Fantasy: The Stones are Hatching

On September 30, 2019 By nymithIn British writers, Fantasy Fiction, Horror, Poison Pills, Young AdultLeave a comment

Nine pages from the end and the whole magnificent edifice comes crashing down into the sea… Hey, do you remember classic Twin Peaks? “How’s Annie?” It’s kind of like that, only, you know, for kids.

Title: The Stones are Hatching
Author: Geraldine McCaughrean (1951-)
Original Publication Date: 1999
Edition: HarperCollins (2000), 230 pages
Genre: Fantasy. Horror.
Ages: 15-17
First Sentence: Phelim had always thought there must be more to magic than rabbits or handkerchiefs–that if it existed at all, it would be too large to palm or to hide up your sleeve.

The constant hammer of the guns of World War One has caused the Stoor Worm, a monster meant to sleep for centuries, to stir. Its harbingers are the Hatchlings, creatures forgotten in British folklore now spreading across the unsuspecting countryside, for the old ways are no longer practiced and people are helpless before the onslaught of merrows, corn wives, ushteys and other creatures too terrible to contemplate. Eleven year old Phelim is thrown out of his own house by strange invaders who insist that he is Jack o’ Green, the only one who can save Britain and slay the Worm. Scared and miserable, with his sister’s mocking voice ever echoing in his head, he sets out with a Fool, a Maiden and a Horse to the place where the Stoor Worm lies…

Discussing The Stones are Hatching without the ending is very difficult, as without those final pages this is an excellent dark fantasy novel for teens, rooted in history and folklore, with horrible monsters roaming across beautiful landscapes. Think of the film Princess Mononoke and you have an idea of what to expect. Geraldine McCaughrean has immense talent at her disposal, and she’s not afraid to make use of it. I first became interested in her oeuvre when she used her 2018 Carnegie acceptance speech to draw the world’s attention to the fact that publishers now set limits on what words authors can use in books for little kids, nixing any material considered too demanding and setting off a domino effect into the upper reading levels:

https://lemonwire-lthfr4usl8x.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/geraldine-mccaughrean-wins-carnegie-childrens-book-prize.jpg — Geraldine McCaughrean.

“The only way to make books – and knowledge – accessible is to give children the necessary words. And how has that always been done? By adult conversation and reading. Since when has one generation EVER doubted and pitied the next so much that it decides not to burden them with the full package of the English language but to feed them only a restricted diet, like invalids, of simple words…
Worst and most wicked outcome of all would be that we deliberately and wantonly create an underclass of citizens with a small but functional vocabulary: easy to manipulate and lacking in the means to reason their way out of subjugation, because you need words to be able to think for yourself.”

This won me over to her right away, even though I don’t agree with all of her opinions in that speech (subjects for another time!) and unboxing my copy of The Stones are Hatching rapidly convinced me that she is one of the finest stylists currently contributing to the field of children’s literature. By itself, this makes me want to recommend this book, as her descriptive skills enliven a classic hero’s journey, one that is rendered darker than average by returning the tale to its unbowdlerized roots in Celtic folklore. Seven pages in and Phelim is faced with his first creature of nightmare:

He pictured an Alsatian outside, broken loose from its kennel, maltreated perhaps and starving. He thought of the police, but they were ten miles away in Somerton. The dog’s breath rasped in its throat like a hacksaw; its claws scrabbled paint off the door in crackling sheets. When it barked, the glass of the wall lights shook. Five, six, seven times it hurled itself against the door and then, when the bolts held, fell back and prowled around the house, slavering over the spilled dustbin, setting small plant pots rolling, clawing at the brittle tarpaper covering the cellar door. Phelim felt his own shanks shaking, his feet and palms melting like butter…
…
Phelim knew he had to move. He knew he had to do more than wait for the dog to scratch or climb its way into the house and come ravening down the stairs. He rushed up the staircase on hands and feet, sobbing with the exertion, and threw open both bedroom doors to check that the windows were shut tight. He went over and pressed his face against the dirty glass, trying to catch a squinnying glimpse of the dog below–the hound besieging his sister’s cottage. Good thing she was away; Prudence was not fond of animals at the best of times.
But Phelim could not see; the dog was too close in against the house, clawing at the brickwork. All he could see was the overturned chicken house crushed into splintery shards, the chickens lying about like torn-off scarlet dahlia heads.

https://mythology.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/Black-Dog-Ghost-380x240.jpg — Artist’s impression of Black Dog.

No good or even ambiguous creatures hatch from the Stoor Worm’s eggs; they are all vile monsters, repelled by commonplace items – from marigolds to spilled blood to hot cross buns – but otherwise pitiless and unstoppable. Nightmare fuel is a constant throughout the book as the apocalyptic scenario unfolds. It’s one of the finest examples I’ve come across of fantasy as social metaphor (something often poorly executed), as World War One was essentially an apocalypse, with lasting social and psychological damage to this very day, and making it trigger a literal end of the world is fitting and powerful. The shadows of the dead men hang over everything, from Mad Sweeney’s twisted nursery rhymes to Phelim’s run-in with the Washer at the Ford, washing the shirts of the dead and the soon-to-die, Phelim’s own among them. Knowing what it means makes Phelim’s journey that much harder:

Alexia was pinning her hopes on him. If Jack o’ Green died, seemingly nothing could save humankind from the Stoor Worm’s brood of Hatchlings. And the more he thought about that, the more he despaired. After all, he already knew their journey was futile. He was going to get killed. He was traveling toward his own death. And yet he kept on going. Why? It must have been like that for the soldiers in the trenches, he thought. Plain common sense and logic told them they would die if they went one more time into no-man’s-land. And yet they knew they would go. The only taboo was to speak of it, to admit to the fear.

https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3575/3493445311_ae005a0bb5_b.jpg — Phelim is accompanied by the Obby Oss, seen here in the traditional Obby Oss Festival in Padstow, Cornwall.

The darkness of The Stones are Hatching is very consistent and (eventually) rings hollow. Having an eleven year old British boy drawn into a hidden fantasy realm makes a Harry Potter comparison inevitable, although this book was clearly meant for an older audience from the start. Magic is unpleasant here and there is no logic, charm or comfort to be had in learning about it. Nor is Phelim’s role in saving the world explained to him beyond a bare outline. The stakes are high from the start, Phelim doesn’t know what to do and his bound companions are strange and off-putting – the Maiden thinks he’s an idiot, the Fool is a madman, and the Horse is what you see above. He can’t just shake off the years of psychological abuse from his only relative either, and he is unsurprisingly sullen and scared, with a continuously bad attitude – yet he does the work regardless. In spite of the treatment he’s received from his sister Prudence, the poor boy retains good instincts and is protective of Alexia (and indeed all the women of Britain when the time comes). When the big moments arrive, he steps up and does the right thing and is on a steady road to improvement, to true heroism – beginning when he recognises what a hero does:

“[Hatchlings] could be bought off, they could,” said the Oss in its soft Cornish burr. “Folks could hold they off with bribes; a child, spilled blood, a drowning. … But folks have forgot. Forgot the price. Forgot how to pay it…”
“They shouldn’t pay! … Not with blood and children and suchlike! It’s vile! It’s blackmail!” retorted Phelim hotly. “It’s giving in to blackmail. Like sending twelve men and maidens to feed the Minotaur. Theseus didn’t. Theseus refused. Theseus went and fought the Minotaur and killed it rather than go on paying the tribute.”

All of this positive character growth is then chucked off a cliff nine pages from the end. It doesn’t come entirely out of nowhere though – I simply discounted the warning signs from a desire to trust McCaughrean. The biggest clue of what’s coming is how she continuously falls back on the tired horror trope of “anyone can turn on you.” Phelim and his companions are off to save the world, yet the people within that world are constantly shown as not worth saving, even if they’re blood kin. The flashbacks even hold this view, with Alexia’s parents shipping her off to a school for the dark arts (in the most traditional “deal with the devil” fashion) while Mad Sweeney fought in the Napoleonic Wars and almost got executed by his own side for cowardice. In the present, ordinary humans are as much of a danger as the Hatchlings are – worse, because Phelim constantly misplaces his trust in them. Even in the early scene with soon-to-perish reapers (nice working-class blokes, mostly schoolboys and old men) who are as close to good folk as McCaughrean gets, she still inserts a line of schoolmarmish scolding to cheapen their innate worth – when Phelim explains he’s been locked out of his own house by strangers, “that’ll be Gypsies,” said the driver bigotedly. Nice use of the adjective for a man who’s about to die horribly. The poetic detriment done by this treatment of humanity is considerable.

https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/images/h5/h5_50.130.14.jpg — Reapers Resting in a Wheat Field, 1885 oil-on-canvas by American artist John Singer Sargent (1856-1925).

A related problem involves the way McCaughrean bypasses Christianity, or indeed any spiritual element at all – in a book where Old Scratch has a cameo and hot cross buns can ward off hidden enemies. The question just sits unanswered, all the while Phelim’s name means “Ever-good” and legends are told of the ancient hero Assipattle who first vanquished the Worm. There are no positive influences or allies to be found as Phelim and his companions travel toward the end game – which is not the case in any old folktales, whether of the Pagan or Christian era. For instance, McCaughrean includes the horrifying nuckelavee but ignores the Orcadian legend it is a part of, in which the monster is confined in the summer months by the good Sea Mither, a feminine spirit locked in constant struggle with her masculine counterpart Teran, who represents the storms of winter. I did not even know about this legend until I’d read The Stones are Hatching and was doing my research, but I did feel that the novel had a slightly hollow ring to it even before reaching the finish line.

Now I have to discuss the ending. If you think the book sounds like something you really want to read for yourself, you should stop here and come back later.

Massive spoilers ahead!

Phelim saves Britain. To do so he has to kill the Stoor Worm in its sleep, which effectively genocides its Hatchlings. That they would have done the same to humanity doesn’t matter to Phelim – he feels soiled. Throughout the book, Phelim’s mysterious magic has been tied to his “goodness” and he tries in the aftermath to explain to Alexia that he is no longer “ever-good” and that his name is now false. However, his magic has not faded, so by the rules of the Old Ways he is clearly in the right for what he did.

He then returns home to his sister, who reveals that when Phelim was little she had his father (the real Jack o’ Green) committed to an asylum for seeing things, for being a drunkard and a pacifist. Phelim responds by using his magic to summon up an ushtey (a water-horse), which he helps his sister to mount. She is then swept off to be drowned and he is relieved to be no longer burdened by goodness, magic or heroism. Ever-good Green had committed his first act of wickedness, and his magic was guttering out like a spent candle.

Punchline is, the boy tracks down his father and it turns out Jack o’ Green didn’t even mind being in the asylum all this time because he really is a lazy good-for-nothing, twirling his green thumbs while his pint-sized son had to save the world in his place. The hero’s journey is upended in a world never shown worth saving, all for some cheap attempt at moral equivalency. Phelim’s hatred and anger went with [the water-horse], sucked out of him like the nests out of the hedgerow. He was left with the same kind of emptiness as after killing the Worm. Oh right, no difference there.

So that’s what McCaughrean spent her considerable talents on in 1999. I neither see the point of The Stones are Hatching as a meaningful story nor do I have any idea who its intended audience is. Kids who actually like straight-up nihilistic horror fiction can doubtless find far bloodier books for their entertainment. Kids who enjoy fantasy – even dark fantasy – are unlikely to be entertained by this, because fantasy is an ancient and idealistic genre at heart, where big concepts like good and evil still manage to matter. There is of course an appreciable purpose to writing characters that deconstruct heroism, such as Special Agent Dale Cooper and Ned Stark, but the stories of these fallible men are A: intended for adults and B: do not peddle moral relativism like it’s some kind of revelation about humanity.

https://i0.wp.com/images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/17200000/Ashitaka-princess-mononoke-17253113-853-480.jpg — Ashitaka, from Princess Mononoke (1997), directed by Hayao Miyazaki.

It’s a real shame. My advice is to skip The Stones are Hatching and go watch Princess Mononoke instead – that has beauty alongside the ugliness and its hero Ashitaka (who also desires to find a peaceful solution to conflict between an ancient natural order and modernizing humans) doesn’t just throw in the towel and embrace evil when things don’t go his way.

Spoilers continue into the Parental Guide.

Violence: A constant. Gruesome imagery abounds, from skinless demons to Alexia’s bones being used to make a witch’s ladder after she’s been killed. Monsters are described in a visceral manner, as when Phelim discovers the corn wives in the wheat field:

Then the curve of the blade clanged against something hollow and metallic and black.
A woman’s rib cage.
No white-clothed beauty, this. At close quarters he could see the rust-red eyes, the adze-shaped chin, the nose as curved as a billhook. Her long, black skirt was pale with dust, but not the shiny black of her iron upper body. Her long, flue-black, iron breasts had blunted countless sickle blades as she stood amid the wheat, waiting for her victims to blunder into her. She held a long-handled scythe, but she and her sisters had not come to harvest wheat.
Only the reapers.

Many of the old myths gave monsters sexual characteristics and this is not bowdlerized. It’s even a plot point when the faeries choose to invade Britain with the sole intent of stealing its women now that most of the men are dead. Phelim doesn’t seem to feel bad about wiping out their invading fleet, either; possibly because they are sentient, whereas most of the Hatchlings are beasts.

Values: Obviously not heroism, which is deconstructed in a most neurotic fashion. In fighting [the Worm], he could only become what she was: malevolent, destructive. … Phelim thought of Assipattle slicing and slashing with his sword, and it was not so much the preposterousness of the myth that struck him (one man fighting this subcontinent of a beast) as the violence, the kill-or-be-killed pettishness of it all. So the boy rejects heroism because being one means killing the enemies of those you are a hero to defend.

Family isn’t worth anything at all in this book either – family members are simply in a more advantageous position to betray both Phelim and Alexia. I think the end appearance of Phelim’s absent father is meant to be a positive moment, but it feels decidedly hollow given how cheerfully inactive the old man has been this whole time.

While modernity, as represented by Prudence and the Great War, is certainly not shown in a positive light, the Old Ways are nothing to miss, given that the people who hearken back to them turn into frenzied mobs looking for human sacrifices. Christian ministers don’t come to the aid of the people, but the one guy who takes up the pagan ways ends up causing Alexia’s death for no reason. Even the hokiest modern values like “just believe in yourself” come to nothing. By subverting the heroism of Phelim, this entire book is washed of all meaning, other than a possible anti-war sentiment if you squint.

Role Models: As if. “I couldn’t bring myself to die on the moral high ground, sparing thousands of monsters bent on eviscerating mankind, so I’m going to murder my sister. That’ll show em’.”

Educational Properties: A parent-child fantasy bookclub discussing the rich soup of symbolism, folklore, metaphor and poisonous philosophy within the novel is really your only hope in this regard. It could even be time well spent depending on how much research you want to do, but there really are much better choices for British fantasy out there.

End of Guide.

At least I can console myself that this weird artistic misfire wasn’t a trilogy. It turns out that The Stones are Hatching is the real reason I started this blogging project, because almost none of the reviews I’ve found discuss the ending or the themes, so I hope I’ve helped someone by this holistic method. Sadly, my early enthusiasm for McCaughrean’s oeuvre is now significantly tarnished, although that won’t stop me from her giving her another try down the road.

Up Next: Let’s just go back to Tom Sawyer and Mark Twain’s continued bids to make money off him. As long as Tom doesn’t murder Aunt Polly, I’m up for anything.

Anthropomorphic Fantasy: The Trumpet of the Swan

On September 21, 2019March 16, 2020 By nymithIn 1000 Good Books List, American writers, Anthropomorphic Fantasy, Bizarre Children's Books, Humour, Set in Montana, U.S. StatesLeave a comment

Well, that was odd.

Title: The Trumpet of the Swan
Author: E.B. White (1899-1985)
Illustrator: Edward Frascino (????-)
Original Publication Date: 1970
Edition: Harper and Row (1973), 210 pages.
Genre: Anthropomorphic fantasy.
Ages: 5-8
First Sentence: Walking back to camp through the swamp, Sam wondered whether to tell his father what he had seen.

https://thewesterncornerofthecastle.home.blog/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/4db91-17b.trumpeter-swan_2199.jpg — The gorgeous trumpeter swan (Cygnus buccinator).

The scene opens on a pond in the vast Canadian wilderness. Two swans have settled there to build a nest and raise their young. Sam Beaver, a boy from Montana, quietly observes them before returning to his father’s camp. The cygnets hatch and a peaceful, thoughtful nature documentary on the life cycle of a trumpeter swan seems about to unfold – except that one of the new cygnets is mute. So Louis, as the unfortunate is called (and that should be given the French pronunciation like Armstrong, or a later joke will fall flat), goes looking for Sam Beaver in Montana, finds him surprisingly quickly, and requests his assistance. Sam takes him to school, where he learns to write, but since swans can’t read, a full-grown Louis must learn to play trumpet to win the beautiful swan of his dreams. His father, the old cob, has to steal a trumpet to secure his son’s future (swans having no purchasing power), and Louis must then go forth across America and seek employment as everything from camp bugler to nightclub musician, all in quest of enough money to pay damages to the music shop in Billings and restore his father’s honour.

E.B. White took a break of nearly two decades between Charlotte’s Web and this, his longest novel, in which he lets loose all restraint and delivers a tale so wholly absurd that it makes Stuart Little look positively staid in comparison – in fact, had there been a cameo from Stuart, all the way to Montana and still looking for his bird, it would have fit the general tone rather perfectly. Many people say this is White’s funniest book and I suppose it is, although I found the constant unremarked absurdity and crazyquilt plotting to be a trifle wearying after a while.

https://i0.wp.com/www.mrslittle.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/Trumpet_steal.jpeg — The old cob’s daring heist.

The Trumpet of the Swan is best described as a peculiar mix of ingredients. First there is the riotous comedy of a swan playing trumpet, overnighting at the Ritz and attacking zookeepers. This is tempered by an obsession with “realistic” detail, such as swans being unable to read because they don’t go to school (of course that would be the case) and Louis needing an operation on his webbed foot to be able to use the valves on his new trumpet. Then there is the nature program aspect, detailing nesting habits, natural predators and man-made hazards in the life of the trumpeter swan. Meanwhile, the serious subtext of the novel is that of disability overcome and the final effect is (somehow) of a sweeping fairy tale romance – this in spite of the fact that Louis’s true love, Serena, is barely a character at all. Your individual enjoyment of the book will depend a lot on how successfully you think these elements are handled and how willing you are to see them meshed together in the first place.

What I actually found most refreshing about this novel had to do with the change in illustrator: Edward Frascino won the commission to illustrate because he could allegedly work faster than Garth Williams, and White insisted upon a spring publication date for financial reasons. Williams’ illustrations would undoubtedly have been warm and endearing as always, but I actually found Frascino’s style a far better match to the novel: As White muses on the subjects of freedom, romance and nature conservation, Frascino supplies regal swans and landscapes that are sweeping and full of wonder. There’s a grace implicit to even the silliest images that shows the New Yorker cartoonist had hidden depths. Unlike with Williams, Frascino has never been enshrined as integral to White’s work, and the special 2000 edition of The Trumpet of the Swan replaced his illustrations with those of Fred Marcellino. I have not had a chance to compare them yet other than to note that Marcellino’s swans are far more anthropomorphized than Frascino’s.

https://thewesterncornerofthecastle.home.blog/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/ce877-trumpet-swan-marcellino.jpg — Marcellino’s sad Louis, rejected by an illiterate Serena…

https://i.pinimg.com/originals/81/98/e4/8198e462e65db17bf899d590f6e75059.jpg — …and Frascino’s triumphant Louis, serenading Serena.

As for the actual text, the biggest disappointment to be found this time around is actually in White’s writing style, which has become a good deal plainer than it was before – perhaps because he was hurrying himself as well as his illustrator. The sentences are shorter on average and less suited to reading aloud, as in this scene where Louis rescues a drowning boy at summer camp: Cheers came from the people on the shore and in the boats. Applegate clung to Louis’s neck. He had been saved in the nick of time. Another minute and he would have gone to the bottom. Water would have filled his lungs. He would have been a goner.

https://www.abandonedspaces.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/564px-sheldon_church_2.jpg — The South Carolina town of Yemassee is famous for the Old Sheldon Church Ruins, dating from the 1700s. Lots of cool pictures and history in the link to the right.

While this loss of underlying melody is certainly sad, such stiff passages are broken up by measured lines of classic White, with delicate sensibility and a love for the North American landscape (including a shout out to Yemassee, SC, which led me to this cool page). They flew south across Maryland and Virginia. They flew south across the Carolinas. They spent a night in Yemassee and saw huge oak trees with moss hanging from their branches. They visited the great swamps of Georgia and saw the alligator and listened to the mockingbird. They flew across Florida and spent a few days in a bayou where doves moaned in the cedars and little lizards crawled in the sun. They turned west into Louisiana. Then they turned north toward their home in Upper Red Rock Lake.

Louis has wings, allowing him to be a far greater traveller than tiny Stuart in his automobile or sedentary Wilbur, and thus White has him traverse the country, from Canada to Montana to Boston and Philadelphia. This freedom is tremendously important to Louis – it’s truly the classic American saga of the young man going out into the world to make a name for himself, bring prestige to the family, earn a living and win his true love… the archetypal young man is just a swan in this case. With no overhead. So it lacks real drama, making it quite perfect for little kids. Worth noting that Louis is on his own a lot of the time, meaning that one of White’s greatest skills – that of the ensemble cast which made Charlotte’s Web and the first half of Stuart Little so engaging – is almost completely absent last time around.

https://i.pinimg.com/236x/de/7c/66/de7c66672d7559eed92cf1ab3ab4e95c.jpg — From the title page.

The most memorable character here is not even Louis; it’s his father, the old cob, who is prone to long speeches on his own gracefulness and his duty to uphold the swan image of elegance at all times. Yet he is willing to sacrifice that honour so that his mute son will have a future. He is at once both comic and noble, a figure of fun for being overly dignified, rather than a bumbling dad. In these moments The Trumpet of the Swan becomes a true companion for Charlotte’s Web – a story of a father’s love that is quite moving for a parent and comforting to a small child:

“I have robbed a store”, he said to himself. “I have become a thief. What a miserable fate for a bird of my excellent character and high ideals! Why did I do this? What led me to commit this awful crime? My past life has been blameless–a model of good behavior and correct conduct. I am by nature law-abiding. Why, oh, why did I do this?”
Then the answer came to him, as he flew steadily on through the evening sky. “I did it to help my son. I did it for love of my son Louis.”

In spite of my own preference for a less whimsical White, The Trumpet of the Swan is extremely easy to quote from and ends on a truly graceful note. While I never quite warmed to it, it does share the unique charms of Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web and has its own moments of beauty alongside its wilder eccentricities.

See Also: The other two E.B. White books, Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web.

Parental Guide up next, with spoilers.

Violence: Male swans have powerful wings and are accustomed to beating up those who cross them, with Louis attacking two zookeepers attempting to corner Serena, and cuffing a little duck who stole his trumpet. The old cob is shot trying to repay the music store he’d previously burgled, but any sense of danger is soon negated as the old cob continues his elegant monologue regardless of the pain, saying “I must die gracefully, as only a swan can” before fainting. He’s soon patched up and on his way again.

Values: In addition to a love for the American landscape and an encouragement for nature preservation, White also writes an ode to freedom, with Louis and Serena choosing to take their chances in the wild rather than remain in the zoo forever. However, in a twist that weirds a lot of people out, they barter for their freedom by promising the zoo an occasional cygnet of theirs in exchange. Louis keeps this promise, as Sam Beaver points out that there’s always a runt in any brood that could benefit from mankind’s protection.

Louis is a swan navigating human society and White does bring up the problem of prejudice, primarily to spoof it. While Louis works as camp bugler, he meets a boy called Applegate who insists he doesn’t like birds. The camp leader says he is “entitled to his likes and dislikes and to his prejudices” but must still treat Louis with the respect accorded a camp bugler. After Louis saves the boy from a watery grave, the camp leader then puts Applegate on the spot, coaxing him toward a “and what have we learned today?” life lesson. Applegate thought hard for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I’m grateful to Louis for saving my life. But I still don’t like birds.” The camp leader is nonplussed and has to leave it at that.

Role Models: Everyone in this book is quite nice and fairly high-minded. Louis works hard, pays his father’s debt and always tips the waiter. His original sense of self-pity is overcome alongside his disability. The old cob does as he promised, and risks life and limb first to steal and then to pay back for the crime. Sam Beaver is kind to animals and is willing to cross the country to help his friend out of a jam. Only Serena lacks positive attributes, seeming to fall for Louis just because he carries so many material goods around and serenades her on the water.

Educational Properties: Easy tie-in to a music appreciation lesson if you have similar taste as White, who supplies a mixture of American standards (‘Summertime,’ ‘There’s a Small Hotel’ and ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ among those featured) and classical pieces (Brahms’ ‘Cradle Song’ mentioned by name, also Bach, Beethoven and Mozart) for Louis’s set list. A playlist drawn from and inspired by the book could very easily be created. The Trumpet of the Swan was also adapted for symphony in 2011 by Marsha Norman and received very positive reviews – if I ever expand into adaptations, that is certainly one I would like to try.

End of Guide.

With The Trumpet of the Swan I conclude the youth bibliography of Elwyn Brooks White. There is nowhere to go from here and that’s a very satisfying feeling all by itself, the more so given how effortless and enjoyable I found these three short, strange children’s classics to be. My advice for parents would be to gather up all three, start with Charlotte’s Web and see what order your own family would rank them in. I consider The Trumpet of the Swan as the weakest of the three but I also understand why so many other readers are completely charmed by it.

Up Next: Please note that I am changing the posting schedule from Saturday to Monday, owing to recent changes in my life. So next Monday expect a fantasy novel from two-time Carnegie winner Geraldine McCaughrean – finally a British author!

Adventure Novels: Around the World in Eighty Days

On September 14, 2019September 15, 2019 By nymithIn Adventure, Classics, French Writers, Young Adult1 Comment

A glorious Victorian travel extravaganza, more exciting than it has any right to be.

Title: Around the World in Eighty Days (Extraordinary Voyages #11)
Author: Jules Verne (1828-1905)
Translator: George Makepeace Towle (1819-1900)
Original Publication Date: 1872
Edition: Dover Publications, Inc. (2015), 170 pages
Genre: Adventure. Humour.
Ages: 11-15
First Sentence: Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814.

Inveterate whist-player Phileas Fogg takes up a wager that he can make it around the world in eighty days, a calculation considered technically accurate but impossible to carry out, given that even a single delay of the sort frequent in travel (breakdowns, weather) would render the entire journey a failure. Fogg is honour-bound and OCD enough to attempt it though, and off he goes with his freshly-hired French manservant Passpartout on a wild spending spree that takes them from the Suez Canal, across India, along the coast of China and on a madcap journey across the barbarous land that is…the United States of America. Fogg never loses his cool but unluckily for him, dogged Detective Fix is on his trail, determined to bring him to justice for a bank robbery that took place right before Fogg left on his globetrotting quest – a very suspicious coincidence given the large suitcase full of cash he carries with him. Will Fogg win his bet? Will Fix get his man? Will Passepartout have a nervous breakdown before the finish line?

It turns out that Around the World in Eighty Days is an absurdly charming novel, centered on a voyage so far-fetched that it’s truly impressive how Jules Verne is able to make it seem so incredibly urgent that Phileas Fogg win his bet. It feels certain that Fogg will triumph in the end, yet the odds remain so impossible that pages are turned with increasing speed to see how he will outmaneuver each problem on what becomes the world’s biggest obstacle course. Helping the reader in this are the short chapter lengths, always between three and six pages in the Dover edition, which take full advantage of the original newspaper serial format that Verne wrote it for.

https://thewesterncornerofthecastle.home.blog/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/21ad6-pagodaatmalabarhillnearbombay252cindia.jpg — The pagoda towers on Malabar Hill.

The sight-seeing is depicted with full relish, regardless of Fogg’s complete disinterest in all matters unrelated to his time table. Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist partners, left the steamer, gave his servant several errands to do, urged it upon him to be at the station promptly at eight, and, with his regular step, which beat to the second, like an astronomical clock, direct his steps to the passport office. As for the wonders of Bombay–its famous city hall, its splendid library, its forts and docks, its bazaars, mosques, synagogues, its Armenian churches, and the noble pagoda on Malabar Hill with its two polygonal towers–he cared not a straw to see them. He would not deign to examine even the masterpieces of Elephanta, or the mysterious hypogea, concealed south-east from the docks, or those fine remains of Buddhist architecture, the Kanherian grottoes of the island of Salcette. As you can tell, this novel has absolute confidence in its references and encourages armchair traveling – this would have been an enormous part of its original appeal to readers of all ages and there’s less reason than ever to be intimidated by Verne’s exotic travelogue in this day and age.

What’s especially amusing if you’re part of the American audience is his depiction of the U.S. as a vast and violent land where political elections are violent brawls in the street and the Sioux are accustomed to attacking trains, yet commerce eventually transforms even the wildest frontier towns into bustling hives of trade. A first glimpse of San Francisco: From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses, the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the sidewalks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians. Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer the legendary city of 1849,–a city of banditti, assassins, and incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a paradise of outlaw, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial emporium.

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a7/San_francisco_1860.jpg — Vista of San Francisco, 1860, by French painter and lithographer Isidore Laurent Deroy.

All of this colorful material would be little more than an opinionated encyclopedia were it not for the comic trio that traverse the pages. Phileas Fogg is something of a prototype for the cool-headed British man of action, jet-setting (as it were) with watch in hand, impeccable manners and rock-solid stoicism. He is the man who conquers time through sheer logic and indominability:

“Mr. Fogg this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage.”
“No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen.”
“What! You knew that the way-“
“Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days which I have already gained to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time.”
There was nothing to say to so confident a response.

Serving as foil, there is the comical manservant Passepartout, who begins a baffled underling but comes to see his employer as a great man. However, he never does share Fogg’s confidence that all obstacles can be overcome. A retired acrobat, his athleticism comes in handy on the road, while his folly creates many of the obstacles that Fogg must conquer. To keep the reader from seeing Passepartout as a millstone that Fogg should abandon on route, Verne takes care to give each mishap a fresh extenuating circumstance.

https://www.mtholyoke.edu/courses/rschwart/hist255-s01/students/Kelly-E-Buttermore/images/javert.jpg — Portrait of Javert, from the first edition of Les Miserables, by French artist Gustave Brion.

Lastly, there is Detective Fix, who is the most complicated and interesting of the three as he is the most changeable in his pursuit of what he believes to be the world’s most eccentric bank robber. He is a droll variation on the great Javert archetype as he morphs from friend to foe and back again, set on his purpose but increasingly perplexed by Fogg’s behaviour and therefore always having to question the nature of the supposed rascal he’s pursuing. Fix is a very dynamic character, such that Around the World doesn’t really get good until his appearance in Suez.

Rounding out the cast is the late addition of Aouda, a beautiful Indian of the highest caste whom Fogg and Passepartout rescue from a passing “suttee.” She’s as fair as a European, has received a full European education in Bombay, is a match for Fogg in stoicism and knows how to use a pistol. Fogg and Passepartout end up carting her all the way round the world and she holds her own in the endeavor – girl even knows how to play whist. With this honorary European along for the ride, everything is in place – romance, adventure, comedy, thrilling suspense, twists of fortune and ever-shifting scenery from elephant rides to opium dens…

Around the World in Eighty Days is a lightweight volume, all the more surprising considering the troubled times it was written in. Verne kept a stiff upper lip as well as any Englishman by crafting this wild caper in the midst of the Franco-Prussian War. It doesn’t feel like a children’s classic as we would think of it, but this would be a boon to homeschooling families as Verne touches on everything from Victorian world history to scientific innovation to mathematical calculations. The casual historicity extending from the first sentence of this volume, along with its elegant sentence structure, generous vocabulary and competent adult heroes are not things you’ll find represented in most modern YA. This in itself demonstrates why the old books are irreplaceable and well worth adding to your children’s library. Around the World in Eighty Days is also worth reading for any adult fans of old-school adventures, as it is a delight through and through.

See Also: The Scarlet Pimpernel, another example of rich language matched with a plot that is accessible to younger readers, thus bridging the gap between children’s classics and grown-up ones.

Parental Guide, with some spoilers.

Violence: The concept of sati is introduced, as is that of dueling – though neither event takes place, it’s clear what would happen if they did. There’s a brawl in San Francisco, but it isn’t until the Sioux attack the train that we get some really descriptive bloodshed: Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Later, after the battle: All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the ties and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible.

Values: Pure Victorian Age goodness here. Logic and strength defeat every obstacle, engineering is a continuous marvel and honor is held in such high regard that to back out of a wager is impossible.

The Victorians believed in hierarchies of civilization and much of that confidence and willingness to judge other cultures is displayed here, which may not be to every taste. Verne refers to those who willingly participate in sati as stupid fanatics, while Aouda, who had to be drugged to ensure her cooperation in the matter, is a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. Far from being too harsh a judge of the foreign climes his heroes traverse, Verne is remarkably tolerant – at one point even embarrassingly naive, giving a passing mention to the savage Papuans, who are in the lowest scale of humanity, but are not, as has been asserted, cannibals. Sorry, Monsieur Verne, they really, really are.

https://www.globalgiving.org/pfil/21710/pict_grid7.jpg?tms=1523280442000 — Indian elephant (elephas maximus indicus).

One very pleasant surprise herein is the treatment afforded animals. Older books have a tendency to be callous on this subject, but Verne’s ideal gentlemen treat animals (and women, and servants) with every courtesy. The elephant Kiouri is purchased to make a crossing of the forests of India and is in the end made a gift (alongside the agreed payment) to the loyal Parsee who drove and tended the gentle creature.

Oh, and this is now the second children’s classic I have found about the great power of the bribe to overcome obstacles, and Verne acknowledges the importance of Fogg’s tremendous wealth. Up to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed.

Role Models: Fogg is eccentric but an impeccable gentleman through every trial. Passepartout is loyal and brave, and always looks for ways to be of help, especially after making mistakes. Aouda is equal to the task of winning the wager, can handle a firearm under duress and offers to marry Fogg rather than the other way around, but she’s never less than gracious and feminine – modern YA could learn something here. Even Fix has admirable qualities despite being essentially the villain. Verne also allows each of these characters a chace to salvage the expedition in successive eleventh hours, so no one is ever dead weight to the tale.

Educational Properties: The Extraordinary Voyages were conceived as a way to present the most up-to-date information available on all subjects of scientific knowledge in an entertaining framework. The books do not actually lose anything by being out of date, as they can act as both a spur and a grounding for researching modern theories and revelations. Around the World offers material on the history of transportation, scientific innovations for logistical quandaries. Logistics ties in to mathematics, calculations of speed, distance and the circumference of the earth. There is a wide range of geography covered and then global history and culture in the 1860s and 70s. A wealth of material for what is quite a short book, that is only one of fifty-four standalone books in this series. Though English language translations are renowned mainly for not doing justice to Verne’s vision, I should still think these Voyages an excellent resource. Bonus: If your family is bi-lingual French or committed to mastering the language, that regrettable problem can be bypassed.

End of Guide.

Given that I can only review 52 books per year and since the Extraordinary Voyages all function as stand-alones, this is one series I will have to proceed with at my own slow pace. In case you’re wondering why I have not mentioned or pictured a hot air balloon in this review, that’s because the balloon was a later Hollywood addition (ignoring the obvious fact that a balloon is by no means a reliable way to get from point A to point B instead of drifting to point J). Verne’s first contribution to the Voyages was actually Five Weeks in a Balloon, which is where the association of Verne and balloons began. Adding to the confusion, Around the World in Eighty Days is sometimes published in omnibus form with Five Weeks in a Balloon, though the stories are entirely unrelated.

Up Next: My final post on E.B. White with his final children’s novel.

Coming-of-Age Stories: Anne of the Island

On September 7, 2019September 10, 2019 By nymithIn Canadian Writers, Coming-of-Age Stories, Romance, Set in Prince Edward Island, Young Adult1 Comment

A college novel without a single scene set in a classroom! That’s like a romance novel where the leading man never actually appears. There is plenty of romance, at any rate, but I felt the whole time like something was missing…

Title: Anne of the Island (Anne Novels #3)
Author: L.M. Montgomery (1874-1942)
Original Publication Date: 1915
Edition: Bantam Books (1998), 243 pages
Genre: Coming-of-Age. Romance.
Ages: 12-16
First Line: “Harvest is ended and summer is gone,” quoted Anne Shirley, gazing across the shorn fields dreamily.

L.M. Montgomery moved on after Anne of Avonlea, inventing new characters and revisiting Avonlea only in short story form. However, Anne remained her most popular heroine and so she returned to her story in 1915, six years later, and dedicated Anne of the Island to “all the girls all over the world who have ‘wanted more’ about ANNE.” The good news: everyone remains perfectly in character despite the author’s break, and many charming episodes occur that any fans of the first two novels will not want to miss. The bad news: Montgomery feels less inspired on this outing, given that her interests were clearly elsewhere by this time. As such, Anne of the Island has a slightly uneven feel, sometimes delightful and sometimes perfunctory.

So Anne goes to Redmond College to gain her B.A. What does such a four-year course consist of? Who knows! She’s said to study hard but all we get to experience of college is Anne’s busy social life, including several different marriage proposals and a batch of frivolous friends who also claim to study hard but never evince any academic interests. Anne also takes regular visits to Avonlea and other places, usually to visit friends, though on one occasion for a summer teaching job. Throughout, Anne refuses to engage in any self-reflection on the subject of Gilbert Blythe and she careens through her college years willfully blind to her own feelings for him until a last-minute attack of remorse finally makes her see sense. It’s a mildly irritating read because of this, but in some ways the story of Anne Shirley finally feels “real,” going beyond escapism into the realm of consequences, with a future of long-term depression or fulfillment for our heroine, based on the crossroads she comes to at the end of the novel.

https://thewesterncornerofthecastle.home.blog/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/9caea-prideandprejudice.jpg — Pride and Prejudice, a perfect introduction to the classics.

The novel duly delivers on the romance so thoroughly quashed until the final page of Anne of Avonlea, and the whole thing bears similarity to Jane Austen, complete with the best suitor’s hopes dashed early on, comically awful proposals and a dashing but unsuitable fellow distracting the heroine from her true love – although Montgomery couldn’t seem to bring herself to give Royal Gardner (yes, really) a worse defect than lack of humour, so it lacks the gravity and sharpness of Austen. I would say that if your daughter has read and loved Anne of the Island, she’s ready for Pride and Prejudice.

Romance forms the best and worst portions of the book, as it turns out that love triangles were indeed just as infuriating 100 years ago as they are today, and just as liable to make the heroine look bad for stringing two decent fellows along. On the other hand, Gilbert remains a stellar romantic lead, especially because he’s so refreshingly normal in this day and age – he’s working toward a steady job as a doctor, keeps a sense of humour about him and is ordinarily attractive rather than devastatingly Byronic. Hence, it’s all the more shocking and worrisome to hear of him growing ever more “pale and thin” over the course of the story, a small, slow burn detail that pays off richly in the end.

Since Anne and Gilbert is reason enough for any fan of the first volumes to go ahead and tackle number three, the rest of this review is just going to be some random observations which popped out at me while reading, for better or worse, rather than a cohesive portrait of the novel.

https://www.literaryladiesguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/L.M.-Montgomery1.jpg — L.M. Montgomery.

A common complaint I see regarding modern YA is the often negative portrayal of female friendships. It turns out that when the heroine acts like one of the guys she (surprise, surprise) tends to be a loner who disparages more conventional women. “Not like other girls,” indeed. In more realistic tales, friendships are often portrayed as catty and wholly secondary to the heroine’s romantic concerns. The Anne novels are a very good alternative to such depictions, as Anne and her friends (of which there are many) stick together even when they disagree. Anne is there even for her estranged friend Ruby in what is the darkest chapter of the book. Meanwhile, during the humorous sage of Anne’s first published story she forgives Diana for her humiliating but truly well-meant artistic interference. “I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, Diana,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice, “and I assure you I appreciate the motive of what you’ve done.” None of the girls ever fight over the same guy and they share a strong sense of unity as they are all struggling with the same approaching choices in life: marriage or spinsterhood? A happy marriage or a terrible mistake?

While friendships are strong, Montgomery finally calls upon her kindred spirit principle once too often with the unlikely saga of Patty’s Place. Patty decides to rent her home to Anne and her roommates on the strength of one meeting with Anne and her friend Priscilla. Anne immediately breaks the agreed-upon terms of the lease (three girls and an aunt for housekeeper-chaperone) with the addition of a fourth girl and three cats. It’s quite the entourage, though perhaps in that time and place renting to young ladies all “of a class” was unlikely to backfire. I simply found the whole plotline much too convenient, especially as it removed any need for scenes on campus with the girls all living in the same cottage. Why write a college novel and waste the fresh opportunities of the setting?

https://sarahemsley.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/img_4740.jpg — Dalhousie University, Halifax, the basis for fictional Redmond College. Built 1887.

Also, while I normally agree with Montgomery’s taste in these matters, Patty’s Place never stopped making me think of a sports bar and jolting me out of the lovely Edwardian ambiance. Granted, that’s not her fault. I think it’s supposed to sound quaint and personable, not “try the fish and chips.”

Lastly, while Anne’s lack of self-reflection vis-à-vis Gilbert and Royal makes the novel a bit frustrating at points, I also found it by far the funniest of the Anne books thus far, with the creation of Anne’s short story “Averil’s Atonement” eclipsing all of Montgomery’s previous comic set pieces. Anne sets out to write a grand romance, complete with heroine Averil, heroic Perceval Dalrymple and villainous Maurice Lennox. When she turns it loose on her chosen preview audience, Diana proves that absolutely nothing has changed in 100 years when it comes to the tastes of female readership:

“Why did you kill Maurice Lennox?” she asked reproachfully.
“He was the villain,” protested Anne. “He had to be punished.”
“I like him best of them all,” said unreasonable Diana.
“Well, he’s dead, and he’ll have to stay dead,” said Anne, rather resentfully. “If I had let him live he’d have gone on persecuting Averil and Perceval.”
“Yes–unless you had reformed him.”

https://i0.wp.com/images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/32800000/dramione-3-draco-malfoy-and-hermione-granger-32884016-373-500.jpg — I couldn’t trace the creator of this photo-manip, but it was obviously a modern Diana Barry – something J.K. Rowling is decidedly not.

Anne then gets further feedback from Mr. Harrison – cementing him as my favorite character in the series and one who is tragically underutilized.

Says Mr. Harrison: …”your folks ain’t like real folks anywhere. They talk too much and use too high-flown language. There’s one place where that Dalrymple chap talks even on for two pages, and never lets the girl get a word in edgewise. If he’d done that in real life she’d have pitched him.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Anne flatly. In her secret soul she thought that the beautiful, poetic things said to Averil would win any girl’s heart completely. Besides, it was gruesome to hear of Averil, the stately, queen-like Averil, “pitching” any one. Averil “declined her suitors.”
“Anyhow,” resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, “I don’t see why Maurice Lennox didn’t get her. He was twice the man the other is. He did bad things, but he did them. Perceval hadn’t time for anything but mooning.”
“Mooning.” That was even worse than “pitching!”
“Maurice Lennox was the villain,” said Anne indignantly. “I don’t see why every one likes him better than Perceval.”
“Perceval is too good. He’s aggravating. Next time you write about a hero put a little spice of human nature in him.”
“Averil couldn’t have married Maurice. He was bad.”
“She’d have reformed him. You can reform a man; you can’t reform a jelly-fish, of course. Your story isn’t bad–it’s kind of interesting, I’ll admit. But you’re too young to write a story that would be worthwhile. Wait ten years.”

Then the unexpected reprise of “Averil’s Atonement” is icing on the cake, a perfect comic punchline that I have no wish to spoil. Delightfully ridiculous. The Anne books are so episodic that it is really the little things like this that make them so very enjoyable, and Anne of the Island is packed out with such rewards: Anne visits her childhood home on Nova Scotia, she comforts poor Ruby in her hour of dread and her frivolous new friend Philippa Gordon (who mostly annoyed me) calls her out with brilliant insight on the Gilbert and Royal affair. Throughout, there are Montgomery’s painterly descriptions and, all in all, it’s only a small letdown after the brilliance of the earlier novels. An easy recommendation for Anne fans.

See Also: The first two volumes of the series, Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea, both of which walk the line between young adult and middle-grade fiction that as of this volume the series has officially crossed over.

Parental Guide with spoilers.

Violence: I’ve raised the recommended age for this book due mostly to the heavy focus on romance rather than misadventures, but also because it contains the darkest scene in any of the books so far – fun-loving Ruby Gillis gets “galloping consumption” and, with only a few hours left to live, confesses her fear of dying to a distraught and helpless Anne.

https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0344/6469/files/Screen_Shot_2017-10-03_at_4.29.10_PM_grande.png?v=1507062584 — A black cat similar to Anne’s Rusty.

Some animal cruelty is also on display. Philippa explains how to go about chloroforming unwanted cats and attempts the procedure on a stray. The attempt fails and Anne takes pity and adopts the cat. Mr. Harrison is mentioned to have had to hang a dog twice before it died. Several GoodReads reviewers were appalled at these incidents, but you have to remember that there was no other way to keep the domestic animal population down in those days, explaining Montgomery’s tone here.

Values: Higher education is paid some lip service but really it’s just a place to go if you want to step into society and net yourself a good husband.

Friendship is more the focus than love. The passage of time weighs keenly on Anne and there’s much emphasis on trying to appreciate the here and now rather than pine for times gone by.

True romance goes far beyond mere romantic daydreams, which are nothing but a distraction and hindrance, not a blueprint for future happiness. Anne’s silly fancies about proposals contrast harshly with reality – and self-awareness is a great asset she desperately needs to cultivate.

Anne learns about love through several observed romances, including the grotesque courtship of extreme-doormat Janet, who has just turned forty, and her true love John Douglas, who can’t marry her until his mother dies – hence, twenty years of their lives are washed away in emptiness when they should have taken a stand long ago. It’s a bitter pill in Montgomery’s rosy universe and feels out-of-place, though perhaps it is meant to plant the seed that she needs to make a decision about Gilbert before she becomes an old maid.

Role Models: Anne is older, so her mistakes begin to have graver consequences for her future, and she ends up in a subtle but continual tailspin during the second half of the novel. As she fritters away her four years in college she becomes more and more disillusioned by life: The bloom had been brushed from one little maiden dream. Would the painful process go on until everything became prosaic and hum-drum? This process does continue in merciless and alarming fashion, as she starts to claim she feels like a stranger in Avonlea, becoming rootless and depressed. She had dreamed some brilliant dreams during the past winter and now they lay in the dust around her. In her present mood of self-disgust, she could not immediately begin dreaming again. And she discovered that, while solitude with dreams is glorious, solitude without them has few charms. … Life was stripped of several more illusions, and Anne began to think drearily that it seemed rather bare. This is a grim vocabulary for the Anne-girl we know and love. Here she is, free and modern, yet she doesn’t quite feel like Anne Shirley anymore, just a world-weary and ever more jaded shadow of her former vibrant self. And then Gilbert returns and with him all the meaning and fulfillment of love and a shared future, while the audience breathes a sigh of relief as Anne’s poetry and optimism return.

Educational Properties: Nothing whatsoever to report. Honestly, it’s not much of a college novel.

End of Guide.

Look for Anne of Windy Poplars in November – I’m spacing them out as much as I can with an eventual April deadline, just to keep them fresh. From here out the publishing sequence gets a little choppy, as Montgomery had finished a six-volume Anne series when she went back to tell the story of what Anne did while waiting for Gilbert to finish medical school. Hence, Windy Poplars dates from 1936.

Up Next: Branching out from my North American authors with the French father of science fiction. The promised Jules Verne, Around the World in Eighty Days, up next.

The Western Corner of the Castle

Month: September 2019

Fantasy: The Stones are Hatching

Anthropomorphic Fantasy: The Trumpet of the Swan

Adventure Novels: Around the World in Eighty Days

Coming-of-Age Stories: Anne of the Island