In the 1998 Pixar movie A Bug’s Life, the members of a colony of
hardworking ants are routinely bullied into giving most of their
carefully collected food to a thuggish grasshopper and his cronies.
Decades earlier, Disney presented another story about diligent ants and a
lazy grasshopper. In the 1934 Silly Symphony The Grasshopper and the Ants,
the larger insect is not cruel, just irresponsible. Though the ants
warn him to prepare for the harsh winter weather to come, he continues
on his merry way until he is forced to concede that they are right and
that he should have spent some of his time getting ready.
The
book version of Disney’s take on this ancient fable was written by
Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Larry Moore. The paintings have a
drab and rather fuzzy look about them. It certainly looks like a
throwback to an earlier time in animation. The grasshopper is a jolly
soul with bright, enormous eyes and a wide smile. He wears a red shirt
and a green jacket that matches his green top hat, and he plays his
fiddle merrily, inviting anyone he meets to join in his revelry. The
ants are a bit less distinctive; they are black with brown legs, and
many of them wear no clothes at all. Those who do mostly wear only a hat
or bow; the queen in her regal pink gown and golden crown is the only
one fully dressed.
In the original version of the story, after
the grasshopper fails to heed the warnings of the ants, winter catches
him by surprise and he appeals to the well-stocked ants for mercy,
asking them for food and shelter, but they coldly turn him away. The
moral appears to be that it is best to prepare for lean times instead of
spending all your days goofing off, but the ants’ lack of charity
rankles, so it’s hard to really see their industry as a great virtue
under the circumstances.
In Disney’s version, the ants have
more sympathy for their foolish friend, so instead of simply leaving him
out in the cold to freeze and starve to death, they invite him in and
he has the opportunity to repent, make amends and turn over a new leaf.
In the original version, I think that while the grasshopper is too
lackadaisical, the ants are too harsh. Disney offers a better balance,
showing that it is important to work hard but that life is also to be
enjoyed and that kindness to one’s neighbors is as high a virtue as
dedicated self-sufficiency.
The Disney short includes a song
that the grasshopper sings, and that appears in the book as well, though
of course, you have to imagine the melody as he sings. The World Owes Me a Living
is the name of the song, and it’s rather obnoxious, at least until he
changes his tune. The lyrics were written by Larry Morey, but most of
the words in the book are Brown’s. A prolific writer of children’s
books, she moves the story along artfully, a few sentences at a time.
The narration and dialogue is set apart in brown boxes, with the
illustrations either taking up a full page or a large portion of the
page, set against a white backdrop.
With the new year upon us,
we are now in the midst of the winter in which this book concludes, or
at least I am in Pennsylvania. I can never quite decide if I am the
grasshopper or the ant. I’d like to think I have a pretty decent work
ethic and that I manage my resources wisely, but I also spend a lot of
time in leisurely pursuits. I think the key is to stick to neither
extreme. Be more like the cricket, known for its merry music but
associated with the making of sound moral decisions. In the end, in this
more optimistic version of Aesop’s classic, the grasshopper comes to
appreciate the value of hard work and the ants recognize the worth of
merrymaking. All of them are able to appreciate that giving of yourself
and letting your efforts bless others carries the sweetest rewards of
all.
Showing posts with label Margaret Wise Brown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Margaret Wise Brown. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
The Ugly Duckling Finds a Place to Belong
Danish storyteller Hans Christian Andersen was a deeply imaginative man who wrote many enduring fairy tales, including The Little Mermaid, The Steadfast Tin Soldier and Thumbelina. Of all the tales he composed, my favorite would probably have to be The Ugly Duckling, a classic story of a misfit who ultimately comes to be seen as beautiful by the very birds who ridiculed him.
Such a story seems a perfect fit for Disney, so it’s little wonder that it was the subject of two Silly Symphonies. The picture book The Ugly Duckling, written by acclaimed children’s author Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Gil DiCicco, is an adaptation of the second, which was released in 1939.
This Disney version differs from Andersen’s tale in that the entire story takes place in the title character’s youth. The “ugly duckling” is born to a pair of ducks who ostracize him because he does not resemble their four fluffy yellow ducklings. He is white and much larger than they are, and he makes a peculiar honking noise instead of quacking. Once he realizes that he is unwanted, he meanders through the marshlands looking for someone who will treat him kindly until he finally finds a group of birds with whom he fits in.
The main character is absolutely adorable, full of exuberant energy and eager to face the world with a smile. The lovely watercolor paintings, whose backdrops are rich in natural detail, emphasize how different he is from his siblings while showing that this does not bother him in the slightest. The pictures of him walking around while still mostly inside his shell are especially cute. After the first few pages, his innocent duck-billed grin gives way to sadness as he realizes that nobody wants him around. The illustration in which he gazes at his reflection in the water while a tear trickles down his nose is truly heartbreaking.
Brown weaves the tale through simple but effective language. Aside from some honking, the duck parents are the only characters in the book with any dialogue. We get the sense that this is a bird who is not yet capable of intelligible speech. That increases the lonely feeling of this book, as not only is this youngster on his own, he doesn’t seem able to tell others what is wrong.
The tone here is a bit different than in the original since it’s about acceptance, not vindication. We never see the ducks again at the end of the book, so there’s no moment of realization as they marvel at his beauty. Indeed, he’s still a bit gangly and awkward; it will be some time before he becomes a stately adult. However, he has found a family to love him as he is, and that is all he needs to make him happy. In some ways, then, I think I like this version even better.
The treatment this open-hearted character receives from other birds, particularly his supposed family, is discouraging. They never give him a chance. Then again, the situation is sadly not that uncommon. While the cruelty displayed early in the book is troubling, the affectionate resolution, depicted in a joyous fold-out three-page spread, leaves the reader with a sense of warmth and optimism. If “one little duck in the wide, wide world” can find acceptance, maybe other societal rejects can too.
Such a story seems a perfect fit for Disney, so it’s little wonder that it was the subject of two Silly Symphonies. The picture book The Ugly Duckling, written by acclaimed children’s author Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Gil DiCicco, is an adaptation of the second, which was released in 1939.
This Disney version differs from Andersen’s tale in that the entire story takes place in the title character’s youth. The “ugly duckling” is born to a pair of ducks who ostracize him because he does not resemble their four fluffy yellow ducklings. He is white and much larger than they are, and he makes a peculiar honking noise instead of quacking. Once he realizes that he is unwanted, he meanders through the marshlands looking for someone who will treat him kindly until he finally finds a group of birds with whom he fits in.
The main character is absolutely adorable, full of exuberant energy and eager to face the world with a smile. The lovely watercolor paintings, whose backdrops are rich in natural detail, emphasize how different he is from his siblings while showing that this does not bother him in the slightest. The pictures of him walking around while still mostly inside his shell are especially cute. After the first few pages, his innocent duck-billed grin gives way to sadness as he realizes that nobody wants him around. The illustration in which he gazes at his reflection in the water while a tear trickles down his nose is truly heartbreaking.
Brown weaves the tale through simple but effective language. Aside from some honking, the duck parents are the only characters in the book with any dialogue. We get the sense that this is a bird who is not yet capable of intelligible speech. That increases the lonely feeling of this book, as not only is this youngster on his own, he doesn’t seem able to tell others what is wrong.
The tone here is a bit different than in the original since it’s about acceptance, not vindication. We never see the ducks again at the end of the book, so there’s no moment of realization as they marvel at his beauty. Indeed, he’s still a bit gangly and awkward; it will be some time before he becomes a stately adult. However, he has found a family to love him as he is, and that is all he needs to make him happy. In some ways, then, I think I like this version even better.
The treatment this open-hearted character receives from other birds, particularly his supposed family, is discouraging. They never give him a chance. Then again, the situation is sadly not that uncommon. While the cruelty displayed early in the book is troubling, the affectionate resolution, depicted in a joyous fold-out three-page spread, leaves the reader with a sense of warmth and optimism. If “one little duck in the wide, wide world” can find acceptance, maybe other societal rejects can too.
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Little Island Explores Changes and Connections
I’ve always found islands fascinating. Perhaps it’s because they seem
like little worlds unto themselves, like tiny planets that sailors
stumble upon in the midst of a horrific storm. And with everything
shrunk down so far, an island becomes a microcosm for the world at
large. An island is an ideal setting for philosophical exploration, as LOST showed, and author Golden McDonald, otherwise known as Margaret Wise Brown of childhood classic Goodnight Moon, would seem to agree.
In The Little Island, a Caldecott-winning book artfully illustrated by Leonard Weisgard, we watch an island experience the change of seasons, which McDonald describes in vivid, poetic language. Just as I always capitalize Island when referring to the setting of LOST, McDonald always capitalizes Island throughout her story. She keeps us aware that there is more out there than just this Island, but we never see beyond the water that surrounds it. The place is steeped in mystery: “the fog came in from the sea / and hid the little Island / in a soft wet shadow.” On nearly every page, we see a different creature making its home here, unaware that anything lies beyond these shores.
I love the language that McDonald uses to bring the Island to such full life, and her decision to allow the Island to speak for itself is intriguing. Throughout most of the book, we merely see what happens on the Island, without any real characters to speak of aside from the stalwart Island itself. But then a cat comes ashore off a sailboat and becomes very curious. If this were LOST, he would be John Locke: capable, dangerous and obsessively inquisitive. He wants to know the Island’s secret. But will the Island cooperate?
There’s a great sense of serenity to this book, especially in the gently rocking cadence of the narration. It is a perfect match with the soothing illustrations, which depict the Island in sunlight and shadow. The egg-laying gulls making their nests high in rocky ledges seem to squawk in tune with a song of isolation, while the berries and butterflies burst out in a vibrant display. There’s so much to see and to explore even on such a tiny island.
The Little Island is about nature and the changing of the seasons, but it’s also about having faith – here simplistically described as “to believe what I tell you about what you don’t know” – and connectedness. The Island is “a part of the world / and a world of its own.” The kitten looks into the eye of the Island, and what it sees is beautiful, and what we see is beautiful as well, whether it’s the blossoms on the lone tree on a windy bluff or the fish that dance in the choppy waves lapping up against its shores. An enchanting little book.
In The Little Island, a Caldecott-winning book artfully illustrated by Leonard Weisgard, we watch an island experience the change of seasons, which McDonald describes in vivid, poetic language. Just as I always capitalize Island when referring to the setting of LOST, McDonald always capitalizes Island throughout her story. She keeps us aware that there is more out there than just this Island, but we never see beyond the water that surrounds it. The place is steeped in mystery: “the fog came in from the sea / and hid the little Island / in a soft wet shadow.” On nearly every page, we see a different creature making its home here, unaware that anything lies beyond these shores.
I love the language that McDonald uses to bring the Island to such full life, and her decision to allow the Island to speak for itself is intriguing. Throughout most of the book, we merely see what happens on the Island, without any real characters to speak of aside from the stalwart Island itself. But then a cat comes ashore off a sailboat and becomes very curious. If this were LOST, he would be John Locke: capable, dangerous and obsessively inquisitive. He wants to know the Island’s secret. But will the Island cooperate?
There’s a great sense of serenity to this book, especially in the gently rocking cadence of the narration. It is a perfect match with the soothing illustrations, which depict the Island in sunlight and shadow. The egg-laying gulls making their nests high in rocky ledges seem to squawk in tune with a song of isolation, while the berries and butterflies burst out in a vibrant display. There’s so much to see and to explore even on such a tiny island.
The Little Island is about nature and the changing of the seasons, but it’s also about having faith – here simplistically described as “to believe what I tell you about what you don’t know” – and connectedness. The Island is “a part of the world / and a world of its own.” The kitten looks into the eye of the Island, and what it sees is beautiful, and what we see is beautiful as well, whether it’s the blossoms on the lone tree on a windy bluff or the fish that dance in the choppy waves lapping up against its shores. An enchanting little book.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Margaret Wise Brown's Goodnight Moon Is Simple and Soothing
One of the most memorable components of family-friendly TV series The Waltons
is the inevitable scene in which the lights go out and various members
of the extremely large family call out goodnight to each other. It’s not
as flashy as the farewell that Maria and the Von Trapp children prepare
for the party guests in The Sound of Music; it’s just very basic, and a way of helping us remember all of those names. Kind of like Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon.
This is a book I’ve seen spoofed many times, most memorably on Animaniacs and The Simpsons. I knew there’s also at least one picture book parody of it as well. It’s easy to poke fun at because there’s really not much to it. This is simply a going-to-bed ritual, assessing one’s surroundings and, instead of counting sheep, drifting off into dreamland by bidding goodnight to all the assembled objects.
The main character, never mentioned by name, is a little bunny in striped pajamas who is tucked into a very cozy-looking bed. Clement Hurd is the illustrator of this book, and he must have really liked bunnies. He was also the illustrator of Brown’s The Runaway Bunny, which was published first, and these could almost be the same bunnies, except that Brown refers to the woman in the room with the youngster as “old,” leading me to suspect that this is his grandmother or perhaps a nanny. Could still be the same child, though. Unlike in Runaway Bunny, there is no mention in the text of the species of the characters, so I can’t help wondering whether Brown knew that this was going to be another bunny book when she started, or if the illustrations took it in an unexpected direction.
There’s not much of a story here. The child reading, or being read to, is meant to identify with the going-to-bed bunny, who tries to point out every object in his room and, lest anyone feel left out, say goodnight to each one. Hence, the story has a very circular feel, since the objects are first listed and then said goodnight to. The list is mostly the same at beginning and end, though broken up more in the goodbyes, so that the painting of three bears in chairs yields “Goodnight bears, goodnight chairs”. There are some exceptions; Little Rabbit does not say goodnight to the telephone, the first item mentioned in the book apart from the room itself, and he does say goodnight to socks and clocks, neither of which is mentioned before. Meanwhile, the final line, “Goodnight noises everywhere,” seems a little out of place, since every other “goodnight” is so visually-oriented.
Of course, there are things in the room that the bunny never mentions at all, since this is a rather fancy nook he has. He could, if he so chose, say goodnight to the rug, to the bookshelf, to the giraffe and elephant, to the fireplace. But then he’d have to find a way to make it rhyme. Children reading along might be inspired to catalog the objects in their own rooms, perhaps even arranging them in a rhyming pattern on paper so that they can undergo a similar ritual at bedtime. Mine might look something like, “Goodnight mirror, goodnight books, goodnight art on silver hooks. Goodnight Charlie, goodnight Pooh, goodnight elves and hobbits, too.” Well, I have a lot of stuff in my room, but you get the idea. Incidentally, I’m adding in commas here because it just feels weird without them, but the only punctuation marks to be found in this book are a dash at the beginning and quotation marks around the word “hush”.
Goodnight Moon is a classic book for the very young, a book from which I suspect most parents are all too eager to graduate. Oddly, I don’t think it’s one my parents ever read to me; maybe even as a two-year-old I craved books with a little more pizzazz. I like Runaway Bunny much better than this book, but I can’t deny it has a certain charm, and who am I to question the enthusiasm of generations of toddlers?
This is a book I’ve seen spoofed many times, most memorably on Animaniacs and The Simpsons. I knew there’s also at least one picture book parody of it as well. It’s easy to poke fun at because there’s really not much to it. This is simply a going-to-bed ritual, assessing one’s surroundings and, instead of counting sheep, drifting off into dreamland by bidding goodnight to all the assembled objects.
The main character, never mentioned by name, is a little bunny in striped pajamas who is tucked into a very cozy-looking bed. Clement Hurd is the illustrator of this book, and he must have really liked bunnies. He was also the illustrator of Brown’s The Runaway Bunny, which was published first, and these could almost be the same bunnies, except that Brown refers to the woman in the room with the youngster as “old,” leading me to suspect that this is his grandmother or perhaps a nanny. Could still be the same child, though. Unlike in Runaway Bunny, there is no mention in the text of the species of the characters, so I can’t help wondering whether Brown knew that this was going to be another bunny book when she started, or if the illustrations took it in an unexpected direction.
There’s not much of a story here. The child reading, or being read to, is meant to identify with the going-to-bed bunny, who tries to point out every object in his room and, lest anyone feel left out, say goodnight to each one. Hence, the story has a very circular feel, since the objects are first listed and then said goodnight to. The list is mostly the same at beginning and end, though broken up more in the goodbyes, so that the painting of three bears in chairs yields “Goodnight bears, goodnight chairs”. There are some exceptions; Little Rabbit does not say goodnight to the telephone, the first item mentioned in the book apart from the room itself, and he does say goodnight to socks and clocks, neither of which is mentioned before. Meanwhile, the final line, “Goodnight noises everywhere,” seems a little out of place, since every other “goodnight” is so visually-oriented.
Of course, there are things in the room that the bunny never mentions at all, since this is a rather fancy nook he has. He could, if he so chose, say goodnight to the rug, to the bookshelf, to the giraffe and elephant, to the fireplace. But then he’d have to find a way to make it rhyme. Children reading along might be inspired to catalog the objects in their own rooms, perhaps even arranging them in a rhyming pattern on paper so that they can undergo a similar ritual at bedtime. Mine might look something like, “Goodnight mirror, goodnight books, goodnight art on silver hooks. Goodnight Charlie, goodnight Pooh, goodnight elves and hobbits, too.” Well, I have a lot of stuff in my room, but you get the idea. Incidentally, I’m adding in commas here because it just feels weird without them, but the only punctuation marks to be found in this book are a dash at the beginning and quotation marks around the word “hush”.
Goodnight Moon is a classic book for the very young, a book from which I suspect most parents are all too eager to graduate. Oddly, I don’t think it’s one my parents ever read to me; maybe even as a two-year-old I craved books with a little more pizzazz. I like Runaway Bunny much better than this book, but I can’t deny it has a certain charm, and who am I to question the enthusiasm of generations of toddlers?
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Around Epinions: "Run Away! Run Away!" The Runaway Mummy Caters to a Monster-Loving Crowd
While browsing through a volume I received for Christmas that lists
hundreds of distinguished children’s books, I was startled to discover
that, despite my familiarity with the cover page, I had never read
Margaret Wise Brown’s The Runaway Bunny,
or if I had, it was too long ago for me to remember it. I headed over
to the online card catalog to put it on hold, and a list of search
engine results included The Runaway Mummy: A Petrifying Parody. So while I put a copy of Brown’s classic on hold, I couldn’t resist requesting the spoof as well.
The Brown story involves a little rabbit announcing his intention to run away from home. As the youngster plots his shapeshifting escape, his devoted mother is right behind him every step of the way, matching him metaphor for metaphor. If he becomes a fish, she will become a fisherman; if he becomes a bird, she will become a welcoming tree. The cozy series of images is a wonderful affirmation of love that also encourages children to think creatively about the relationships between various objects.
The Runaway Mummy by Michael Rex follows the same premise, except that the main characters are mummies instead of bunnies, and all of the scenarios they dream up are rather ghoulish. Oh, and Mummy Mummy, being a bit overzealous in her protective instincts, has a habit of unintentionally injuring her child in the scenes they conjure up. In one two-page spread, she becomes a dragon who breathes a little too much fire on her little gargoyle to keep him warm. Later, as “a sky-high monster with razor-sharp claws,” she tickles her son, now a “humongous beast,” into submission. It reminds me of the spectacular wizards’ duel in Disney’s The Sword in the Stone. What a dizzying tennis match of transfiguration!
The colorful book follows a simple format. On the left page, Little Mummy explains his next move, while his mother explains hers on th right. Each page contains a couple of sentences and a large full-color illustration. This is followed by a two-page spread showing parent and child together in this fantasy realm. One fun thing about these pages is the fact that each new creature has clearly visible mummy wrap on it, though it sometimes takes a moment to discover just where. Some of it is very cleverly incorporated. Also very fun: the mother’s horrified reaction when her tied-up tyke decides that he will become a little boy, just as the little rabbit does in Runaway Bunny.
The book is full of fun little details. Most pages involve some degree of mayhem, banking on some children’s fondness for all things destructive, but the affection of the mother for her son mostly balances that out. We don’t see anybody actually injured throughout the book, though a few buildings take a tumble. Keep an eye out for Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night; I’m not sure what it’s doing here, but I enjoyed seeing an homage to one of my favorite paintings jump out at me unexpectedly. I also loved the sphinx in the shape of a bunny that appears on the back cover.
Runaway Mummy is the sort of book that is probably best suited to Halloween, though children who get a kick out of monsters are likely to enjoy it any time of year, making the tender mother-son lovefest accessible even to those who would rather see their rabbits attack than cuddle.
The Brown story involves a little rabbit announcing his intention to run away from home. As the youngster plots his shapeshifting escape, his devoted mother is right behind him every step of the way, matching him metaphor for metaphor. If he becomes a fish, she will become a fisherman; if he becomes a bird, she will become a welcoming tree. The cozy series of images is a wonderful affirmation of love that also encourages children to think creatively about the relationships between various objects.
The Runaway Mummy by Michael Rex follows the same premise, except that the main characters are mummies instead of bunnies, and all of the scenarios they dream up are rather ghoulish. Oh, and Mummy Mummy, being a bit overzealous in her protective instincts, has a habit of unintentionally injuring her child in the scenes they conjure up. In one two-page spread, she becomes a dragon who breathes a little too much fire on her little gargoyle to keep him warm. Later, as “a sky-high monster with razor-sharp claws,” she tickles her son, now a “humongous beast,” into submission. It reminds me of the spectacular wizards’ duel in Disney’s The Sword in the Stone. What a dizzying tennis match of transfiguration!
The colorful book follows a simple format. On the left page, Little Mummy explains his next move, while his mother explains hers on th right. Each page contains a couple of sentences and a large full-color illustration. This is followed by a two-page spread showing parent and child together in this fantasy realm. One fun thing about these pages is the fact that each new creature has clearly visible mummy wrap on it, though it sometimes takes a moment to discover just where. Some of it is very cleverly incorporated. Also very fun: the mother’s horrified reaction when her tied-up tyke decides that he will become a little boy, just as the little rabbit does in Runaway Bunny.
The book is full of fun little details. Most pages involve some degree of mayhem, banking on some children’s fondness for all things destructive, but the affection of the mother for her son mostly balances that out. We don’t see anybody actually injured throughout the book, though a few buildings take a tumble. Keep an eye out for Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night; I’m not sure what it’s doing here, but I enjoyed seeing an homage to one of my favorite paintings jump out at me unexpectedly. I also loved the sphinx in the shape of a bunny that appears on the back cover.
Runaway Mummy is the sort of book that is probably best suited to Halloween, though children who get a kick out of monsters are likely to enjoy it any time of year, making the tender mother-son lovefest accessible even to those who would rather see their rabbits attack than cuddle.
The Runaway Bunny Can Never Escape His Mother's Love
One of my goals for this year, inspired by a Christmas gift - 1001 Children’s Books You Must Read Before You Grow Up
- is to read as many classic kids’ books as I can and then review them.
I was shocked when my perusal of this volume revealed that I had read
only about 200 of the recommended books. And I call myself a kid-lit
expert! One of the first books I took out of the library was The Runaway Bunny.
Written by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Clement Hurd, it
tells the gentle story of a young rabbit who decides he wants to run
away from home and the mother who is determined to follow him every step
of the way.
Mama Rabbit is quick-witted and creative as well as warm-hearted; no matter what device her son thinks up as a means of escape, she has an equally potent method of pursuing him. If he becomes a rock on a mountain, she becomes a mountain climber. If he becomes a sailboat, she becomes the wind. There’s a natural progression to not only her responses to him, but also his to her. When she opts to become a gardener, he decides that he will be a bird and fly away; when she becomes the wind, he joins a circus and soars off on a flying trapeze. It’s a charming battle of wits.
What makes it all the more endearing is the illustrations. The basic format of the book is the youngster’s declaration on the left page and the mother’s on the right, each accompanied by a black and white drawing, then a full-color two-page spread illustrating the latest pair of images. The drawings are cute, but it’s the paintings I really love. One shows Mama Rabbit with a fishing rod, enticing her little rabbit-fish with a carrot for bait. In another illustration, Little Rabbit sprout glorious wings and flies to a welcoming rabbit-shaped tree. Probably my favorite illustration shows Mama Rabbit as the wind, blowing her little boat-boy, with his enormous sail ears, to safer waters.
The progression of the book reminds me of the song Hush, Little Baby, as this mother is prepared for any number of eventualities. If this happens, she’ll handle it; if that happens, she’ll make that work, too. It also makes me think of Mother Bear in the Little Bear stories. She, too, has to use quick thinking sometimes in order to keep up with her imaginative son. And I can’t help thinking that the lovely You Are My I Love You and its sequel, You Are My Miracle, which feature pairs of metaphorical statements describing a parent and child in relation to each other, may have been influenced by this book.
If this all sounds a little too lovey-dovey for your youngster, Michael Rex has written Runaway Mummy, a rather ghoulish alternative that matches this story page for page with high-octane figures: sea monsters instead of a fish and fisherman, a ravenous plant and a gorilla instead of a crocus and a gardener. But for tiny tots who still love to snuggle, it’s hard to beat the cozy comfort of Runaway Bunny.
Mama Rabbit is quick-witted and creative as well as warm-hearted; no matter what device her son thinks up as a means of escape, she has an equally potent method of pursuing him. If he becomes a rock on a mountain, she becomes a mountain climber. If he becomes a sailboat, she becomes the wind. There’s a natural progression to not only her responses to him, but also his to her. When she opts to become a gardener, he decides that he will be a bird and fly away; when she becomes the wind, he joins a circus and soars off on a flying trapeze. It’s a charming battle of wits.
What makes it all the more endearing is the illustrations. The basic format of the book is the youngster’s declaration on the left page and the mother’s on the right, each accompanied by a black and white drawing, then a full-color two-page spread illustrating the latest pair of images. The drawings are cute, but it’s the paintings I really love. One shows Mama Rabbit with a fishing rod, enticing her little rabbit-fish with a carrot for bait. In another illustration, Little Rabbit sprout glorious wings and flies to a welcoming rabbit-shaped tree. Probably my favorite illustration shows Mama Rabbit as the wind, blowing her little boat-boy, with his enormous sail ears, to safer waters.
The progression of the book reminds me of the song Hush, Little Baby, as this mother is prepared for any number of eventualities. If this happens, she’ll handle it; if that happens, she’ll make that work, too. It also makes me think of Mother Bear in the Little Bear stories. She, too, has to use quick thinking sometimes in order to keep up with her imaginative son. And I can’t help thinking that the lovely You Are My I Love You and its sequel, You Are My Miracle, which feature pairs of metaphorical statements describing a parent and child in relation to each other, may have been influenced by this book.
If this all sounds a little too lovey-dovey for your youngster, Michael Rex has written Runaway Mummy, a rather ghoulish alternative that matches this story page for page with high-octane figures: sea monsters instead of a fish and fisherman, a ravenous plant and a gorilla instead of a crocus and a gardener. But for tiny tots who still love to snuggle, it’s hard to beat the cozy comfort of Runaway Bunny.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Margaret Wise Brown and Anne Mortimer Tickle the Senses in A Pussycat's Christmas
I have two cats, and I have had several others over the years, so I know
first-hand the sort of excitement that Christmas can inspire in
felines. I’ve often experienced their fondness for batting at ornaments
with their paws, and on one occasion, one of the cats decided to take a
flying leap into the mostly-decorated tree and send it crashing across
the living room. They love to curl up underneath the branches and
investigate all the extra food that seems to turn up around Christmas.
Thanks to my cats, A Pussycat’s Christmas, written by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Anne Mortimer, feels very familiar to me.
With poetic language appealing to all of the senses, Brown describes Pussycat’s reaction to all the sights, sounds and smells of Christmas. The book is fairly evenly divided between her time outside, where she basks in the silence of a muted world and gleefully rolls in the “cold, dry, fresh, white, wild, and feather, powdery snow,” and inside, where she peeks at the trimmings strewn across the table and gets herself evicted from the living room for showing too keen an interest in the ornaments.
There’s not much of a story to this book. It follows a particular Christmas Eve in the life of this cat, but nothing much happens that wouldn’t happen on any given Christmas Eve. Well, except that she sees Santa Claus and his reindeer streaking through the sky before she ventures in for the night, which strikes me as odd since this is before her humans head off to church. That seems way too early for Santa to be showing up.
But Santa is really just an afterthought here. The rest of the book involves everyday aspects of a traditional Christmas celebration and of a snow-covered landscape. Pussycat has experienced this before, so there’s a combination of nostalgia and fresh curiosity. I haven’t read the book with its original illustrations, but I love Mortimer’s. Pussycat is a big fluffy black and white cat with enormous yellow eyes.
Those eyes are often my favorite part of the paintings, as when she peeks at all the freshly wrapped presents on the table, her nose only halfway visible in a pose reminiscent of Home Improvement‘s Wilson, or when she stretches out near the departing humans, her eyes just barely open as she struggles to stay awake. She looks soft and warm, completely cuddly, and Mortimer makes her surroundings nearly as palatable to us as they are to her.
Anyone who has ever loved a cat is likely to appreciate this charming little book. I’m sure it won’t be long at all until my own cats replicate this furry feline’s antics. If you don’t have kitties of your own to observe, put a little purr in your December with A Pussycat’s Christmas.
With poetic language appealing to all of the senses, Brown describes Pussycat’s reaction to all the sights, sounds and smells of Christmas. The book is fairly evenly divided between her time outside, where she basks in the silence of a muted world and gleefully rolls in the “cold, dry, fresh, white, wild, and feather, powdery snow,” and inside, where she peeks at the trimmings strewn across the table and gets herself evicted from the living room for showing too keen an interest in the ornaments.
There’s not much of a story to this book. It follows a particular Christmas Eve in the life of this cat, but nothing much happens that wouldn’t happen on any given Christmas Eve. Well, except that she sees Santa Claus and his reindeer streaking through the sky before she ventures in for the night, which strikes me as odd since this is before her humans head off to church. That seems way too early for Santa to be showing up.
But Santa is really just an afterthought here. The rest of the book involves everyday aspects of a traditional Christmas celebration and of a snow-covered landscape. Pussycat has experienced this before, so there’s a combination of nostalgia and fresh curiosity. I haven’t read the book with its original illustrations, but I love Mortimer’s. Pussycat is a big fluffy black and white cat with enormous yellow eyes.
Those eyes are often my favorite part of the paintings, as when she peeks at all the freshly wrapped presents on the table, her nose only halfway visible in a pose reminiscent of Home Improvement‘s Wilson, or when she stretches out near the departing humans, her eyes just barely open as she struggles to stay awake. She looks soft and warm, completely cuddly, and Mortimer makes her surroundings nearly as palatable to us as they are to her.
Anyone who has ever loved a cat is likely to appreciate this charming little book. I’m sure it won’t be long at all until my own cats replicate this furry feline’s antics. If you don’t have kitties of your own to observe, put a little purr in your December with A Pussycat’s Christmas.
Monday, December 31, 2007
A Gorgeous Tale of a Boy and HisTree
Every year, my family embarks upon a quest to secure a Christmas tree
for our living room. Maybe we'll get lucky and find the perfect tree on
the first try; more likely we'll drive all around town before we finally
succeed. It will fill our house with the sweet scent of pine and the
warm glow of lights for the rest of the month. But come January, its
needles will fall, and the once-majestic tree will be relegated to the
curb for an undignified pick-up. Such is the way of things for most
Christmas trees.
But in Margaret Wise Brown's The Little Fir Tree, Christmas does not signal an ending for our arboreal protagonist. This spunky sapling dreams of being part of something, having lived in isolation since a brisk wind swept him away from the forest as a seedling. One day, his silent wish is granted when a man arrives, digging him out of the ground and taking him home to be a companion for his lame son. The fir witnesses and partakes in the joys of the season, and when spring approaches, he returns to the field, larger and stronger. Several months later, the man returns, and the scenario repeats itself. The tree and the boy will grow together.
This gentle book is beautifully written, particularly in its descriptions of the seasons. Spring comes "flashing with bees and flowers"; summer "drone[s] its hot bee-buzzing days," autumn skies "whirl their falling leaves and milkweed parachutes". In winter, the season we see most often, "grasses of the fields crackle with the diamond light of ice." But the illustrations are even more stunning, soft and luminous, with paintings by Jim LaMarche, who also provided gorgeous paintings for Bear's First Christmas. The scenes are almost photo-realistic, tinged with a Thomas Kinkade-style glow that accentuates the goodwill of each of the book's characters.
This environmentally friendly tale is a celebration of life, growth and togetherness. Each year, the boy gets a little stronger, the tree gets a little fuller and the group of children who gather and sing the boy's special song - "O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, your greenest branches live for me" - gets a little bigger. But one year, the kind man with the broad arms and crinkly eyes fails to come for the tree. Has something terrible happened to the boy? Is the tree destined to be lonesome for the rest of his life?
Never fear. The conclusion to this tale is tender without being tragic, and the undercurrent of brotherhood and hope running through the story complements the marvelous illustrations perfectly and makes it one of the loveliest Christmas picture books I've read.
But in Margaret Wise Brown's The Little Fir Tree, Christmas does not signal an ending for our arboreal protagonist. This spunky sapling dreams of being part of something, having lived in isolation since a brisk wind swept him away from the forest as a seedling. One day, his silent wish is granted when a man arrives, digging him out of the ground and taking him home to be a companion for his lame son. The fir witnesses and partakes in the joys of the season, and when spring approaches, he returns to the field, larger and stronger. Several months later, the man returns, and the scenario repeats itself. The tree and the boy will grow together.
This gentle book is beautifully written, particularly in its descriptions of the seasons. Spring comes "flashing with bees and flowers"; summer "drone[s] its hot bee-buzzing days," autumn skies "whirl their falling leaves and milkweed parachutes". In winter, the season we see most often, "grasses of the fields crackle with the diamond light of ice." But the illustrations are even more stunning, soft and luminous, with paintings by Jim LaMarche, who also provided gorgeous paintings for Bear's First Christmas. The scenes are almost photo-realistic, tinged with a Thomas Kinkade-style glow that accentuates the goodwill of each of the book's characters.
This environmentally friendly tale is a celebration of life, growth and togetherness. Each year, the boy gets a little stronger, the tree gets a little fuller and the group of children who gather and sing the boy's special song - "O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, your greenest branches live for me" - gets a little bigger. But one year, the kind man with the broad arms and crinkly eyes fails to come for the tree. Has something terrible happened to the boy? Is the tree destined to be lonesome for the rest of his life?
Never fear. The conclusion to this tale is tender without being tragic, and the undercurrent of brotherhood and hope running through the story complements the marvelous illustrations perfectly and makes it one of the loveliest Christmas picture books I've read.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Goodnight Moon-Weary Parents May Ask of This Book: "Where Have You Been?"
Among the many books for very young children, few have achieved the canonical status of Margaret Wise Brown's Goodnight Moon.
The simple, comforting series of goodnights to familiar objects makes
it a popular choice for toddlers, though parents may grow tired of the
repetition. This repetition is out in full force in Brown's Where Have You Been?, written the year that she died.
A series of six-line verses, they all follow a very basic format that varies little from page to page. For instance: "Little Old Mole / Little Old Mole / Where have you been? / Down a long dark hole / Said the Little Old Mole. / That's where I've been." On most pages, the only real variation comes in the fourth line, though later in the book Brown changes it up a bit by asking questions other than "Where have you been?"
Each page features a different animal, for 14 in all, though several of Barbara Cooney's illustrations contain more than just the subject of the verse at hand. A picture of a whale, for example, includes a jellyfish, and a picture of a bunny includes a cricket. The drawings are rendered with only black and red ink, and as they were done in 1952, they have a very old-fashioned look to them. I would say they are charming, but they might be a bit bland for children used to vibrant, full-color illustrations.
Still, there is enough detail in Cooney's work to merit a second look. If you glance closely, you can see a boy waving at the conductor of the train over which the brown bird flies, and you might be amused, as I was, by the frog's sheet music, whose lyrics read, "Hallelujah! I'm a bum."
This is a book for the very young; anyone older than four will probably tire of it quickly. But for sleepy toddlers, especially those who love animals, Where Have You Been? may serve as an ideal ticket to dreamland. At least it will give their parents a break from Goodnight Moon.
A series of six-line verses, they all follow a very basic format that varies little from page to page. For instance: "Little Old Mole / Little Old Mole / Where have you been? / Down a long dark hole / Said the Little Old Mole. / That's where I've been." On most pages, the only real variation comes in the fourth line, though later in the book Brown changes it up a bit by asking questions other than "Where have you been?"
Each page features a different animal, for 14 in all, though several of Barbara Cooney's illustrations contain more than just the subject of the verse at hand. A picture of a whale, for example, includes a jellyfish, and a picture of a bunny includes a cricket. The drawings are rendered with only black and red ink, and as they were done in 1952, they have a very old-fashioned look to them. I would say they are charming, but they might be a bit bland for children used to vibrant, full-color illustrations.
Still, there is enough detail in Cooney's work to merit a second look. If you glance closely, you can see a boy waving at the conductor of the train over which the brown bird flies, and you might be amused, as I was, by the frog's sheet music, whose lyrics read, "Hallelujah! I'm a bum."
This is a book for the very young; anyone older than four will probably tire of it quickly. But for sleepy toddlers, especially those who love animals, Where Have You Been? may serve as an ideal ticket to dreamland. At least it will give their parents a break from Goodnight Moon.
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