lydia, not Persia, would fall - yet the gods had had mercy on Croesus because Lydia had been fated to fall, and only because of their mercy on Croesus had it lasted as long as it had. And what about the mule? Cyrus was the mule - a mule is a half-breed, half regal horse, half low-bred donkey. Cyrus's father was a prince, but his mother was a poor commoner of no royal blood.

Our National Parks by John Muir

I finished this book this afternoon; the plan is to suggest it as a nature reading option for the lightened version of AO's Year 11 along with Fabre's book about Caterpillars - choose one or the other. The Caterpillar book is lots more interesting, but the National Parks book has some real gems scattered throughout it. It tends to drag at times with descriptions of trees (you might call it a veritable detritus of description), so I think some students might find it slow going. Here's a bonus for those who wondered if the word "detritus" ever appeared anywhere other than the Jackson Browne song Casino Nation: John Muir uses it no less than four times in the last half of this book. Maybe he heard the song while he was in the middle of writing this book, looked it up, and to display his new knowledge, thought he'd cleverly and naturally work it into his text? No, probably not--that sounds more like something I'd do.

Here are some really nice quotes from the book:

chapter 4: "Going to the woods is going home; for I suppose we came from the woods originally . . . Here everything is hospitable and kind, as if planned for your pleasure, ministering to every want of body and soul. Even the storms are friendly and seem to regard you as a brother, their beauty and tremendous fateful earnestness charming alike. But the weather is mostly sunshine, both winter and summer and the clear sunny brightness of the park is one of its most striking characteristics. . . . the park is a paradise that makes even the loss of Eden seem insignificant."

various animal quotes from chapter 6:

"In my first interview with a Sierra bear we were frightened and embarrassed, both of us, but the bear's behavior was better than mine."

"(Snakes) will teach you that scales may cover as fine a nature as hair or feathers or anything tailored."

"Trout-fishing, regarded as bait for catching men, for the saving of both body and soul, is important, and deserves all the expense and care bestowed on it."

(Describing song birds in the redwood forests) "How romantic and beautiful is the life of this brave little singer on the wild mountain streams . . . No wonder he sings well, since all the air about him is music; every breath he draws is part of a song, and he gets his first music lessons before he is born; for the eggs vibrate in time with the tones of the waterfalls. Bird and stream are inseparable, songful and wild, gentle and strong,--the bird ever in danger in the midst of the stream's mad whirlpools, yet seemingly immortal. And so I might go on, writing words, words, words; but to what purpose? Go see him and love him, and through him as through a window look into Nature's warm heart."

quotes from chapter 9:

"In summer the days go by in almost constant brightness, cloudless sunshine pouring over the forest roof, while in the shady depths there is the subdued light of perpetual morning. The new leaves and cones are growing fast and make a grand show, seeds are ripening, young birds learning to fly, and with myriads of insects glad as birds keep the air whirling, joy in every wingbeat, their humming and singing blending with the gentle ah-ing of the winds; while at evening every thicket and grove is enchanted by the tranquil chirping of the blessed hylas, the sweetest and most peaceful of sounds, telling the very heart-joy of earth as it rolls through the heavens."

"One of the most interesting features of the grove is a small waterfall with a flowery, ferny, clear brimming pool at the foot of it. How cheerily it sings the songs of the wilderness, and how sweet it tones! You seem to taste as well as hear them, while only the subdued roar of the river in the deep cañon reaches up into the grove, sounding like the sea and the winds. So charming a fall and pool in the heart of so glorious a forest, fool pagans would have consecrated to some lovely nymph."

Cotting Sop

"Mommy, I want my cotting sop."




That's what Miss M asked me for this afternoon. I had no idea what she wanted.





After unravelling some clues, I figured it out.




She had gotten the words backwards; she meant to say 'sopping cot.'




That's a lot closer to what she wanted: her toy shopping cart.

Fabre's Life of the Caterpillar

I finished this etext this afternoon. Who would ever have believed that a book about caterpillars could have you on the edge of your seat?

Fabre stops at nothing to learn the private habits of his subjects. What do they like to eat? Will they eat anything else? What if they're really hungry and deprived of their preferred food? How do they mate? Will the males find the female if she's inside the house? How about if she's locked in sealed glass where they can see her but can't smell her? Where do they get their silk from? What is it about caterpillars that irritates your skin if you handle them? Can you find out by concentrating a lot of caterpillars into a mash and wearing the mixture against your arm for a few days?

I wish I had discovered his books a long time ago - this is the kind of thing I craved as a child. I remember loving books about spiders and insects, but none of them really explored their daily habits and how they survived and raised their young, which is what I really wanted to know. Fabre's books are what I really wanted to read, but I didn't know they existed.

Here's one of the detours he sometimes takes; here he discusses man's attempts at controlling garden pests by introducing foes who eat those pests:

"The cherry of our orchards is excellent eating: a maggot contends with us for its possession. In vain do we weigh suns and planets: our supremacy, which fathoms the universe, cannot prevent a wretched worm from levying its toll on the delicious fruit. We make ourselves at home in a cabbage-bed: the sons of the Pieris make themselves at home there too. Preferring broccoli to wild radish, they profit where we have profited; and we have no remedy against their competition save caterpillar-raids and egg-crushing, a thankless, tedious and none too efficacious work.
Every creature has its claims on life. The Cabbage-caterpillar eagerly puts forth his own, so much so that the cultivation of the precious plant would be endangered if others concerned did not take part in its defence. These others are the auxiliaries, our helpers from necessity and not from sympathy. The words friend and foe, auxiliaries and ravagers are here the mere conventions of a language not always adapted to render the exact truth. He is our foe who eats or attacks our crops; our friend is he who feeds upon our foes. Everything is reduced to a frenzied contest of appetites."

Wait, one more quote, this is related to intelligent design.

"But let me tell you: we are called old-fashioned, you and I; with our conception of a world ruled by an Intelligence, we are quite out of the swim. Order, balance, harmony: that is all silly nonsense. The universe is a fortuitous arrangement in the chaos of the possible. What is white might as easily be black, what is round might be angular, what is regular might be shapeless and harmony might just as well be discord. Chance has decided all things.
Yes, we are a pair of prejudiced old fogeys when we linger with a certain fondness over the marvels of perfection. Who troubles about these futilities nowadays? So-called serious science, the science which spells honour, profit and renown, consists in slicing your animal with very costly instruments into tiny circular sections. My housekeeper does as much with a bunch of carrots, with no higher pretention than to concoct a modest dish, which is not an invariable success. In the problem of life are we more successful when we have split a fibre into four and cut a cell into shavings? It hardly seems so. The riddle is as dark as ever. Ah, how much better is your method, my dear master; above all, how much loftier your philosophy, how much more wholesome and invigorating!"

Miss M Has Opinions About Names

We have a friend who recently had a baby boy. In the van today Miss M informed us that his name (a very nice, Biblical, not unusual name) is 'not a pleasant name, it's too contrated.' She thinks that Sleeping Beauty would be a much nicer name for the baby.

I told her that I'd inform his parents and let them decide if a name change is in order.

My Own Schedule

Why should the kids have all the fun? I've had a list of children's books from www.mainlesson.com that I've been wanting to preview for AO for awhile, so I made myself a reading schedule of my own.

Caterpillars, Science, Food

I'm actually previewing two books for Year 11. The other one is The Life of the caterpillar by Jean Henri Fabre. He's observing some pine processionary caterpillars and wants to experiment to see if they'll eat other species of pine, or just their native pine. But, however much all pine trees smell alike, the caterpillars only eat a couple species. Fabre makes this comment about science fabricating food on the assumption that one kind is pretty much the same as another:

"We must mistrust the chemist's retort when it pokes its nose into the kitchen. It may succeed in making butter out of tallow-candles and brandy out of potatoes; but, when it tells us that the products are identical, we shall do well to refuse these abominations. Science, astonishingly rich as it is in poison, will never provide us with anything fit to eat, because, though the raw substance falls to a large extent within its domain, that same substance escapes its methods the moment that it is wanted organized, divided and subdivided indefinitely by the process of life, as needed by the stomach, whose requirements are not be met by measured doses of our reagents. The raw material of cell and fibre may perhaps be artificially obtained, some day; cell and fibre themselves, never. There's the rub with your chemical feeding."

There's more. Muir observed that insects tend to be cooperative and communal when they eat plants, but insects that prey on other insects are too competitive for food/survival to work together - there's not enough food to go around for them to live together. They'd kill each other fighting over the food. And - communal insects only have one mother in any community: the queen. Maternal instinct makes mothers too fiercely protective to cooperate in a communal society. They'd never sacrifice their own eggs for the good of the hive or nest.

Here's his quote about what insects can teach us about forcing equality in order to have a communal society like the pine processionary caterpillars, who are as alike in appearance, ability and ambition as every other pine processionary caterpillar:

"If it suited us to go to school to the [caterpillars], we should soon see the inanity of our levelling and communistic theories. Equality is a magnificent political catchword, but little more. Where is it, this equality of ours? In our social groups, could we find as many as two persons exactly equal in strength, health, intelligence, capacity for work, foresight and all the other gifts which are the great factors of prosperity? Where should we find anything analogous to the exact parity prevailing among caterpillars? Nowhere. Inequality is our law. And a good thing, too.
A sound which is invariably the same, however often multiplied, does not constitute a harmony. We need dissimilarities, sounds loud and soft, deep and shrill; we need even discords which, by their harshness, throw into relief the sweetness of the chords. In the same way, human societies are harmonious only with the aid of contraries. If the dreams of our levellers could be realized, we should sink to the monotony of the caterpillar societies; art, science, progress and the lofty flights of the imagination would slumber indefinitely in the dead calm of mediocrity."