The Reluctant Dragon by Kenneth Grahame

Well, if it took us more than two months to finish The Railway Children, which was time well-spent, we breezed through The Reluctant Dragon in a matter of days. My kids were engaged enough in the story to comment on how it differed from the old Disney animated version, to study the pencil-sketch illustrations intently, and to request it every night until we were through. Actually, I think my children will sit and listen to just about anything - at least they've never asked to quit reading a book and move on to another one, so that's probably no indication of a book's quality.

This is a short little book without chapters, but a little too long to finish in one sitting. I had to find some logical breaks to keep bedtime at a reasonable hour, much to the dismay of my daughter who asked, "Do we have to end with 'Goodnight' again?" There is a simple cast of characters: the dragon, an unnamed Boy, and St. George take center-stage, with a sheperd and his wife (the Boy's parents) in supporting roles and a host of villagers as extras. The sonnet-spouting dragon is clearly no threat to society, but the villagers have convinced themselves that he is a terrible menace and scourge upon their fair land. Meanwhile, the boy has befriended the dragon and feels that he must intervene when Saint George appears to fight the deadly beast. After explaining the dragon's true retiring nature and the exaggerations of the villagers, the boy introduces the knight to the dragon and helps them arrange things in an altogether satisfactory manner.

There's some subtle humor in this tale, as it obviously plays upon the classic formula of knights conquering dragons and rescuing fair maidens. A Princess is sadly missing, however, since the Boy couldn't arrange everything as the dragon and Saint George expected him to, especially when his mother was waiting up for him. It's all right as dragon stories go, though not nearly so adventurous as My Father's Dragon, nor so witty and charming as Grahame's classic The Wind in the Willows (linked to my reviews).

Amy and her girls read The Reluctant Dragon earlier this year, and you can check out her Read Aloud Thursday review here. I'd like to see the illustrations in the volume that they read, and maybe we'll check it out again when we study Medieval history next year.

The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit

We were introduced to The Railway Children through our first grade writing curriculum in January, but a series of illnesses made it difficult for me to read aloud for several weeks and we've only just finished it now in early March. To be quite honest, it was probably a bit advanced for my children, ages 7 and almost 4, but even if they didn't understand some of the quaint vocabulary and customs of English country life at the turn of the 20th century, they followed the action pretty well and at least grasped the main storyline.

I myself was rather indifferent about the story at first - it was charming in an old-fashioned sort of way and the children were realistically portrayed, not too perfect as to be unbelievable, but not so naughty as to be bad examples - until I reached the last two chapters. There I found two passages that were so full of truth, and so foreign to most everything you will find in modern children's literature, that I can and will wholeheartedly recommend this novel to every family concerned to instill biblical values in their children. Let me show you why. 

After Peter had been tormenting his sisters with talk of blood and bones, making them queasy while their new friend was having his broken leg set, the Doctor had a little talk with him:

  "'You'll excuse my shoving my oar in, won't you? But I should like to say something to you.'

  'Now for a rowing,' thought Peter, who had been wondering how it was that he had escaped one.

  'Something scientific,' added the Doctor. . .

  'Well,' said the Doctor, 'you know men have to do the work of the world and not be afraid of anything - so they have to be hardy and brave. But women have to take care of their babies and cuddle them and nurse them and be very patient and gentle.'

  'Yes,' said Peter, wondering what was coming next.

  'Well, then, you see. Boys and girls are only little men and women. And we are much harder and hardier than they are' - (Peter liked the 'we'. Perhaps the Doctor had known he would.) - 'and much stronger, and things that hurt them don't hurt us. You know you mustn't hit a girl -'

  'I should think not, indeed,' muttered Peter, indignantly.

  'Not even if she's your own sister. That's because girls are so much softer and weaker than we are; they have to be, you know,' he added, 'because if they weren't, it wouldn't be nice for the babies. And that's why all the animals are so good to the mother animals. They never fight them, you know.'

  'I know,' said Peter, interested; 'two buck rabbits will fight all day if you let them, but they won't hurt a doe.'

  'No; and quite wild beasts - lions and elephants - they're immensely gentle with the female beasts. And we've got to be, too.'

  'I see,' said Peter.

  'And their hearts are soft, too,' the Doctor went on, 'and things that we shouldn't think anything of hurt them dreadfully. So that a man has to be very careful, not only of his fists, but of his words. They're awfully brave, you know,' he went on. 'Think of Bobbie waiting alone in the tunnel with that poor chap. It's an odd thing - the softer and more easily hurt a woman is the better she can screw herself up to do what has to be done. I've seen some brave women - your mother's one,' he ended abruptly.

  'Yes,' said Peter.

  'Well, that's all; excuse my mentioning it. But nobody knows everything without being told. And you see what I mean, don't you?'

  'Yes,' said Peter. 'I'm sorry. There!'"

I don't think I've ever heard true chivalry and femininity expressed so well for a child's understanding, encouraging boys to be gentlemen and elevating a girl's softness and weakness not as disadvantages, but as being the best for the babies, just as God intended! These values have been all but lost in the cultural wars of feminism, so it is refreshing to find them stated so clearly and beautifully.

The other passage that I love so well expresses God's providence in an equally beautiful way, and again in language that makes it easy for a child to understand.

  "'I say,' said Peter, musingly, 'wouldn't it be jolly if we all were in a book and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly things happen, and make Jim's leg get well at once and be all right tomorrow, and Father come home soon and -'

  'Do you miss your father very much?' Mother asked, rather coldly, Peter thought.

  'Awfully,' said Peter, briefly. . .'You see,' Peter went on slowly, 'you see, it's not only him being Father, but now he's away there's no other man in the house but me - that's why I want Jim to stay so frightfully much. Wouldn't you like to be writing that book with us all in it, Mother, and make Daddy come home soon?'

  Peter's mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence for a minute. Then she said:

  'Don't you think it's rather nice to think that we're in a book that God's writing? If I were writing a book, I might make mistakes. But God knows how to make the story end just right - in the way that's best for us.'"

Yes, I'm glad God is writing the book of our lives, and it is wonderful to find a story that communicates that truth and that will appeal to both boys and girls. We will be adding this to our own library soon, and I hope that both my daughter and son will pick it up to read on their own in a few more years.

Be sure to check out other Read Aloud Thursday posts at Hope is the Word.

Emily Climbs by L. M. Montgomery

I probably would have called this book "Emily's School Days" if I had written it, but that just shows my lack of imagination, which of course precludes that I could even begin to write like L. M. Montgomery. Well, anyway. . . most of this books deals with Emily's three years of high school in the nearby town of Shrewsbury, three years in which she matures both as a young woman and a writer.

Emily is thrilled when Aunt Elizabeth finally concedes to let her continue her education, even if it does come with the stipulation that she not write any stories, but only what is true. If restraining her imagination, or at least the recording of her imaginative stories, seems difficult, it is only the beginning of the trials that await Emily. Instead of boarding with her friend Ilse, Emily must stay with Aunt Ruth, a straight-laced widow who is even more suspicious and aloof than Aunt Elizabeth had been. She repeatedly accuses Emily of being sly and deep and misunderstands even the most innocent of motives and mishaps. It is an unsympathetic environment, to say the least. Emily's friendship with Ilse encounters some bumps as she deals with the petty jealousies and mean tricks of other students. The "Murray pride" proves to be both a blessing and a curse, on the one hand helping her to rise above schoolgirl pranks, but on the other prolonging misunderstandings and giving Emily a sense of isolation.

Montgomery switches back and forth between a third-person narrative and first person accounts from Emily's journal, which gives the story a predominantly one-sided perspective. However, I wasn't annoyed by a first-person narrative as is so often the case, because Emily (or Montgomery, really) is such a storyteller that even her personal recollections do not descend into self-absorption. The only drawback that I noticed is that some characters were left largely undeveloped. Though Teddy was such an important part of her childhood, there is really only one scene were he figures prominently, very prominently, in this volume, and then he simply seems to fade into the background of Emily's scholastic and literary pursuits and a larger social scene. In keeping with the title, the prominent theme is that Emily Climbs the ladder of success as her passion for writing becomes recognized by others - first her teachers, then the community, and finally by editors and publishers.

As in Emily of New Moon (though I didn't mention these elements in my review) Montgomery gives us a mixed bag of faith, religion, and spirituality. Emily's delight in nature, which hints at a wonder in the world God created, is contrasted with the rigid piety of her relatives, which only results in severity in their own lives and for those with whom they interact. At thirteen, Emily explains these differences with the idea that people each have their own "Gods" as they see fit. "Everybody has a different God, I think. Aunt Ruth's, for instance, is one that punishes her enemies—sends 'judgments' on them. That seems to me to be about all the use He really is to her. Jim Cosgrain uses his to swear by. But Aunt Janey Milburn walks in the light of her God's countenance, every day, and shines with it" (13). Emily's God is one of the dew-laden sunrise as well as the violent storms, and her infectious delight in nature seem to indicate that Montgomery must have favored this view over stuffy high-church ideals, though she was a minister's wife herself. Going even one step further from orthodoxy, there is an element of mystery, bordering on spiritism, in each of the Emily books when Emily has an inexplicable vision that brings unknown things to light. Spiritism was nothing new in the early 20th century, so perhaps Montgomery included it just for the element of local color. At any rate, she doesn't dwell on it or belabor the point, and even Emily herself is uncomfortable with her "second-sight."

I have enjoyed all the Emily books, but I think this is my least favorite one, simply because teenage woes are often over-dramatized, and I'm, shall we say, over that at this stage of life. I really enjoyed Emily's thoughts on writing, however, and how her perspective is broadened by curbing her imagination and writing "just the facts, ma'am." Emily certainly does mature and learn much about herself in the three years of this story, but she also seems to come into her own in the inheritance of Murray traditions, some of which are quaint and resourceful and others - like the Murray pride - that are not always such admirable qualities. She makes a wise choice at the end, but she is still posed on the precipice of what she will become. So stay tuned for my thoughts on Emily's Quest in a few days.

Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery

I have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know another of L. M. Montgomery's delightful young heroines, Emily of New Moon. In fact, I only reluctantly put down Emily Climbs in order to write this review before the end of Carrie's L. M. Montgomery Challenge. Though I didn't get the whole series read during this challenge, I plan to finish the next two books soon and review them here, challenge or no.

There will certainly be more L. M. Montgomery novels to choose from next year.

Of course, it is inevitable that one would compare Anne of Green Gables with Emily Byrd Starr, but I'm not ready to make a final decision on which is my favorite. I cannot read Anne without hearing the soundtrack and picturing the movie and the scenery of Prince Edward Island, all of which make me sigh and long to transplant myself there 100 years ago. It doesn't seem like there is quite the allure of the land in the Emily books, but maybe that is because Emily does not invent quite so many fanciful names for her surroundings. Emily is certainly creative, but her imagination is poured into the written word at a much earlier age than Anne. She clearly loves New Moon and the Blair Water and nature in general, but even her early attempts at poetry have a certain refinement that is quite different from Anne's romantic enthusiasm.

There are many similarities between characters and plot, of course. As Amy noted in her review of Magic for Marigold, many Montgomery novels could be summarized as an orphan with an (over)active imagination who overcomes obstacles of misunderstanding and various mishaps to find friendship, recognition, success, and eventually love. But even with these common features, Emily did not seem to me to be simply another version of Anne. Her personality is distinct; her passion is writing, not just imaginative names and enchanting phrases, and somehow this makes her a little less dramatic, I think. (I know Anne is a writer also, but it seems like this comes out later in the books, whereas Emily is almost inseparable from her blank books from the first.) She has a more reflective, less impulsive nature and is very astute in her first impressions and judgments of others. After being ill-used by one friend, she is a bit more reserved in her friendships, though that does not prevent her from forging strong bonds with a few chums: Ilse, a hot-tempered, but fiercely loyal girl of her age; Teddy, a gifted artist with an obsessively jealous mother; and Perry, the hired boy with aspirations of political grandeur.

I think the part that I like best, and which also sets this novel completely apart from Anne, is that her kindred spirit is an adult, and a man at that, but in Dean Priest, a schoolmate of her deceased father, Emily finds someone who understands her way of thinking and can further her imagination and education with stories of distant lands and myths of long ago. "In Dean Priest Emily found, for the first time since her father had died, a companion who could fully sympathize. She was always at her best with him, with a delightful feeling of being understood. To love is easy and therefore common - but to understand - how rare it is!" (272). In a modern novel such a friendship between a twelve-year-old girl and a thirty-six-year-old man would be suspect at best, and predatory at worst. But Montgomery pulls it off with innocence and propriety, and the subtle hints that Dean drops indicating his complete enchantment with Emily and hopes for when she is grown only make me want to keep reading to see how several overlapping love triangles will play out as Emily and her friends grow older.

And with that, I must get back to Emily Climbs!

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

I count it no small accomplishment to have read Les Misérables in 28 days - yes, all 1463 pages in just 4 weeks! Now, I must admit that I skimmed some of the more lengthy historical parts, but I did slough my way through 60+ pages on 19th century Parisian sewers. That's got to make up for skimming the parts I read ten years ago during my first attempt when I only made it about two-thirds of the way through the book.

There is so much that could be said about this novel, and I immensely enjoyed our book club discussion which delved into many and varied topics. Julia's insights into the lack of father figures was particularly insightful!

As for me, the characters are what make a great book, and Les Misérables has an amazing cast of characters that evoke a whole spectrum of emotions. The bishop, Monseigneur Bienvenu, is inspiring and endearing. Jean Valjean is marvelous, complex, troubled, and above all good after the act of forgiveness and generosity that transformed him. Thenardier, well, he simply makes me shudder, and his wife is just as dreadful. Cosette and Eponine...I could go on and on...

But the main topic that I have debated myself is the idea of redemption in this novel. I think my expectations must have been too high to start with because I had been told that Les Misérables is the greatest story of redemption ever written, apart from the Bible, and I read it with that in view. I think I was looking for a more obvious correlation to the gospel, an actual spiritual redemption, not simply a moral one. But I suppose that was too much to expect from a story set in Roman Catholic Paris and from an author who rejected his Roman Catholic upbringing and called himself a freethinker.

Redemption is certainly a theme, but I must question if it is truly a Christian view of redemption since Christ is noticeably absent. Though the bishop's words certainly convey the idea "You were bought with a price..." (I Corinthians 6:20; 7:23), that price was paid by the bishop himself, and it is to him that Jean Valjean's thoughts always turn when he wrestles with difficult decisions about the right path to follow. This charge: "Do not forget, ever, that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man...Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying from you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God" (106) becomes the guiding force of Jean Valjean's life, but in the absence of the gospel - of a clear declaration that Christ died for you, now you must live for Him - Jean Valjean's goodness is only a compilation of merits accumulated to assuage his conscience and overcome the social stigma of a convict. Now it must be granted that such a view is in keeping with the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church where redemption would be the process of a lifetime, a conjoining of the work of Christ with the works of man. This is understandable in the historical context of 19th century France, but while a works-based idea of redemption may be true to the historical context and setting of the novel, it simply is not the penultimate illustration of redemption since true redemption cannot be separated from the true and complete gospel.

Thus, my Protestant and Reformed sensibilities have a hard time applying the term "redemption" to the whole story. It could be construed as a story of sanctification, though there are theological difficulties with that, as well, given the Roman Catholic context of the novel (see above). But if we shift the focus from man to God, it becomes quite obvious (to me, at least) that Les Misérables is a story of providence. Maybe this was even Victor Hugo's intention. He writes, "This book is a drama whose first character is the Infinite. Man is the second" (509). At the very least a testimony to providence is the result he could not hide in spite of his vague deist ideas of God, for he crafts a story in which it is only too obvious that something, someONE is superintending all events, bringing the exact people and circumstances together at the right times to preserve life, to give second chances, and yes, to further moral redemption, even if not salvific.

Now I'd like to hear your thoughts on this. Have you always considered Les Misérables a story of redemption? Can you see how it is a story of providence from first to last? Whatever your opinion, I'm sure we can agree that Les Misérables remains one of the greatest novels of all time, unsurpassed in its depiction of the depths and the heights of human character. Even though its length is daunting, it was well-worth the time (which really didn't seem that long), and I hope to read it at least once per decade.

On a side note, aren't these original (1862) illustrations of Cosette and Gavroche by Emile Bayard amazing? I would love to see an edition that included all the original illustrations.

L. M. Montgomery Challenge 2011

I'm a little late to the party on this one because I was determined to finish Les Misérables before starting the L. M. Montgomery Challenge, hosted by Carrie at Reading to Know. While I am still processing my thoughts on Les Mis, I am prepared with the three Emily books already checked out from the library, overcoming at least one obstacle that stymied me last year. I would like to read all three - Emily of New Moon, Emily Climbs, and Emily's Quest - in the next 2 weeks, but we'll see how that goes. I'm looking forward to comparing Emily with Anne and getting to know another Montgomery character, as well as returning to the picturesque villages of Prince Edward Island. Maybe I'll check out the movies, as well, although I usually prefer to read than to watch.

Thank you, Carrie, for hosting this challenge again. Your enthusiasm is infectious, and if you ever plan a reader's tour of Prince Edward Island, I will be one of the first to sign up!

In brief...

Seldom have I been brief on this blog. My posts are either long or non-existent, it seems, and the past two months have fallen in the latter category. But I'd like to make a few comments on what I've read before the year is through, so I'm limiting myself to two or three sentences per book (compound sentences and semi-colons are permitted). We'll see how this goes.

Undaunted Courage : Meriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, and the Opening of the American West by Stephen Ambrose. (Title and author will not count as a sentence!) This probably wouldn't have made my TBR list if it hadn't been a bookclub selection, but I'm glad I read it as it was very interesting and informative. Though it documents Meriweather Lewis' life from birth to death, the bulk of this biography focuses on his role in the Lewis & Clark expedition, recounting fascinating details about the preparations involved and the truly historic journey, including their encounters with various Indian tribes and the amazing landscapes and wildlife that they encountered.

Sarah's Key by Tatiana De Rosnay. I don't completely understand my interest in WWII stories, particularly ones involving the atrocities committed against the Jewish people, but perhaps it is the aspect of hope and survival in the midst of such evil. This novel is gripping in it's telling of two women of two different generations in Paris: a young Jewish girl who was captured and escaped, only to live the rest of her life in the shadow of an unintentional tragedy, and a modern American expatriate who unravels the threads of that war story only to find it inextricably woven with her own.

The Yellow House by Patricia Falvey. I read this for the Irish Reading Challenge, and it is one of the best, recently published historical fiction that I have read. It gave a vivid portrait of the working class in Northern Ireland during the religious and political conflicts of the early 20th century, and I was sorry to leave the characters and the country when it came to an end.

An Irish Country Village by Patrick Taylor. This is the second "Irish Country" book (in the series and that I have read), and it is just as delightful as the first, with a unique blend of Irish humor, interesting medical cases, eccentric characters, and a little romance for good measure. This was also for the Irish Reading Challenge, which I did finish before November 30th, though I didn't post reviews or qualify for the final give-away.

Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope. This second novel (of six) in the Barsetshire novels continues the story of Mr. Harding, his daughter Eleanor, and son-in-law the Archbishop to whom we were introduced in The Warden, and introduces a number of new characters who thicken the plot of ecclesiastical dominance and intrigue. The characters are delightful in all their quirks and idiosyncrasies; the conflicts are engaging, but not serious or life-threatening. Of all the Victorian authors I've read this year, I would rank Trollope second, closely behind Wilkie Collins who gains precedent because of my penchant for mysteries, and followed by Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Gaskell, and finally Dickens.

An Irish Country Christmas by Patrick Taylor. Since it was December, it seemed fitting to continue the Irish Country series with the third installment, but perhaps because I read them so close together it seemed as if this was merely rehashing the same themes: a potential problem in the medical practice, a personal issue in the community, and unfulfilled wishes in matters of love - and Dr. Laverty worrying excessively about them all. Maybe I simply found the young doctor's angst a bit extreme and immature this time, but it also seemed as if the story needed a bit more editing; maybe it was rushed to the publishers to get it out before the Christmas season in 2008. With that said, however, I still enjoyed it, mostly, well, except for the phone conversations that repeated the same issues ad nauseum... at any rate, I still like this series and would recommend it for light reading.

Fannie's Last Supper: Re-creating One Amazing Meal from Fannie Farmer's 1896 Cookbook by Christopher Kimball. This was a fascinating book, combining social history, food lore, and cooking journal as the author and a team of chefs researched and cooked a twelve-course Victorian dinner, cooking it on an authentic wood cookstove in the basement of the author's restored Victorian home in Boston. I'm sure I would not want to make gelatin from calf's hooves, but it certainly gives one an appreciation for Jell-o when you understand what a remarkable innovation and improvement it was for Victorian cooks, for whom gelatin molds were an elegant feature of an elaborate dinner! My only complaint was that this book could have used better editing, as well, since the repetition of some facts between chapters made it seem as if it had been written as separate articles instead of a cohesive account.

Now I am reading Les Misérables and will most certainly be occupied with its almost 1500 pages well into January. I read two-thirds of it ten years ago, and I think reading it once a decade might be a worthy goal.