Is Grimms' "The Death of the Hen" about The Black Death?

The Grimms recorded “The Death of the Hen” with the Audience/Purpose of preserving their German culture. With this in mind, the tale can be read as a morality tale (greed causes downfall) or a tale of death and dying (all die in the end). Yet neither reading explains the more bizarre story elements. If we consider that these stories were handed down orally through generations, we glimpse another Audience/Purpose.

A close study of the text provides clues to a possible original Audience/Purpose: memorializing the Black Death.

First is the brook’s centrality: Water frequently represents the passage from this life to the next, so the brook becomes a door of sorts. When it demands red silk, we might dig down to correlate the silk with the red cross that was painted on plague victims’ doors.

Likewise, we might see the wreath caught in a willow as a representation of Shakespeare’s willow: “the tree of forsaken love” and the traditional bridal wreath: symbol of memory and purity. Both may represent the hen’s promise to the cock, and her grief at violating that promise.

In the end, straw, coal, and rock all fail to save the animals. Reading with an eye to meaning: Bundles of straw were placed at the door of plague victims, so straw promulgates death. Bodies were often burned, so coal is powerless over death. And the impenetrable rock does not even have power over the Black Death.

Other versions of the tale exist, some less in line with this suggested reading. However in one telling, after all the animals board the cart, a flea assures the group that his weight will be no trouble. Yet he causes the cart’s collapse. Interestingly, fleas spread the plague.

This troubling story seems confusing when applied to the Grimms’ Audience/Purpose, but when read with other Audiences/Purposes in mind, it takes on rich new meaning.

[I read the Crane translation, and initially wrote this little blurb for a Coursera class.]

Sites consulted:

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2012/07/23/120723crbo_books_acocella

http://www.project-hamlet.info/scenes-soliloquies/muddy-death.html

http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/authors/grimms/80deathlittlehen.html

I'm Dyyyyiiiinnnnngggggg: Or, Why I Love Alice in Wonderland

Below is my second short paper for the Coursera class on Fantasy and Sci-fi taught-ish by Eric Rabkin. But a quick intro. This class operates entirely online, testing a virtual classroom template in which peers evaluate student work. At first I thought this was brilliant.

Awesome! The professor can record lectures in, like, 2009 and teach-ish a course forever! He never has to enter the classroom or grade a single stinky paper! But then I realized something. My peers aren't, uh, so good at this.

Sadly, with this second paper a got a few comments of agreement/disagreement and the rest, "You structure sentence not good done." Ah, well. At least the lectures aren't Peer Recorded.

The Sense of Nonsense

As Martin Gardner writes in The Annotated Alice, "Life viewed rationally and without illusion appears to be a nonsense tale told by an idiot mathematician." But what seems nonsense is the very sense of Alice’s Wonderland journeys, and it is what lends them power to inaugurate the genre of children’s fiction.

Alice’s Adventures are unique in part because they are told from a child’s point of view, yet Carroll also tosses adult expectations down a rabbit hole. He juxtaposes the adult and child worlds and infuses Alice’s plain understanding with a deep subtext of rationality. Everyone Alice meets, in very adult-like fashion, takes themselves and their goings on with utmost seriousness. Rabbit must have his gloves, "Off with her head!" the Queen demands of everyone she meets. The Hatter talks of watches that tell the year. And the Duchess quips, "flamingoes and mustard both bite,” which means, of course, “Birds of a feather flock together.” “Only mustard isn't a bird,” Alice replies.

Throughout Alice observes all this with a curious detachment, at one point thinking, “The Hatter's remark seemed to her to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English.” At last she loses a bit of patience. As she begins to grow during the tart-theft trial, the Dormouse exclaims, "You've no right to grow here.” When Alice replies boldly, “Don't talk nonsense, you know you're growing too,” she proves that she, the child, is the only one in this mixed up world with even one whit of sense. As the Duchess says so blithely, “what a clear way you have of putting things!” Clear, indeed.

In this way Carroll establishes a tradition that future generations will emulate: Rational, commonsensical Alice takes the role of adult, while all around her are mad as Hatters or foolish as Idiot Mathematicians.

Coursera Sci-fi and Fantasy: Unit I The Brothers Grimm

And are they ever Grim! One of the very first stories in the Crane translation was, "Death of the Hen" in which everyone died in the end. As someone pointed out in the class forum, it's like Hamlet with fowl.

For some reason this story stuck in my craw (har har!). So I decided I'd look into it a bit more and write my first paper about it. Yup, this online class through Coursera (ultimately through University of Michigan), Fantasy and Science Fiction: The Human Mind, Our Modern World, requires papers. 270-320 words on every unit, one unit per week. FUN! (No, I'm not being sarcastic.)

The paper isn't due until tomorrow, so I have ample time to change my mind. Because, truly, I could write a whole BOOK on Grimms' stories. Every one of them has some fabulous little nugget - about writing, wisdom, history, the nature of story and its role in human development, on and on.

A (Depressing) Holiday Classic

The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen. Putnam, 1987 (illus.).

This was one of my favorite picture books as a child. In the late 80s I was an older child—8ish. Anyway, I so felt for the little girl’s plight. I loved her sad courage, her imagination, and her escape at the end.

Reading it now though, it’s very sad. If this were my child’s favorite book, I might be worried.

That's Just Plain Nonsense, Eddie

The Complete Nonsense of Edward Lear. by Edward Lear and edited by Holbrook Jackson Dover, 1951.

Lear was the youngest of 21 children and was brought up by his sister, who cared for him until he was nearly 50. He was an eternal child with “invincible boyishness,” according to the editor. This collection contains several works from 1846-1895.

Random thoughts:

These are so like the jokes my kids make up—so un-funny that they’re funny. A woman playing harp with her chin. Ha! They make me want to rhyme and be silly. Some have double meaning, like a person of Leeds with a head full of beads who eats gooseberry fool. And Lear uses great words like scroobious, dolorous; he embraces the absurd and violent—characters file off thumbs or kill a flea on their knee with a hatchet. Others are most un-politically correct, which I always appreciate.

For a time there’s a theme of going and not coming back (perhaps around the time of his sister’s death?). The short stories are like dreams of free association. He employs repetition like a picture book author might, but with horrendously creepy elements: story of seven young of various animals and all die awful deaths until the parents pickle themselves. Um, lovely!

The Nonsense Cookery is hysterical as are the visual puns in the Botany. He has fun rhymes for the Alphabet. I notice the limericks get more sophisticated in his later work. Rhymes are frequently brilliant, and this without the benefit of rhymezone.com!

My favorite on p. 205: “There was an old man in a garden/who always begged every-one’s pardon;/when they asked him, “what for?” – he replied “you’re a bore!”/And I trust you’ll go out of my garden.” I can imagine Lear writing this on a particularly grumpy day.

Is Lear an influence on Dr. Seuss, I wonder? He has some critters chopping up a Sage because they need sage for a recipe. HAHAHA!

The final alphabet points to some rather obvious Father issues.

Classics of Moles and Rats

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. 1908.

So Pooh-like with that quaint voice and silly words and lots of happy adverbs (see, sometimes adverbs can be good!). Mole meanders aimlessly and is bewitched, entranced, fascinated by a bubbling, gurgling, chuckling river. What wonderful words! Never mind that Moles are blind; I could eat it up.

I was more than a little shocked to read Rat’s line, “Stop it, you silly ass!” on page 17, however.

Despite the lovely turns of phrase and the appeal of classic literature, I don’t favor talking animal stories. I’ve started and stopped this one every few months since entering the program (not to mention the times I’ve tried to read it in previous years). I’m just not a child at heart, I suppose. I did glimpse an interesting parallel to some of these characters and Tolkien’s Hobbits—maybe this was a source of inspiration for Tolkien, or just a similarity because of the tone, but the homey little Mole is rather Hobbit-like, and his crusty friends reminiscent of Frodo’s mishmash of companions.

Twice Read, Nonce Enjoyed

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell. 1960.

Interesting opening, full of subtle tension. But what is the narrator dying from want of? What’s the promise of the first page? (Hahaha!) Ok, she obviously wants peace for her people and the reader suspects that the visitors will bring calamity (which they do).

The writing is not especially engaging. It rather gets out of the way quickly so the strong plot can take over, though I can’t figure out why the wild dogs only killed Ramo and didn’t eat him.

O’Dell faces the same problem that Tom Hanks faced—how to make scenes interesting and “quick” when there’s only one person? Hanks, in whatever movie that was, turns a volleyball into a god, but O’Dell tries to tap into the cultural rather than survivalist part of the story (unlike say, My Side of the Mountain, Hatchet, others). I bet a formula could be made for these books, something like step 1: isolate the protagonist (plane crash, wild dogs, running away, etc.), step 2: make weapons! Cool!, step 3: give the protagonist something really big to hunt and some wild animal intent on hunting them, step 4: every isolated survivalist needs a volleyball/pet ... and so on.

And in the end, what leads our young protagonist to let down her guard and engage the stranger (the stranger: step 11)? Female vanity. Ah, to be a man writing about women in 1960! She succumbs to a compliment about her skirt, then to a necklace.

Details are rich like Little House and others, and this gives a fascinating glimpse into history and life from an unusual perspective, but I didn’t find the survival story any more compelling now than I did when I read the book (laboriously) in 6th grade. Not my favorite by far.

A Spider and a Pig

Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. 1952.

Similar in voice to Babbitt’s Tuck Everlasting, White’s is written in a pleasantly distant third person with an air of mystery, like the story that is unfolding is Very Important. Some things of note:

• It opens with dialogue, which pulls the reader in immediately. Uncommon for the times, I think?
• It confronts death quite realistically and without squeamishness. Yes, pigs become bacon and Christmas ham. Yet one pig will be spared.
• A strong sense of sentimentality runs throughout. Sort of like Charlotte’s character herself.

Total aside: I played Fern in my fourth grade production of Charlotte's Web. I had to sing to a stuffed pig, and during dress rehearsal I went missing for a few minutes, so the Green-Room-Nazi-Mom kept a strict eye on me. She made me miss an entrance during the performance because she didn't believe me when I said I needed to be on stage. Funny what odd details make an impression.

I also had to kiss Wilbur (John VanDop, who I loved desperately) on his sweet little head at the end. I'm so glad he wasn't turned into bacon!

Strange Little Family

The Animal Family by Randall Jarrell. 1965.

What a strange book. Jarrell’s is the story of a hunter and mermaid who fall in love and make a family from a bear cub, a lynx, and an orphaned boy. The story is uncannily realistic for all the lack of realism (a mermaid!). Bears act like bears, lynxes like lynxes, yet they live together in harmony. This strange combination of realism and surrealism makes for an unpredictable, fascinating, slightly unnerving little story.

Little Black Sambo vs. Sam and the Tigers

Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman. 1925.

I have this story in a set of old blue storybooks from the 20s. My grandmother read it to me when I was a girl. It was my absolute favorite then, and I still enjoy it now. It’s considered to be absurdly racist, primarily the stereotyped illustrations, but it’s a great story! I would much rather have my children read The Story of Little Babaji, however, since the tale itself is Indian originally.




Sam and the Tigers by Julius Lester. 1996.

A brilliant rewrite of Little Black Sambo. What child can not laugh at Sam, Sam and Sam? With clever and lively illustrations, it’s a modern classic. Not to harp on The Story of Little Babaji, but I'm going to harp a bit. That little book captures the elegant simplicity of the Sambo story, but returns it to a more accurate context. So, if you're looking for a funny spin on Sambo, Sam and the Tigers will do fine. If you're looking for a culturally sensitive replacement for Sambo, I'd go with Babaji.

And the Thunder Rolls

Roll of Thunder Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor. 1976.

Love the voice. “Mama’s gonna wear you out.” It sings with authenticity with enough description to make the setting vivid without being overwhelming, and all of it is in Cassie’s voice (more or less), which makes it interesting as well as informative. The scene with the books made me cry. Moving prose but without being manipulative. The characters are merely reacting to the realistic situation in real ways—and it’s heartbreaking.

Despite this being an older book, there’s a moment where revenge tastes sweet. There’s the required line of “good thing no one got hurt,” but otherwise no moralizing. Not the first book to do this, obviously, but contrast it with those God-awful Elsie Dinsmore books, or the mostly awful rewrites ... how good to see evolution at work!

Taylor captures the racial tensions well, so even the crossing of a bridge becomes a skirmish in this tense war. So many strong themes of justice, right/wrong, etc. Yet all is woven to create a compelling and seamless plot. A true classic.

Fiction Meets Nonfiction: Quack!

Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey.

Natural science and strong plot combine to make a classic.

This is a cute story about a mother duck seeking the best home for her ducklings. Facts about molting, duck predators, food sources come to life with simple, happy illustrations that use many varying angles and perspectives. Repetition of names makes for a fun, if lengthy, read-aloud.

A Childhood Favorite

Corduroy by Don Freeman. Puffin Books, 1968.

A classic and one of my childhood favorites. I didn’t notice Lisa was African American until I read it again as an adult, but now I see the parallel between her race and her acceptance of Corduroy just the way he is -- especially given the time in which it was published.

The writing itself is simple, fluid, clear without a lot of splash. Perfect continuity with the illustrations and storyline. I remember being touched by Lisa’s unconditional acceptance of her bear -- that she loves him even with the missing button, but selflessly fixes it for his own comfort. One of those books that shaped my own life narrative.

Amazing Books In Which Nothing Much Happens

Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. HarperCollins, 1932.

The opening chapter sets the stage in this story of wilderness survival and historical family life. There’s not much character development at first, but amazing detail of living on the rustic frontier pull the reader onward. Really, not much happens at all. Yet when I finished this book, I rushed back to the library to get the rest of the series (though I'd read them as a child as well)! Why did they so capture me?

Some items of note:

• Within the book there are many family stories, which gives a feel of leaving a legacy and adds to the believability of the whole.
• There’s a strong theme of hard work without complaint—such a realistic view of that age (like Sarah Plain and Tall) and unlike a more modern book about times past (thinking of Catherine Called Birdy here) the focus is on the fascinating details of life, even hard life, rather than the whining and “waaah, life is so hard.”
• Devil is in the details: Laura’s character is understated/undeveloped. Or, rather, her person is wrapped up in the goings on of those around her. Very realistic for her age (very little differentiation from parents and home at that point—she really is defined by the goings on around her). I noticed that she changes in subsequent books as she becomes her own person.
• Despite a lack of development, Laura is still lovable. She’s not the “perfect” child (unlike Mary); she has flaws but is still sweet and thoughtful, eager to please.

Friends Forever: George and Martha

George and Martha by James Marshall. Houghton Mifflin, 1972.

Very similar to Frog and Toad in that it’s told in short tales, and “adult” characters who act and think like children, yet with a soft, sweet tone similar to Rosemary Wells.

In the stories two happy friends learn how to interact and be better friends though honesty and respect for one another. Valuable lessons for children. Each tale reads almost like a joke with an unexpected punch line at the end.

Interestingly, there are a number of more contemporary "versions" - or series - that aren't retellings, but are based solidly on the George and Martha model.

Overlong Crocodiles

Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile by Bernard Waber. Houghton Mifflin, 1965.

This book is fairly obviously the personification of a child in Crocodile form. The mean neighbor doesn’t like Lyle the Crocodile and wants him in a zoo but through events, Lyle ends up rescuing him and his cat from a fire, thus solving the problem. It’s quaint and the personification allows the author to stick Lyle in a zoo for a time (can’t have a child getting sent off to a cage) while keeping the young reader engaged in Lyle’s antics which are so similar to a child’s own.

I found it a bit too long to read aloud comfortably. But I tend to, uh, skip parts when I read aloud.

That Ain't no Bull! Or, maybe it is...

The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. 1963.

Detailed line drawings showing wonderful expression and a grand fairy tale opening make for a timeless story.

Dear Ferdinand is different: so common to a child’s experience, so engaging. Through an unexpected twist (he sits on a bee) it is he that ends up in the bullfight, where the humans—gasp—poke and stab bulls! But Ferdinand escapes this horrible fate simply by being himself.

An encouraging story for every child who has felt the weight of not being like everyone else.

Aside: I’m also often struck by how violent these older books can be. Would this fly in today’s market? Hmmm. Also, interesting political readings of this story ... but more on that later.

All Time Fave: Where the Wild Things Are

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. HarperCollins, 1963.

Illustrations and text work together to move the story forward. In the first spread Max faces the farthest edge, urging the reader to turn the page quickly as the text hints at all the mischief he’s carrying out. The next spread shows him running down the stairs, the very stairs that will, on the next page, take him right back up and into his bedroom for bed without supper. As Max slips into his magical world of Wild Things, the illustrations overtake the page, first relegating the text to the bottom, then driving it from the page altogether. The process reverses as Max slowly chooses to return to the safety and confines of his own room, to order, to language, and to his supper, which is waiting for him and is still hot.

I love the empowerment of this story, how Max exercises control over his own world, but ultimately returns. And unlike the rather creepy ballet version and the gawd-awful film version, this one is tender.

Brrrrrrrrrrr

The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats. Puffin Books, 1962.

Keats captures the wonder of a snowy day in the story of Peter’s enjoyment of the season’s first snow. He shows pleasures that might seem mundane to an adult, dragging of a stick to make tracks, whapping a tree for the onomatopoeic “Plop!” of snow falling on Peter’s head. Illustrations that appear like paper cut-outs, simplified almost to the point of silhouette, mirror the simplicity of the text. A perfect snowy day read.

Caps for Sale!

Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and their Monkey Business by Esphyr Slobdkina. HarperCollins, 1940.

Slobodkina’s use of an adult protagonist empowers children one cap at a time. As he tries to reclaim his caps from the mischievous monkeys, the child-reader is one step ahead, seeing the solution to his problem before he does. The author highlights this through simple illustrations that make use of the same or similar scenes and angles in most spreads, drawing attention to the small details that change. Throw in some number and color concepts, onomatopoeia, repetition, occasional internal rhyme, and a classic is born.

I’m still slightly bothered that the man never got his lunch. A lesson in delayed gratification perhaps?