Freeman - The Blue Robin - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

As we enter 2026 things look as divided as ever! I found an interesting fairy tale, by Mary Wilkins Freeman that fits my wish for the New Year. Take a look at that link for Freeman. Her marriage was less than delightful and upon her husband's death "he left the majority of his wealth to his chauffeur and only  one dollar to his former wife.^[5]"  Fortunately for us she was recognized for her writing and it supported her. 

I found today's story in Carolyn Sherwin Bailey's For the Storyteller; Storytelling and Stories to Tell.  The section on "Imagination and the Fairy Tale" would be a post unto itself, but here are some points it makes related to Freeman's story.

A good fairy story is the best stimulus to child imagination.

Not any fairy story, selected with slight discrimination and told to a child just because it is a story of fancy, however. “Blue Beard,” “Ali Baba,” “The Cruel Stepmother” do little but cause child nightmares and give children ideas of cruelty, vengeance and crime. These concepts will present themselves to the child soon enough in the daily newspapers.[215] Let us shut them out of the story hour. In selecting a fairy story to tell to children, we will first analyze it with exceeding care, asking ourselves these questions in regard to it:

What constitutes the imaginative element of this story?

Is its point of unreality an idea which we want to give permanence in the child’s mind?

Is the story told in a series of such familiar, known images that there is material in it for stimulating the child’s constructive imagination?

If a fanciful story survives these three tests, we may be sure that it is perfect.

          . . .

One of the most beautiful of all fairy stories, Mary Wilkins Freeman wrote. “The Blue Robin” is perfect in treatment and theme. 

Not too surprisingly I can't find a picture of a Blue Robin (nor is drawing my art). For some crazy reason Blogger isn't accepting ANY kind of a picture, but then that exercise of the imagination, too, is part of storytelling.

        The Blue Robin 

The country over which King Chrysanthemum reigned was very far inland, so there was very little talk about the sea-serpent, but everybody was agitated over the question whether there was, or was not, a Blue Robin.

The whole kingdom was divided about it. The members of parliament were “F. B. R.,” for Blue Robin or “A. B. R.,” against Blue Robin. The ladies formed clubs to discuss the question, and sometimes talked whole afternoons about it, and the children even laid down their dolls, and their tops to search for the Blue Robin. Indeed, many children had to be kept tied to their mother’s apron-strings all the time to prevent them from running away to a Blue Robin hunt. It was a very common thing to see ladies going to a Blue Robin club, with a child at each apron-string, pulling back and crying, “I want to go hunting the Blue Robin! I want to go hunting the Blue Robin!”

The country was agitated over this question for many years, then finally there were riots about it.

People had to lock themselves in their houses, and when the Blue Robin party was uppermost, paint blue robins on their front doors, and when it was not, wash them off. After the riots commenced, it was really almost all that people could do to paint blue robins on and wash them off, their front doors.

At last King Chrysanthemum had to take extreme measures. He decided to consult the Wise Man. A committee was chosen of eight F. B. R.’s, and eight A. B. R.’s, and a chairman, and they set out at once, marching four abreast, the chairman with his chair leading the way, to consult the Wise Man. He had to be found before he could be consulted, however, and that was a very difficult matter. The Wise Man considered it the height of folly to live like other people in a house immovably fixed upon one spot of ground, and therefore he always carried his house about with him, as a turtle carries his shell.

He had fashioned a little dwelling of cloth and steel ribs, something like an umbrella, which he strapped to himself, and lived in, traveling all over the country in pursuit of wisdom.

The committee marched a whole week, before they came upon the Wise Man one afternoon in a pasture where huckleberries grew. He was standing quite still when they approached and made their obeisances. The Chairman of the committee placed his chair, a rocking-chair with a red plush cushion, before the Wise Man, seated himself, and spoke. “All Hail, Wise Man!” said he in a loud voice.

The Wise Man’s house had a little door in front like a coach door, and two tiny windows. One of the windows had the curtains drawn, but out of the other looked the Wise Man’s calm blue right eye. There was so much wisdom in his two eyes that he knew people could not comprehend it, so he always curtained one window. The house was about one foot higher than his head, and reached to his ankles. They could see his feet in their leather sandals below it.

The Wise Man said not one word in response to the Chairman’s salutation, only looked at him with his blue right eye. Then the Chairman laid the matter before the Wise Man and besought his aid in the terrible situation of the country. After the Chairman had ceased speaking there was a silence for half an hour. Not a sound was to be heard except the creaking of the Chairman’s rocking-chair. Then the Wise Man cleared his throat. The committee leaned forward expectantly, but they had to wait another half hour before he spoke, and then it was not very satisfactory. “Ideas are not as thick as huckleberries in this pasture,” was all he said.

The committee looked at one another, and nodded ruefully. It was quite true, but it did not help them in their dilemma. They waited another half hour; then the Wise Man began moving off across the pasture in his house.

“Oh, stop, stop!” cried the Chairman. “Stop, stop!” cried the committee. They all ran after him, and begged him not to go away until he had given them some useful advice.

“Offer a reward!” called out the Wise Man, as he scudded away.

“For what, for what!” cried the committee.

“For finding the Blue Robin,” called out the Wise Man, and then a puff of wind caught his umbrella-like house, and he was lifted quite off his feet, and bobbed away out of sight over the huckleberry-bushes.

The committee hastened back to the city, and reported. Another special parliament was called, and the reward for finding the Blue Robin was offered. That was really a difficult matter, because the Princess Honey was only five years old, and the customary reward—her hand in marriage—could hardly be offered. However, it was stated that if the finder of the Blue Robin was of suitable age when the Princess was grown, she should be his bride; and furthermore that he and all his relatives should be pensioned for life and that he should be appointed Poet Laureate, and given a regiment, a steam yacht, a special train, and a pound of candy every day from the national candy mills. The offer was painted in blue letters on yellow paper, and pasted up all over the country, and then the search began in good earnest. Business all over the kingdom was at a standstill. Nobody did anything but hunt the Blue Robin.

People ate nothing in those days but cornmeal pudding, hastily mixed and boiled. There was no bread baked, because all the bakers and all the housewives were out hunting the Blue Robin. The mothers untied the children from their apron-strings, and the schools were all closed, because it was agreed that finding the Blue Robin and establishing peace in the kingdom, was of more importance than books, and all the children who were old enough were out hunting—that is, all the children except Poppy.

It should be stated here that everybody in this country, with the exception of the Princess, had a flower-name. The Princess was so much sweeter, that only the inmost sweetness of all flowers was good enough for her name, and she was called Honey.

Poppy was about ten years old, and his father was an editor of a newspaper, and very poor. He could scarcely support his five children. His wife had died the year before, and he could not afford to hire a housekeeper.

So Poppy had to stay at home, and keep the house, and take care of his four young brothers and sisters, while his father was away editing, and he could not hunt the Blue Robin. It was a great cross to him, but he loved his little brothers and sisters, and he made the best of it.

After the search for the Blue Robin began, his father was much busier, and had often to be away all night, so Poppy had to rock and trot the twin babies, Pink and Phlox, and go without sleep, after working hard cooking and washing dishes and sewing all day. Poppy had to mend the children’s clothes, and he was even trying to make some little frocks for Petunia and Portulacca. They were twins also, five years old.

As Poppy sat in the window and sewed, with his right foot rocking Pink’s cradle, and his left foot rocking Phlox’s, with Petunia and Portulacca sitting beside him on their little stools, he told them all he had ever heard about the wonderful Blue Robin.

“Nobody is even quite certain he has seen it, himself,” said Poppy, “but he knows somebody else, who knows somebody else, who has; and if you ever could find the first somebody, why he could tell where the Blue Robin was.”

“Can’t they find the first somebody?” asked Portulacca.

“I guess he died before people were born,” said Poppy. Then he went on and told Petunia and Portulacca how there was a wonderful blue stone in the King’s crown, which was unlike all other precious stones, and said to be the Blue Robin’s egg; and how there was a little Blue Book in the King’s library which had a strange verse in it about the Blue Robin.

Then Poppy repeated the verse. He had learned it at school. It ran in this way:

“He who loveth me alone,

Can tell me not from stick or stone;

He who loveth more than me,

Shall me in fullest glory see.”

“What does that mean?” asked Petunia and Portulacca.

“I don’t know,” replied Poppy. Then he mended faster than ever. Many children ran past the window, hunting the Blue Robin, but he did not complain, even to himself.

That night his father did not come home, and Pink and Phlox cried as usual, and he had to rock them, and trot them. About midnight, however, they both fell asleep in their cradles, and Poppy began to think he might get a little rest himself. He could scarcely keep his eyes open. Petunia and Portulacca had been sound asleep in their cribs ever since seven o’clock.

Everything was very still, and he was just dozing, when he heard a sound which made him start up wide awake at once, although the children never stirred. He heard a single sweet bird-pipe, sweeter than anything he had ever heard in his life, and it seemed to be right in the room at his elbow. When the babies fell asleep Poppy had blown out the candle, the hearth-fire had gone out, and the room had been very dark, but now something was shining on the table like a lamp, which gave out a wonderful blue light. The sweet pipe came again. Poppy stared at the blue light on the table, which grew brighter and brighter, until he saw what it was. The Blue Robin shone on his table like a living sapphire, its blue wings seeming to fan the blue light into flames, its blue breast brighter than anything he had ever seen.

While all the world was out searching for the Blue Robin, it had come of its own accord to the poor little faithful boy in his poor little home.

The children all slept soundly, and did not stir. Poppy stood up trembling, and went over to the table, and immediately the Blue Robin flew to his hand, and clung there.

Then Poppy went out of the house, and down the road to the King’s palace with the Blue Robin on his hand. Although it was so late, scarcely anybody had gone to bed. They were all out with lanterns, hunting for the Blue Robin.

When Poppy with the Blue Robin on his hand came in sight, all the lanterns went out.

“What is that?” the people cried, “what is that wonderful blue light?”

They crowded around Poppy.

Then all of a sudden they shouted, “Poppy has found the Blue Robin! Poppy has found the Blue Robin!” and followed him to the King’s Palace.

The shouts were heard in the newspaper office where Poppy’s father was hard at work, and he ran to the window. When he saw his son with the Blue Robin, he was overwhelmed with joy. He stuck his pen behind his ear and came down on the fire-escape, and also went to the palace. The King had not gone to bed, though it was so late, neither had the Queen. They were talking about the Blue Robin and the perilous state of the country with the Prime Minister, on the front door-step.

When they saw Poppy and the Blue Robin, and all the people, and heard the shouts of joy, the King tossed his crown in the air, the Prime Minister swung his hat, and the Queen ran in and wrapped up the Princess Honey in a little yellow silk gown, and brought her to see the wonderful sight.

It was wonderful—the Blue Robin on Poppy’s hand seemed to light the whole city. Poppy, by the King’s order, stood on the top door-step, and everybody could see the bird on his hand. Then the Blue Robin began to sing, and sang an hour without ceasing, so loud that everybody could hear.

When the bird stopped singing, the King advanced. “You shall now receive your reward,” he said to Poppy, “and I will take the Blue Robin, and put him in a golden cage, and have him guarded by a regiment of picked soldiers.”

The King extended his hand and Poppy his, but just as the King touched the Blue Robin, he disappeared. There came a faint song from far above the city roofs, and people tipped back their heads, and strained their eyes, but they could not see the Blue Robin; they never saw him again, as long as they lived.

However, he had been seen by many witnesses, and the object of the search was attained. There were no longer two parties in parliament, and the country was in a state of perfect peace. Indeed, parliament only met afterward to agree, and eat cake and ice cream, and shake hands.

Poppy had his reward at once—that is, everything but the hand of the Princess Honey—and he and his father and his little brothers and sisters, were very rich and happy, until he grew to be a man. Then the Princess Honey had grown to be a beautiful maiden, and he married her with great pomp, and the King gave them the Blue Robin’s egg for a wedding-present.

***************************** 

This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Gerald or Professor Whiskers

I don't know why, but this current holiday season has left me feeling like I'm walking in high heels with one heel broken off! Even a group I was truly looking forward to doing a Christmas program was cancelled for bad weather. I was glad I didn't have to try and reach them on a day that would have been truly awful for driving, but hearing my next program there would be winter instead left me thinking of the many stories that only can be told at Christmas. One of them, Helen Hunt Jackson's tale from her childhood,  "A Christmas Tree for Cats", comes from my love of cats that nowadays no longer permits my living with a cat. My allergies improved immensely when I accepted this. Fortunately I am able to visit homes with cats. 

On Facebook a friend highlighted a story worth following that tale by Jackson. Jibor Camavin told this tale of his cat, Gerald, or as Jibor says his grandkids call him, "Professor Whiskers."

They told me at the shelter he was twelve years old and "not very adoptable." His face is lopsided, one ear flops weird, and he's missing half his teeth so his tongue kind of hangs out permanently. The volunteer said he'd been returned twice already because people thought he looked "off" and I stood there looking at this beat up tuxedo cat thinking about how I've felt pretty unadoptable myself since my divorce.

I'm 52 and I went in looking for a kitten, something cute and normal that my grandkids could play with when they visit, but this guy was sitting in the back corner wearing a little bow tie someone had put on him and I just couldn't leave him there. His name was Gerald. They said he'd probably only have a year or two left and he'd need special food and monthly vet checkups. I took him home that afternoon and my sister said "you adopted the Walmart clearance version of a cat" which honestly made me love him more.

Gerald has one speed and it's judgmental. He sits on the cat tree by the window and stares at me like I'm failing an exam only he knows about. When I'm on the couch he jumps up and positions himself so he's looking directly into my soul with those huge uneven eyes. My neighbor came over for coffee last week and actually got uncomfortable, she said "why is he looking at me like that, does he know something I don't?" I told her Gerald judges everyone equally, it's his gift.

I started making him different bow ties because the shelter one was getting ratty and I found this amazing seller on Tedooo app who does custom pet accessories. I sent her Gerald's measurements and now he's got seven different ties, one for each day of the week. She told me she'd never made anything for a cat described as "permanently disappointed looking" before. People on my street have started asking about them when I post pictures and I ended up opening my own little shop on Tedooo app selling pet bow ties and bandanas because apparently there's a whole market for judgmental animal fashion.

My daughter says Gerald looks like he's perpetually asking to speak to the manager and she's not wrong. But here's the thing, he sleeps on my chest every single night and purrs so loud it sounds like a motorcycle. When I had that terrible week last month where I couldn't stop crying about everything, he didn't leave my side. Just sat there staring at me with that crooked face like "yeah, life's hard, get it together."

I've had him for eight months now and the vet says he's actually healthier than they expected. My grandkids named him Professor Whiskers because they think he looks wise. He's become the neighborhood celebrity, people stop me on walks asking about "that cat with the face." Gerald doesn't care what anyone thinks. He just exists exactly as he is, taking up space, demanding respect. I'm trying to learn that from him.

 

* * * 

I haven't been able to "Message" Jibor, but I'd love to tell him we had a cat live to be 24! May this cat live a long, long time. Pets truly are family. (Fortunately I can have a dog in our family.) It is said that Christmas pets often don't work out well, but maybe those adopted after Christmas are a better match. So many pets are waiting for adoption. Here in my area I especially support K9Stray Rescue, but rescue groups are everywhere as the need for "furever" homes is great. If there is room in your heart for a new family member, please check your local shelter.

Aesop and Joseph Jacobs - Four fables on Peace - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Photo  by Disha Sheta of India on Pexels

Sometimes the news goes against everything that seems right. 

Before giving a story and wishing holiday greetings, I want to extend condolences to my friends and readers in Australia. I celebrate Christmas, but dozens of my friends celebrate Hanukkah and Kwanza and I wish only the best for all of them.

If ever there seemed to be a time when Peace is needed, but missing, it seems to be now. 

Perhaps it is time we look at some of the world's attempts at wisdom concerning Peace since we so desperately need it. Many of these efforts can be found in fables.  

Joseph Jacobs, in his book, The Fables of Aesop, admits that many attribute fables to "Aesop", but  as a result he "felt at liberty to retell the fables in such a way as would interest children, and have adopted from the various versions that which seemed most suitable in each case, telling the fable anew in my own way." 

We are in good hands with his efforts, so I went there for a few brief stories on Peace. His versions follow the older, more traditional idea of including the moral after the story.  Fables nowadays usually take the view of letting the audience form their own conclusion. How you tell it is up to you as a storyteller or teacher. As a reader you may feel free to skip to the next fable or read what Jacobs says is the lesson the story tells.

The Dog and the Shadow

It happened that a Dog had got a piece of meat and was carrying it home in his mouth to eat it in peace. Now on his way home he had to cross a plank lying across a running brook. As he crossed, he looked down and saw his own shadow reflected in the water beneath. Thinking it was another dog with another piece of meat, he made up his mind to have that also. So he made a snap at the shadow in the water, but as he opened his mouth the piece of meat fell out, dropped into the water and was never seen more.

Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.  

The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse

Now you must know that a Town Mouse once upon a time went on a visit to his cousin in the country. He was rough and ready, this cousin, but he loved his town friend and made him heartily welcome. Beans and bacon, cheese and bread, were all he had to offer, but he offered them freely. The Town Mouse rather turned up his long nose at this country fare, and said: “I cannot understand, Cousin, how you can put up with such poor food as this, but of course you cannot expect anything better in the country; come you with me and I will show you how to live. When you have been in town a week you will wonder how you could ever have stood a country life.” No sooner said than done: the two mice set off for the town and arrived at the Town Mouse’s residence late at night. “You will want some refreshment after our long journey,” said the polite Town Mouse, and took his friend into the grand dining-room. There they found the remains of a fine feast, and soon the two mice were eating up jellies and cakes and all that was nice. Suddenly they heard growling and barking. “What is that?” said the Country Mouse. “It is only the dogs of the house,” answered the other. “Only!” said the Country Mouse. “I do not like that music at my dinner.” Just at that moment the door flew open, in came two huge mastiffs, and the two mice had to scamper down and run off. “Good-bye, Cousin,” said the Country Mouse. “What! going so soon?” said the other. “Yes,” he replied;

“Better beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear.”  

The Bat, the Birds, and the Beasts

A great conflict was about to come off between the Birds and the Beasts. When the two armies were collected together the Bat hesitated which to join. The Birds that passed his perch said: “Come with us”; but he said: “I am a Beast.” Later on, some Beasts who were passing underneath him looked up and said: “Come with us”; but he said: “I am a Bird.” Luckily at the last moment peace was made, and no battle took place, so the Bat came to the Birds and wished to join in the rejoicings, but they all turned against him and he had to fly away. He then went to the Beasts, but soon had to beat a retreat, or else they would have torn him to pieces. “Ah,” said the Bat, “I see now,

“He that is neither one thing nor the other has no friends.” 

The Fox, the Cock, and the Dog

One moonlight night a Fox was prowling about a farmer’s hen-coop, and saw a Cock roosting high up beyond his reach. “Good news, good news!” he cried.

“Why, what is that?” said the Cock.

“King Lion has declared a universal truce. No beast may hurt a bird henceforth, but all shall dwell together in brotherly friendship.”

“Why, that is good news,” said the Cock; “and there I see some one coming, with whom we can share the good tidings.” And so saying he craned his neck forward and looked afar off.

“What is it you see?” said the Fox.

“It is only my master’s Dog that is coming towards us. What, going so soon?” he continued, as the Fox began to turn away as soon as he had heard the news. “Will you not stop and congratulate the Dog on the reign of universal peace?”

“I would gladly do so,” said the Fox, “but I fear he may not have heard of King Lion’s decree.”

Cunning often outwits itself. 

***

Personally I look to the book of John, chapter 14, verse 27 when Jesus said,“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

However you celebrate, may you enjoy the season and have a good rest of 2025 and may 2026 be the best yet. 

******** 

This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

Santa Visits the Moes

Clifton Johnson's The Oak-Tree Fairy Book is described in Google Books as " culturally important" with both familiar American tales forming roughly one-third of the book and the other two-thirds unusual stories that my Dover edition says are "drawn from a wide variety of sources. All 54 stories are told in terms that retains the charm and the interest fairy tales should have, but that avoid savagery and excessive pathos." 

I'm not sure that 1968 description of this 1905 book would be true today, but this past  week I had a last minute Christmas program booked and needed several stories FAST!

Over on  the sidebar you will find Public Domain Story Resources. 

One of the best resource is the late Jackie Baldwin's Story-Lovers site with suggestions from fellow storytellers on the email listserv, Storytell. There were several quick ideas including taking a well-known story, "The Twist-mouth Family" and having Santa Claus be the one who solves their problem of blowing out the candle. Of course when I tell it I like to have my audience blow like each character does.

This is how I changed it to "Santa Visits the Moes."

There once was a family named Moe who had their mouths twisted out of the usual shape. When Santa Claus came to visit, he found their candle burning and they were wide awake. 

"You need to got to sleep so I can deliver your presents", said Santa."Mr. Moe, blow that candle out so you can all go to sleep."

"Yes, I will," was his reply. 

"Well, I wish you would," said Santa. 

"Well, I will," he said. 

So he blew and blew, but his mouth was twisted and he blew upward, this way ---- and he couldn't blow out the light.

Then he said, "Mother will you blow out the light?" 

"Yes, I will," was her reply. 

"Well, I wish you would," said Santa. 

"Well, I will," she said. 

So Mrs. Moe blew and blew, but her mouth was twisted and she blew downward, this way ---- and she couldn't blow out the light.

Then Santa spoke to the daughter and said, "Young Miss Moe, will you blow out the light?"  

"Yes, I will," was her reply. 

"Well, I wish you would," said Santa. 

"Well, I will," she said. 

So she blew and blew, but her mouth was twisted to the right and she blew out of the right corner of her mouth, this way ---- and she couldn't blow out the light.

Then Santa spoke to the son and said, "Young Master Moe, will you blow out the light?"  

"Yes, I will," was his reply. 

"Well, I wish you would," said Santa. 

"Well, I will," he said. 

So  he blew and blew, but his mouth was twisted to the left and he blew out of the leftt corner of his mouth, this way ---- and he couldn't blow out the light.

"Then I guess I better blow out that light", Santa said . . and he did!

The light was out and all the Moe family went to bed and to sleep.

So Santa was able to deliver their presents and go on to other houses like yours! 

*****

As it turned out, a snow storm blew out the program after all my preparation. They plan to have me come in January instead for a program on Winter. We'll see if Winter lets me do it! You never know in Michigan. 

In the meantime, let this and other stories fit in your pocket to tell wherever you may be this holiday season! 

******************

This retelling is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Fyleman - Peppermint and Pear-Drops - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Photo by lilartsy on Unsplash

 

A friend and storytelling colleague was grousing recently about in his childhood being told that the candy cane is shaped like a “J” to honor Jesus. He was correct that the facts are far more complicated, but still interesting. 

It's a story that has some interesting twists (pun intended), but the simplest, most fact verified I've found is at https://www.rd.com/article/origin-of-candy-canes/.  

Personally I think Christmas is a perfect time for legends. I find I've posted about it 33 times so far here at this blog. There are both shorter ones and some are multi-part stories. 

Of course I went looking to see what stories might be beyond the link I gave at the start of all this. It's not really about candy canes, but about their flavor -- Peppermint.  It also mentions a candy I'd never heard about <GASP!> the Pear Drop. Apparently it's a popular British sweet.

English author and poet, Rose Fyleman, within her book, Forty Good-Night Tales, includes a multi-part group of stories she calls "Bag of Goodies" about various sweet ingredients. This is the fourth of six. 

peppermint and pear-drops

There once lived a Prince and Princess who loved one another dearly. But the parents of the Princess wanted her to marry some one else.

The Princess was very fond of peppermint and the Prince was very fond of pear-drops, and they always sent them to one another on their birthdays. But the mother and father of the Princess were so determined that their daughter should not marry the Prince that they sent her away into a distant part of the country and fastened her up in the dungeon of a great tower; and there she sat all day sewing and reading and thinking of the Prince, with nothing to console her but a large tin of peppermints which he had sent her for her last birthday.

And the Prince was so miserable when he heard she had gone away that he wandered all over the country with nothing to console him but a packet of pear-drops which the Princess had given him on his birthday.

He carried them in his satchel and ate one now and then in order to keep up his spirits.

And one day he came by chance to the foot of the very tower where the Princess was imprisoned.

And as he passed by, the wind carried a whiff of pear-drops (you know how strong they are) through the high window into the dungeon where sat the Princess.

Hope sprang up in her heart.

"Can it be my Prince come to seek me?" she thought. The window was, as I have said, very high up, and it was heavily barred, so that she could not see out of it; but she quickly wrapped up a peppermint in her handkerchief and managed to throw it out. The Prince saw something white fall into the bushes, and wondered what it could be. Suddenly a whiff of peppermint reached him. "Can it be," he thought, "can it be that my Princess is near?" He searched in the bushes until he found the peppermint in the handkerchief, and then he knew for certain that the Princess was in the tower. He dared not shout, for fear he should be heard by the guards; but he waited till night fell and then came again with a ladder and a stout file. He climbed up the ladder and filed through the bars and got the Princess out and carried her away, to his own land, where they lived happily ever after.

But if it hadn't been for the peppermints and pear-drops he might have been searching for her to this very day.

***

It's a bit Rapunzel-ish, but with an interesting twist. Rather like the many twists in the story of Candy Canes.

I also found another story, "The Story of the Candy Stick" by Carolyn Sherwin Bailey.  She can usually be counted on for an entertaining story, but this one didn't do it for me. At first I was worried by the book's title, Stories for Sunday Telling, but it really was all about the stages involved in making a candy cane.

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Seton - The Snowstorm - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

As I write this the first real taste of winter's snow seems to be approaching. (It's timing during Thanksgiving travels is especially drawing the attention of meteorologists.) The founder of the Boy Scouts, Ernest Thompson Seton, in his book, Woodland Tales, offers stories and activities throughout the seasons. Yes, winter and snow get its share of attention. The book is almost over when he tells this tale of how a snowstorm is viewed by different cultures. 

In retelling this story I would substitute a few things to make them tell a bit more. I would say an Inuit from Alaska for "Eskimo" and would add "the Inuit word 'Siqniq' for him."  As for "an Indian", the talk of "Nana-bo-jou" shows it is a child who is an Anishinaabe.

 Photo by ak-girl on Freeimages.com

TALE 100
The Snowstorm

It was at the great winter Carnival of Montreal not long ago. Looking out of a window on a stormy day were five children of different races: an Eskimo, a Dane, a Russian, an Indian, and a Yankee. The managers of the Carnival had brought the first four with their parents; but the Yankee was the son of a rich visitor.

"Look," cried the little Eskimo from Alaska, as he pointed to the driving snow. "Look at the ivory chips falling! El Sol is surely carving a big Walrus tusk into a fine dagger for himself. See how he whittles, and sends the white dust flying."

Of course he didn't say "El Sol," but used the Eskimo name for him.

Then the Dane said: "No, that isn't what makes it. That is Mother Earth getting ready for sleep. Those are the goose feathers of her feather bed, shaken up by her servants before she lies down and is covered with her white mantle."

The little Indian, with his eyes fixed on the storm, shook his head gravely and said: "My father taught me that these are the ashes from Nana-bo-jou's pipe; he has finished his smoke and is wrapping his blanket about him to rest. And my father always spake true."

"Nay, you are all wrong," said the little Russian. "My grandmother told me that it is Mother Carey. She is out riding in her strongest, freshest steed, the White Wind. He has not been out all summer; he is full of strength and fury; he spumes and rages. The air is filled with the foam from his bridle, and froth from his shoulders, as she rides him, and spurs him, and rides him. I love to see it, and know that she is filling the air with strength and with messages. They carry me back to my own dear homeland. It thrills me with joy to see the whiteness."

But the Yankee boy said: "Why, it's just snowing."

*********

The story tends to end abruptly and should sit there, letting the many wonderful views contrast with the rich Yankee boy's view of  "it's just snowing." 

May your own views of the season include stories!

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."

 

Powers - Corn Plume and Bean Maiden - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

As we fill our tables to celebrate Thanksgiving it is appropriate to look back to the cultural roots of what is there. History.com has an interesting article, "What Are the 'Three Sisters' of Native American Agriculture?" It shows that companion planting "reflects Indigenous agricultural knowledge and teachings about cooperation and balance."

That story of the Three Sisters and the Sky Woman should have been easy to find. 

It wasn't. 

First of all I checked about  the Haudenosaunee, better known as the Iroquois Confederation.I even went to Wikipedia's article on the Three Sisters, but was unable to find a Public Domain source. I checked Arthur C. Parker, who was a Seneca and recorded many of their stories, but apparently not this one. There also is an Iroquois reprint named  Legends of the Longhouse by J.J. Cornplanter (that is a popular Iroquois last name) it opens with the Sky Woman story of the Three Sisters, but it was first published in 1938, so unfortunately we must wait another nine (9!) years for it to to become Public Domain.

Then I went to another source, Mabel Powers, who has several books telling stories from the Haudenosaunee.. While not Native American herself, she became named Yeh Sen Noh Wehs or Daughter of the Senecas for her work saving and republishing their large body of stories. Today's story is from her Stories the Iroquois Tell Their Children. Her several books unfortunately do not include the Three Sisters, but she does have today's different story, which involves all three -- Corn, Bean, and Squash. It seems to continue after the "three sustainers" were first created in that origin story. It certainly continues the idea of companion planting.

CORN PLUME AND BEAN MAIDEN

The Great Spirit had smiled upon his Red Children. The land was filled with plenty, for the Great Spirit had given to them the three sustainers of life, the corn, the bean, and the squash. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, and all the earth was glad with the Red Children, for the gifts of the Great Spirit.

On one side of a hill grew the tall, waving corn, with its silk tassels and plumes. On another side, beans, with their velvety pods, climbed toward the sky. Some distance down a third slope, beautiful yellow squashes turned their faces to the sun.

One day, the Spirit of the corn grew restless. There came a rustling through the waving leaves, and a great sigh burst from the heart of the tall stalks. The Spirit of the corn was lonely.

After that, every morning at sunrise, a handsome young chief was seen to come and stand on the brow of the hill. On his head were shining red plumes. Tall, and strong, and splendid he stood, wrapped in the folds of his waving blanket, whose fringed tassels danced to the summer breeze.

"Che che hen! Che che hen! Some one I would marry! Some one I would marry!" the young chieftain would sing, many, many times.

One day, his voice reached the Squash Maiden, on the other side of the hill. The Squash Maiden drew about her a rich green blanket, into which she had woven many flaunting gold trumpet-shaped flowers. Then she ran swiftly to the young chieftain.

"Marry me! Marry me!" said the Squash Maiden, as she spread her beautiful gold and green blanket at his feet.

Corn Plume looked down at the Squash Maiden sitting on her blanket at his feet. She was good to look upon, and yet Corn Plume was not content. He wanted a maiden who would stand by his side, not always sit at his feet.

Then Corn Plume spoke thus to the Squash Maiden.

"Corn Plume cannot marry Squash Maiden. She is very beautiful, but she will not make song in Corn Plume's heart. Squash Maiden will grow tired of his lodge. She will not stay in his wigwam. She likes to go a long trail, and wander far from the lodge.

"Corn Plume cannot make Squash Maiden his wife, for he is not content with her. But she shall be Corn Plume's sister, and sit in his lodge whenever she will. The maiden Corn Plume weds must be ever at his side. She must go where he goes, stay where he stays."

Next morning at sunrise, the voice of Corn Plume was again heard, singing from the hilltop, "Che che hen! Che che hen! Some one I would marry! Some one I would marry! Che che hen! Che che hen!"

This time his song reached the ears of the Bean Maiden. Her heart sang, when she heard the voice of Corn Plume, for she knew that he was calling her. So light of heart was Bean Maiden, that she ran like a deer up the hillside. On and on, up and over the brow of the hill she climbed, till she reached the young chieftain's side.

Then Corn Plume turned and beheld the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen. Her eyes were deep and dark, like mountain pools. Her breath was sweet as the waters of the maple. She threw off her blanket of green, and purple, and white, and stretched her twining arms to him.

Corn Plume desired to keep Bean Maiden forever close to him. He bent his tall plumed head to her. Her arms wound round and round the young chieftain, and Corn Plume was content.

So closely were the arms of Corn Plume and the Bean Maiden entwined, so truly were they wed, that the Indians never attempted to separate them. Ever after, corn and beans were planted in the same hill, and often a squash seed was added.

Since the Great Spirit had placed the corn, the bean, and the squash together on a hill, the Indian said they should continue to live and grow and occupy a hill together.

The door of Corn Plume's lodge was ever open to the Squash Maiden, if she chose to enter. But seldom did she stay in his wigwam. More often, she was found running off on a long trail.

But Bean Maiden remained true to Corn Plume. Always she was found by his side. Never did she leave the lodge unless he went with her. Corn Plume's lodge was her lodge, and her trail was his trail.

And because the Spirits of the corn and the bean are as one, the Indians not only plant and grow them together, but cook and eat them together. "In life, they were one," they say, "We will not separate them in death."

And now, when a great rustling and sighing of the corn is heard in the White man's land, the Indians often say, "'Tis the Spirit of Corn Plume, crying for his lost Bean Maiden!"

 **********

There is another book by Mabel Powers, Around an Iroquois Story Fire which also has a very similar story, "How Corn and Beans Came to Be", complete with a Bean Song, but Squash is not in it and, because it was copyrighted in 1950, it certainly is not Public Domain. She lived a long life, 1872-1966, and was an "Advocate for Native Americans, Women and Peace", especially in the Chautauqua area. Her own legacy deserves to remembered.

As we close today's story I want to conclude with a link to the 1933 Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address, which is also called "Greetings to the Natural World." Each segment ends with "Now our minds are one." Certainly in our divided world that is something worth wishing. I especially like

The Creator
Now we turn our thoughts to the Creator, or Great Spirit, and send greetings and thanks for all
the gifts of Creation. Everything we need to live a good life is here on this Mother Earth. For all the love that is still around us, we gather our minds together as one and send our choicest
words of greetings and thanks to the Creator.
Now our minds are one. 

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This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “Public Domain Story Resources."