'Spring Waking' by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

SPRING WAKING 

               A snowdrop lay in the sweet, dark ground.
                     "Come out," said the Sun, "come out!"
               But she lay quite still and she heard no sound;
                     "Asleep!" said the Sun, "no doubt!" 

               The Snowdrop heard, for she raised her head,
                     "Look spry," said the Sun, "look spry!"
               "It's warm," said the Snowdrop, "here in bed."
                    "O fie!" said the Sun, "O fie!" 

               "You call too soon, Mr. Sun, you do!"
                    "No, no," said the Sun, "Oh, no!"
               "There's something above and I can't see through."
                    "It's snow," said the Sun, "just snow." 

               "But I say, Mr. Sun, are the Robins here?"
                    "Maybe," said the Sun, "maybe";
               "There wasn't a bird when you called last year."
                    "Come out," said the Sun, "and see!" 

               The Snowdrop sighed, for she liked her nap,
                    And there wasn't a bird in sight,
               But she popped out of bed in her white night-cap;
                    "That's right," said the Sun, "that's right!" 

               And, soon as that small night-cap was seen,
                    A Robin began to sing,
               The air grew warm, and the grass turned green,
                    "'Tis Spring!" laughed the Sun, "'tis Spring!"

from The Shining Ship and Other Verse for Children

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918

Related posts:

Pauline Johnson's Forgotten Heir

'Naughty Johnnie Frost'

'Naughty Johnnie Frost'

NAUGHTY JOHNNIE FROST

                              "Little Leaf," said young Jack Frost,
                                   "Pretty Leaf," said he,
                              "Tell me why you seem so shy,
                                   So afraid of me?
                              I protest I like you well—
                                   In your gown of green
                              You're the very sweetest Leaf
                                   I have ever seen!"

                              "Run away," said little Leaf,
                                   "Prithee, run away!
                              I don't want to listen to
                                   Anything you say.
                              Mother-tree has often said:
                                   'Child, have naught to do
                              With young Johnnie Frost' — I think
                                   That, perhaps, he's you!"

                              "Nay, believe me, little Leaf,
                                   Pretty Leaf '! Indeed
                              To such silly, idle tales
                                   You should pay no heed!
                              I protest a leaf so fair
                                   Need not bashful be—
                              There's no reason why you should
                                   Feel afraid of me."

                              "Well, perhaps," said little Leaf,
                                   "I will let you stay—
                              If you're really very sure
                                   You mean all you say?
                              Do you truly like me best— "
                                   "Yes, oh yes!" he said,
                              "And, to prove it, pray accept
                                   This new dress of red !"

                              Very proud was little Leaf,
                                   Whispering with a smile,
                              "'Tis a sweetly pretty gown,
                                   'Twill be quite the style!"
                              Then she chanced to glance around!
                                   "Oh!" and "Oh!" she said
                              Every leaf upon the tree
                                   Wore a dress of red!

The Shining Ship and Other Verse for Children
Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
Toronto: McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart, 1918

Q is for Queer People (but not kweer kapers)

The plaque on Palmer Cox's gravesite went missing last year. Its disappearance, believed to be the work scrap metal scavengers, is perhaps the greatest in a long list of insults to his memory. No other name in Canadian literature has suffered such a decline in death, few have been quite so snubbed as this son of Granby, Quebec. Palmer Cox is nowhere to be found in The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature or W.H. New's Encyclopedia of Literature in Canada, yet a century ago his presence was inescapable. Here the man's image graces a cigar box:

Cox's verse and illustrations featured in newspapers, magazines and books published around the globe. Much of his popularity had to do with Brownies, mischievous little sprites inspired by stories told by his Scottish grandmother. Touring companies performed theatrical adaptations of Cox's Brownie verse, while the characters themselves were sold in places like Birks as porcelain figurines.

Tacky? Perhaps you'd prefer some Brownie cutlery or dinnerware? Salt and paper shakers? A creamer? How about a tea towel for the kitchen and some wallpaper for the nursery?

No? Okay, but you'll want a Brownie Ice Cream Sandwich for the road.

You'll say they're great!

It's Disney before Disney.

Cox wrote and illustrated something in the area of thirty books – I've yet to find a reliable bibliography. I think my favourite, Queer People and Their Kweer Kapers (Toronto: Rose, 1888), provides some indication as to why the author is so ignored by the keepers of the canon. We begin with the tale of Grim Griffin, a "giant bold" who lives off the labour of hardworking farmers in stealing their produce and livestock. Cox took the time to draw "heaps of hoof and horn" lying at Grim Griffin's feet. Not a pleasant sight, but then neither is this:

Grim Griffin meets his end when he hooks a whale that pulls him out to sea.

The people rejoice:

The high point of the collection to this discerning reader is Cox's "Cock Robin", in which a dark nursery rhyme is made more morbid.

I suppose subsequent generations came to consider these images and accompanying verse inappropriate for young children. A shame, because they often carry some valuable advice. Consider the last lines in Grim Griffin's tale:

Palmer Cox died at his home, Brownie Castle, which was built by his brothers not far from his childhood home.

It stands to this day, a short stroll to his resting place and the monument that once bore these words:

IN CREATING THE BROWNIES

HE BESTOWED A PRICELESS

HERITAGE ON CHILDHOOD

Not in Canada, he didn't.

What About the Children?

Monday's post on Edith Lelean Groves was running long, so I never did get to the drawings that feature in her Everyday Children. Numbering thirty-five in total, they were one reason I'd bought the book in the first place.

Or maybe not.

I was more interested that they'd been selected by Arthur Lismer, and had been produced by the children who'd attended his Saturday class at the Art Gallery of Toronto.

(Those with a keen eye will spot The West Wind by Lismer's friend Tom Thompson.)

The pictures vary wildly and in terms of style and ability. Sadly, not one is credited.

Most have nothing to do with the poems they accompany. One of the few exceptions is this illustration, which appears to have been inspired by "My Upstairs Brother".

There are drawings of dogs, dolls, policemen and young toughs. Some are similar in terms of subject.

Art school survivors will see evidence of either a bad teacher ("Today, children, we will be drawing a girl struggling with a broken umbrella.") or classroom rivalry ("Watch as I put your picture to shame.").

Children, children, Mr Lismer likes both your drawings.

Related post: Hurray for the Crippled Children's Bus!

Hurray for the Crippled Children's Bus!

Everyday Children

Edith Lelean Groves

Toronto: The Committee in Charge of the Edith L. Groves Memorial Fund for Underprivileged Children, 1932

Unearthed during a recent trip to Cambridge, the publisher, "the children of the Saturday classes, Art Gallery of Toronto" and the promise of a biographical sketch by eugenics advocate Helen MacMurchy, CBE, conspired to remove five dollars from my wallet.

Of Edith Lelean Groves, I knew nothing, but was soon set right by Dr MacMurchy, who provides a good amount of detail, beginning with an account of her subject's great-grandfather and his imprisonment during the Napoleonic Wars. I dare say Mrs Groves is a much more admirable figure. She devoted most of her 61 years to the education of children, particularly those we describe today as having "special needs". Nearly a century ago, Mrs Groves fought for their integration into Toronto's public school system. When she succeeded, she turned her attention to providing wheelchair ramps and transportation.

Transportation, Crippled Scholars. Alfred Pearson, 15 April 1926

City of Toronto Archives

Sadly, Mrs Graves wasn't nearly so remarkable as a poet. Everyday Children is everyday poetry. Typical of what was once foisted on young readers, the collection stresses the importance of good manners, study, respect for authority and healthy living:

Still, the reader who sticks with it will find "My Upstairs Brother", about a young girl's relationship with her bedridden older sibling: "His name is Welcome Jack and he's got a twisted back,/ His arms and legs don't seem to want to go." This is followed by "Mended", in which a girl's "queer little mis-shaped limb" is straightened through surgery. These poems and others dealing with "crippled" everyday children are no better, but they do provide interesting and uncommon glimpses of the time.

It's not at all surprising that Everyday Children is forgotten, but what of Mrs Groves? She has no entry in The Canadian Encyclopedia. There was once a school named in her honour, but no more – it's since been renamed Heydon Park Secondary School. Seems no one knows why.

Gray Coach Lines' Crippled Scholars' Service. Alfred Pearson, 20 December 1928.

City of Toronto Archives

Object: A well-bound hardcover printed on very thick paper. My copy lacks the dust jacket by Arthur Lismer – he of the Group of Seven – which the Introduction tells us depicts "little faces of 'Everyday Children' who smile... the result of his gifted pencil."

Access: Everyday Children can be found in seventeen of our universities. Public library users are stuck with a single reference copy housed somewhere in the stacks of the Toronto Public Library. It would seem that this collection of verse enjoyed only one printing. Used copies range from US$15 to US$25, the uppermost price fetching that elusive dust jacket.

Pauline Johnson's Forgotten Heir

Canadian Poets, edited by John W. Garvin (McClelland & Stewart, 1926)

Since my piece on The Chivalry of Keith Leicester, I've had to endure some gentle ribbing from a couple of B.C. readers. Yes, I have two. Both (Did I mention I have two? At least!) appear to take issue with my insinuation that Isabel Ecclestone Mackay is something less than well-known. Eleven days later, I'm prepared to state boldly that hers is not a household name. As evidence, I cite the sad fact that Mackay's books have been out of print for well over seven decades. I add that The Canadian Encyclopedia and The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature fail to mention the author – though I do recognize that both the very fine Encyclopedia of British Columbia and Encyclopedia of Canadian Literature (edited by Vancouverite W.H. New) feature brief entries.

Mackay wasn't born a British Columbian. A native of Woodstock, her 33rd birthday passed before she first visited – and settled – in the province with husband Peter, a court stenographer. There can be no argument that Isabel Ecclestone Mackay was once well-known. She featured regularly in Harper's, Scribners', Smart Set and other great magazines of the day. Her first book, a collection of verse titled Between the Lights, appeared in 1904. Ten more volumes followed: poetry, novels and a light comedy that placed third in a 1929 American play-writing competition. All are pretty much forgotten. Mackay's lasting legacy lies as the force behind Pauline Johnson's The Legends of Vancouver (1911), published as a means of raising funds for the dying author. After Johnson's death, Mackay not only became executrix, but assumed her role as the leading lady of letters in British Columbia. Her books were published by McClelland & Stewart, William Briggs, Thomas Allen, George H. Doran, Samuel French, Houghton Mifflin and Cassell & Company. The Group of Seven's J.E.H. MacDonald provided 'decorations' for her 1922 collection of verse, Fires of Driftwood.

Mackay was known primarily as a poet, but I find her prose more interesting and inventive. Her first novel, The House of Windows (1912), begins with an abandoned baby in a department store and moves on to create a tale involving kidnapping, white slavery, secret identities and suffragettes. Sex, it seems, is at the centre of The Window-Gazer (1921).

The time has come, I suppose, to add Isabel Ecclestone Mackay to my dusty bookcase. I've ordered an old copy of Up the Hill and Over (1917), which New describes as a novel about drug addiction. What fun! Until it arrives, I'll be dipping into her 1918 The Singing Ship and Other Verse for Children (online here), which includes this mildly disturbing poem.