Made for a Grandson: A Nursery Rhyme Cloth Book ca. 1897

Children were reminded constantly to take care of their books before the rise of untearables on cloth, board, and textured paper in the second half of the nineteenth century.   Cotsen has hundreds of examples of these books and pamphlets for the unintentionally destructive hands of babies and toddlers—or careless older children–  should anyone want to write a history of the genre.

Nursery Rhymes. [New Orleans?, 1897]. (Cotsen 18522)

 

One of the most interesting examples in the collection is a nursery rhyme collection made by a grandmother for “petit cher William,” which she gave him on September  1,1897.  Two pieces of cloth are sewn together with blanket stitch around three of the four edges.  The style of the illustrations look American, but there aren’t any definitive clues pointing to her state and city of residence. The title is embroidered on the dark red cloth cover and illustrated with paper cut-outs of Mother Goose holding a goose on a lead, now partly torn away. Although the inscription is in French, the rest of the book’s text is in English, copied on differently shaped slips of paper attached to the cloth pages, as seen to the right.

(Cotsen 18522)

Grandmère’s large selection of rhymes for William includes many familiar ones, such as “Pat-a-cake,” “Humpty Dumpty,” and “Little Bo-Peep,”  with others like “Richard and Robin” or “Come, butter, come,” which appeared in the first nursery rhyme collections from the 1740s, but have dropped out of the canon.

The rhymes are illustrated with cut-out pictures.  The  black page has an especially nice example of her collages.   “This little pig went to market” consists of a hand with “O. N. T,” which almost certainly comes from an Our New Thread advertisement for Coats and Clark.   She then pasted pictures of the pigs on its fingertips, then wrote the text on curlique shapes, which resemble Struwwelpeter’s uncut nails. Below it is “There was a little man, and he had a little gun.” The “little man” is a little boy in soldier’s helmet, not hunter’s green.  Opposite him is  “See-saw, Margery daw” illustrated with a sawhorse, with one child balanced against the three at the other end of the plank.

(Cotsen 18522)

Displayed on this page of beige cloth are several eighteenth-century rhymes: “Lucy Lockit lost her pocket” in the lower left is acted out by a girl dressed in mourning and her adversary in a rather short skirt waving a parasol.  Above them to the right is  “Old woman, old woman, shall we go a’shearing?”  a humorous take on a failed attempt at courtship.  The “old woman” has the head of the Cheshire cat pasted on a body to which has been added an ear trumpet.  Shouting into it is a much smaller pig dressed in a suit. (Was the choice of animal for the man was deliberate?)  She also divided the page in half diagonally to accommodate the long rhyme “When I was a little boy, I lived by myself,” with the main character illustrated by three figures in completely different costumes.

(Cotsen 18522)

Manuscript nursery rhyme collections usually contain unrecorded appearances of songs and this one is no exception.  It falls within the time period when Frank Green’s song “Ten Little N*****s” was considered amusing and performed frequently at Black minstrel shows.  In the upper left hand corner of this page is a rhyme about organ grinder’s monkey, which turns out to be an early, possibly unrecorded, version of the tongue-twisting song “I wish I was in Monkey land / The place where I was born,” sometimes called “The Malalankey Song.”  The verbal pyrotechnics start in the second stanza “I wililish I walalaas in mololonkey Lalaland.”  While unfamiliar to me, it turns up in on blogs, Reditt, and several Youtube videos, some of which call it an Indian, i.e. South Asian, children’s song.  Unfortunately, Grandmère illustrated it with a grotesque Illustration of old black man, a reinforcement of the ugly old stereotype familiar to Americans.

Homemade books like this one for a grandson deserve to be appreciated for what they preserve, both the good and bad.  It simultaneously displays the creativity of a woman fashioning a unique object for a beloved child that will introduce him to an important genre of poetry for the young while also reflecting typical attitudes of her time, which make us uncomfortable today.

Little Thumb: Perrault’s Resourceful Abandoned Boy

The first illustration of the ogre and Little Thumb by Clouzier for the 1697 edition. The one is too big, the other too small…

No cousin to Tom Thumb, Perrault’s Little Thumb is the youngest son in a large, poverty-stricken family. His mother, who was “quick about her business and brought never less than two at a time,” had seven boys in three years (all quotes from the Robert Samber translation of 1729 reprinted in the Opies’ The Classic Fairy Tales). Small without much to say, the family thinks Little Thumb is slow. Everyone blames him for whatever goes wrong without suspecting that the seventh son has excellent survival instincts, quick wit, good luck, and a ruthless streak. Even if a fairy deigned to look in on a poor family, her assistance would be superfluous.

Gustav Dore’s illustration of Little Thumb eavesdropping under his mother’s stool.

A bad year comes and the parents cannot support the nine of them gathering faggots. Sharp-eared Thumb overhears his father and mother discussing whether it would be better to watch the boys starve to death or lose them the forest and let the wild beasts eat them. By dawn, he has figured out a plan to mark the family’s path into the woods with white stones, whose trail they can follow home. They receive a warm welcome and the remains of a good supper, a luxury afforded by a long overdue payment of ten crowns from the lord of the manor.

The parents’ desperation returns as soon as the money runs out. Little Thumb listens in on their talk of losing their children by leading them much deeper into the forest but is unconcerned with the plan in his pocket. But the door is locked and he cannot leave to gather pebbles early in the morning. He improvises and drops crumbs from his breakfast roll instead, but the birds eat them all.

With night falling, soaked to the skin from the driving rain, and hopelessly lost, Little Thumb persists and leads the band some distance to a house, where he asks the good wife, who opens the door, for shelter.  He persuades her that they would rather take their chances with her husband the ogre, who might spare them, than with the wolves outdoors, who won’t. The ogre, with his keen nose for fresh meat, discovers the boys’ hiding place under the bed, and prepares to butcher them to serve with anchovy and caper sauce to his three mates coming for lunch. His wife talks him out of it and he orders her to feed them and put to bed in the same room as their seven daughters, gray-eyed and hook-nosed  with “very long sharp teeth…not yet very wicked, but …they had already bitten several little children so they might suck their blood.”

Although the boys are in a separate bed, Little Thumb notices that the little ogresses are wearing golden crowns and quickly switches their nightcaps with the girls’ crowns, just in case the ogre thinks better of letting them live until morning. Sure enough, he comes in with the big knife, muttering about having had too much wine after dinner. To tell the boys from the girls, he needs to touch their heads. Feeling nightcaps, he cries, “Hah! my merry little lads, are you there,” cuts his daughters’ throats, and stumps back to bed. As soon as Little Thumb hears steady snoring, he gets his brothers dressed and out of the house.

George Cruikshank’s ogre is as skinny as Dore’s below is stout.

By dawn they have almost run the distance to their parents’ house, but the ogre in his magical seven league boots has nearly closed the gap between them. (Nothing is said about him being armed.)  Using the boots fatigues the wearer, so he settles down for a much-needed nap. Little Thumb orders his brothers to run home while he takes care of the ogre. Even if it had been possible to kill his enemy, it would not solve his family’s problems as nicely as stripping the monster of his most valuable possessions. Little Thumb steals the boots, which being fairy-made, magically shrink to fit him, and returns to the house to play a dirty trick on the wife, without any regard for the fact that she had tried to save the boys. Telling her that robbers are holding her husband for ransom, she hands over all his riches, and the boy returns home in triumph.  What’s more, he uses the magical boots to make money by carrying orders from the king to his generals or delivering love letters.

A rare illustration of the entrepreneur Little Thumb by Walter Crane. Hop o’ my Thumb. London: Routledge, Warne, & Routledge, [between 1860 and 1865]. (Cotsen 151850)

The moral of the story according to the worldly Perrault?  Something like when survival is at stake, the end justifies the means:

No longer are children said to be a hardship

If they possess great charm, good looks, and wit.

If one is weak, however, and knows not what to say,

Mocked he’ll be and chased until he runs away.

Yet sometimes it’s this child, very least expected,

Who makes his fortune and has his honor resurrected.

His parents seem to have been absolved of child abandonment because they were in extenuating circumstances. After all, blood is thicker than water, and Little Thumb preserves patriarchy by making enough money to make the family financially secure and elevating his father and brothers at court. And so Little Thumb escapes reproof for playing the spy, accessory to murder, thieft, and liar.  The ogre was no Christian anyway.

It’s amusing to see how many illustrators ignore the passage about the boots shrinking to fit the wearer…