Children’s Book Week Celebration: Morning Session

>>Carla Hayden: Hi, I’m
Carla Hayden, the Librarian of Congress, and
it is my pleasure to wish you a very happy
Children’s Book Week. This year marks its 100th
anniversary, and the Library of Congress is excited
to join the celebration. We are especially excited
about the 2019 theme, Read Now, Read Forever, because it
looks to the past, present and the future of
children’s books. And our celebration
aims to do the same. Today, the Library of Congress
is launching a new digital collection of children’s
book selections. This new collection is made up
of full-color digitized versions of dozens of specially
selected children’s books from our general and
rare book collections. Our hope is that these books
will be enjoyed equally by children, their
parents and teachers. We’ve organized the collection
into three main categories, learning to read, reading to
learn and reading for fun. To help us connect
young readers of today with these historic
children’s books, we’ve teamed up with the voices of
contemporary creators of children’s literature. Local authors who are members
of the Children’s Book Guild of Washington D.C.
will be reading 20 of these special books
to you right here from the Young Readers Center
in the Jefferson Building of the Library of
Congress starting right now and continuing for
the next few hours. As you listen, do keep in mind
that every one of these stories that we have selected existed when the first Children’s
Book Week was celebrated 100 years ago. So get comfortable and put
your listening ears on. Here we go!>>Lee Ann Potter: Good morning. Happy Children’s Book Week. I’m Lee Ann Potter, and I
direct the Office of Learning and Innovation here at
the Library of Congress, and I get the pleasure of
reading our first story. The book I have for us
is entitled The Juvenile National Calendar. It was published in 1824. And it is a much
more interesting book than its title might imply. It actually has a subtitle. It was not just The
Juvenile National Calendar. It was called The
Juvenile National Calendar or A Familiar Description
of the US Government. With hand-colored illustrations
and amusing verses, it describes the role of the
people, of the president, the vice-president, the cabinet
members and congressmen in 1824 when the United States was
less than 50 years old. It engages young
citizens and teaches them about the workings
of their government. And it begins. The rising generation. Come all my young pupils, stand
around in a ring and listen to me while I merrily sing. I will tell you of those who
enjoy the command which is held or all of us for the good of the
land, of the president, cabinet, congressmen too, I mean to
describe and to bring into view. Who by learning and virtue their
honors did get so that you, if you’re good, may
be presidents yet. The People. But first of the people
my song must relate. That they choose for themselves
who shall govern the state. And each of the men who are
age 21 has a right to cry out what he wants to be done. And meet with his neighbors,
some friends to elect to rule over the land and
whom all may respect. And he for whom most of
the people may shout, is placed as a ruler
until his term’s out. President of the US. Of the president next
you will hear me declare that although neither
silver or gold does he wear. And like you might be
punished if he e’er acts wrong, yet to him does much power
and importance belong. He, ambassadors sends
to the nations afar. He is chief of the soldiers
who fight in the war. He may pardon the convict
of hanging in fear, and he gets $25,000 a year. The Vice-President. Next to him the vice-president
ranks in the land with one-fifth of the pay and a
smaller command. As chief of the senate of
right he presides and his vote when the others are
equal decides. If the president dies,
sir, his place he must take until the good people
another can make. Their stations they hold for a
term of four years after which as a citizen each one appears. The Secretary of State. But the president chooses
a council for aid before which the affairs of
importance are laid. The first has an eye
o’er all matters of state and on him all the
foreign ambassadors wait. The Turk and the Dutchmen
and Russians so gain bow down to the floor in
the presence of him. And $6,000 is what we must
give to enable this one of the council to live. Secretary of the Treasury. The task of the next is to
watch o’er the gold and the keys of the chest which
enclose it to hold. To keep an account
how the money all went and to tell the good people
how much they have spent. And by turning and twisting
his thoughts in his brain, to hit on a method
to get more again. And to pay for this trouble
in guarding our store, we give him the same
as the others before. Secretary of the Navy. The next o’er the Navy that
boast of our land or its sailors and officers hold its command. He tells to what regions
the vessels must sail or bids them repose in
the port from the gale. He signs the commissions which
office to bestow on those who on ocean must
vanquish the foe. Though he rules on the
sea yet lives on the shore and receives what we
gave the others before. The Secretary of War. Or the Army, the next of the
council presides, for its wants and its comforts tis
he that provides. When war is declared he
gives orders to march to the soldiers while stiffened
with buck rum and starch. And forward they rush at the
word of command to bleed or die for the good of the land. The lawyer for all we
must add to this yet, and now we’ve completed
the whole cabinet. Going to Congress. The congressman next
our attention demands, some are chosen for merit
and some for their lands. As the people can’t meet
altogether you know, they choose from their body
some few that shall go. And he who is anxious to
help make laws works hardest and longest for public applause. Until chosen he bids
them a gracious goodbye, and the pleasure of going
is bright in his eye. The Member of Congress. Next in congress as we
hear his speeches declaim, give honor to one, to
another give blame. Demand what he thinks is of use
to his friends with a candor and freedom that never offends. As long as he can, he
is willing to stay, for he gets for his
trouble $8 a day. And when all his toil and labor
is over, contented returns to his station before. And finally, General La Fayette. Thus far I have sung of
our country and laws, but still there’s another
who claims your applause. Whose blood for our freedom
once freely did flow. Who at Yorktown and
Brandywine vanquished the foe. And returned when the summer of
manhood is gone to the homage of hearts which are
wholly his own. His name you shall hear
it and never forget, the friend of America,
brave La Fayette. Thank you. Happy Children’s Book Week.>>Laura Shovan: [Inaudible]
illustrates these timeless fables and morals accredited to Aesop a Greek story
of [Inaudible] BCE. Originally, the fables
were not written down but only spoken aloud. The fables and their lessons
continued to be interpreted anew by illustrated and
storytellers in each generation. In Baby’s Own Aesop,
Walter Crane condenses each of 56 fables to brief
and entertaining rhymes with the attendant morals and illustrates them
in his vibrant style. Notice his mark in
each illustration, a large C surrounding a W
and a stick figure crane. Baby’s Own Aesop. Being that fables
condensed in rhyme with portable morals pictorially
pointed by Walter Crane. And those of you who are
poetry fans will notice that these morals, these fables
are written in limerick form. The Cock and the Pearl. A rooster, while
scratching for grain, found a pearl he just paused to
explain that a jewel’s no good to a fowl wanting food and then
kicked it aside with disdain. And the moral is, if he asks
bread, will ye give him a stone? The Wolf and the Lamb. A wolf, wanting lamb for his
dinner, growled out, Lamb, you wronged me, you sinner. Belated Lamb, nay, not true. Answered Wolf, then
’twas ewe, ewe or lamb, you will serve for my dinner. Fraud and violence
have no scruples. The Wind and the Sun. The wind and the sun had a bet. The wayfarer’s cloak
which should get. Blew the wind, the cloak clung. Shone the sun, the cloak flung. Showed the sun had
the best of it yet. And the moral is true
strength is not bluster. King Log and King Stork. The frogs prayed
to Jove for a king, not a log but a livelier thing. Jove sent them a stork
who did royal work, for he gobbled them
up did their king. And the moral is, very
simply, don’t have kings. The Frightened Lion. A bullfrog, according to rule,
sat a-croak in his usual pool. And he laughed in his heart as
a lion did start in a fright from the brink like a fool. Imaginary fears are the worst. The Mouse and the Lion. A poor thing the mouse. I’m starting this one over. The Mouse and the Lion. A poor thing the mouse was, and
yet, when the lion got caught in a net, all his
strength was no use. ‘Twas the poor little mouse
who nibbled him out of the net. Small causes may
produce great results. And the next one is
a big favorite here, The Married Mouse. So, the mouse had
a lion for bride. Very great was his
joy and pride. But it chanced that she’d
put on her husband her foot, and the weight was
too much, so he died. One may be too ambitious. And if you look closely
at the illustration, poor little mouse
is lying there dead. The next one is Hercules
and the Waggoner. When the god saw the Waggoner
kneel crying, Hercules, lift me my wheel from
the mud where tis stuck. He laughed, no such luck. Set your shoulder
yourself to the wheel. The gods help those
who help themselves. The Lazy Housemaids. Two maids killed the rooster
whose warning awoke them too soon every morning. But small were their gains,
for their mistress took pains to rouse them herself
without warning. And the moral is, laziness
is its own punishment. The Snake and the File. A snake in a fix tried
a file for dinner. Tis not worth your
while, said the steel, don’t mistake I’m
accustomed to take. To give’s not the way of a file. We may meet our match. Said sly fox to the crow. Oops, I forgot the
title on that one. Let’s go back. The Fox and the Crow. Said sly fox to the
crow with the cheese, let me hear your sweet
voice now, do please. And this crow being weak
called the bit from her beak. Music charms, said the
fox, and here’s cheese. Beware of flatterers. The Dog in the Manger. A cow sought a mouthful of hay, but a dog in the manger there
lay, and he snapped out, how now, when most mildly the
cow adventured a morsel to pray. Don’t be selfish. The Frog and the Bull. Said the frog quite
puffed to the eyes, was this bull about as to size? Rather bigger frog brother. Puff, puff said the other. A frog is a bull if he tries. But brag is not always belief. The Fox and the Crane. You have heard how
Sir Fox treated Crane with a soup plate and a plate. When again they dined, a long bottle just
suited Crane’s throttle and Sir Fox licked
the outside in vain. There are games that
two can play. Horse and Man. When the horse first
took man on his back to help him the stag to attack. How little his dread
as the enemy fled, man would make him his
slave and his hack. Advantages may be dearly bought. The Ass and the Enemy. Get up, let us flee from
the foe, said the man, but the ass said, why so, will
they double my load or my blows? Then by goad and by
stirrup I’ve no cause to go. Your reasons are not mine. The Fox and the Mosquitoes. Being plagued with mosquitoes
one day said old Fox, prey, don’t send them away. For a hungrier swarm
would work me more harm. I had rather the full
ones should stay. And the moral of this one
is there were politicians in Aesop’s time. The Fox and the Lion. The first time the fox
had a sight of the lion, he most died of fright. When he next met his eye,
Fox felt just a big shy. But the next quite
at ease and polite. Familiarity destroys fear. The Miser and His Gold. He buried his gold in a hole. One saw and the treasure
he stole. Said another, what matter,
don’t raise such a clatter. You can still go
and sit by the hole. Use alone gives value. The Golden eggs. A golden egg one every day that
simpleton’s goose used to lay. So he killed the poor thing,
swifter fortune to bring and dined off his
fortune that day. Greed overreaches itself. And the last fable for now,
The Man that Pleased None. Through the town this good
man and his son strove to ride as to please everyone. Self, son or both tried,
then the ass had a ride, while the world at
their efforts poked fun. You cannot hope to please all. Don’t try. Thanks everybody. I’m excited to be with you
for Children’s Book Week. Read Now, Read Forever
gives today’s authors like myself a chance to
celebrate classic books and stories that
were meaningful to us as children and young readers. So Happy Children’s
Book Week, and thanks.>>Michelle Y. Green:
Good morning. My name is Michelle Y. Green. I’m the author of
A Strong Right Arm, the Story of Mamie Peanut
Johnson and a series, a historical fiction
series called Willie Pearl. The Little Pretty
Pocketbook published in 1887, the caption under
the [inaudible] piece of this significant piece of early American
children’s literature reads, Instruction with Delight. This title probably more than
any other marks the point at which American
children’s literature turns from overwhelmingly
instructional to be entertaining as well. In 1787, when this
book was printed, society had very strict ideas
of what should be entertaining for children and even
in the invitation to play games was accompanied
by morals and the life lessons as you will see in the
games selected here. A Little Pretty Pocketbook
Intended for the Instruction and Amusement of Little Master
Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly with Two Letters from
Jack the Giant Killer. Here we go. The Great G Play. Hop, step and jump. Hop short and step safe
to make your jump long. This art oft has beat,
the efforts the strong. And the moral is, this old
maxim take, embellish your book. Think well ere you
talk and ere you leap. Look. The Little G Play. Boys and girls come out to play. After a sultry summer’s day when the moon shines
and stars are gay. The nymphs and swains
well pleased advance. And spend the evening
in a dance. The rule of life. Reflect today upon the laft and
freely own they errors pass. The Great H Play. I sent a letter to my love. The lads and lassies
here are seen, all gaily tripping
over the green. But one among to her cost, the
treasure of her heart was lost. The rule of life. If prosperous of pride beware,
changes a fortune frequent are. The Little H Play. Pitch and hustle,
poise your hand fairly and pitch plumb your slat. And shake for all heads
and turn down the hat. The moral is how fickle
this game, so fortune or fate decrees our repentance
when oft tis too late. The Great I Play. Cricket. This lesson observe
when you play at cricket. Catch all fairly out or
bowl down the wicked. And the moral is,
this maxim regard, now you’re in your prime. Look ere tis too late, by
the forelock take time. The Little I Play. Stool ball. The ball once struck
with ardent care and drove impetuous
through the air. Swift round his course,
the gamer flies, or his stool’s taken
by surprise. The rule of life. Bestow your alms whene’er you
flee an object in necessity. The Great K Play. Swimming. When the sun
beams have warmed the air, our youth to come
cool brook repair. In whole refreshing
streams they play to the last remnant of the day. The rule of life. Think ere you speak,
for words once flown, once uttered are
no more your own. The Little K Play. Baseball. The ball once
struck off flies the boy to the next destined plucked
and then home with joy. The moral is thus seamen
for lucre fly over the main. But with pleasure
transported return back again. The Great L Play. Trap ball. Touch lightly the trap
and strike low the ball and none catch you out,
and you’ll beat them all. The moral is, learn
hence my dear boy to avoid every share contrived to involve you in
sorrow and care. The Little I Play. Tip Cat. The gamer
here his art displays and drives the cat
a thousand ways. For should he miss once
his tossed, he’s out and his sport is lost. Rule of life. Debates and quarrels
always shun, no one by peace was e’er undone. The Great M Play. Fives. With what great force
this little ball rebounds when struck against the wall. See how intent each
gamer stands, mark well his eyes,
his feet, his hands. The rule of life. Know this, which is enough to
know, virtue is happiness below. That’s an excerpt from The
Little Pretty Pocketbook. Do you believe in dreams? I do. When my mother was very
young, her name is Willie Pearl, she lived in the
faraway misty mountains in a little town called
Jenkins, Kentucky. She had a teacher who would read to her every day
from fairytales. And one day Willie Pearl,
who came from a poor family with a lot of moral values,
decided that she wanted to see the castles
far, far away. Once upon a time there
was a little boy. His name was Frex, Eddie Leon. He was my father, and he lived
in the misty mountains far away in Jenkins too, about a mile
away from where my mother lived. Once upon a time, there was
a little girl named Michelle, and she lived with
her mother and father, and she went to Germany. And in the fifth grade, she had
a teacher, Miss Rile [phonetic], that used to talk to her every
day and speak to her and read to the class about Little
House on the Prairie. And Michelle grew up knowing
that she wanted to be an author. What do they all have in common? They all had dreams. Well, Willie Pearl and
Eddie Leon got married. My father went down to Tuskegee,
and there he became a pilot. And I’m wearing his wings. The two of them got
married, had three daughters. We moved to Germany. And believe it or not, Willie Pearl saw all the
castles on the Rhine. She saw gondolas. She saw England. She saw all of Europe. And we had a wonderful time. The moral of our story is, read. Read everything that you can. And if you can’t read, find
someone to read to you. It’s the best adventure
in all of the world. Thank you very much. I’m pleased to be here today. And Happy Children’s Book Week.>>Lulu Delacre: Good morning. My name is Lulu Delacre. I am the author and illustrator
of [Foreign Language] Olinguito from A to Z, Unveiling
the Cloud Forest. Today, I will be reading
Little Red Riding Hood, published in 1863. It’s a tale that is
well-known in many countries. Being from Puerto Rico, I know the Spanish
version [Foreign Language]. I always cheer when Caperucita
escaped el lobo Feroz. These 1863 retelling of Little
Red Riding Hood is inverse, it’s both book and a paper
doll being cut in the shame of Little Red herself with
the wolf subdued at her feet. There was a lonely cabin
within a dark old wood, and it with her mother, there
dwelled Red Riding Hood. The tall old trees above them,
their winter fire supplied, when autumn’s flaming sunsets
from their red leaves had died. The rippling brook, their water
from far off mountains brought and prattled of their summits
and in icy statues wrought. For them, the squirrels hoarded
their nuts in hollow trees, and pounds of sweetest honey
were made them by the bees. To gather these together
was work enough to do. Little Red Riding Hood thought
so, and no doubt would you. Blushing beneath her fingers
looked up the berries red, the flowers seemed to know her
and listened for her tread. This little pot of butter I’ve
churned so nice and sweet. And mind not stop and
prattle with anyone you meet. Then through the shady
forest, the little maiden went, and though her steps
were fleetest, the day was well nigh spent. When nearly through her journey,
an old gaunt wolf she spied, who wagged his tail and humbly
came walking by her side. Oh, said my little
maiden, how fair you are. You really look quite handsome. Where do you walk so far? Forgetful of her mother, she
stopped and told him where. Then she said, then said
the wolf, so cunning. What is it that you bear? Forgetful of her mother,
she stood and told him with. Tis butter for my grandma,
packed nicely in this pot. Then said the wolf, goodbye
dear, perhaps we’ll meet again. Then swiftly as he hastened,
swiftly through dale and glen. And running reached before
her the cabin gray and old, her grandmama was absent,
he quickly did unfold. Himself in cap and night
gown, then quickly on the bed, closely upon the pillow,
he laid his grizzly head. Red Riding Hood soon entered,
oh grandmama see here, a little pot of butter. Where is my grandma dear? Here, said the wolf, well feigning her
grandma’s voice so weak. I’m here so sick my darling,
that I can scarcely speak. Take off your clothes my
carling, upon the bed come lie. When you are here beside me,
I’ll be better by and by. Red Riding Hood obeyed
her and got upon the bed. Oh grandmama how altered
you are, she quickly said. Oh, what great eyes
my grandmama, they never looked so before. That’s to see you
better my darling, the larger to see you more. What a great nose, my grandma,
I never looked so before. That’s to smell you
better my darling, the larger to smell you more. And what great hands,
my grandma, they never looked so before. That’s to hold you
tight my darling, and to hug you more and more. What a great mouth my grandma,
as large as your tin cup. That’s to open wide my beauty
and then to eat you up. Then he opened his great mouth
wider to eat her like a bird. But at that dreadful moment,
a hunter’s gun was heard. The wolf fell dead and bleeding,
then grandma hastened in. For she had seen the peril
her danger that had been. Red Riding Hood wept sadly
and sorrowed more and more that she’d disobeyed her mother
which she never did before. And she though with fear and
trembling of the death that came so near, and she said
the fright had taught to mind her mother dear. Then listen ye all children
and mind your mother’s word, for the great wolf, men call
evil, is prowling round unheard. Today, we are celebrating
the 100th anniversary of Children’s Book Week. We celebrate enduring
books and new books for me. Enduring books bring us
the comfort of familiarity with things that speak
to us through the ages. And new books bring the
excitement of the discovery of worlds and feelings
not known before. Today, new books also bring
the power of representation. When the reader sees
that the hero of a story mirrors her
appearance and life experiences, the child feels empowered
and included. [Foreign Language].>>Karen Deans: Hello. My name is Karen Deans. I am the author of
Swing Sisters, the story of the international
Sweethearts of Rhythm. Today I’m going to be
reading The Cats Party, which was published in 1871. McLoughlin Brothers was a
New York publishing firm in the second half of the
19th century and a pioneer in color printing for children. Their books are often retellings
of tales and amusing stories in inexpensive formats. In The Cat’s Party,
some very well-dressed and polite cats get
invited to a party that doesn’t go all too well. The Cat’s Party. Mrs. Grimalkin Writes Her Cards. Meek Mistress Grimalkin, so
fat and so hearty once gave to her kittens a
nice little party. She sent out her cards
with guilt edges bound for the tortoiseshells, tabbies
and blacks to come round. There was uncle and aunt and
some cats of first water. Of course, not forgetting
her last married daughter. There was mother and sister
besides her first cousin, counting heads as they
sat, they made up a dozen. Mrs. G Determines to
Borrow Her Mistress’ Dishes. The next thing to be done
was to make preparation, so the kittens were called
to hold consultation. Quoth Mrs. G, I’ve
determined from mistress to borrow all the dishes we
need and return them tomorrow. We’ll have crumpets and muffins
and nice buttered toast, shrimps and fried fish and some
meat which we’ll roast. There’s nothing like fish,
though there were plenty beside. I could eat a large
plateful, especially fried. The Table Groans
and Tom Runs Away. The day was quite fine,
the weather propitious, so they spread out the things
which appeared so delicious. They had so much on the
table that a Tomcat declared, it’s certainly groaned,
and he ran away scared. The guests now arriving,
they each took a seat. Some suspiciously eying
the fish and the meat. It having been hinted
’twas not all quite fresh, they each begun thinking
they were caught in a mesh. They are Desired to
Make Themselves at Home. Mrs. Evans was dressed in
her best bib and tucker, this quarrelsome cat
often got in a pucker. And though Tom was handsome,
he much cause to wail, being hurt by the
door on his tail. But all went on smoothly
foreach did their best to do all they could
to please all the rest. And they made themselves
happy, as good kittens ought, though of all the nice things,
not one had been bought. Mrs. G’s Marked Politeness
to Her Old Friend, Thomas. Then Madam Grimalkin,
though oft she did roam, said I hope you would all
make yourselves quite at home. As mistress don’t look
very close to her store, there is plenty of everything. Tom, take some more. Yes, dear Miss Grimalkin, now
look at this dish and permit me to send you a piece
of fried fish. I thank you, dear Tom. If your appetite’s
keen, here’s a cup of the very best milk ever seen. Billy and the Bellows. Such politeness from old and young feline shoots
has seldom been seen since the famed Puss and Boots. But Billy, who wore a
great brown shining coat, got a dreadful large herring
bone stuck in his throat. Then he kicked and meowed
with all force he was able and finally turned upside
down the great table. When his friend Mrs. Evans of
him being jealous coolly thrust down his throat the
nose of the bellows. The Dance. Such roughness, such kindness
at length moved the bone, and poor Billy recovered
himself very soon. When a ladylike cat who
have visited France, after supper proposed they
should all have a dance. Tom and her ladyship now opened
the ball and merrily danced to the delight of them all. The others soon followed
’til all in the room were dancing
away as though quite at home. Sudden Appearance of Missus. In the midst of the dancing
the mistress came in, completely astonished
to hear such a din. She struck the ringleader
which so frightened the rest, that to get out of sight,
they each did their best. And the moral of the story is, a saying there is
perhaps not known to all, and to it the attention
of every good cat I call. It’s something about
taking what isn’t hiss’n, and the saying winds up
with he shall go to prison. So all cats and kittens
from us take advice and never steal viands,
though ever so nice. Leave your feelings be hurt
by this candid illusion and like Tom and the rest
of them, put to confusion. Here’s to a wonderful life
of reading and storytelling. Happy Children’s Book Week.>>Rhoda Trooboff:
I am Rhoda Trooboff, and I am a children’s
book publisher here in Washington D.C. at a very
small children’s book press called Tenley Circle Press. Today I’m going to be
reading to you Yankee Doodle, an old song in a new dress by
Howard Pyle, published in 1881. Howard Pyle offers a
youngster’s view of war, specifically the
American Revolution, its troops and ordinance. Writing and illustrating
at the same time as the three British masters
Caldecott, Crane and Greenaway, Pyle is known by
many as the father of American children’s
book illustration. His talent for creating
illustrations that go beyond the simple
characterization of the story is on full view in this work. Yankee Doodle, an old song,
an old friend, in a new dress. Father and I went down to camp,
along with Captain Goodwin. Where we see the men boys
as thick as hasty pudding. There was Captain Washington
upon a slapping stallion, a-giving orders to his men,
I guess there was a million. And then the feathers
in his hat, they looked so tarnal finey. I wanted peskily to get
to give to my Jemima. And then they had a swamping
gun as big as a log of maple. On a deuced little cart a
load for father’s cattle. And every time they fired it
off, it took a horn of powder. It made a noise like father’s
gun, only a nation louder. I went as near to it myself
as Jacob’s underpinnin’. And father went as near again,
I thought the deuce was in him. Cousin Simon grew so bold I
thought he would have cooked, sorry. Cousin Simon grew so bold I
thought he would have cocked it. It scared me, so I shrinked off
and hung by father’s pocket. And there I see a pumpkin
shell, as big as mother’s basin. And every time they
touched it off, they scampered like the nation. And there I see a little keg,
its heads were made of leather. They knocked upon it
with little sticks to call the folks together. And then they’d fife
away like fun and play on cornstalk fiddles. And some had ribbons red as blood all wound
about their middles. The troopers, too, would gallop
up and fire right in our faces. It scared me almost
half to death to see them run such races. Old Uncle Sam come then to change some pancakes
and some onions. Good, fresh pancakes and
inyers [phonetic] for sale at one hapeny [phonetic]
a piece. For ‘lasses cake to carry home
to give his wife and young ones. I see another snarl of men
a-digging graves they told me. So tarnal long, so tarnal deep,
they tended they should hold me. It scared me so I hooked it
off nor slept as I remember. Nor turned about
’til I got home, locked up in mother’s chamber. The end. Happy Children’s
Book Week. I’ll tell you a little
bit about myself. My life has been bookended
by books and libraries. When I was about seven years
old, I got my first job in this little town off the
coast of Quincey, Massachusetts, the librarian, Edna Curtis, invited me to be
her library page. My job was to go to the
children’s bookshelf, the lowest shelf, and put the
books in alphabetical order and also to take Miss Curtis’
ruler and make sure that all of the books were one inch in
from the edge of the shelf. That’s what I did when I was
seven or eight years old. And now I’m a children’s
book publisher at Tenley Circle Press, a very,
very small children’s press, and here I am today in the
biggest and greatest library in the world, the
Library of Congress. Thank you very much for
letting me read to you.>>Amy Hansen: Good morning. My name is Amy Hansen. I’m going to be reading Baby’s
Own Aesop by Walter Crane, and it’s published in 1887. I’m the author of Fire Bird. For Baby’s Own Aesop, Walter Crane illustrated
these timeless fables with morals credited to Aesop,
a Greek storyteller who lived in the fifth century,
B.C.E. Originally, the fables were not written
down but only spoken aloud. The fables and their lessons
continued to be interpreted anew by illustrators and
storytellers in each generation. In Baby’s Own Aesop,
Walter Crane condenses each of the 56 fables to a brief
and entertaining rhymes with the attendant morals
and illustrates them in its own vibrant style. Notice his mark in
each illustration, a large C surrounded by a
W and a stick figure crane. This is part two of
Baby’s Own Aesop selections that we are reading today. The Oak in the Reeds. Giant oak in his strength
in his scoth [phonetic], scoth on the winds by. I’m sorry. I will try that again. Giant oak in his strength
and his scoth of the winds by the roots was uptorn,
but slim reed at his side, the fierce gale did outride. Since by bending the
burden was borne. Moral is, bend, not break. The Fir and the Bramble. The Fir-tree looked
down on the Bramble. Poor thing, only able to
scramble about on the ground. Just then an axe sound made the
fir wish himself be a Bramble. Pride of place has
its disadvantage. The Trees and the Woodman. The trees asked the
man what he lacks. One bit, just to handle my ax. All he asks well and good,
but he cut down the wood. So well does he handle this axe. Give me an inch, and I will take
a mile, except it says an ell. The Heart and the Vine. The heart by the
hunters pursued, safely hid in a vine ’til he
chewed the sweet tender green and those shaking leaves seen,
he was slain by his ingratitude. Spare your benefactors
is the moral there. The Man and the Snake. In pity he brought the
poor snake to be warmed at his fire, a mistake. For the ungrateful thing,
wife children would sting. I have known some
as bad as the snake. Beware how you entertain
traitors. Always good advice. The Fox and the Mask. The fox with his
foot on the mask, thus took the fair
semblance to task. You’re a real handsome face,
but what part of your case and your brain is in good sir? Let me ask. And I can’t read the moral. I’m sorry. The Lion and the Statue. On a statue King Lion dethroned,
showing conquered man, lion frowned, if lion you
know had been sculpture, he’d show lion rampant
and man on the ground. The story depends
on the storyteller. The Booster, The Boaster, sorry. In the house, in the
market, in the streets, everywhere his boasting,
his feats, ’til one said with a sneer, let
us see it done here. What’s so oft done
with ease on repeats. The moral is deeds not words. The Vain Jackdaw. Fine feathers, Jack
through, make fine fowls. I’ll be envied by
bats and by owls. But the peacock’s proud eyes
saw through his disguise, and Jack fled this
assembly of fowls. Borrowed plumes are soon
discovered is the moral. The Peacock’s complaint. We’re into peacocks right now. The peacock considered it wrong that he had not the
nightingale’s song. So to Juno he went,
and she replied, be content with thy having
and hold thy fool tongue. Do not quarrel with nature. Two Crabs. So awkward, so shambling a gait, Mrs. Crab did her
daughter berate. Who rejoined, it is true, I am
backward, but you needed lessons in walking quite late. Look at home. Two Jars. Never fear, said
the brass to the clay, of the two jars that
flood bore away. Keep close to my side,
but the porcelain replied, I’ll be smashed if
beside you I stay. Our friends, our enemy. Brother and Sister. Twin children, the
girl, she was plain. The brother was handsome
and vain. Let him brag of his looks,
father said, mind your books. The best beauty is
bred in the brain. Handsome is as handsome does. The Fox Without a Tail. Said Fox, minus a tail
in a trap, my friends, here’s a lucky mishap. Give your tails a short lease,
but the foxes weren’t geese. And none followed
the fashion of trap. Yet some fashions
have no better reason. The Dog and the Shadow. His image the dog did not know, or his bone in the
pond’s painted show. T’other dog, so he though,
has got more than he ought. So he snapped, and
his dinner saw go. Greed is sometimes
caught by its own bait. The Crow and the Pitcher. With cunning old
Crow got his drink. When ’twas low in the
pitcher, just think. Don’t say that he spilled it. With pebbles he filled it, ’til
the water rose up to the brink. Use your wits. I like that one. The Eagle and the Crow. The eagle flew off with a lamb, then the crow thought
to lift an old man. In his eagle-ish conceit,
the wool tangled his feet, and the shepherd laid
hold of the sham. Beware of overrating
your own powers. The Blind Doe. A poor half-blind doe, her one
eye kept shoreward all danger to spy, as she fed by the see. Poor innocent. She was shot from
a boat passing by. The moral is, watch all sides. So thank you for
letting me read. I am very pleased be here for
Children’s Book Week and pleased to be among all these
extraordinary books. And I will be happy to
come back next year. Thank you.>>Karen Leggett
Abouraya: Hello, I’m Karen Leggett Abouraya. I write nonfiction
children’s picture book. My current book is Malala
Yousafzai, Warrior with Words. And since we’re going to
be reading from a book by an illustrator, I
want to let you know that these books are
illustrated by Susan L. Roth, and she does all
her illustrations in cut paper collage, so she
cuts lots of little tiny pieces of paper to do her collages. The man we’re going to, whose
illustrations we’re going to see today, Randolph
Caldecott, worked with pen and
ink and colors. And he was doing
this, his energetic and often humorous illustrations
filled a collection of 16 picture books. And the Caldecott
Award is named for him. This is the American Library
Association’s annual award to the artist of the most
distinguished American picture book for children,
and it’s named for this beloved 19th
century British illustrator. And this is a book of nursery
rhymes and silly verses, and I want you to take a
particularly close look at the children that he draws,
because you’ll get an idea of how children dressed in 1887
when this book was published. The first one we’re going to
read is one you might e familiar with because it’s a nursery
rhyme we still tell sometimes in schools and at homes. Hey Diddle, Diddle. Hey diddle, diddle,
the cat and the fiddle. And you see some of the
pictures are in color. And look at the different, look
at the characters in there, because he’s going to
mention all these characters. The cow jumped over the moon. And the little dog
laughed to see such fun, and the dish ran
away with the spoon. And the next one we’re going to read is A Frog He
Would A-Wooing Go. Now a-wooing is a phrase that everybody would
have known in 1887. It really means that Frog
is looking for a girlfriend. And you’ll also see here,
there are some phrases here that are nonsense, but
they’re fun to listen to, and they’re fun to say. And I’m going to say them on
every page, so by the end, you’ll be able to say this funny
phrase, and it’ll get funnier and funnier the more you say it, especially if everybody starts
saying it in the family. A frog he would a-wooing
go, heigho, says Rowley, whether his mother
would let him or no. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. So off he set with is opera
hat, heigho, says Rowley. And on his way he
met with a rat, with a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Pray, Mr. Rat, will
you go with me. Heigho, says Rowley. Pretty Miss Mousey
for us to see. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Now they soon arrived
at Mousey’s Hall. Heigho, says Rowley. And gave a loud knock
and gave a loud call. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Pray, Miss Mousey,
are you within? Heigho, says Rowley. Oh yes, kind sirs,
I’m sitting to spin. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Pray, Miss Mouse, will
you give us some beer. Heigho, says Rowley. For Froggie and I are
fond of good cheer. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Pray, Mr. Frog, will
you give us a song? Heigho, says Rowley. But let it be something
that’s not very long. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Indeed, Miss Mouse,
replied Mr. Frog. Heigho, says Rowley. A cold has made me
hoarse as a hog. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. Since you have caught cold,
Miss Mousey said, Heigho, says Rowley, I’ll sing you
a song that I’ve just made. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. But while they were all
thus a merry-making, Heigho, says Rowley. A cat and her kittens
came tumbling in. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Hey, says Anthony Rowley. The cat she seized
the rat by the crown. Heigho, says Rowley. The kittens they pulled
the little mouse down. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. This put Mr. Frog in
a terrible fright. Heigho, says Rowley. He took up his hat and
he wished them goodnight. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. But as Froggy was
crossing a silvery brook. Heigho, says Rowley. A lily-white duck came
and gobbled him up. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. So there was an end
of one, two and three. Heigho, says Rowley. The rat, the mouse
and the little froggy. With a rowley-powley
gammon and spinach. Heigho, says Anthony Rowley. So it’s a funny verse
without a very funny ending. But I wish you a Happy
Children’s Book Week, and I hope you enjoy
finding some old books, maybe with an aunt or a
grandmother or somebody in your household has some
beautiful old books around. And then enjoy all the new
books that are being written and coming out every day,
especially at your library. Thank you very much.>>Barbara Carney-Coston:
Hello, I’m Barbara Coney-Coston, the author of To the Copper
Country, Mihaela’s Journey, a book published by Wayne
State University Press. Today, I will be reading
part one of King Midas from Wonder Book
for Boys and Girls by Nathanial Hawthorne,
published in 1893. In Nathanial Hawthorne’s A
Wonder Book for Girls and Boys, with 60 designs by Walter Crane,
Crane uses his powers of design and color to help Hawthorne
retell six Greek myths for a young audience,
including the stories of Medusa, King Midas and His Golden
Touch and Pandora’s Box. He frames the telling
inside a story of a young mam telling tales
to children at Tanglewood in Western Massachusetts. Today, we will read
about King Midas. Once upon a time, there lived a
very rich man and king besides, whose name was Midas, and
he had a little daughter. King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything
else in the world. If he loved anything better,
it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around
her father’s footstool. But the more Midas
loved his daughter, the more did he desire
and seek for wealth. He thought that the best
he could possibly do for this dear child would be to
bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow glistening coin that
had ever been heaped together since the world was made. Midas could scarcely bear to see or touch any object
that was not gold. He made it his custom,
therefore, to pass a large portion
of every day in a dark and dreary apartment underground
at the basement of his palace. It was here that
he kept his wealth. Here, after carefully locking
the door, he would take a bag of gold coin or a gold
cup as big as a washbowl or a heavy golden bar or a
peck-measure of gold dust and bring them from the
obscure corners of the room into the one bright and
narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. And then would he reckon
over the coins in the bank, toss up the bar and catch it as
it came down, sift the gold dust through his fingers and
whisper to himself, oh Midas, rich King Midas, what
a happy man art thou. Midas was enjoying himself
in his treasure room one day when looking suddenly up, what
should he behold but a young man with a cheerful and ruddy face. He could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger
regarded him had a kind of golden radiance to it. As Midas knew that he had
carefully turned the key in the lock and that no mortal
strength could possibly break into his treasure
room, he concluded that his visitor must be
something more than mortal. You are a wealthy friend, man
friend Midas, he observed. I have done pretty well,
pretty well, answered Midas, in a discontented tone. But if one could live
a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich. What, exclaimed the stranger. Then you are not satisfied? Midas shook his head. And pray, what would satisfy
you, asked the stranger. Midas paused and meditated. Raising his head he looked the
lustrous stranger in the face. Well Midas, observed his
visitor, tell me your wish. It is only this, replied Midas. I wish everything that I
touch might be turned to gold. The stranger’s smile grew
so very broad that it seemed to fill the room like
an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell. The golden touch, exclaimed he. You certainly deserve credit,
friend Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But you are quite sure
that this will satisfy you? How could it fail, said Midas. I ask nothing else to
render me perfectly happy. Be it as you wish then,
replied the stranger, waving his hand in
token of farewell. Tomorrow, at sunrise, you
will find yourself gifted with the golden touch. Day had hardly peeped
over the hills when King Midas was
brought awake. The golden touch had come to
him with the first sunbeam. Midas started up and ran about
the room grasping at everything that had happened
to be in his way. He seized one of the bedposts, and it became immediately
a fluted golden pillar. He hurriedly put on his
clothes and was enraptured to see himself in the
magnificent suit of gold cloth which retained his
flexibility and softness, although it burdened him
a little with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief which little Marygold
had hemmed for him. That was likewise gold
with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches running all
along the border in gold thread. Somehow or other, this last
transformation did not quite please King Midas. He would rather that his little
daughter’s handiwork should have remained just the same as
when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand. It is no great matter,
nevertheless, said he to himself,
very philosophically. We cannot expect any great good
without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. Wise King Midas emerged
into the garden. Midas took great pains in
going from bush to bush and exercise his magic touch
until every individual flower and bud and even the
worms at the heart of some of them were changed to gold. By the time this good
work was completed, King Midas was summoned
to breakfast. And as the morning air had
given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back
to the palace. Little Marygold had not
yet made her appearance. It was not a great while before
he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly. This circumstance surprised
him, because Marygold was one of the cheerfullest little
people whom you would see in a summer’s day and
hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a 12-month. Marygold slowly and
disconsolately opened the door, sobbing as if her
heart would break. How now, my little
lady, cried Midas. Pray, what is the matter
with you this bring morning? Marygold held out her hand
in which one of the roses which Midas had so
recently transmuted. Beautiful, exclaimed her father. Ah, dear father, answered the
child, it is not beautiful but the ugliest flower
that ever grew. As soon as I was dressed,
I ran into the garden to gather some roses
for you, but oh dear, dear me, such a misfortune. All the beautiful roses that
smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes
are blighted and spoiled. They’re grown quite yellow,
as you can see this one, and have no longer
any fragrance. What can have been
the matter with them? Pray, don’t cry about it,
said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself
had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. Sit down and eat
your bread and milk. You will find it easy enough to
exchange a golden rose like that for an ordinary one which
would wither in a day. I don’t care for such roses
as this, said Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. It has no smell, and the
hard petals prick my nose.>>Carl Brown: Hello. My name is Carl Brown. I’m a coauthor in three books, one of which you see
here, Humans of Ballou. I’ve got to be a
coauthor in these books through an organization
called Shout Mouse Press. And today, I’ll be reading
the Wonder Book for Girls by Nathanial Hawthorne. And this one is The Golden
Touch, a Story about King Midas. King Midas took one of the
nice little trouts on his plate and touched its tail
with his finger. To his horror, it was
immediately transmuted from an admirably fried
brook-trout into a goldfish. It was really a metallic
fish and looked as if it had been cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith
in the world. King Midas just at that moment
would much rather have a real trout in his dish. I don’t quite see,
thought to himself, how I am to get any breakfast. Here was literally the richest
breakfast that could be set for a king, and its very
richness made it absolutely good for nothing. The poorest laborer sitting down
to his crust of bread and cup of water was far better off than King Midas whose delicate
food was really worth its weight in gold. King Midas began to
doubt whether, after all, riches are the one
desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. So fascinated was Midas with
the glitter of the yellow metal that he would still have refused
to give up the golden touch for so paltry a consideration
as a breakfast. Nevertheless, so great was his
hunger that he groaned aloud. Our pretty Marygold started
from her chair and running to Midas threw her arms
affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. My precious Marygold, cried he. But Marygold made no answer. Alas, what had he done? The moment the lips of Midas
touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place. Little Marygold was a
human child no longer but a golden statue. Midas began to wring his hand
and bemoaned himself and to wish that he were the poorest
man in the wide world. If the loss of all his wealth
might bring back the faintest rose color to his
dear child’s face. While he was in his
tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld same
figure which had bestowed on him this disastrous
faculty of the golden touch. The stranger’s countenance
still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow luster all
about the room and gleamed on little Marygold’s image
and on the other objects that had been transmuted
by the touch of Midas. Well friend Midas,
said the stranger, pray how do you succeed
with the golden touch? Midas shook his head. I am very miserable, said he. Very miserable indeed,
exclaimed the stranger. Have you not anything
that your heart desire? Gold is not everything,
answered Midas. And I have lost all that
my heart really cared for. Ah, so you have made a
discovery since yesterday, observed the stranger. Which these two things do you
think is really worth the most, the golden touch or your
own little Marygold? Warm, soft and loving
as she was an hour ago. Oh my child, my dear child, cried poor Midas,
wringing his hands. You are wiser than you were
King Midas, said the stranger, looking seriously at him. Tell me now, do you
sincerely desire to rid yourself of
this golden touch? It is hateful to
me, replied Midas. Go then, said the stranger,
and plunge into the river that glides past the
bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the
same water and sprinkle it over any object that you may
desire to change back again from gold into its
former substance. If you do this in
earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair
the mischief which your avarice
has occasioned. Midas lost no time in snatching
up a great earthen pitcher and hastening to the riverside. As he scampered along and forced
his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvelous to see how the foliage
turned yellow before him as if the autumn had been
there and nowhere else. On reaching the river’s
brink, he plunged headlong in without waiting so much
as to pull off his shoes. As he dipped the
pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart
to see it change from gold into the same good,
honest earthen vessel which it had been
before he touched it. King Midas hastened
back to the palace. The first thing he did was
to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure
of little Marygold. No sooner did it fall on her
then the rosy color came back to his dear child’s face. Marygold did not know that she
had been a little golden statue, nor could she remember
anything that had happened since the moment which she
ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas. Her father led little
Marygold into the garden where he sprinkled all
the remainder of the water over the rosebushes, and above
5,000 roses recovered their beautiful bloom. Little Marygold’s hair
now a golden tinge which he had never
observed in it before. Had been transmuted by
the effect of his kiss. This change of hue was
really an improvement and made Marygold’s hair
richer than in her babyhood. When King Midas had grown
quite an old man and used to trot Marygold’s
children on his knee, he was fond of telling
them this marvelous story. And then would he stroke their
glossy ringlets and tell them that their hair, likewise,
had a rich shade of gold which they had inherited
from their mother. And to tell you the truth,
my precious little folks, quote King Midas, delightingly
trotting the children all the while, ever since that morning,
I had hated the very sight of all other gold save this. That was a reading of Golden
Touch, a story of King Midas. And I think that Children’s
Book Week is important because it gives young authors
like myself the inspiration to create their own piece. I’m delighted and honored and
grateful to have read this in front of you all in
the Library of Congress, and I hope to be back soon.

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