I always loved Queen Anne’s Lace. When I was young I memorized the poem Queen Anne’s Lace by Mary Leslie Newton that brought the flower to life for me. You may know it. It went like this:
Queen Anne, Queen Anne has washed her lace (She chose a Summer’s day) And hung it in a grassy place, To whiten, if it may.
Queen Anne, Queen Anne, has left it there, And slept the dewy night: Then waked, to find the sunshine fair, And all the meadows white.
Queen Anne, Queen Anne, is dead and gone (She died a Summer’s day) But left her lace to whiten on Each weed-entangled way!
I expected to see the poem above when I turned the pages of a September issue of Needlecraft magazine and saw the title of the monthly poem. Seeing a poem for adults in the space surprised me, I was so ready for the children’s chant above.
I poked around a bit to unearth some history for both poets. While I can find a good deal of information about Mary Leslie Newton, whose life was well documented and who wrote several books, I found almost nothing on Alicia C. Stewart.
Apparently Alicia’s poetry found occasional publication, even if she is forgotten today. I located one poem called Thanksgiving, published in a Vermont newspaper in 1934. But as far as I can tell, she published no compilations, she appeared in few magazines, and she left her papers to no university. If anyone knows anything about Alicia C. Stewart, the poet, please drop a line in the comments. I’d like to find out more about her.
Queen Anne’s Lace
Queen Anne's Lace
by Alicia C. Stewart
As I looked from my window this morning
O'er the meadows, drenched deeply with dew
That the sunbeams were turning to diamonds
A marvelous miracle grew.
There, dainty and white as a snowflake,
And pure as a baby's sweet face,
All over the green carpet scattered
Glistened patches of Queen Anne's Lace.
Were they dropped from the hands of the fairies ––
Wee 'kerchiefs so filmy and fine?
I wondered what magic had brought them,
Like stars in the meadow to shine;
And whether a needle or shuttle,
Each serving so well in its place,
Was plied by Queen Anne's skillful fingers
As she fashioned her beautiful lace.
Arily, gracefully swaying,
Facing the sun and the sky ––
No loom for that magical weaving,
No shuttle nor needle to ply.
Straight from the hand of the Father,
Pasture and meadow to grace
Teaching the lesson of trusting,
came this wonderful Queen Anne's Lace.
One of the things that appealed to me about this poem, Queen Anne’s Lace, was its mention of needle and shuttle made lace. What a delightful nod to the lacemakers among us. I wondered which kind of lacemaking needle the poet had in mind, if any, when she wrote these words?
If you enjoyed this poem about nature and its flowers, you may enjoy A Song of June as well.
Many women found that time with their needle could turn a profit.
Many of the magazines of the Twenties and Thirties offered ideas for women to make extra money from home. For many families, the Twenties life wasn’t attending party after party in dance shoes and short dresses. It was about making ends meet and finding the best prices at the grocer. And sometimes it was about making a bit of money on the side. Owning a Twenties needlecraft business was highly encouraged by some of the needlework magazines of the time..
Here is one story, direct from the pages of Needlecraft Magazine. These little stories appeared on the editorial page, and I’m sure subscribers read them with interest, just as I did when I found it 100 years later.
A Twenties mail-order needlecraft business
Attributed to a Bess V. from Tennessee, this tells a tale of ingenuity and business savvy. Bess didn’t just open a store front and wait for people to appear. Instead, she looked at her situation realistically and networked with people in her community to get the word out. Here is her story:
“My own Needlecraft Shop is on a mail-order basis. I live in a small town where it would scarcely pay to open such a shop in the regular way. Yet I trust the hints I am glad to offer, and which are drawn from personal experience will help others in adding to their income as I have done.
Then those who bought the camisoles showed them to friends. In a short time I was in receipt of mail orders from the city.
“My first orders were for a tatted camisole yoke, made up on white wash-silk. This I took with me on a shopping trip to a nearby city. I used it in soliciting orders from the clerks of the department store. The work spoke for itself, and I made my price as reasonable as possible. Because of this, I brought home enough orders to keep me busy for several weeks.
“Then those who bought the camisole yokes showed them to friends. In a short time I was in receipt of mail orders from the city. These were not only for yokes, but also for lace to trim underwear, pillowcases, and other articles. One woman sent an order for fourteen yards!
Tatted lace and embroidered hankies
“In another town near my home a woman I know set up a dressmaking establishment. She gave me permission to put some of my work on display in her windows. It sold rapidly, especially tatted collars and lace for trimming dresses. My friend said it really helped her business. Passers-by would stop to admire the work, and many of them came in and placed an order for a dress with one of the collars or some of the lace to match.
“Among my best sellers are handmade handkerchiefs. Material for half a dozen costs comparatively little. For some of them I use an edge of tiny tatted rings, or a simple dainty pattern in crochet. Others with plain edges show a design embroidered in colors.
“An assortment of these handkerchiefs, neatly arranged, was placed in a ready-to-wear waist [blouse] shop. Others were displayed in a millinery store where they sold readily.
“I have found that bits of thread left from embroidering larger pieces are often sufficient for working several handkerchief corners. The proprietors of shops such as I have named rarely object to having work placed on sale as long as it does not enter into competition with their own goods. On the contrary, they seem glad to have it.
“So here’s to the success of other workers! Where there’s a will the way is not hard to find. It requires only the determination to carry on, and the ability to see and grasp every opportunity presented. Perhaps we need to create them when we do not at once discern an opportunity. Let me say that Needlecraft has been and is a veritable goldmine to me. I have no difficulty whatever in selling the neatly finished designs with which it is always teeming.”
Things change yet they stay the same
It’s interesting that Bess needed to augment her income in the 1920s much like many of us do today. As I read through her story, I wondered… how did she get all this done while running a household in 1920-1928? She lists a massive amount of needlework production. Even though she outlines no time period for her side business, she still produces an amazing number of finished goods.
She makes:
Tatted lace collars
Lace yardage in tatting –– including a 14-yard order!
Tatted lace chemise yokes.
Embroidered handkerchiefs
Handkerchiefs with crochet edgings
Handkerchiefs with tatted edgings
Bess not only decorates the handkerchiefs, she makes them from fabric yardage. It was almost easier to hem a handkerchief while attaching the finished lace than it was to attach the lace to a finished purchased handkerchief.
Even considering the time span may equal three years or more, this is still quite a bit of handwork for someone to produce for sale. Not only that, but if someone asked me to tat 14 yards of edging I may just pass out! Bess must have really enjoyed working with her tatting shuttle.
In addition, owning a needlecraft business in the Twenties required bookkeeping, packaging, mailing, and keeping address and contact records. Basically, everything we do now to run a business, Bess needed to keep on paper.
I hope you enjoyed this look into the life of a needlecraft entrepreneur and this look at owning a Twenties needlecraft business. If you were going to open a mail-order shop like this today (a relatively easy project given the Internet), what would you want to sell? What projects do you love enough to create them over and over again?
Flowers blooming, birds singing – a sure sign of summer.
Not many poems exist that extol the glories of tatted lace. Well, actually, there might be more than you think. This tatting poem, A Summer Idyl, is one of… well… a few.
Usually I open these poetry selections with an outline of the author’s life and a link to other works if I can find them. This time, though, a lengthy search turned up nothing on the poet who wrote this tatting poem, A Summer Idyl. His name was Allan C. Stewart. And while his name may be lost to time, this poem can live on.
This is a nice poem to enjoy with your own shuttle, or crochet hook, or knitting needles in your lap. Or fix yourself a nice cool beverage, sit outdoors, and enjoy.
A Summer Idyl
by Allan C. Stewart
Swinging in a shaded hammock,
Watching Phyllis at her lace,
Life seems dowered with richest promise,
Filled with tenderness and grace.
Flowers are blooming, birds are singing,
Bowered in leafy tents of green,
I have eyes for naught but Phyllis,
Busy little household queen.
In and out her shuttle flashes,
While the dainty fabric grows
Like a dream of fairy weaving,
Smooth and lustrous, row on rows.
Chains and picots, rings and roses
One by one I see arrayed,
Fashioned by the slender fingers
Of this winsome, 'witching maid.
All intent upon her tatting,
Still she sits, demure and cool,
Never once her eyes are lifted––
Deep-fringed, like a woodland pool,
How I wish I knew her fancies...
Phyllis tilts her saucy face,
Saying sweetly, "I was thinking
My new thread makes lovely lace!"
As you can see, there’s a bit more going on here than a young lady at her tatting shuttle. We have to wonder if Phyllis is as enamored with her companion as her companion is with her? Don’t you wish you could continue to chapter two, and find out what happens when the autumn leaves fall?
I think many of us have been like Phyllis at one time or another, so wrapped in our current task that we focus on nothing else. I know I have! In fact, tatting thread in a new color takes me there almost every time.
If you enjoyed this poem, you may also like A Song of June. Do you know of any poems from the Teens through the Twenties that you’d like me to share? Drop me a comment and let me know.
This month’s poem, July by Susan Swett, is an old one. The poet died in Boston in 1907.
Susan lived with her younger sister Sophie, and both made their living as writers. Susan wrote poems and short stories. Her sister wrote stories and for a while was an editor of Youth’s Companion magazine. Susan’s poems appeared in children’s magazines like St. Nicholas as well as periodicals aimed at adult readership.
Of all her work, July is probably Susan Swett’s most famous poem. It appeared in children’s readers, women’s magazines, and you can find it online today.
Life of the poet
Born in Maine in 1843, Susan wrote one book of short stories, Field Clover and Beach Grass. It was published in 1898. A regional writer, her stories focus on the New England area that she knew. Much of Field Clover and Beach Grass is written in a New England dialect. However, she wrote her poems in standard English.
Published the day after her death, her obituary says, “her poems… reflected in a peculiarly happy manner the writer’s intimate knowledge of nature and her fondness for birds and flowers and all the various phases of the outdoor world. She was a ‘nature lover’ in the broadest and best sense, and though her fine talent for writing was for many years hindered by impaired health she has left many word-pictures of field and forest and garden that are deemed among the best of their kind.” (The Boston Globe, Jan 1, 1908.)
July
I hope you enjoy this month’s magazine poem, July, by Susan Swett. It appeared in a copy of Needlecraft magazine in the early 1920s.
July
by Susan Hartley Swett
When the scarlet cardinal tells
Her dream to the dragon-fly,
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,
And murmurs a lullaby––
It is July.
When the tangled cobweb pulls
The cornflower's cap awry,
And the lilies tall lean over the wall
To bow to the butterfly
It is July.
When the heat like a mist-veil floats,
And poppies flame in the rye,
And the silver note in the streamlet's throat
Has softened almost to a sigh––
It is July.
When the hours are so still that time
Forgets them and lets them lie
Neath petals pink till the night stars wink
At the sunset in the sky––
It is July.
If you would like to read other poems that magazines of the day thought their readers might enjoy, see A Song of June and Hurdy Gurdy Days.
A profusion of summer marigolds and coleus brighten the day.
Every month’s magazine delivery brought a new poem to read, ponder, and savor. Some, like A Song in June, were pretty enough to memorize. Others made the reader think. A few caused the reader to cringe. At least, I hope they did. Every now and then one of these poems makes me cringe.
While the month’s poem or poems may sit on any random page, waiting to be discovered much like today’s weekly poetry in the New Yorker, they ususally appeared on the first printed page. Somewhere below the masthead, among the editorials and shameless plugs to buy from the advertisers, you find the poem. Often it spoke of the seasons or an upcoming holiday. Once in a while it extolled the wonders of needlework or baking. Regardless where you found it, it was always there, waiting for you.
Today’s poem, A Song of June, was penned by poet Helen Coale Crew. Helen wrote poetry, short stories, essays, and children’s books. School readers, poetry anthologies, Harper’s Magazine, and Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine published her work. However, today she is an almost unknown author. Wikipedia contains no entry on her. You can find only one or two of her poems online. A dedicated search turns up a short story or two.
If you opened your much-anticipated June 1920 magazine issue, you found this poem. Not very long, it brought the joy of June right to your front porch as you sat reading with a fresh cup of coffee or tea. Here it is.
A Song of June
by Helen Coale Crew (1920)
Oh hear! Oh hear!
June draweth near;
I know it by the trilling clear
From bluebird's breast
When from his nest
He rises in the golden air.
Oh, see! Oh, see!
How yonder tree
Is clothed in white, all maidenly;
While every bloom
Sweet with perfume,
Is plundered by a dusty bee.
Oh, smell and taste!
For now in haste
The sun is opening every flower.
See yonder rose
Its heart disclose,
June ripens in one perfect hour!
One of the reasons for blogging about vintage poetry is to introduce poets both remembered and forgotten. So many good writers faded into obscurity when their particular style fell from fashion. I want to bring some of them back. They need to be known, read, and remembered. Sometimes I may even reproduce one of those cringey poems for your enjoyment.
In case you wonder about this poet, Helen was born Helen Cecelia Coale in Baltimore City, Maryland in December of 1866. She died in Evanston Illinois in 1941 and is buried in Ohio. Her husband Dr. Henry Crew taught physics at Northwestern University in Illinois, and was known for authoring General Physics, a college textbook of the Teens and Twenties. They had three children.
If you loved this poem, A Song in June, you might also like Aegean Echoes, a book of poetry that Helen wrote in 1911. You can find it here to read or download at the Internet Archive. A quick search of the Archive, while you’re there, will show you several books you can check out to read, but that are still under copyright.
If you enjoyed this selection, you may also want to readmy post about Hurdy-Gurdy Days, a poem about spring.
Spring days bring frolic after the quiet of winter.
In the Twenties and Thirties, almost every subscription magazine offered a monthly poem. Even periodicals devoted to only needlework printed editorials, letters from readers, and the obligatory poem of the month. I opened my May magazine from yesteryear and my eyes fell on the poem, Hurdy-Gurdy Days, by Martha Haskell Clark. And I realized I wanted to share it.
Then I wondered. Who was Martha Haskell Clark? Where did she live? What did she do? Here’s what I found out with a little poking around.
Martha Gay Haskell was born in 1885 in Minneapolis. Her father founded the Minneapolis Times, spent several years as publisher of the Boston Herald, and then six years as the vice president of the International Paper Company. Martha married a Dartmouth professor, Eugene Clark, in 1906. Her poetry appeared in Scribner’s, Good Housekeeping, and Ladies’ Home Journal. Sadly, she died in 1922 following an appendectomy. She was only about 36 years old. At her death she left a ten-year-old son.
But while she was alive, healthy, and full of life, she wrote poetry. Here is her poem Hurdy-Gurdy Days for your enjoyment.
Hurdy-Gurdy Days
by Martha H. Clark
April walks beside us still in budded cloak of brown,
Primrose gold above the hill the lengthened sunsets burn;
Every wind, a minstrel, goes singing through the town,
For hurdy-gurdy days are here––and May is at the turn!
May is at the turning in a blur of hill-blue haze,
There's the hint of leaf-smoke drifting down the dingy city ways;
There's a flash of bluebird weather through a rift of rainy skies,
And the dawn of dreams remembered in a gray world's eyes.
A battered hurdy-gurdy at the corner of the street,
Old tunes, forgotten tunes, and lilac breath and fern,
Where grimy venders' baskets spill their fragrance, haunting-sweet,
And every day is yesterday––and Youth is at the turn!
May is at the turning like a Gipsy in the lane,
With leaf-mist at her girdle, and her brown hair pearled with rain;
There's the green of the new grass creeping up the roadways from the south,
And the curve of love and laughter on a gray world's mouth.
March ran whistling down the hill, the gamin of the year;
April's but a child at school, with life and love to learn;
Sudden through the city-gray, riotous and dear,
Hurdy-gurdies strum the dusk––and May is at the turn!
May is at the turning in a burst of tulip-flame,
With a spattering of cowslip gold to show the road she came;
There's a young moon's silver sickle-gleam through orchard-boughs astart,
And forgotten love-songs throbbing in a gray world's heart.
Not much of Clark’s poetry appears online to the general searcher. As far as I know, only one book of poetry, called The Home Road, exists. It was published two years after her death, and contains poems collected from the various publications they appeared in. It also contains a short biography that tells you more about Martha and reveals her personality and interests. You can find it at Google Books. If you download it to take a look, be sure to read To a Kitten, Red Geraniums, and Trains –– three very different types of poems from a gifted hearthside poet.
The Little Miser, Part 3, concludes this World War I story of home sacrifice and family bonds. Does Hippity-hop’s work on her brother’s behalf go to naught? Does she save him? If you missed the start of this series, you can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here.
If you enjoy these stories, let me know in the comments. I have hundreds more.
Hippity-hop hoards her wealth.
Our Story, Continued….
Hippity no longer talked to the flowers, the bees, the butterflies, and the chipmunk. Rags was her only confidant. Once or twice, when she knew they were alone, she permitted herself the luxury of tears. Rags understood how she was suffering, and licked her hands and face. He begged her, in dog talk, to unburden her mind, and tell. He wanted her to be happy again. Then they would romp and play with Daddy and big brother Dick and Hippity would laugh aloud when he chased butterflies.
Hippity-hop struggled through the succeeding days, her definite purpose marooning her from the mainland of sympathy. Muvver and Daddy thought she was a miser. It was best so. What Dick thought she had no way of discovering, but her mind grasped at a straw. Perhaps he would understand that what she was doing was for him.
At the thought a roseate glow of righteousness enveloped her. In a few days the two months would be up, and she would be able to give him the money he needed. He would be free –– free from the persecution of Jerry Stewart, from the danger that Jerry represented! Then he would tell Muvver and Daddy that she wasn’t a miser, that she was a good little girl, and that she did love her country.
But a few days was a long way off. Supposing––and self-sympathy plunged deep into her mind, crowding out less thoughts––supposing she should die before! She had never seen death, but her imagination luxuriated in the picture of her flower-covered lifeless body wept over by a sorrowful family. When she lay dead they would understand how they had wronged her. She worked herself up into an ecstasy of anticipation until she actually believed her days were numbered. The seraphic exaltation inspired by her impending fate was tempered by a very human satisfaction over the grief and remorse her maligners would justly endure. They would learn too late that she had loved them.
But how would they know? There was only one way. Rags would tell, but they wouldn’t understand him. She must leave a letter. They would read the letter. It would make them weep, and then they would wish they had been kinder.
Her curriculum at school did not include spelling. She almost decided not to die when she thought of the stupendous task the composition of a letter would entail. Yet she had the heroic persistence which overcomes difficulties. She shut herself in her room. The epistle took her the better part of the afternoon. The sheet was wet with tears of self-pity as she wrote:
deer Mother Ime not a myzer––I luv you and dad and dick and i luv my Kuntree I sayvd the muny for dick Your ded chile Elizabeth Browne
She must not incriminate Dick in any way. He would understand, and in his joy at the deliverance he would tell of her noble sacrifice.
She folded the note and put it into her bank.
Two evenings later, the date marked on the calendar with Daddy’s cross, found her still alive and the possessor of nine dollars and thirty-five cents. She was almost sorry that her last will and her dramatic exit from this vale of tears would have to be sacrificed. But Dick would be saved! That was all she wanted.
It was the hour before dinner. Jerry was dining there that evening. With the money tied in a handkerchief she knocked at Dick’s door, and entered. The glory of her accomplishment bathed her cherubic face. Without a word she untied the handkerchief, emptied its contents on Dick’s bed and with shining eyes looked at her brother.
She expected an explosion of gratitude, but received only a look of mystification and heard a surprised throaty exclamation.
She gasped in a painful effort to enunciate words. Her face became tragic with her purpose.
“The money––you know––the money––you––for Jerry!”
She broke down.
His face went red and then very white. His throat swelled. His hands trembled as he asked in a strained whisper:
“How did you know?”
“I heard you an’ Jerry in the study. Jerry said you’d have to go to prison, if you didn’t pay him in two months.” Her voice became tense with the horror of her next disclosure. “I heard him ask you to steal the money from Daddy. I knew you wouldn’t do that.”
“And that’s why you saved the money?”
A sad little affirmative nod was all she could manage. Then, with the thought that she had hurt her brother, she ran to him, threw her arms round his neck, and sobbed her heart out on his shoulder.
“Dick, Dick, give the money to Jerry! I don’t want ‘em to put you in jail!”
Tears gathered in big brother Dick’s eyes as he realized what the poor little thing had gone through for his sake.
He couldn’t talk, but his shoulders squared with a firm resolve as he picked her up and carried her into the dining room, where Muvver and Daddy and Jerry Stewart awaited them.
Tears were still in Dick’s eyes as he held Hippity close, but in his carriage was a manliness which commanded attention.
“Mother––Dad––I’ve come to tell you the truth.”
There was a warning gesture from Jerry, who suddenly paled, but Dick ignored it.
“This blessed baby,” he kissed Hippity’s hand reverently as he spoke, “has been suffering martyrdom for two months on my account. If I had only known that it was my conduct which was causing her sorrow!” Jerry had started nervously on his feet. Dick went on. “I gambled––played poker––with him.” Scornfully Dick made Jerry the target of his gesture. “I lost. I paid him all I had and still owed him eighteen dollars, for which I gave him my IOU. From time to time I paid him what I could. He threatened me with arrest if I didn’t pay all in two months. Tonight the two months are up. I still owe him seven dollars and a half.”
Without a word Daddy took the money from his pocket, handed it to Jerry, who was standing cringingly and sullenly, and pointed to the door. As the door closed on Jerry Stewart the silence was broken by a long, gasping sob of relief from Hippity.
Muvver took the little girl from Dick’s arms. Daddy and she kissed her in reparation for the wrong they had done her.
Dick stood at a distance. He was not fit to join the family circle. Hippity-hop saw him standing shamed, grieved, remorseful. Turning from her mother to her daddy, she spoke imploringly.
Welcome to The Little Miser, Part 2. We continue with The Little Miser, a short story by Ray Unger published in 1919. While it was published in January of 1919, it was written during World War I. If you missed Part 1, you can find it here.
Hippity-hop tries to conceal her hoard as she is discoverer by Muvver.
The Little Miser, continued….
Hippity grasped her mother’s skirts and looked pathetically, appealingly into her puzzled eyes. Her words came in a hurried, alarmed, entreating crescendo:
“Oh no, no, no, Muvver! Don’t take me out of school! I want to go to school! I don’t want to stay home! I’ll be polite to Jerry!”
Her excitement increased. Her need was imperative.
Mother took her up in her arms.
“I want my little girl to be happy. Surely you may stay at school if you wish.”
Hippity cuddled gratefully in her mother’s arms.
In the meantime her hoard was slowly growing. Her calendar told her it was a month since she had overheard the angry words which came through the study window.
Her heart bounded with glad anticipation. She saw the time ahead when she could again help her country.
It was a period of thrift and saving for which Hippity was grateful. Everybody expected little girls to help the war. All the children were taking money to school for the Red Cross. They were nearly all buying Thrift-Stamps. All but her. She had to bear the reproachful looks of her teacher and the scathing denunciation of her patriotic schoolmates. Still her money went into her little bank. Every night after Muvver left her she counted it, and every night she marked her calendar. She wasn’t sure how much she needed, but she would try to find out.
She waylaid Dick one evening. Her manner with him was gentle and sympathetic.
“Dicky, if you had all the money you wanted, wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I should say so. Are you going to tell the fairy to give it to me?”
“How much would you like?”
Without hesitation, with a face of imperturbable gravity, he answered.
“I’d want nine dollars and thirty-five cents.”
Her heart bounded with glad anticipation. She saw the time ahead when she could again help her country. Last night, when she counted her hoard, it had totaled six dollars and twenty-three cents.
Next day Miss Whitney, the teacher, called her at recess.
“Elizabeth, your mamma signed the Red Cross Pledge for you, didn’t she?”
The little girl nodded a silent yes.
“But you haven’t been paying lately.”
Elizabeth, nobody can need the money more than your country. It is wrong to save it, or use it for anything else.
Elizabeth looked at her teacher, looked for some sign of sympathy, but met a cold wall of censure. Her heart went dead within her when Miss Whitney continued:
“I know your mother and father wish you to give the money to the Red Cross. I’m sure they didn’t forget to give it to you.”
Elizabeth broke down. She would throw herself on Miss Whitney’s mercy. Her voice was convulsive. Miss Whitney had difficulty in distinguishing the words.
“Muvver – gave – me – the money – and I’m saving it. I can’t ever, ever tell you what for.”
The teacher was moved.
“Elizabeth, nobody can need the money more than your country. It is wrong to save it, or use it for anything else. You’re not a true little American girl if you do.”
Elizabeth’s silence was dogged. Nothing could make her stop saving. But she must hurry – save faster. Nine dollars and thirty-five cents wasn’t so awfully much. It wouldn’t take so very long. If people would only let her alone! Then she could help her flag again. She would sell her hair ribbons. Hadn’t Susie Black offered her an orange for the red one when it came off the other day? She would gather them together and sell them for a penny apiece. All the girls had pennies nowadays. If only Miss Whitney wouldn’t tell Muvver that she wasn’t giving any money to the Red Cross!
But Miss Whitney must have done so. That night, after Muvver had tucked her in bed and left her, Elizabeth took out her bank. She felt secure. Not once had she been disturbed in her nightly task. The coins were strewn over the white counterpane, and Elizabeth was arranging them in systematic piles, when the door quietly opened. Muvver stood in the door looking silently at the little girl, who was clutching the coins and counterpane in a vain effort to hide her occupation. Fear held the child’s heart, but obstinacy veiled her face.
Her face was that of a miser, avid with possession, and fearful lest she be dispossessed of what was rightfully hers.
Mrs. Browne’s startled cry, “Elizabeth!” evoked no response from Hippity-hop – merely a tighter clutching of her hoard.
“What are you doing with that money?”
The little girl gave no answer.
It was a Hippity-hop whom Muvver had never seen who pulled the coverlet and its contents close. Her face was that of a miser, avid with possession, and fearful lest she be dispossessed of what was rightfully hers. Silent until now, as Muvver approached, her expression of fear increased and she let forth a shrill scream which formed into articulate words:
“You shan’t have it! it’s mine!”
In her perturbed state she was praying that Muvver would be angry. If Muvver put her arms around her as she always did when her little girl was in trouble, Hippity might break down at the dear touch, and tell. That she mustn’t, mustn’t do, no matter what happened! She kept saying it over and over to herself. She wanted Muvver to love her, and yet she must make Muvver hate her!
The unhappy little girl’s mind was seething with contradictory thoughts. If Muvver took the money away from her, what then? She thought of big brother Dick and set her teeth. She wouldn’t let Muvver have that money––no! not if she had to fight and scratch and scream! Dick must have it! She was like a hunted creature at bay, fighting for her young.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Muvver’s soothing voice. “Elizabeth, dear, of course it’s your money. Mother doesn’t want it. Tell mother all about it. Tell her what’s troubling her little girl!”
With eyes distended, Hippity watched her mother come close. She mustn’t let Muvver take her in her arms and kiss her. She saw what was coming. Muvver was standing over her, a world of love in her eyes, her arms extended. A touch of the loved hands, and Hippity would be lost!
“No, I won’t! Don’t touch me! I just want my money! I don’t want to give it to the Red Cross! I want it myself!”
Her voice was raucous with excitement.
Mother was nonplused. The child was too agitated to be argued with, too irresponsible to be punished. There was nothing to do but leave the room. She looked in later, before retiring. Elizabeth was asleep, the little face flushed, the hands tight, the lips now and then muttering indistinguishable words.
In the morning Hippity’s heart was thumping, but she presented a stolid appearance. She knew Muvver would discover that the hair ribbons were missing, and question her. She must show care. When Muvver put the expected question, Hippity at first refused to answer. When Muvver insisted, she curtly responded:
“I sold ‘em. I want the money.”
Mrs. Browne’s tone abruptly changed from love and distress to censure. It was a case for discipline.
“Elizabeth, if there is anything you want to buy with that money, tell mother. I must know! If you won’t tell me, tell Daddy.”
Her request was met with silence.
“You will, won’t you? You know Muvver and Daddy love you, and would do anything for you.”
Muvver was again speaking in the affectionate tone that Hippity feared. She must make her change it.
This was a danger which Hippity had not foreseen. She mustn’t let Muvver’s tears move her.
She muttered between her lips, her voice a monotone, her face surly and unresponsive.
“I don’t want to buy anything. I just want the money.”
“Then I’ll have to believe that my little girl is a miser. She doesn’t love her daddy and mother and brother; she doesn’t love her country; she loves only money.”
In her extremity the tears gathered in Muvver’s eyes.
This was a danger which Hippity had not foreseen. She mustn’t let Muvver’s tears move her. She didn’t trust her voice. A mask of imperturbable composure hid her inner trembling. She wished Muvver wouldn’t cry. If Muvver cried she didn’t know how she could hold out. But she would –– she would hold out forever! If she told, what would become of Dick?
Mother sent to Miss Whitney the Red Cross money that Hippity owed. She discontinued questioning the child, but Hippity knew she was being watched.
Till next time….
Discover the end to this thrilling tale in the next blog post.
These stories were short enough to read at one sitting, but rather long when posted to a blog. Dividing it into several shorter segments gives enough to keep up with the story, but allows the reader to stop and pick up with the next segment if time is short.
One or two of these stories fit perfectly with a fresh cup of hot coffee or tea. Thanks for sticking with me through The Little Miser, Part 2, and I hope you enjoy Part 3.
In an earlier blog post I talked about the lure of the Twentieth Century magazine stand. You can read that post here. Today begins a three-part post where I give you one of the stories from World War I: The Little Miser, by Ray Unger. The story was illustrated by Edmund Frederick. Although The Little Miser dates from 1919, it was written during the war itself. The illustration dates from 1916. Enjoy this dip into magazines’ literary past with The Little Miser from 1919.
Muvver catches Hippity-hop counting her pennies when she should be asleep.
The Little Miser
by Ray Unger
A loud, angry exclamation which came through the open study window produced upon Hippity-Hop the effect of a physical blow. She started back, clutching Rags tightly. Her frightened blue eyes grew black. Her lips parted as she sharply released her breath. Rags snapped an answering bark, but Hippity-Hop’s warning finger quieted him. The child and the Skye terrier understood each other.
Words of recrimination hot as live coals dropped from Jerry Stewart’s lips. It was hard to believe! Jerry’s image rose before her as she listened in horror. He was a big, reticent youth whose beetling black brows overshadowed deeper gray eyes. She had thought him her brother Dick’s friend, but friends didn’t use such ugly words to each other. At his denunciation a hitherto unknown passion was born in her soul – a strong hate of the young man who dared assail dear, kind, big brother Dick in this unwarrantable fashion – Dick, who loved everybody and whom everybody loved. When she heard Dick, who was afraid of nothing, answer in trembling tones of fear, she marveled. A hard look came into her eye as the conversation continued. The voices ceased. The wedge of reality had pierced her soul. Laughing, singing Hippity-hop Sunbeam, who spent much of her time talking to the flowers, the butterflies, the birds, and the chipmunks, became a responsible Elizabeth.
To big brother Dick she was “Hippity-hop,” to Daddy she was “Sunbeam,” but Muvver called her Elizabeth. The combination of names gives one a fair idea of six-year-old Elizabeth Ellison Browne.
She knew now why he was pale and silent, why Jerry Stewart haunted him like a shadow.
Only this afternoon she had romped with Rags. She had grown tired and was now sitting under the study window. Snub-nosed, happy, and elusive as a flea, but with less responsibility than that insect, the presence of Hippity-hop Sunbeam had brought gladness to the Browne household. Muvver encouraged the sedate company manners of Elizabeth and was answerable for the tight little pigtails done in a pretzel, with the concession to Hippity-hop Sunbeam of two huge red bows. The buds of the old-fashioned Berkeley garden had seemed to expand their chalices to drink in the merriment of her laughter and the rhythm of her dancing footsteps. She had vied with the sunshine in shedding brightness.
Now all was changed. She spoke to Rags in a whisper:
“Rags, we mustn’t tell anybody!”
Her bright cherubic face was contorted with dread.
Silently she went into the house. Her eyes sought big brother Dick. She knew now why he was pale and silent, why Jerry Stewart haunted him like a shadow. Muvver and Daddy thought he was studying too hard. She had heard Muvver tell Daddy.
Clenching her little fists and tightening her lips, she muttered:
“I mustn’t, mustn’t ever tell!”
Her ready laugh did not come, but she smiled politely with her lips at Daddy’s jokes. Daddy and Muvver looked concernedly at each other, and then at her. The usual after-dinner romp was dispensed with when Daddy realized Hippity-hop Sunbeam’s half-hearted attempt to show her enjoyment.
Muvver carried the child off to bed. Bedtime was the hour of confidences between the two. She questioned her little daughter, but her questions elicited no answers. Elizabeth’s pulse was normal, her throat could not have been better; there was no fever, no sign of illness. Reassured by her investigations, Muvver tucked the little girl in bed after hearing her simple prayer.
Hippity-hop listened as her mother’s footsteps descended the stairs, threw the covers back, sprang from bed, took her bank from the bureau drawer, and hurried back to bed. After listening furtively for any interruption, she emptied it of its contents and started counting the money. That was a laborious task. The nickels and dimes were easy enough, but the pennies and quarters and one half dollar puzzled her. She knew she had to do it alone. Rags was the only one who knew, and he couldn’t help her. After several attempts she counted out four dollars and ninety cents. That was a beginning. The Red Cross would have to do without her money. She couldn’t help it. Her throat constricted with the thought.
She carried her calendar carefully to her room. By marking each day as it passed, she would be able to work more intelligently toward the fulfillment of her plan.
When Muvver looked in before going to her room, a blanket-tossed bed gave evidence of Elizabeth’s restlessness, but Elizabeth was asleep.
Next morning a serious problem assailed Hippity-hop. Jerry had said he would give Dick two months. How would she know when the two months were up? A solution came to her. She would ask Daddy for a calendar. If he asked her why she wanted it, she mustn’t tell him.
As Daddy was leaving, he made matters easier by saying as he kissed her:
“Well, Sunbeam, what shall Daddy bring home for his little girl?”
“I’d like a nice calendar with big black numbers on it.”
Daddy laughed heartily.
“Your modest wish refutes the feminine reputation for extravagant demands.”
That night, when Daddy gave her the calendar, she asked:
“Will you put a cross on yesterday?”
Daddy acceded to her wish, at the same time asking the dreaded question. “Why?”
Hippity was prepared. She hadn’t pondered all day for nothing.
“Yesterday Susie Black said she was going to have a birthday in two months. When’s two months?”
Unsuspectingly Daddy was led into the trap. He put a cross on the important date.
She carried her calendar carefully to her room. By marking each day as it passed, she would be able to work more intelligently toward the fulfillment of her plan.
Hippity-hop knew they were all watching her, knew that she must not divulge her secret, and her need enveloped her perturbation in a husk of unconscious theatrical effort. The crystal transparency of her soul was befogged by a hidden purpose.
Dick had grown even more quiet and serious. He and Jerry didn’t play tennis so often, nor did Jerry come to the house quite so frequently. There was a constraint between the boys when they were together. Hippity-hop found it an effort to be polite to the sullen, glowering youth when he came. She could not forgive him; she blamed him for the change in her dear brother, her teasing, romping, laughing Dick, who had become silent, morose, furtive. When Jerry did come, Dick and he remained closeted in the study. They said they had to dig for examinations. Muvver and Daddy believed them, but Hippity-hop, although she heard no more angry words, knew better.
Muvver chided her gently when she discovered her standing indeterminately first on one foot, then the other, her hands locked behind, her face, unmantled of courtesy, obviously expressing repulsion. Jerry’s hand was extended to her in welcome.
“Shake hands with Jerry, Elizabeth.”
Coldly, distrustfully, she allowed her hand to rest in Jerry’s for a moment.
Mother looked at the little girl reproachfully, and apologetically addressed Jerry.
“Elizabeth hasn’t been very well lately. I’m worried about her. Her father and I have been seriously considering taking her out of school for a while.”
Fear clutched the child’s heart. She would have to pull herself together. Taking her out of school would mean being deprived of the money which Muvver gave her for the Red Cross and Thrift stamps.
To be continued…
This story continues in the next two blog posts. Click the title to see The Little Miser Part 2.
If you glance through the pages of the popular household magaazines from 1920-1940 something may dawn on you. It did me. These were magazines for everyone, as long as the woman reading them matched the editors’ ideal subscriber.
Each magazine, of course, had its own dream reader. Woman’s World, for instance, was for the Midwest reader. Needlecraft positioned itself for the lower-income reader – many of its projects could be completed with a little fabric, a crochet hook or knitting needles, and thread. Every magazine, from Good Housekeeping to Ladies’ Home Journal, had its intended readership.
Cover image from The Half-Century Magazine, December 1922.
However, all these titles didn’t succeed as magazines for everyone. A good number of potential readers were excluded. For instance, although every magazine covered the national holidays and Christian holidays, no one printed a Passover menu for Jewish readers. They were on their own. Did the publishers just not think their readership would appreciate such an article, or did no one on the staff have the expertise to write it?
Half-Century Magazine
One glaring omission appeared in the African-American community. The women’s magazines featured dress models on the fashion pages that looked different from African-American family members, even though everyone dressed in the same styles. In 1916, Half-Century Magazine launched in Chicago and it filled that void. Half-Century Magazine used African-American models on its fashion pages. Only in publication for nine years, the magazine spoke to African-American homemakers. And frankly, it is a delight to read.
I don’t have any issues of Half-Century Magazine in their original paper format. Actual subscriptions never topped 16,000 so hard copies are difficult to find. In fact, when Negro Universities Press attempted to reprint the existing issues in 1969, it couldn’t find copies of all the issues. Paging through I found a placeholder which basically said “We couldn’t find this issue. If you know of a copy let us know and we will include it in a later printing.” They are that scarce.
Excellent Quality
They may be scarce, but they are excellent. An issue of Half-Century Magazine contained short stories, a serialized novel, current fashion, needlework patterns and sewing tips. Each month devoted a full half page to jokes and quips like this one:
“Yes, Bertha is going to marry for love.” “How foolish!” “Not at all. She had sense enough to fall in love with a millionaire.”
Half-Century Magazine, January 1920
If I had original copies of these magazines, I would love to reproduce the recipes from the cooking pages. Some of the recipes used inexpensive or unusual ingredients, like lamb’s kidneys. Others introduced innovative treatments of normal 1920s dishes, like adding nuts to a macaroni salad. Actually, quite a few I would love to recreate. One issue’s Tea Ring recipe in January, 1920, includes raisins but no yeast and would make a tremendous teatime or breakfast loaf.
Depending on the month of the year, subscribers read about dinner etiquette, household hints, and weight loss (an all-consuming seasonal topic in every woman’s magazine of the period). One issue illustrated current hairstyles, and the magazine offered a sewing pattern service to subscribers. Most issues included poetry.
Tackling Social Issues
The women’s magazines of the Twenties through the Forties took stands on various social issues within their pages, and Half-Century Magazine was no different. Its editors covered cultural and political issues. They published letters from subscribers who needed to vent. And a regular columnist answered questions about law and inheritance.
In short, everything a homemaker would need from month to month was included in Half-Century Magazine. I wish it had continued past 1925, but the publisher ceased publication in order to launch a newspaper he called the Chicago Bee. You can download the 1923 – 1925 years of Half-Century Magazine from Google Books and see for yourself.
