It is with infinite regret that we must announce the indefinite hiatus of the Children’s Literature Supplement. Unlike the rest of the media world, there were no fights or firings. Sarah simply doesn’t have the bandwidth at the moment to continue writing this newsletter and must take a pause. It has been a delight writing these newsletters for the WRB, and Sarah hopes her readers have found them useful—and perhaps even a bit enjoyable. Grace will continue her “What the Kids Are Reading” column over on her Substack, so please give her a follow and continue to read her charming output. Sarah will certainly be taking notes! For our final CLS, here is a roundup from the last few years with some of our favorite literary suggestions, tidbits, and handy hints.
Where we began
Why did we start this newsletter in the first place? Well:
. . . Whether or not you have children, you shouldn’t preclude yourself from reading and enjoying this wonderful collection. Simply put, there is a great deal of lovely, powerful, important children’s literature out there, but it is often choked out by fluff. This collection will bring you ideas about children’s literature, old and new, and why we should preserve and promote the good and the great found in this canon. Furthermore, we want to combat the idea that children’s literature is just for children. If the point of a great (or even simply good) book such as the Inferno or Bleak House is to tell us something about virtue and the universal human experience, why can’t we look at great and good children’s literature in the same manner?
Hot takes
Some of our argumentative posts from bygone times.
October 2022: Sarah, who has a minor [major? all-consuming?] obsession with Louisa May Alcott and her work, did enjoy the 2019 film version of Little Women, but Rebekah Wojtysiak over at Hearth and Field very much didn’t. [I just rewatched the movie in light of her critique and find her point unconvincing, but it is a theme worth reflecting on—and an excuse to reread and rewatch Little Women. —Sarah]
December 2022: Karen Swallow Prior, besides having the most lovely name, is also a wonderfully lyrical writer. This time, she’s taken pen in hand to give us a review of Anna Sewell’s classic tale, Black Beauty. [To my great surprise, I discovered that this wasn’t originally a children’s story. —Sarah] There’s much to be considered in this review (and hopefully it encourages a reading or rereading of the book), but the melodiousness of this particular passage is delightful:
The newly industrialized society in which Sewell lived had, ironically, become increasingly dependent upon horses, which were needed to fill the growing transportation and commerce demands of populous urban centers. Within a modern mindset shaped by metaphors of mechanization, horses were viewed as extensions of trains and valued and treated accordingly. The city environment—with tight spaces, loud noises, and cobblestone roads—itself was inherently inhospitable to such delicate, high strung creatures. Compounding the problem further, the migration of many laborers from the countryside to urban areas put more and more horses into the hands of those unschooled in their care. Sewell wrote her book with this audience in mind, nestling lessons on the care of horses inside an engaging story, one that stable hands, grooms, and drivers could both read and enjoy. She wrote not just for those who owned horses but also for those who labored with them.
[Emphasis added. —Sarah]
May 2023: Speaking of Wind in the Willows, Sarah wrote recently about her least-favorite character from the tale, and about his vital importance to the story:
This seemingly simple tale is thematically rich: What is home? What is hospitality? How does the spirit of adventure affect us? As friendship is another of the book’s important themes, I shall focus here on how it affects Mr. Toad. Some commentaries I’ve read over the years consider Toad to be the darling of young readers. Indeed, his breezy manners and madcap deeds, splendid wealth and self-laudatory songs contrast considerably with the measured, warm, genuine partnership of Rat and Mole. I disliked Toad the moment we met, not because he was an unpleasant character, but because he was just so absurd, and I could not comprehend how Rat, Mole, and Badger (a sort of guardian figure throughout the tale) put up with him.
June 2023: Catholic Vote has compiled some useful booklists for various age groups. Their middle-school list is strong, and Sarah’s only quibble is with their inclusion of Scott O’Dell’s Island of the Blue Dolphins. Besides her strong dislike of anything by O’Dell (she’s also tried both Sarah Bishop and The Spanish Smile), she found this book to be dry and boring. If any reader would like to try and change her mind, however, please send her an email.
As to their elementary-school list, nearly all the options, from Charlotte’s Web and The Toothpaste Millionaire to The Winged Watchman and Little House on the Prairie, are solid suggestions. Sarah does draw the line at their addition of John D. Fitzgerald’s Great Brain series though. Growing up, she enjoyed some of the stories in these books, but on closer reading, virtue is seriously lacking in the tales. The protagonist, Tom, rarely uses his clever mind for good, and often makes his parents look silly and weak. Adding to that, there’s one story in particular, dealing with a young boy who wants to commit suicide, that is inappropriate in a children’s book. As we recommend when choosing any literature, please keep your child’s temperament and age in mind, and trust your gut.
July 2023: Sarah noticed, in the last issue of this supplement, that biological fathers are sadly lacking in most pieces of children’s literature. Those musings turned into a piece for NRO:
First, from a storytelling perspective, bad or absent parents make sense. There needs to be some kind of driving action that starts a protagonist on his way, and often this is a loss. . . .
We love these adventures because they engage our imagination, teach us resourcefulness, and, if they’re done right, exemplify growth in virtue. Interestingly, though, these adventure tales often involve children in tense or perilous situations that most involved parents would have put a stop to. . . .
Wonderful as these books are, this “fend for yourself” can-do attitude has some drawbacks in the real world. I’m certainly not advocating a helicopter-parent mentality, or ignoring the fact that tragic parental losses do happen. This self-sufficient thread running through much of our children’s literature today, however, cuts against one of the greatest treasures our parents can give us: their time-tested wisdom.
August 2023: Janet Manley has a curious essay out over on Lit Hub, praising creative authors who she believes are breaking through the bland, adult-informed children’s books on offer today. Is she right?
We reckon with our shadows in middle-age, according to the literature of psychoanalysis, a time when we may find ourselves ensconced in the children’s literature scene. Picture a middle-aged author wrestling their own existential fear of death while writing a bedtime story about bunnies: Writing good children’s fiction as an adult is hard.
Sarah does think Manley has a point—to an extent. The essay makes a interesting case that sappy, “sanitized books keep peeling off the production line,” and that their content is aimed at what adults will buy for kids, not what kids actually want to read. Startling children’s books, such as Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are (1963) and Lois Lowry’s The Willoughbys (2008), are examples of enduringly popular kids’ books which veer sharply for the status quo. Manley’s essay deserves consideration, but it should be remembered that balance is key. Not all books need to shock the reader or include Death as a character—sometimes, it’s important to simply go on a Listening Walk.
October 2023: She can’t find it now, but Sarah read a piece not long ago about Anne of Green Gables (the character specifically). In effect, the essay claimed that Anne wasn’t a good mother, and Sarah felt personally insulted. After a bit more musing, while she still doesn’t agree with the main premise, there is something to be said about the books detailing Anne’s mothering years.
Books one through five, and even a bit of book six, are wonderful because we’re still deep in the life of Anne herself. We read about her thoughts and actions, the people she is meeting, and the stories she’s hearing. Then suddenly, the last few books focus mainly on her children, and we lose sight of Anne. She becomes a shadow of her former self in a way, and we hear more about the housekeeper, Susan Baker, and her interactions with Anne and Gilbert’s children. Yes, her children have funny escapades, but we’re suddenly cut out of Anne’s life almost completely, which is startling after we’ve spent so much time growing up with her.
Regardless, October is the perfect month in which to read or reread this series. Anne is a friend no child should miss out on having, so consider making the first book a read-aloud.
October 2024: This New York Times piece about Tomie dePaola’s beloved book character is . . . odd. Apparently, she’s giving everyone “fall vibes,” and while Sarah is delighted at the well-deserved attention dear Strega Nona is getting, she finds this manifestation disconcerting. First, the timing is off—she’s pretty sure the book is set in early spring, not fall. And this leads to the second complaint: Has anyone actually read the book? The NYT writer says, “Strega Nona, whose name means “Grandmother Witch,” is a healer who enchants the townspeople with her magically refilling pasta pot. When she recruits the help of a young man named Big Anthony, he bungles the spell that is supposed to halt pasta making. The town overflows with noodles.” Some of this is correct, but it gives readers the wrong impression. Strega Nona curies headaches and warts and finds husbands for young women. She doesn’t go around making pasta for everyone, just for herself and her hired help. The townspeople don’t even know about her pot until Big Anthony tells them about it—and they scoff at him! Strega Nona actually spends very little time bending over the pasta pot in this book, leading Sarah to wonder where people are getting these “hunched over a pot” and “fall” vibes. While it’s certainly a more wholesome “vibe” than some of the other ones currently on the loose, Sarah would appreciate it if people picked up the book and enjoyed the story, too.
October 2025: Abridged books should be avoided at all cost, especially for children. Sarah is firm and unyielding on this point. Why? Well, many reasons, but three which spring to mind are:
It diminishes a child’s vocabulary
It makes literature something you simply “get through”
It robs them of the story’s full delight
In a recent mailing to subscribers, author S. D. Smith (of Green Ember fame) said that we should “explain up, don’t dumb down” when it comes to vocabulary and children. He posits that there are two reasons why we try to simplify language for them, the first being compassion—wanting to be completely clear and understandable; the second being laziness—we’re just too tired to explain yet another meaning. He believes neither of these points should deter us, and invites parents and teachers to take “the fear out of learning new words and new things,” and reminds us how beautiful vocabulary can help widen “our capacity for imagination and, therefore, faith.” He quotes a powerful passage from Clay Clarkson, saying “Vocabulary is critical to an active imagination. A child’s ability to imagine things beyond their own senses is directly related to the depth and breadth of their vocabulary.”
Smith has a number of other excellent thoughts in this email—perhaps if we ask him nicely, he’ll post the full text on his blog? (Unless he’s already done so, and Sarah missed it! Many apologies if so.)
This wonder and imagination discussed by Clarkson and Smith leads us to the second reason against abridged books: Wonder and imagination take time. By handing a child an abridged tale, you’re telling them, in part, that this is a box they need to check, something they should know just to know, and this is a quick way to get through it. This is insulting to both the child and the author, the latter of whom spent time crafting words and plot in very particular ways. If a child isn’t ready for certain stories and vocabulary, then just wait until they are, rather than shortchanging them.
Which leads to the final point, that giving a child an abridged book, especially if it’s already a children’s book, takes something away from the child. They are led to believe they’ve read the full tale, when in fact, they’ve been given but a shadow. Some stories certainly need to be saved for later, but others can be introduced fully, perhaps through read-aloud, to even young children. Take the time to introduce them to beautiful stories, words, and ideas which they will hopefully return to again and again, both in thought and through rereading.
Sarah realizes she’s going to get annoyed or even angry emails about this topic, and knows that there are more distinctions to be made. What about retellings? What about Charles and Mary Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare? What about story Bibles? All fair points, but for now, Sarah will leave the conversation here and muse for another month. Another installment, after more thought, is necessary. Until then, she welcomes your responses, irate or otherwise.
Book beauty
January 2023: Chris sent Sarah a NYT link detailing the interesting specimens that are picture book endpapers, which prompted a trip down the rabbit hole. Apparently, Atlas Obscura covered a bit of this topic a few years ago, and a whole book has even been written on this very subject.
February 2023: There are many different book awards, but two annual ones which are sometimes confused are the Caldecott Medal and the Newbery Award. While the Newbery focuses on “the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children,” the Caldecott concerns “the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children.”
Named for nineteenth-century children’s literature illustrator Randolph Caldecott, the award has been around since 1937. But why look to a British artist for the name of this American award? Well, consider his contributions to the field. Also, if you’re doing a literary tour of America, check out Caldecott’s grave in St. Augustine.
In Sarah’s top seven Christmas picture-books list is The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree (1988), written by Gloria Houston and illustrated by Barbara Cooney. Ever since reading Miss Rumphius (1982) and Roxaboxen (1991), Sarah has been enthralled with the charming images put forward by Cooney. Imagine her delight when she discovered a whole world of Cooney’s work, ranging from the fantastical (Chanticleer and the Fox, 1958) to the biographical (Eleanor, 1996) to the heartwarming (The Story of Holly and Ivy, 1958)
Cooney is not to be confused with Tasha Tudor, an equally lovely artist whose pictures have drawn readers into the world of Frances Hodgson Burnett for years. Oh, and into Sarah’s favorite, the world of Corgiville Fair.
Rounding out our trio is Kay Nielsen, a Danish author of the 20th century. Sarah loves his work on her favorite fairytale, East of the Sun and West of the Moon (1914), but his catalog of works doesn’t end there. As Bethany Kern from Goldberry Arts says:
Nielsen’s use of negative space combined with elegant, patterned line work make for dramatic moments of narrative that pair well with the sorts of stories told by those who believe that children combat their fears by imagining themselves up against the monsters in exciting tales.
December 2024: Still on the art theme, perhaps you’ve already seen Alice and Martin Provensen’s art but didn’t know the lovely story of these two giants in children’s literature illustration. The duo was active in the mid-1900s, collaborating on many titles and even won a Caldecott Award for A Visit to William Blake’s Inn (1982) (Nancy Willard, the author, won a Newbery for the work). Sarah’s personal favorite of theirs is The Glorious Flight (1983) about the feats of aviator Louis Blériot, and this book also took home the 1984 Caldecott.
Humor
September 2024: A few months ago, Sarah’s mom discovered a local Catholic school that had been recently shut down. Management hadn’t decided what to do about the school’s library books yet, so Sarah’s mom was allowed to take as many as she wanted. Except for Sarah’s dad (who has no idea where they could possibly fit another bookshelf in the house) all the Schuttes were ecstatic over this literary haul. The books were divvied up among the seven siblings, and were picked up as each returned home for various reasons. Among her stack (read: three boxes), Sarah discovered a slim volume titled Mr. Yowder and the Train Robbers (1981) by Glen Rounds, and she was immediately hooked. Since then, she’s been scouring advanced library searches for other Mr. Yowder adventures and has stumbled upon more Rounds titles. She’s inundated her local library with requests for the books, and she can’t wait to pick them up.
Our garden era
The Complete Book of the Flower Fairies (2002) by Cicely Mary Barker
Flower Fables (1854) by Louisa May Alcott
Miss Rumphius (1982) by Barbara Cooney
Planting a Rainbow (1988) by Lois Ehlert
From Seed to Plant (1991) by Gail Gibbons
The Gardner (1997) by Sarah Stewart
The Burgess Flower Book (1923)
Our construction era
The Way Things Work by David Macaulay (1988, updated and revised 1998 and 2016)
Cathedral by David Macaulay (1973)
Angelo by David Macaulay (2002) [Are you sensing a theme? I’ve always been entranced by Macaulay’s works, and plan to have a longer piece about him over on NRO next week.—Sarah]
Richard Scarry’s What Do People Do All Day? by Richard Scarry (1968)
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton (1939)
Stephen Biesty’s Incredible Cross-Sections by Stephen Biesty (1992)
Sky Boys: How They Built the Empire State Building by Deborah Hopkinson (2006)
Our history era
July 2025: Literary history never ceases to amaze Sarah. Just last week, she discovered that the character of Paddington is based on the author’s memories of children arrive at British train stations during the Kindertransport program:
During Bond’s childhood, several stations around Britain had become the receiving points for the roughly 10,000 Jewish children who escaped Nazi-occupied Europe through the Kindertransport, traveling ahead of the Holocaust—many of whom would never see their families again. Soon, Bond created a storyline for the bear, basing Paddington’s temporary state of homelessness around his memories of seeing hundreds of these evacuees arriving at Reading station from London, each carrying their possessions in a single suitcase with labels bearing their names and addresses.
Moment magazine also wrote about this literary tidbit:
Although Bond did not create Paddington Bear until two decades after he was confronted by the image of the Kindertransport children, they remained in his mind. One morning in 1958, he was searching for writing inspiration and simply wrote the words: “Mr. and. Mrs Brown first met Paddington on a railway platform. . . .”
“When I wrote those few words, I had no idea quite what a change they would eventually make to my life,” Bond recounted, as recorded on his website. “It was really a case of putting something down on paper in order to get my brain working that morning.”
The images of the children arriving in the train station soon inspired the words that would bring Paddington Bear’s world to life. Known for his royal blue overcoat, striking red hat and tag that says “Please look after this bear. Thank you,” Paddington embodies the appearance of many Kindertransport children. His suitcase is an emblem of his refugee status.
Sarah’s favorite snippet from this essay? “Paddington Bear, however, hails from Peru. Bond originally wanted the bear to come from Africa, but his agent was opposed, claiming there were no bears in Africa.”
Alas, Sarah didn’t grow up reading Paddington, so she isn’t as enamored of him as she probably could be. She is, however, a devoted Winnie the Pooh fan, and recently discovered that he has his roots in the Canadian wild:
The story begins over 80 years ago in the northern town of White River, Ontario when a young black bear cub suddenly became an orphan. A man by the name of Harry Colebourn was traveling across Canada to embark on overseas duty to England during the First World War. He purchased the little black bear cub from the trapper who had come across the orphaned cub. Lieutenant Colebourn named the bear from his hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba, and she would become an unofficial mascot of The Fort Garry Horse, a Militia cavalry regiment. Winnie would sleep under Colebourn’s cot.
In 1914, the now Captain Harry Colebourn learned he would be shipped to France. He decided to settle Winnie into the London Zoo because she would not be able to go with him. She eventually became the fan-favorite attraction at the zoo. It is said that visitors would knock on her door and she would come out to greet them. . . .
But how did he come to the attention of A. A. Milne? You’ll just have to click through and find out.
Christmas once again
To round everything out, here, once again, is Sarah’s list of top Christmas picture books (originally from November 2022).
Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree by Robert Barry (1963)
Mortimer’s Christmas Manger by Karma Wilson (2005)
Great Joy by Kate DiCamillo (2007)
The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree: An Appalachian Story by Gloria Houston [Illustrated by the legendary Barbara Cooney!] (1988)
A Small Miracle by Peter Collington (1997)
The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski (1995)
Petunia’s Christmas by Roger Duvoisin (1952)
An Orange for Frankie by Patricia Polacco (2004)