The Seven Little Sisters Who Live on the Round Ball by Jane Andrews
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Jane Andrews >> The Seven Little Sisters Who Live on the Round Ball
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6 THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS
WHO LIVE ON THE ROUND BALL THAT FLOATS IN THE AIR
BY
JANE ANDREWS
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS FORMERLY SUPERVISOR IN
BOSTON PUBLIC SCHOOLS
FOR
MY THREE LITTLE FRIENDS
Marnie, Bell, and Geordie
I HAVE WRITTEN THESE STORIES
CONTENTS.
MEMORIAL OF MISS JANE ANDREWS
THE BALL ITSELF
THE LITTLE BROWN BABY
AGOONACK, THE ESQUIMAU SISTER
HOW AGOONACK LIVES THROUGH THE LONG SUMMER
GEMILA, THE CHILD OF THE DESERT
THE LITTLE MOUNTAIN MAIDEN
THE STORY OF PEN-SE
THE LITTLE DARK GIRL
LOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER RHINE
LOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE WESTERN FOREST
THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS
MEMORIAL OF MISS JANE ANDREWS. [Born Dec. 1, 1833. Died July 15,
1887.]
BY LOUISA PARSONS HOPKINS.
Perhaps the readers and lovers of this little book will be glad of a
few pages, by way of introduction, which shall show them somewhat of
Miss Andrews herself, and of her way of writing and teaching, as an
old friend and schoolmate may try to tell it; and, to begin with, a
glimpse of the happy day when she called a few of her friends together
to listen to the stories contained in this volume, before they were
offered to a publisher.
Picture to yourselves a group of young ladies in one of the loveliest
of old-fashioned parlors, looking out on a broad, elm-shaded street
in the old town of Newburyport. The room is long and large, with wide
mahogany seats in the four deep windows, ancient mahogany chairs, and
great bookcases across one side of the room, with dark pier-tables and
centre-table, and large mirror,--all of ancestral New England solidity
and rich simplicity; some saintly portraits on the wall, a modern
easel in the corner accounting for fine bits of coloring on canvas,
crayon drawings about the room, and a gorgeous firescreen of autumn
tints; nasturtium vines in bloom glorifying the south window, and
German ivy decorating the north corner; choice books here and there,
not to look at only, but to be assimilated; with an air of quiet
refinement and the very essence of cultured homeness pervading
all;--this is the meagre outline of a room, which, having once sat
within, you would wish never to see changed, in which many pure and
noble men and women have loved to commune with the lives which have
been so blent with all its suggestions that it almost seems a part of
their organic being.
But it was twenty-five years ago [This memorial was written in 1887.]
that this circle of congenial and expectant young people were drawn
together in the room to listen to the first reading of the MSS. of
"The Seven Little Sisters." I will not name them all; but one whose
youthful fame and genius were the pride of all, Harriet Prescott (now
Mrs. Spofford), was Jane's friend and neighbor for years, and heard
most of her books in MSS. They were all friends, and in a very
sympathetic and eager attitude of mind, you may well believe; for
in the midst, by the centre-table, sits Jane, who has called them
together; and knowing that she has really written a book, each one
feels almost that she herself has written it in some unconscious way,
because each feels identified with Jane's work, and is ready to be as
proud of it, and as sure of it, as all the world is now of the success
of Miss Jane Andrews's writings for the boys and girls in these little
stories of geography and history which bear her name.
I can see Jane sitting there, as I wish you could, with her MSS. on
the table at her side. She is very sweet and good and noble-looking,
with soft, heavy braids of light-brown hair carefully arranged on her
fine, shapely head; her forehead is full and broad; her eyes large,
dark blue, and pleasantly commanding, but with very gentle and dreamy
phases interrupting their placid decision of expression; her features
are classic and firm in outline, with pronounced resolution in the
close of the full lips, or of hearty merriment in the open laugh,
illuminated by a dazzle of well-set teeth; her complexion fresh
and pure, and the whole aspect of her face kind, courageous, and
inspiring, as well as thoughtful and impressive. The poise of her head
and rather strongly built figure is unusually good, and suggestive
of health, dignity, and leadership; yet her manners and voice are so
gentle, and her whole demeanor so benevolent, that no one could be
offended at her taking naturally the direction of any work, or the
planning of any scheme, which she would also be foremost in executing.
But there she sits looking up at her friends, with her papers in hand,
and the pretty businesslike air that so well became her, and bespeaks
the extreme criticism of her hearers upon what she shall read, because
she really wants to know how it affects them, and what mistakes or
faults can be detected; for she must do her work as well as possible,
and is sure they are willing to help. "You see," says Jane, "I have
dedicated the book to the children I told the stories to first,
when the plan was only partly in my mind, and they seemed to grow
by telling, till at last they finished themselves; and the children
seemed to care so much for them, that I thought if they were put into
a book other children might care for them too, and they might possibly
do some good in the world."
Yes, those were the points that always indicated the essential aim
and method of Jane's writing and teaching, the elements out of which
sprang all her work; viz., the relation of her mind to the actual
individual children she knew and loved, and the natural growth of her
thought through their sympathy, and the accretion of all she read and
discovered while the subject lay within her brooding brain, as well
as the single dominant purpose to do some good in the world. There was
definiteness as well as breadth in her way of working all through her
life.
I wish I could remember exactly what was said by that critical circle;
for there were some quick and brilliant minds, and some pungent powers
of appreciation, and some keen-witted young women in that group.
Perhaps I might say they had all felt the moulding force of some very
original and potential educators as they had been growing up into
their young womanhood. Some of these were professional educators of
lasting pre-eminence; others were not professed teachers, yet in the
truest and broadest sense teachers of very wide and wise and inspiring
influence; and of these Thomas Wentworth Higginson had come more
intimately and effectually into formative relations with the minds and
characters of those gathered in that sunny room than any other person.
They certainly owed much of the loftiness and breadth of their aim
in life, and their comprehension of the growth and work to be
accomplished in the world, to his kind and steady instigation. I wish
I could remember what they said, and what Jane said; but all that has
passed away. I think somebody objected to the length of the title,
which Jane admitted to be a fault, but said something of wishing to
get the idea of the unity of the world into it as the main idea of the
book. I only recall the enthusiastic delight with which chapter
after chapter was greeted; we declared that it was a fairy tale of
geography, and a work of genius in its whole conception, and in its
absorbing interest of detail and individuality; and that any publisher
would demonstrate himself an idiot who did not want to publish it. I
remember Jane's quick tossing back of the head, and puzzled brow which
broke into a laugh, as she said: "Well, girls, it can't be as good as
you say; there must be some faults in it." But we all exclaimed that
we had done our prettiest at finding fault,--that there wasn't a
ghost of a fault in it. For the incarnate beauty and ideality and
truthfulness of her little stories had melted into our being, and left
us spellbound, till we were one with each other and her; one with the
Seven Little Sisters, too, and they seemed like our very own little
sisters. So they have rested in our imagination and affection as we
have seen them grow into the imagination and affection of generations
of children since, and as they will continue to grow until the
old limitations and barrenness of the study of geography shall be
transfigured, and the earth seem to the children an Eden which love
has girdled, when Gemila, Agoonack, and the others shall have won them
to a knowledge of the brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God.
I would like to bring before young people who have read her books some
qualities of her mind and character which made her the rare woman,
teacher, and writer that she was. I knew her from early girlhood. We
went to the same schools, in more and more intimate companionship,
from the time we were twelve until we were twenty years of age; and
our lives and hearts were "grappled" to each other "with links of
steel" ever after. She was a precocious child, early matured, and
strong in intellectual and emotional experiences. She had a remarkably
clear mind, orderly and logical in its processes, and loved to take
up hard problems. She studied all her life with great joy and
earnestness, rarely, if ever, baffled in her persistent learning
except by ill-health. She went on at a great pace in mathematics for a
young girl; every step seemed easy to her. She took everything
severe that she could get a chance at, in the course or out of
it,--surveying, navigation, mechanics, mathematical astronomy, and
conic sections, as well as the ordinary course in mathematics; the
calculus she had worked through at sixteen under a very able and exact
teacher, and took her diploma from W.H. Wells, a master who allowed
nothing to go slipshod. She was absorbed in studies of this kind, and
took no especial interest in composition or literature beyond what was
required, and what was the natural outcome of a literary atmosphere
and inherited culture; that is, her mind was passively rather than
actively engaged in such directions, until later. At the normal school
she led a class which has had a proud intellectual record as teachers
and workers. She was the easy victor in every contest; with an
inclusive grasp, an incisive analysis, instant generalization, a very
tenacious and ready memory, and unusual talent for every effort of
study, she took and held the first place as a matter of course until
she graduated, when she gave the valedictory address. This valedictory
was a prophetic note in the line of her future expression; for it
gave a graphic illustration of the art of teaching geography, to the
consideration of which she had been led by Miss Crocker's logical,
suggestive, and masterly presentation of the subject in the school
course. Her ability and steadiness of working power, as well as
singleness of aim, attracted the attention of Horace Mann, who was
about forming the nucleus of Antioch College; and he succeeded in
gaining her as one of his promised New England recruits. She had
attended very little to Latin, and went to work at once to prepare for
the classical requirements of a college examination. This she did with
such phenomenal rapidity that in six weeks she had fitted herself
for what was probably equivalent to a Harvard entrance examination
in Latin. She went to Antioch, and taught, as well as studied for a
while, until her health gave way entirely; and she was prostrate for
years with brain and spine disorders. Of course this put an end to her
college career; and on her recovery she opened her little school in
her own house, which she held together until her final illness, and
to which she devoted her thoughts and energies, her endowments and
attainments, as well as her prodigal devotion and love.
The success of "The Seven Little Sisters" was a great pleasure to
her, partly because her dear mother and friends were so thoroughly
satisfied with it. Her mother always wished that Jane would give
her time more exclusively to writing, especially as new outlines of
literary work were constantly aroused in her active brain. She wrote
several stories which were careful studies in natural science, and
which appeared in some of the magazines. I am sure they would be well
worth collecting. She had her plan of "Each and All" long in her mind
before elaborating, and it crystallized by actual contact with the
needs and the intellectual instincts of her little classes. In fact
all her books grew, like a plant, from within outwards; they were born
in the nursery of the schoolroom, and nurtured by the suggestions of
the children's interest, thus blooming in the garden of a true and
natural education. The last book she wrote, "Ten Boys Who Lived on the
Road from Long Ago to Now," she had had in her mind for years. This
little book she dedicated to a son of her sister Margaret. I am sure
she gave me an outline of the plan fully ten years before she wrote
it out. The subject of her mental work lay in her mind, growing,
gathering to itself nourishment, and organizing itself consciously
or unconsciously by all the forces of her unresting brain and all
the channels of her study, until it sprung from her pen complete at
a stroke. She wrote good English, of course, and would never
sentimentalize, but went directly at the pith of the matter; and, if
she had few thoughts on a subject, she made but few words. I don't
think she did much by way of revising or recasting after her thought
was once committed to paper. I think she wrote it as she would
have said it, always with an imaginary child before her, to whose
intelligence and sympathy it was addressed. Her habit of mind was to
complete a thought before any attempt to convey it to others. This
made her a very helpful and clear teacher and leader. She seemed
always to have considered carefully anything she talked about, and
gave her opinion with a deliberation and clear conviction which
affected others as a verdict, and made her an oracle to a great
many kinds of people. All her plans were thoroughly shaped before
execution; all her work was true, finished, and conscientious in every
department. She did a great deal of quiet, systematic thinking from
her early school days onward, and was never satisfied until she
completed the act of thought by expression and manifestation in some
way for the advantage of others. The last time I saw her, which was
for less than five minutes accorded me by her nurse during her last
illness, she spoke of a new plan of literary work which she had in
mind, and although she attempted no delineation of it, said she was
thinking it out whenever she felt that it was safe for her to think.
Her active brain never ceased its plans for others, for working toward
the illumination of the mind, the purification of the soul, and the
elevation and broadening of all the ideals of life. I remember her
sitting, absorbed in reflection, at the setting of the sun every
evening while we were at the House Beautiful of the Peabodys [We spent
nearly all our time at West Newton in a little cottage on the hill,
where Miss Elizabeth Peabody, with her saintly mother and father, made
a paradise of love and refinement and ideal culture for us, and where
we often met the Hawthornes and Manns; and we shall never be able to
measure the wealth of intangible mental and spiritual influence which
we received therefrom.] at West Newton; or, when at home, gazing
every night, before retiring, from her own house-top, standing at
her watchtower to commune with the starry heavens, and receive that
exaltation of spirit which is communicated when we yield ourselves to
the "essentially religious." (I use this phrase, because it delighted
her so when I repeated it to her as the saying of a child in looking
at the stars.)
No one ever felt a twinge of jealousy in Jane's easy supremacy; she
never made a fuss about it, although I think she had no mock
modesty in the matter. She accepted the situation which her uniform
correctness of judgment assured to her, while she always accorded
generous praise and deference to those who excelled her in departments
where she made no pretence of superiority.
There were some occasions when her idea of duty differed from a
conventional one, perhaps from that of some of her near friends; but
no one ever doubted her strict dealing with herself, or her singleness
of motive. She did not feel the need of turning to any other
conscience than her own for support or enlightenment, and was
inflexible and unwavering in any course she deemed right. She never
apologized for herself in any way, or referred a matter of her own
experience or sole responsibility to another for decision; neither did
she seem to feel the need of expressed sympathy in any private loss
or trial. Her philosophy of life, her faith, or her temperament seemed
equal to every exigency of disappointment or suffering. She generally
kept her personal trials hidden within her own heart, and recovered
from every selfish pain by the elastic vigor of her power for
unselfish devotion to the good of others. She said that happiness was
to have an unselfish work to do, and the power to do it.
It has been said that Jane's only fault was that she was too good.
I think she carried her unselfishness too often to a short-sighted
excess, breaking down her health, and thus abridging her opportunities
for more permanent advantage to those whom she would have died to
serve; but it was solely on her own responsibility, and in consequence
of her accumulative energy of temperament, that made her unconscious
of the strain until too late.
Her brain was constitutionally sensitive and almost abnormally active;
and she more than once overtaxed it by too continuous study, or by a
disregard of its laws of health, or by a stupendous multiplicity of
cares, some of which it would have been wiser to leave to others. She
took everybody's burdens to carry herself. She was absorbed in the
affairs of those she loved,--of her home circle, of her sisters'
families, and of many a needy one whom she adopted into her
solicitude. She was thoroughly fond of children and of all that they
say and do, and would work her fingers off for them, or nurse them day
and night. Her sisters' children were as if they had been her own, and
she revelled in all their wonderful manifestations and development.
Her friends' children she always cared deeply for, and was hungry for
their wise and funny remarks, or any hint of their individuality. Many
of these things she remembered longer than the mothers themselves, and
took the most thorough satisfaction in recounting.
I have often visited her school, and it seemed like a home with a
mother in it. There we took sweet counsel together, as if we had come
to the house of God in company; for our methods were identical, and
a day in her school was a day in mine. We invariably agreed as to the
ends of the work, and how to reach them; for we understood each other
perfectly in that field of art.
I wish I could show her life with all its constituent factors of
ancestry, home, and surroundings; for they were so inherent in her
thoughts and feelings that you could hardly separate her from them in
your consideration. But that is impossible. Disinterested benevolence
was the native air of the house into which she was born, and she was
an embodiment of that idea. To devote herself to some poor outcast, to
reform a distorted soul, to give all she had to the most abject, to do
all she could for the despised and rejected,--this was her craving and
absorbing desire. I remember some comical instances of the pursuance
of this self-abnegation, where the returns were, to say the least,
disappointing; but she was never discouraged. It would be easy to name
many who received a lifelong stimulus and aid at her hands, either
intellectual or moral. She had much to do with the development of some
remarkable careers, as well as with the regeneration of many poor and
abandoned souls.
She was in the lives of her dear ones, and they in hers, to a very
unusual degree; and her life-threads are twined inextricably in theirs
forever. She was a complete woman,--brain, will, affections, all, to
the greatest extent, active and unselfish; her character was a harmony
of many strong and diverse elements; her conscience was a great rock
upon which her whole nature rested; her hands were deft and cunning;
her ingenious brain was like a master mechanic at expedients; and
in executive and administrative power, as well as in device and
comprehension, she was a marvel. If she had faults, they are
indistinguishable in the brightness and solidity of her whole
character. She was ready to move into her place in any sphere, and
adjust herself to any work God should give her to do. She must
be happy, and shedding happiness, wherever she is; for that is an
inseparable quality and function of her identity.
She passed calmly out of this life, and lay at rest in her own home,
in that dear room so full of memories of her presence, with flowers
to deck her bed, and many of her dearest friends around her; while the
verses which her beloved sister Caroline had selected seemed easily to
speak with Jane's own voice, as they read:--
Prepare the house, kind friends; drape it and deck it
With leaves and blossoms fair:
Throw open doors and windows, and call hither
The sunshine and soft air.
Let all the house, from floor to ceiling, look
Its noblest and its best;
For it may chance that soon may come to me
A most imperial guest.
A prouder visitor than ever yet
Has crossed my threshold o'er,
One wearing royal sceptre and a crown
Shall enter at my door;
Shall deign, perchance, sit at my board an hour,
And break with me my bread;
Suffer, perchance, this night my honored roof
Shelter his kingly head.
And if, ere comes the sun again, he bid me
Arise without delay,
And follow him a journey to his kingdom
Unknown and far away;
And in the gray light of the dawning morn
We pass from out my door,
My guest and I, silent, without farewell,
And to return no more,--
Weep not, kind friends, I pray; not with vain tears
Let your glad eyes grow dim;
Remember that my house was all prepared,
And that I welcomed him.
THE SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS.
THE BALL ITSELF.
Dear children, I have heard of a wonderful ball, which floats in the
sweet blue air, and has little soft white clouds about it, as it swims
along.
There are many charming and astonishing things to be told of this
ball, and some of them you shall hear.
In the first place, you must know that it is a very big ball; far
bigger than the great soft ball, of bright colors, that little Charley
plays with on the floor,--yes, indeed; and bigger than cousin Frank's
largest football, that he brought home from college in the spring;
bigger, too, than that fine round globe in the schoolroom, that Emma
turns about so carefully, while she twists her bright face all into
wrinkles as she searches for Afghanistan or the Bosphorus Straits.
Long names, indeed; they sound quite grand from her little mouth, but
they mean nothing to you and me now.
Let me tell you about _my_ ball. It is so large that trees can grow on
it; so large that cattle can graze, and wild beasts roam, upon it; so
large that men and women can live on it, and little children too,--as
you already know, if you have read the title-page of this book. In
some places it is soft and green, like the long meadow between the
hills, where the grass was so high last summer that we almost lost
Marnie when she lay down to roll in it; in some parts it is covered
with tall and thick forests, where you might wander like the "babes
in the wood," nor ever find your way out; then, again, it is steep and
rough, covered with great hills, much higher than that high one behind
the schoolhouse,--so high that when you look up ever so far you can't
see the tops of them; but in some parts there are no hills at all, and
quiet little ponds of blue water, where the white water-lilies grow,
and silvery fishes play among their long stems. Bell knows, for she
has been among the lilies in a boat with papa.
Now, if we look on another side of the ball, we shall see no ponds,
but something very dreary. I am afraid you won't like it. A great
plain of sand,--sand like that on the seashore, only here there is no
sea,--and the sand stretches away farther than you can see, on every
side; there are no trees, and the sunshine beats down, almost burning
whatever is beneath it.
Perhaps you think this would be a grand place to build sand-houses.
One of the little sisters lives here; and, when you read of her, you
will know what she thinks about it. Always the one who has tried it
knows best.
Look at one more side of my ball, as it turns around. Jack Frost must
have spent all his longest winter nights here, for see what a palace
of ice he has built for himself. Brave men have gone to those lonely
places, to come back and tell us about them; and, alas! some heroes
have not returned, but have lain down there to perish of cold and
hunger. Doesn't it look cold, the clear blue ice, almost as blue as
the air? And look at the snow, drifts upon drifts, and the air filled
with feathery flakes even now.
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