This page includes reviews of books published before 2000. For reviews of books published after 2000, go here.
This captivating little book was written by a teacher in the North Okanagan Valley. She came to Canada in 1912 to visit her cousin, as part of a round-the-world tour that began with visits to her sisters in Burma and India. While in Oyama, she fell in love with her cousin’s neighbour, Robert Allison. She had accepted a teaching position in Okanagan Centre, but when the couple married in December of 1913, she gave up her position (as was required of married women at the time) but stayed involved in education and other community services in the Kalamalka area. Dorothea remained involved in North Okanagan community affairs for the rest of her very long life; she died in 1981, at the age of 103.
The volume itself is comprised of 28 short poems: an introduction, the 26 letters of the alphabet, and a farewell. The cover, title page, and poems are decorated by delightful wood-cut prints, with a lithe little fairy flitting about the flowers. The copy I have in my hand is signed not by the author, but by the illustrator, Janet Macmillan, whose name when she signed it was Janet Macmillan Blench. The author thanks in her dedication a “Mrs. Helena Parham (Botanist, Vaseux Lake), who has taught us so much about the flowers of the Okanagan Valley.”
As an alphabet, the author tells us, it was difficult to find the right flower for each letter: some were hard to come up with, and for some letters there were too many options. I can well imagine, and modern readers will be surprised by some of the choices she has made: frittillary, kinnikinnick, pentstemon, urtica, and zygadena are not flowers I remember from my Okanagan childhood! The flowers she does include are all local wildflowers: no orchids or jasmine adorn these pages. The poetry is sometimes shaky in rhyme or meter, but at other times perfectly lovely. Description of the volume requires words that are sweet and diminutive: it is truly a “fairy book” of flowers, in tone and content, visually and poetically. If my children were younger, I would want a copy to keep, for it is a fine combination of art, simple poetry, and tribute to the valley I was born in.
“L. Adams Beck” is one of the three pseudonyms used by Elizabeth Louisa Moresby Beck; the others are “E. Barrington,” which she used for historical fictional biography, and “L. Moresby,” which she used for non-fiction. Beck was from a prominent British imperial family, and travelled extensively in the Orient before settling in Victoria, BC. Moresby Island, in the Gulf Islands of British Columbia, is named after her paternal grandfather. The pseudonym “L. Adams Beck” was used primarily for writings dealing with Eastern mysticism and religion, which she studied intently. The Joyous Story of Astrid, while not predominantly religious or philosophical, does present tales from Asian traditions to the young Canadian reader.
I must admit that I am generally skeptical about the quality of many novels for children written in the early twentieth century: so many of them are trite and prescriptive at best, and positively controlling at worst (see for example my review of Little Gray Doors (1926), by Alexandrina Wood). The Joyous Story of Astrid, however, delighted me in its freshness, its lack of prescriptive condescension, and its healthy representation of an eschatology that differs from the prevailing Christian notions of Heaven and Hell. The writing style is somewhat dated, unsurprisingly, but I would still heartily recommend the text to young readers today. My only regret is perhaps that it does not actually present a philosophical belief to young readers; I think Beck would be admirable proponent of a more explicit message, so balanced is her presentation in this short story cycle.
For those who don’t understand the term, a short story cycle is a collection of short stories contained within an over-arching narrative frame; the stories and the frame narrative together construct the whole of the narrative. In The Joyous Story of Astrid, we are first introduced to Astrid, a “moon-child” as she is born beneath a full moon right on the stroke of midnight. Thus, she belongs to the Moon Goddess, and sleeps all day, coming out to frolic with her nocturnal friends in the forest at night. By and by, the Moon Goddess tells her stories of her own life, as well as the lives of children and animals and mythical creatures in other lands: China, Japan, India… lands where the people believe in the magic Astrid lives by. The stories themselves are delightful, although interrupted perhaps too much by the narrative frame plot in which the Mr. Mouse and the Mouse Queen orchestrate the marriage of the Mouse Princess, with the help of Astrid and her wish-dog, Jock. As Astrid learns more about “true dreaming” and the creation of “mind-flowers,” she learns more about “The Back of Beyond,” the place where all knowledge will be acquired. Initially, this seems to be a metaphor for the Christina Heaven, but by the end of the text, Astrid and Jock cross the “Cold River” and enter the Back of Beyond, where “they were slowly beginning to see that a wonderful new story, which yet was the old story too, was starting for them, exactly as when the daffodil bulb hidden undergrounds sends up a golden flower into the sunshine” (281-2). The Back of Beyond is a magical place, where the gods and fictional characters are real, where there is no need of houses or protection, where maturity and vision have been achieved and the toil and hardship of life falls away: a nirvana for children, presented in a simple and powerfully enticing way.
I hated this book. I had expunged it from my memory until quite recently, hence it’s late entrance into this list, although I read it in about 1980. What I recall is a tale of an Inuit man forced to leave his wife and young child and head north to forage for food. His struggles are doubtless well narrated, but my recollections are of the pain of enduring with him the heartbreak of failure, compounded by the excruciating cold and desolate landscape. Trauma on the young mind living in a cold climate dreaming of warmth and sun… Perhaps others felt the same, as there is very little active reference to this text on the internet, although VPL, SFU, UBC, and Kwantlen all hold copies.
This is a heart-warming story of a young girl’s flight from the Holocaust to safety. I read too many such texts at once, and so cannot remember the details of this one, except to say that it is rightfully one of the classics of the sub-genre. There is a new edition (2008) published by Ronsdale Press, here in Vancouver.
While this novel has an interesting premise, Bowering’s own personality (ego…) shines through too fully to ignore. He claims that he wrote the book because he had not “seen any YAs that did ‘my kind of writing. I think that those young folks would like to feel smart when they are reading, and adults who think that young folks just want a lot of plot with lots of action are selling the kids and maybe themselves short’” (backmatter). His novel, however, is mostly a lot of plot with lots of action… the characters are not very well developed, nor particularly interesting, nor particularly real… And the relationship between adult and child seems artificial and (not surprisingly) contrived by an adult with (as far as I can tell) no children himself.
Karleen Bradford has recreated the People’s Crusade with a careful attention to historicity: her characters are believable and stay true to their medieval sensibilities. Even in the end, Ursula’s view of her world remains consistent. It is a monumental achievement on the part of the author; creating believable characters from such a harsh, unforgiving period of history is no easy task. The plot itself skims over much of the actual pilgrimage, focusing on essential points to help the reader understand the changes that occurred in the atmosphere of the Crusade and the attitudes of the People’s Crusaders. I would recommend this far before Karen Cushman’s Catherine, Called Birdy in terms of representation of this period; it lies between the comfort of Cushman’s novel and the graphic warfare of John Wilson’s Heretic series (also exceptional). For the more sensitive reader, Bradford is perfect: the reality is reflected, the horror is portrayed, but the graphic details are minimized.
In newly settled New England, a young boy befriends a Indigenous boy, but their friendship is doomed by the hostilities of the Whites toward the Indigenous community.
I have recently read four more novels by Margaret Buffie, one of my favourite YA novelists. She is this partially because her novels are not filled with excessive teen angst, but rather addresses teens’ concerns in relation to the greater family and community. It is partially because she manages to incorporate paranormal elements that remove her plots from the category of Judy Blumesque “problem novels.” And it is partially because she weaves the paranormal into her protagonists’ lives in ways that are believable—far more so than the werewolves, vampires, and zombies of the recent flood of YA “literature” (and yes, that is censure you detect).
The Warnings presents a stronger interaction between our world and the paranormal, and caused me to think more deeply about what Buffie might be doing within her corpus. Intrigued by the possibilities (and knowing that she has also written a fantasy trilogy—more on that later), I went online to investigate. Buffie’s first novel (the novel that got me hooked) was Who is Frances Rain? published in 1987. My assumption was that The Warnings came much later, after The Dark Garden and Angels Turn Their Backs, and that there would be a progression in balance from highly realist with some paranormal to more prominent mystic elements overlying the “daylight world” that we know (as in The Warnings). I was just wrong. There turns out to be—as far as I can tell—no perceptible pattern: Margaret Buffie’s individual novels just are, and they are all are good. Perhaps that is because she takes her time, instead of grinding out four overly long vampire novels in four years… but I digress.
I was pleased to see that I am only missing one: My Mother’s Ghost. I know what I will be reading next.
What is it about Lizzie? Why, out of all of the marvellous protagonists that YA literature contains, does Lizzie captivate me? Every time I read Who is Frances Rain?—and this is the fourth time—I want to know more of Lizzie’s story: I want to see how her final years of high school progress; I want to know (despite statistics regarding the permanency of high school romances) more about her relationship with Alex; I want to follow her on the rocky road that the next few years will be. In this, her first novel, Margaret Buffie has created a novel in which there are no solid answers in the end, only hope and promise. Her characters are so real, in both their flaws and their strengths, that we implicitly trust in the truth of the narrative, and I at least want to travel with the characters for quite a while longer.
The plot of the novel is fairly simple. Lizzie’s dad has left them, which is difficult for the whole family, but especially for her annoying older brother, Evan. Her mother has recently remarried, and Lizzie and Evan both actively reject Tim, the new husband, and his legitimate attempts to both fit in to and help the family. Here, Buffie’s ability at characterization shines, for Lizzie, Evan, and Tim are all presented in honest human terms: no sugar coating to Evan’s rudeness or Lizzie’s self-centred attempts to sabotage Tim’s positive contributions. Eventually, not surprisingly, Tim can take no more and leaves. This is not a spoiler; it is the guaranteed outcome of the narrative situation Buffie constructs so deftly. But while it is the basic premise of the plot, it is also not the central point. Lizzie’s relationships with Tim—and Evan, and her mother—are a vehicle for the novel’s message that family—and indeed community—does not function unless there is communication, understanding, and forgiveness amongst its members. This is a lesson that Lizzie must learn, and she does so not only through her experiences—both contemporary and paranormal—but also through the pointed jibes of those around her who have had quite enough of her selfishness. At one point, Alex, who has been her brother’s summer friend since childhood, tells her: “You’re running a close neck-and-neck race with Evan for pill of the year, I don’t know why I bother with you” (114). Sometimes we need to hear comments like this; they pull us out of our more self-indulgent emotional moments.
While all of the clues to help her develop a more balance perspective on her family and her own role within it are present in her contemporary world, what really feeds Lizzie’s budding empathy is her experience on Rain Island, where she meets the ghost of Frances Rain. Who is Frances Rain? is more than just an interesting approach to the time-slip novel; Lizzie’s experience of the past crosses the borders of believability in a way that most time-slip novels remain pure fantasy. What she learns through helping Frances Rain’s ghost teaches Lizzie a lot about personal strength and responsibility; by helping Frances Rain find peace, she helps herself understand the difference in degree between her own troubles and those of the adults around her.
Who is Frances Rain? has been challenged and banned a number of times, for its inclusion of both the paranormal and an unwed mother. The illegitimate child in Buffie’s book is born in the early years of the twentieth century, but more than suggesting that such happenings belong in the past and our society has improved since then (a trope that was common in the first 6 decades of the twentieth century), Buffie is providing a continuity between women of the past and young women such as Lizzie, who are learning to make their own way in our modern world. The physical and emotional fortitude Frances Rain presents is a strength that both Lizzie and the reader can draw on in their own lives: Frances Rain is a part of Lizzie’s past, and shows Lizzie a way to move forward into her future. Perhaps that is why I want Lizzie’s story to go on: I want to be part of her continuing to grow into the strong, self-sufficient woman who was Frances Rain.
Once again Margaret Buffie has created a narrative situation that permits the revelation of the adolescent experience from a unique and effective perspective. In The Dark Garden, Thea is suffering from temporary amnesia brought on by an accident on her bike. We meet her as she begins to discover herself—without a history, but with a strong sense of self—just before she leaves the hospital. Her family is fairly normal: an over-achieving mother, a kind but somewhat ineffective father, a slightly younger sister who seems to resent her, a four-year-old sister who dotes on her, and a part-time housekeeper who resents the extra work Thea’s problem creates. To add to Thea’s problems, she is hearing voices in her head, and seeing visions of her new home that are not quite right. As she begins to relearn who she is, Thea struggles to solve the mysteries that surround her: the source of her secret knowledge of the house, who the voices are that speak to her, and why her family functions the way it does.
Thea’s amnesia is a well-crafted vehicle for revealing the adolescent struggle with a developing personality. Thea has to learn to cope not only with who she knows herself to be inside, but also with the person others remember and are expecting. The separation of these two aspects of self—internal and projected—allows young adult readers to glean a comprehension of how they might be perceived by others in their world. Margaret Buffie handles this difficult dynamic admirably: we truly believe in Thea’s amnesia, in her family’s responses to her, and in her own work at integrating the two Theas into one. Our belief in the characters within the contemporary setting of the story facilitate a belief in the paranormal aspects of the narrative, the style for which Buffie is so well known in the Canadian Children’s Literature world. I don’t want to go deeply into the paranormal aspects of the plot, as I hate spoilers; suffice it to say that it is up to Buffie’s usual standards, remaining within the realms of possibility with only the slightest suspension of disbelief.
The opening of Angels Turn Their Backs is starkly, effectively realist. Addy’s anxiety, her fears, her phobia, are portrayed with a raw emotion that speaks of personal experience, or at least a strong familiarity and empathy. Reading the first two chapters, I thought to myself: where is Margaret Buffie’s signature recourse to the paranormal? How on earth is she going to integrate the paranormal into this powerfully realist exploration of anxiety? I should not have worried (been so anxious?).
Addy suffers from agoraphobia, the fear of open spaces, of leaving the security of one’s home/house/enclosed space to enter into the wide world. She moves to Winnipeg with her mother, who is running from a messy separation, and finds herself in a run-down boarding house, with a “storage” room that makes strange sounds. The strange sounds turn out to be the natural, if exotic, sounds of a African Gray parrot, left by the previous owner of the house. The previous owner, however, provides the paranormal aspect I was waiting for. Lotta Engel had in her old age suffered from agoraphobia, but her tragic story had deeper roots, roots that did not let her soul rest after death. Through the heightened emotional attunement that her condition creates, Addy taps into Lotta’s soul’s distress, and by helping Lotta find peace, Addy ultimately helps herself.
This might seem a simplistic relation of cause and effect, but Buffie has once again created an intricate mosaic of personalities, souls, emotional planes for her characters to embody or inhabit. The ghostly Lotta begs Addy to finish her life’s-work; Page, another border, is caught in an abusive relationship; Harmon, the seemingly lower-class land-lord, is attracted to Addy’s mother, who returns his respect and affection; Harmon’s son Sean is attracted to Addy; Addy is wary of everyone except Page, trusting her intimate acquaintances as little as she trusts the outside world. This complex web of relationships plays out against the internal monologue that is Addy’s mental and emotional state as she struggles with her own affliction and the reality of a world that expects teenagers to attend school, go shopping for their mothers, and generally maintain a social presence in the world. The narrative effect is brilliant, and the reader comes away from the story with a fundamental understanding of how it must feel to suffer from the anxiety that agoraphobia creates, and how hard it is for the world to understand an anxiety that is primarily internal, an anxiety of inaction. Through her undeniable affection for both Page and her mother—and her involvement in Lotta’s history—Addy manages to find the strength to begin to overcome her fears. At the end of the novel, though, her healing has only begun. Buffie is honest in asserting that emotional traumas are not overcome through one monumental incident, but take years of hard work on the part of the sufferer. Through her involvement in the lives of those around her, Addy has taken the first steps on that road; as readers, we trust that the people she loves will support her as she moves towards a fuller healing. Would that all sufferers of agoraphobia and other anxieties had as strong a support system for their journeys.
It was surprisingly nostalgic to read Kristin Butcher’s The Runaways. The feeling grew on me slowly, undefined until a scene in the later part of the story when Nick, the protagonist, is trying to learn more about a favourite childhood author. Nick goes to the library, where he first checks newspaper reports, and then is pointed by the librarian to Who’s Who. It was at this point that I was compelled to check the publication date: 1997, when the Internet was in its infancy and not every middle-school student had a cell phone. The pre-digital narrative was refreshing, especially given Nick’s interest in investigative journalism, yet it caused me to wonder how middle-school readers today would respond to the story. Is this now a period piece? I’m hoping that young readers will not be put off by the unfamiliarity of earlier research techniques, because the story itself carries a message that is as strong and pertinent today as it was in 1997.
The scene opens on Nick running blindly, flat-out, escaping from a situation he finds unbearably painful: his mother and despised step-father are having a baby. Nick ends up spending the night in an abandoned house on the top of a hill over-looking his town. There, in the morning, he is found by Luther, a homeless man well-known in the community, whose “home” he has invaded. When the police come looking, Nick recognizes Luther’s need not to be found, and says nothing about their meeting. But the seeds of have been sown, and what begins as a curiosity about Luther develops into a more serious social interest in the lives of the homeless. Nick takes on the subject as a school research project and with the help of Cole, his step-father, investigates the real lives of people on the streets.
Cole is a journalist for the Andersonville newspaper, and becomes Nick’s ally against maternal concerns about investigating the rougher side of town. Their shared interest gives Cole a platform upon which to build a meaningful relationship with his new step-son, and through their shared adventures, Nick begins to both understand and appreciate Cole’s new role in his life. In contrast to Cole’s active overtures towards Nick, Luther works to maintain an emotional distance, but his reticence runs up against Nick’s insatiable curiosity, tempered though it is by respect for Luther’s obvious intelligence.
The Runaways is very much about taking the time to really think about other people’s lives; it is about developing empathy, not only for people who are obviously “other” (Luther and the homeless community) but also for those closer to us, whose strengths we might not see clearly.
“Lyn Cook” is the pseudonym of Evelyn Margaret Waddell Cook, who was a presenter for CBC Radio. Her weekly half-hour radio programme, “A Doorway to Fairyland,” had child actors voicing the parts of characters in the books she presented. The Bells on Finland Street is her first novel, and was followed by a number of novels for young readers. Because her written work includes publications before 1950, she is on the list of authors included in the Canada’s Early Women Writers (CEWW) database, part of the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory (CWRC), held at the University of Alberta in Edmonton.
The Bells on Finland Street is a delightful novel set in the early days of Sudbury, Ontario: after the mines had been firmly established, but long before modern technology set in. In its simple story of a young girl striving to do well, it incorporates issues of class, economics, and personal strength. If only peripherally, it exposes the young reader to the Finnish notion of sisu; a true Finn faces life sisukasti: with gumption, with true grit. It is this ability to push forward and prevail—not to moan about the inherent inequities in life—that Grandfather teaches young Elin Laukka. Elin works hard to save money for figure skating lessons, but ultimately makes the decision to donate her money to the family coffers in a time of dire need. Her grandfather, visiting from Finland, redeems her financially and provides her with both figure skates and the coveted lessons, but this is presented as fortuitous, not as a result of her altruistic contribution to the family funds. Elin both learns the values of hard work and the rewards of fortune; in addition, she and her friends have strongly reinforced by the adults around them the necessity of cooperation and tolerance in what is by necessity a multicultural community: “Here in Northern Ontario, perhaps more than in any other part of Canada, the races of the world are gathered together from all the far-away and exciting ends of the earth. How may of your mothers and fathers come from other lands? […] Had it not been for these good people who travelled courageously across the seas, Canada would perhaps have no gold mines, no coal mines… yes, and no nickel mines, because there would have been no one strong and brave enough to work in the darkness beneath the earth. […] every one of you, no matter from what far-away country your people have come, is a citizen of Canada, with a fair right to take part in all our Dominion has to offer” (86-7). This is the ultimate message of The Bells on Finland Street, and for all its succinct deliverance in the comments of the adults in the community, the message is nonetheless poignant and effective. Written in 1950, The Bells on Finland Street will still resonate with the young reader of today, but Canada is still a multicultural society, and tolerance and understanding will never go out of style or be extraneous to our Canadian existence.
I can well understand why Samantha’s Secret Room is one of the best loved of Lyn Cook’s works. It contains not only a loving, hard-working family, but a number of classic elements of childhood that will grip young readers and carry them into Samantha’s world: an old family mansion, a message sent in secret to a stranger, family lore of hidden books and secret rooms, an older cousin Samantha admires, and a best friend to share it all with.
Samantha Wiggins lives in Penetanguishene, Ontario, on the shores of Georgian Bay. Her great-great grandfather had been a lumber baron, and built the mansion that is now mostly shuttered, but still their family home. As children in a farming family, Samantha and her two younger brothers have a number of responsibilities in the family, which of course they moan about and try to get out of; but the family work ethic is strong, and certainly modern readers could learn a thing or two about respect and commitment from the family dynamics that Cook presents.
Once again, Cook has done her research. If you check google maps, you can find exactly where Samantha’s home was, on the point looking toward Beausoliel Island, on Champlain Road. Cook has a knack, too, of weaving historical facts seamlessly into her narrative. When Samantha’s new friend, Kim, comes to visit from London, Ontario, the family show her their home, relating the colourful history of Penetanguishene in fluid, natural dialogue.
The secrecy in the novel springs from a number of sources. Samantha’s friend Colette has a Christmas tree farm, and Samantha ties a note to a Christmas tree, in lieu of the traditional message in a bottle (after all, the lake would be ice until spring, and who wants to wait?). The result is a new best friend, Kim. Samantha, as the title (misleadingly) suggests, has built herself a secret room in the old root cellar: a room that no one knows about but her, where she hides from her family and writes her diary. When her cousin Josh writes from Connecticut that he is coming to visit, he asks if they have found Samantha’s secret room, and Samantha wonders how he knew… but his secret room is not hers. Samantha’s great-grandmother, who lives in her girlhood room in the tower of the house, is also Samantha, as was her mother, born in 1833. The secret room Josh writes about belonged to one of them. Great-Gran, too, provides a bit of mystery, as she keeps asking the children to look for her “book … the one with all the flowers in it” (25). The family is convinced that no such book exists: after all, everyone has searched the house, high and low. Great-Gran is almost ninety, forgetful and a bit crotchety, and is therefore humoured by her family.
With Christmas, Kim’s visit, Winterama, and a family reunion in the summer to celebrate Great-Gran’s ninetieth birthday, life in the Wiggins household moves from one small excitement to the next. Calves are born in a blizzard; the family dog runs away to have her pups; Samantha makes friends with their reclusive neighbour… and through it all Great-Gran demands that Samantha reads the Bible to her, and that they find her book. Despite her demands, it is obvious to readers (if not to Samantha) that Samantha is Great-Gran’s favourite; she knows—as Samantha does not—that Samantha’s courage and feisty spirit has been passed down through the female line. The theme of connection and continuity is accentuated in other relationships, too. Kim’s father is an antique salesman, and Josh is a budding archeologist: together they provide a sense of the importance of history—in a broader sense—that reinforces the novel’s message of the importance of family and tradition. Overall, the story creates a powerful feeling of peace, of belonging, even in the midst of changing circumstances and relationships. In the final scene, when the mysteries have been solved, Kim has returned to London, and Josh has left to pursue his career, Samantha climbs the stairs to her Great-Gran’s room and begins, again, to read to her the Twenty-Third Psalm…
In the autumn of 2012, I was out in Ontario celebrating the 100th anniversary of the War of 1812, staying in Brant County, one-time home to Sara Jeannette Duncan, E. Pauline Johnson, Adelaide Hoodless, and other notable early Canadian women. Although Brantford was fascinating, I was rather sad that it lies so far from Westport, up near Kingston, where author Lyn Cook still lives. I have spoken to Lyn Cook a number of times by telephone; she is a delightful woman: sharp, engaging, knowledgeable, and with a sense of humour that makes me really want to meet her in person. But alas, on this last trip, it was not to be. The next best thing, though, was visiting the… bookstore? library? home? of Mr. Nelson Ball, who has been slowly selling off his Canadiana library over the years, and who had a store of Lyn Cook first editions. Having already depleted my book budget, I could only choose one, so I purchased The Secret of Willow Castle, the favourite childhood book of Lisa Wood, my host in Brantford. She loved this book so much, she tells me, that she forced her parents to take her to Napanee, to see where it takes place. Doubtless Napanee has changed since 1834, but one always hopes to find something of the story still lingering…
For The Secret of Willow Castle is based on real people: Henrietta MacPherson and her family existed; she appears on both the 1861 and 1871 Canadian census records, still living with her parents. A comment in the end matter of the book tells us that “in the town of Napanee, Ontario, Henrietta’s home still stands now, as it did in 1834, on the river bank looking towards the falls. The mills are gone but a plaque in a hillside park marks their place, and the willows still trail their branches in the quiet waters of the pond.” The house is in fact now the Napanee town museum, with its own website. So too is there ample historical evidence of Henrietta’s cousin John Alex, who weaves his way in and out of her life, an inspiration to her growing sense of honour and responsibility. John Alex is in fact John Alexander MacDonald, destined to be the first Prime Minister of Canada. There are sufficient indications of his growing political acumen, and discussion of his future should he choose to enter politics, but never is he firmly identified. The unaware reader does not stumble over the politics in the story, which are natural comments made by the adults, not ideologies masking as narrative. Politics are only interesting to Henrietta because she is a curious child who wants to know what the adults around her are discussing. The reader, like Henrietta, learns just enough to stay interested: “’Tis not usual for young ladies of eleven to be interested in politics, childie, but if you want to know, I’ll tell you” (31), her father tells her, and includes her in his discussion with John Alex about William MacKenzie’s leadership, couching his discussion in terms that young Henrietta will understand.
Despite its extensive and solid connection with Canada’s real history, I read The Secret of Willow Castle with no introduction other than that a friend had liked it. I knew nothing of the history of Napanee, or its connection to John A. MacDonald or Canadian history as a whole. To me, The Secret of Willow Castle was an entrancing story of a young girl being raised by an affluent and morally honourable family in the early 1830s. The tone of the novel reminded me of Louisa May Alcott’s Eight Cousins (1875), undoubtedly my favourite book as a girl, as the sense of a young girl needing to learn her place in the world, not only as a woman but as a member of an entitled family, resonates in both.
The story begins with young Henrietta MacPherson—having recently celebrated her 11th birthday—awaiting the arrival of her favourite cousin, John Alex. John Alex brings her a present, but in her excitement, she demands that she receive it immediately. The moral current of the novel is set here, for her father allows her to open the present, but not to actually use it until she learns to behave in a more controlled manner. John Alex agrees, noting that she will learn such control as she grows older. While Henrietta is not—and does not become—a meek, obedient child, such as this scene might suggest both the author and the parents would like, she does learn both control and responsibility through the course of the story. Allowed to accompany her father to the gristmill they own, she discovers a mysterious new friend, Sarah, who has created a “secret castle” in a willow tree by the river. The girls become fast friends, hiding notes in the tree when they cannot meet, but contriving to meet whenever they can. The friendship between the girls is the underlying thread that weaves through the other events in Henrietta’s story: being barred from a skating party; attending a fair; meeting the neighbour’s slave, Jim, and questioning the morality of his situation; helping to settle a long-standing feud with another family; visiting the local wise woman for medical aid; being surprised with a trip on a river schooner; and participating in the day-to-day life of young girls in the mid 1800s. The girls’ lives are thrown into turmoil, though, when Sarah, an orphan servant to a neighbour, is at risk of being sent away to a family fallen on hard times. Just as the crisis reaches its climax, Henrietta falls dangerously ill. Narrative expectation tells us that all must work out in the end, and the reader can almost—but not quite—see the path of Sarah and Henrietta’s story before it unfolds. There is no overarching dramatic tension in the story—despite a few tense scenes—but drama and excitement are not the point of The Secret of Willow Castle. This novel has significantly more substance than the faster-paced sensationalist story often written for youth today. The Secret of Willow Castle is both an extremely well researched and seemingly faithful representation of early Canadian life, and a heart-warming portrayal of a young girl’s growth into a strong, liberal-minded young woman to whom friendship and family remain paramount.
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Polly’s mother has chosen to be a single Mom, having Polly with no father in the picture at all, and maintaining—if only barely—her lifestyle as a freelance artist. The effect on Polly is beginning to show, and Ellis expresses the concerns and difficulties Polly faces quite adeptly. Unfortunately, while the novel does contain conflict and resolution, the incidents and structure do not create a cohesive, tightly woven narrative that grips the reader in its web… Fortunately, on the other hand, it is only 124 pages long. While the story is moderately interesting, and the writing highly capable, I would expect more from a novel that won the Governor-General’s Award in 1991.
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Earlier and less hopeful than Stitches, Glen Huser’s Touch of the Clown tells the story of a young girl living with her neglectful—to the point of abuse—father and grandmother. After meeting Cosmo, the “clown” and juggling teacher at the local community centre, she finds the strength to face the reality of life for her and her younger sister.
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This time-slip story draws issues of identity and family and heritage into the mystery of the White Jade Tiger amulet, lost and needing to be found to break a curse. Jasmine, from 1990s Victorian, and Keung, from 1880s China and then Victoria, meet through the magical powers of the shade of Bright Jade, from the Qin dynasty, who cannot rest until her amulet is found. Jasmine, the protagonist, learns tolerance and forgiveness on a number of levels as she works with Keung to find his father and the amulet. The lessons the reader will glean are enhanced by the characterization of Jasmine; she is not troubled or rebellious, but rather a normal young girl who has lost her mother and whose father has gone abroad to work… She is a powerful character for young readers to identify, as is Keung, born in the Year of the Tiger, and working hard to manifest the strength against obstacles that his birth and heritage demands.
Kilmeny of the Orchard (1910) and The Blue Castle (1926) are considered L. M. Montgomery’s two “adult” novels—although some also include Jane of Lantern Hill (1937)—so I had not thought to review them here, until I recently re-read Kilmeny, and was unpleasantly surprised at how trite I found it as an adult reader. My recollection is of its beauty its human compassion, its ability to reveal all that is noble and moral and strong in its characters. I first read it as an idealistic teen—only 15 years old—and that doubtless influenced my interpretation of the power of the text, but there is certainly more going on than just my own progression from teen-aged idealism into a more jaded adult reality. Kilmeny of the Orchard does present characters who are noble, and moral, and deserve emulation. That I no longer identify with them—nor honestly believe that such people do or ever did exist—speaks not only to my own maturation process, but also to the stark discrepancy between the period in which Kilmeny was written, and our contemporary world. We have become cynical, as a society. This is understandable, of course, and I need not delineate the numerous historical events that have led us from the idealism of the Edwardian period to our modern state of social angst. I do want to point out, though, that Kilmeny is an artefact of an earlier, less troubled historical moment. We do not need to look so far as modern—or worse post-modern—literature to validate this assumption: The Blue Castle, written only 16 years later, shows distinct characteristics of a shift from the Edwardian idealism that fed Kilmeny to the post-war Modernism that began the rocky road to our current literary sensibilities. Even L. M. Montgomery, steeped as she was in the magical world of her fictional Prince Edward Island, could not escape the social and cultural ethos of her times. It is significant that The Blue Castle is set in Muskoka, not Prince Edward Island.
All that being said, Kilmeny of the Orchard, while it fails to satisfy the emotional needs of a 48-year-old reader in 2012, will remain one of my all-time favourite love stories. The purity of Eric’s love for Kilmeny, his straight-forward path towards claiming her as his own, his love’s ability to trump all obstacles, all speak to the simplicity of Montgomery’s perception of the needs of her readers at the time. The parallel between her 1910 audience and a naïve teenager in the 1970s is interesting, but causes me to wonder if there are any readers out there today—of any age—who would even be satisfied, never mind enthralled, by the romantic tale of the mute Kilmeny and idealistic Eric, who win each other’s hearts against all odds.
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This series is marvellous and touching. A brother and sister from a relatively poor family in England are sent as war evacuees to Toronto, where they are housed in a far more affluent family. The sister is older, and has a hard time adjusting; the brother is so young that he soon forgets his home and family in England. For four years, they live a comfortable Canadian lifestyle, but then, when “the lights go on again,” they have to return to England; for the brother, this is a difficult choice, for the family wants to adopt him permanently, and he knows no other home.
Theodora is the daughter of a single mother who is barely managing to keep herself—never mind her child—in food and clothing. Theo dreams of having a real family, of not being a pariah at each of the subsequent schools she is sent to as her mother moves from place to place, bad job to bad job, all within Vancouver. On the ferry to Victoria, when Theo’s mother is taking her to her Aunt’s home—giving Theo away so she can be with her new boyfriend—Theo falls into a dream of being with a family, but the dream is real. Yet she begins to fade in her new life, and awakes on the ferry. In Victoria, she finds that the life she knew, the family she was part of, do exist, but are not as ideal as in her dream. It is not until she meets the ghost of the author in whose house the family lives that she begins to understand what had happened to her. Her new knowledge gives her the strength to stop only dreaming, and to work to make her own real situation more palatable.
Not one of Pearson’s best, but exhibiting a unique premise and interesting relationship between the text and the real world.
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This novel has had a lot of hype; it was certainly on the list of “must reads” for young girls for 1999, but its status seems unwarranted upon reading it… The protagonist is not very likeable; I would not have wanted her for my friend as a teen. She is inconsiderate and bossy towards her best friend; disrespectful and dishonest towards her parents; and thoughtless and self-centred in general. He voice is perhaps authentic, but not engaging; and yet she gets the guy (sort of) in the end, without any learning process on her part. It is not a novel of development or maturation, but rather a romp through 4th form at an all-girl’s school, replete with make-up, fashion, boys boys boys, and the ubiquitous snarkiness that authors attribute to girls of this age. In terms of humour, Jeremy Strong’s Stuff is far superior… and in Stuff the protagonists actually learn something about themselves…
In 1892, Margaret Marshall Saunders entered a competition for the Humane Society of New England that requested stories to support their cause. One of the requirements was that the books be set, naturally enough, in New England, so the story that the Nova Scotian author produced is now claimed as both an American (by nature of the setting) and Canadian (by nature of the author’s nationality) children’s classic. Beautiful Joe not only won Saunders the $200 in prize money, but became the first Canadian novel to sell over one million copies. Beautiful Joe is considered by many to be the North American Black Beauty (1877), the tale of an animal who suffers under the cruelty of humans and is then taken into a more loving, humane household.
One of the most interesting aspects of Beautiful Joe—as a story—is its enduring resonance with its transnational readership. Numerous and diverse editions of the story have been produced in order to sanitize (bowdlerize, in my opinion) the story in order to render it more in keeping with changing sensibilities regarding depictions of cruelty to animals, especially for younger readers. The early editions are most effective in revealing the hardships animals suffered at the hands of humans, and fuelled the burgeoning support for Humane Societies in the United States and Canada: not only the SPCA and the RSPCA, but organizations such as the Beautiful Joe Heritage Society, a more modern homage to the effectiveness of Saunders’s narrative appeal.
The story itself is predictable, following the episodic structure of Black Beauty and other tales of moral righteousness (Little Women [1868-69] springs also to mind). Like Black Beauty, Beautiful Joe tells his own tale: the life of a dog, from the horse’s mouth, as it were. Beautiful Joe was abused by his owner, Jenkins: his siblings are killed by being dashed against a wall and his mother, traumatized, succumbs to grief. Angered at her death, Joe attacks his master: as a result, his ears and tail are inexpertly and cruelly cropped. Enter the guardian angel in the form of Harry, cousin to the Morris children, who take him in and give him a loving home. The first, horrific chapter of his life is short; the remainder of the book has Beautiful Joe—so-called to make him feel his ugliness less—as a beloved and well-treated pet. The family are adamant—even at times radical—Animal Rights activists, and the episodes Beautiful Joe relates tell other animals’ tales of woe and survival, no longer his own.
If you liked Black Beauty, you will almost certainly like Beautiful Joe, for Saunders strikes an effective balance between animal and human sensibilities. For a myriad of reasons—content, style, publication history, and social context—it deserves its place as a classic of Canadian children’s literature.
Cora Taylor’s first novel is an engaging look at the life of a young girl with paranormal abilities. The story is told mostly in flashback, the ten-year-old Julie’s memories of how she had learned to hide her gift, her visions of the past and future. Through the course of the story, Julie learns what the wise woman of the village, Granny Goderich, tells her she will: “there comes a time when we have to act […] You have to decide, and that’s when the gift can be terrible. Wonderful and terrible. […] You have to learn when … you have to be strong” (52). Julie learns her own strength, and moves forward into her future (we are left to surmise) full of the power of her gift and the knowledge of how to use it.
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In this narrative set, Marianne is a Germany Jewish refuge in Britain (from the first kindertransport), and then a war evacuee from London—how much more displaced can one child be?
Little Gray Doors suffers from one of the predominant problems of early twentieth century literature for children: it is not only prescriptive, but premised upon guilt as a motivation for behaviour. The first four stories in the collection each show a child learning through fairly drastic means a lesson in good behaviour; the last story, “The Fairy Glen,” shows a magical visit to fairy-land given to a well-behaved child, a visit of which there is no memory on her waking.
The opening story, “Little Gray Doors,” has a naughty boy, sent to bed without his tea, suddenly out in the garden where he discovers a doorway in a tree truck, leading to a hallway full of little gray doors. Behind each door, he sees a different world in which the children are unhappy, mischief abounds, and chaos reigns. On the wall above each door is cryptically written L.O.P. He reaches the end of the hallway to view a final room in which a group of exhausted women, obviously mothers, sit around mending toys and clothing with tears in their eyes. At this point, he sees the full message: Land of Punishment. It is not certain to me whether the punishment is being inflicted on the children or the mothers… regardless, it is a dismal experience, and the guilt-ridden David returns gratefully to the land above, resolved to behave in an impossibly perfect manner from now on.
The stories become increasingly less traumatic as the book progresses, but none actually manage not to create a feeling of guilt in the child reader. “The Mirror” tells the metaphoric tale of a young boy who is given a mirror by his “King” (Jesus), whose face will be reflected instead of the boy’s. Each time the boy fails to behave, the mirror becomes clouded or seems cracked, until it is not longer useable. The boy must take a Pilgrim’s Progress journey back to see the King, during which he performs good deeds. The King forgives him and restores the mirror.
“The Magic Needle” teaches young Ruth be content not knowing or understanding the whole picture of what she has been set to do; “Paternoster” helps the unnamed protagonist to understand that all creatures’ lives are worthwhile, as they are all created by “Our Father”; and “The Fairy Glen” has perfectly organized and disciplined young Betty taken on a trip to fairy-land. Here, she cannot dance without diamonds on her toes, coloured jewels on her skirt, and pearls in her hair—like the fairies—but she is granted all these riches by the small animals she has helped in her real life. In the end, though, she is returned to her bed and her jewels are taken back to fair-land, the incident is explicitly forgotten: “the clock was ticking as though nothing had happened … and the little China Shepherdess has never said one word about the strange things she saw and heard” (121).
There is nothing redeeming in the message of Little Gray Doors: no child could live up to the expectations of behaviour set by the author, and while the punishment and guilt for misbehavior is explicit, there are no positive results in the real world, for the good behaviour Betty shows.
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