tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942489323951310812024-03-05T02:42:31.499-06:00Eleanor YoumansOhio author Eleanor Youmans published a dozen children's novels with Bobbs-Merrill in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. She also wrote short stories and poetry. This blog is dedicated to preserving her life and work.Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-74103361987231287312011-03-05T18:40:00.007-06:002011-03-05T19:32:54.095-06:00Hearts By Freight<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia439MZgFueZk0XMG5uT6YuTfDDn0VQL_NtWIVwkEbI2OaDQa_OxA466ZMk0Am2piTRZn3xEm_0gXQTMw7eW19NvgSbhDoHQd1tlF7ZOShKF9sAIvsUdEbCHnldIliqCeq5zh72mN1yjWp/s1600/Hearts+By+Freight+-+New+Oxford.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia439MZgFueZk0XMG5uT6YuTfDDn0VQL_NtWIVwkEbI2OaDQa_OxA466ZMk0Am2piTRZn3xEm_0gXQTMw7eW19NvgSbhDoHQd1tlF7ZOShKF9sAIvsUdEbCHnldIliqCeq5zh72mN1yjWp/s400/Hearts+By+Freight+-+New+Oxford.jpg" width="218" /></a>Just found an early story by Youmans, published by the McClure Syndicate in 1910, titled <a href="http://news.google.com/newspapers?id=zdc9AAAAIBAJ&sjid=RzcMAAAAIBAJ&pg=7229%2C4376660">"Hearts By Freight."</a> No dogs or cats--just freight trains, hobos, and illicit love. Read it <a href="http://news.google.com/newspapers?id=zdc9AAAAIBAJ&sjid=RzcMAAAAIBAJ&pg=7229%2C4376660">here</a>, compliments of Google News. The tale seems to have first appeared in <i>Pittsburgh Daily Sun</i> on 5 May 1910, and the image to the left is from a reprint in the 8 Dec. 1910 issue of <i>New Oxford Item</i>, page 2. This story predates her 1921 <a href="http://eleanoryoumans.blogspot.com/2010/04/man-who-wanted-dog-that-would-kill.html">"The Man Who Wanted A Dog That Would Kill."</a><br />
<br />
Youmans has this to say about the appearance of her first short story:<br />
<blockquote>"I claim the world's record for length of time in writing, more or less steadily, before I saw anything of mine in print. From the time I wrote, copied and bound my first MS, 1884 [at the age of 6], announcing my literary aspiration, until my first storiette, 'Hearts by Freight' was printed...was exactly twenty-six years--twice as long as Hergesheimer's historical apprenticeship."</blockquote>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-6222796958941113112010-10-08T00:00:00.001-05:002010-10-07T18:00:49.654-05:00Pataskala Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGbMBvN_KYG-fncFNGa3mXhuypVoOrwjw5CQgsd5S5gKKMU5RmktMywyKG3DxAK6ostCqTpmHCcnC9YP9xtZ9j1SRxd60JNTpUpfHHOhaPNPgRvbDePZNBuxclLLDPDqJpLBnAJxWtf50G/s1600/Youmans+Headstone+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGbMBvN_KYG-fncFNGa3mXhuypVoOrwjw5CQgsd5S5gKKMU5RmktMywyKG3DxAK6ostCqTpmHCcnC9YP9xtZ9j1SRxd60JNTpUpfHHOhaPNPgRvbDePZNBuxclLLDPDqJpLBnAJxWtf50G/s400/Youmans+Headstone+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This summer, while visiting my family, I went to Pataskala Cemetery to find Eleanor's headstone. The family marker stands in the southwest quadrant, halfway between the earliest graves and the most recent. Eleanor's is the last in a line of four granite blocks memorializing--from right to left--Eleanor, her husband Brigg, her son William, and her daughter-in-law Helen. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x2UzHreeRfQjfL8nwv2JdzF3ifRHapzQlAWCGRAckz06GaaxWqgSRgXhe3eWR_EHiYdKuD6pw-BaY5H_PWcDL_0Sol4j_EgiXjm5N4u_BuiX5GHh8nfo6gWmwQOp6LmAFUyxcnmzj3YI/s1600/Youmans+Headstone+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0x2UzHreeRfQjfL8nwv2JdzF3ifRHapzQlAWCGRAckz06GaaxWqgSRgXhe3eWR_EHiYdKuD6pw-BaY5H_PWcDL_0Sol4j_EgiXjm5N4u_BuiX5GHh8nfo6gWmwQOp6LmAFUyxcnmzj3YI/s400/Youmans+Headstone+5.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Two obituaries appeared in the <i>Standard</i> following her death on October 8, 1968, forty-two years ago today. The first, a brief notice, is from 10 Oct. 1968, page 10A: <br />
<br />
<blockquote>Mrs. Eleanor Youmans, 92 of East Atkinson Street, Pataskala, passed away Tuesday. She had been at the home of her son in Plain City for several weeks. She was a member of the Plain City Presbyterian Church.<br />
<br />
Surviving are the son William C. Youmans, a grandson Richard Youmans and two great-granddaughters, Suzanne and Sharon Kay of Plain City. She was the widow of Brigg Youmans.<br />
<br />
Services will be held at a Plain City funeral home today (Thursday) at 1 o’clock. The Rev. Charles Stenner officiating. Internment Pataskala Cemetery. </blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7rbhl8DJH5aGZZox5SIC11jS689T1qBBV9X7Muw-REGB1XhCedhSsCWdpa0kEFIFOnCLgvfKFESVsplu__fNzQXKauThMhuOTOhuZQUaqXL_f3VLJs021K9niwjId6PpUAkgHDHvivXPo/s1600/Eleanor+Youmans+Grave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7rbhl8DJH5aGZZox5SIC11jS689T1qBBV9X7Muw-REGB1XhCedhSsCWdpa0kEFIFOnCLgvfKFESVsplu__fNzQXKauThMhuOTOhuZQUaqXL_f3VLJs021K9niwjId6PpUAkgHDHvivXPo/s400/Eleanor+Youmans+Grave.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTjE3_SiE7buffdwB-ahilc_ABQJngfdRs2tkKkZxsMv_6YFk7nh-IGZP3_eC3zwQLeufxTfHswHX_HpkQ7OgK0aueOunsx8sa_DIcJpRZP0i5YmjayIxJmqNXtZCmZtasfS-1qLCVgwa/s1600/Brigg+Youmans+Grave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTjE3_SiE7buffdwB-ahilc_ABQJngfdRs2tkKkZxsMv_6YFk7nh-IGZP3_eC3zwQLeufxTfHswHX_HpkQ7OgK0aueOunsx8sa_DIcJpRZP0i5YmjayIxJmqNXtZCmZtasfS-1qLCVgwa/s400/Brigg+Youmans+Grave.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The second ran a week later, on 17 Oct. 1968, page 8A, and includes a poem she composed in 1933, for her son: <br />
<blockquote>Eleanor Youmans, daughter of Dr. Charles and Missouri Harbison Williams, was born near St. Louis, Mo, Sept. 7, 1876, and died October 8, 1968.<br />
<br />
She married Brigg M. Youmans, April 30, 1900, who died in 1927.<br />
<br />
She was the author of twelve published books and numerous short stories and poems. Her interest lay in nature. She was a member of the Plain City Presbyterian Church for many years.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Survivors are a son, Wm. C. Youmans, Plain City, one grandson, Richard A. Youmans of Plain City, and two great-granddaughters. Burial, Pataskala Cemetery, Thursday, October 10.<br />
<br />
The Long Tryst<br />
<br />
Eleanor Youmans / To my son<br />
<br />
Weep not for me – <br />
I go where Love is waiting<br />
When Mother Earth enfolds<br />
me in her breast,<br />
‘Tis but my form she takes.<br />
My spirit, eager, restless,<br />
Yearning to be free<br />
Goes not to rest.<br />
Though tired hands<br />
And weary head lie sleeping,<br />
Pillowed in Nature’s warm embrace,<br />
My soul the long, long tryst<br />
Of love is keeping.<br />
Waiting, waiting for you.<br />
In that far place – <br />
Where dear ones keep the tryst with me.<br />
Until you come –<br />
Until you come, there shall I be.<br />
<br />
June 24, 1933<br />
Pataskala, Ohio</blockquote><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24FwdJCkAQroez4KoUD8r_xboKPmhLwAxzn5ZlE_Zf_g2H2HMBinlPakW6xZOIbQOL37kDI6wvu3hsf6zBgFLfVT0yinpyO2dfNpsnOWFIN1zuw7A0b8I8uRYEOS__XfGBYgcCOPu1Cgw/s1600/William+C+Youmans+Grave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24FwdJCkAQroez4KoUD8r_xboKPmhLwAxzn5ZlE_Zf_g2H2HMBinlPakW6xZOIbQOL37kDI6wvu3hsf6zBgFLfVT0yinpyO2dfNpsnOWFIN1zuw7A0b8I8uRYEOS__XfGBYgcCOPu1Cgw/s400/William+C+Youmans+Grave.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7eBh0Pje0kgKHCZPu0fvUkCXWUCQUC3wnU2ZOfZCNYztqSryABCaBHBumI1kqEPa39MFfewE_ApbbBaCVx66ZiUdi5st6VfwJznlJK2616Jvk0l3yYMN-WTgtwf9ZmtRmUSGQU7frLbL/s1600/Helen+Youmans+Grave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7eBh0Pje0kgKHCZPu0fvUkCXWUCQUC3wnU2ZOfZCNYztqSryABCaBHBumI1kqEPa39MFfewE_ApbbBaCVx66ZiUdi5st6VfwJznlJK2616Jvk0l3yYMN-WTgtwf9ZmtRmUSGQU7frLbL/s400/Helen+Youmans+Grave.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-78265170109090243882010-09-17T23:52:00.009-05:002013-06-04T10:17:42.992-05:00Mack Comes Marching Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivINjd0nXrihpxzbWww7xndOFqiIKYrujYS66JVg-rUG4sIvk33VZA515Vn9fHnSJ-Mh3ZBWu-H9leCz7_YSZmY8cvfn1ZpGdJYPDlYfL6exyFJUwCoqqF7ul4hpycLrnX5oBPgyqEh5vk/s1600/woman+with+hat+2+-+power+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivINjd0nXrihpxzbWww7xndOFqiIKYrujYS66JVg-rUG4sIvk33VZA515Vn9fHnSJ-Mh3ZBWu-H9leCz7_YSZmY8cvfn1ZpGdJYPDlYfL6exyFJUwCoqqF7ul4hpycLrnX5oBPgyqEh5vk/s320/woman+with+hat+2+-+power+shot.jpg" /></a>A recurring character in the Skitter Cat books is Aunt Maud, who lives just down the street from Skitter's family, next to the train tracks that divide the town in half. Like Skitter (and the train tracks) Aunt Maud is real, based on Eleanor's friend and neighbor, Maud Mauger Mead. Maud Mead (pictured left) was wife to Brigg's nephew Merrill Elmous Mead (the son of William Mead II who co-founded Pataskala Bank with his brother-in-law Jacob S. Youmans, and whose family home in Pataskala is now the Kauber-Sammons Funeral Home).<br />
<br />
Maud's granddaughter, Barbara Spears, very generously gave me a few pages from an original manuscript of Eleanor's eighth novel, <i>Little Dog Mack</i>. The editorial marks on the pages are definitely Eleanor's, as the handwriting matches that of letters she composed prior to the 1960s (when failing eyesight presumably lead her to write in a larger, rougher script--a sharp contrast to the tight curly-ques punctuating a typed, yet hand-corrected letter to her sister, dated 1944). The manuscript is typed on bonded paper, now yellowed. If you turn the pages over, her editorial pen strokes have bled through to the back and turned oily brown from eighty-years of oxidation.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKuUDUorM6PBaUifvedlRTVkLGZxFYBe9a1xqPGSKQc8Zrmt5swRh3lDvKg43L0LrgQ3nTbQrz0y3RBSF1zZpC-KsR7CsFB2Ca9qamLm_VZnQ6oiIXvFnY0u1hFGrKCMLu9R21S5eoOLt/s1600/LDM_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKuUDUorM6PBaUifvedlRTVkLGZxFYBe9a1xqPGSKQc8Zrmt5swRh3lDvKg43L0LrgQ3nTbQrz0y3RBSF1zZpC-KsR7CsFB2Ca9qamLm_VZnQ6oiIXvFnY0u1hFGrKCMLu9R21S5eoOLt/s320/LDM_0001.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
According to the manuscript, <i>Little Dog Mack</i> was once titled <i>Mack Comes Marching Home</i>, and his given weight went from seventeen to fifteen pounds. (If only weight loss were so easy in real life)! Other changes seem mostly to pare down her wordage, sharpen their meaning, or lend to more standardized speech.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0JC7fNNmfin7QfSQy0G6oJMvVkPoVbnz0Wjxo5fdhg5eK1lTM4AoQ8ItOCroNph5GcO7D3FAS9XZDrpi6uzXfD9Xcyo-dGR1XfKi1IAGUyT0a0z2Xbdap-wwFIXjVS5epoZyV-EzZIQt/s1600/LDM_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0JC7fNNmfin7QfSQy0G6oJMvVkPoVbnz0Wjxo5fdhg5eK1lTM4AoQ8ItOCroNph5GcO7D3FAS9XZDrpi6uzXfD9Xcyo-dGR1XfKi1IAGUyT0a0z2Xbdap-wwFIXjVS5epoZyV-EzZIQt/s320/LDM_0002.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhtCDv9nSyKtw7O0ts36n50JlQlhT-EOfASM5KMGKKS8rj-t02WqsflX8y5FYK-4yXQF5nJ1-uBp_kgHEg5cioiDkmxZYhRgv3cwXexhb-bzgF0CUZUJEr6S5_efDIKM40WTkc8jcID9t/s1600/LDM_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhtCDv9nSyKtw7O0ts36n50JlQlhT-EOfASM5KMGKKS8rj-t02WqsflX8y5FYK-4yXQF5nJ1-uBp_kgHEg5cioiDkmxZYhRgv3cwXexhb-bzgF0CUZUJEr6S5_efDIKM40WTkc8jcID9t/s320/LDM_0003.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In reading over the sheets--comprised of the title page and first and fifth pages of what remains of the original 61 page manuscript--I realized that I have several photos of Mack. The story begins with Mack's naming, no easy process for his ten-year-old owners, twins Rachel and Ralph. Whereas Rachel wants to call him "Toodles,- 'Because he is so little and cute,'" Ralph "chose MacGregor,- for the hero of a book he liked." Their ensuing argument is settled by their father, who suggests "MacToodles, which satisfied Rachel but left Ralph doubtful." In the end, the dog "grew so fast, and became so valiant, that, before a great while, the latter half of his name sounded silly," and "Ralph shortened it to Mac."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7z6Gi1E90zLcnDaHuEnbwr5vLYq4MjYFjxCnsHLH5eveorYQvRIMbwh0fyMLJEmbgv2uDcEzra0RynLUYLU_9OmyQbMQQVRQ2cfOZNRHFujZiZE0l6o_PTk4n6PzTP1XTFdBO4YQBUrun/s1600/Cat+Pictures_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7z6Gi1E90zLcnDaHuEnbwr5vLYq4MjYFjxCnsHLH5eveorYQvRIMbwh0fyMLJEmbgv2uDcEzra0RynLUYLU_9OmyQbMQQVRQ2cfOZNRHFujZiZE0l6o_PTk4n6PzTP1XTFdBO4YQBUrun/s320/Cat+Pictures_0008.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
When I read <i>Little Dog Mack</i> last winter, I hadn't yet viewed the <a href="http://eleanoryoumans.blogspot.com/2010/07/glass-plate-negatives-beaded-indian.html">glass plate negatives</a> the West Licking Historical Society owns, so this passage at the time didn't strike me. But now having viewed the collection, I realized that the handful of dog portraits labeled "Toodles" are also pictures of Mack!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRYLe4Q5AEFzsjAoDuVUMiRPKRw_iLJpixhA6_g3Y_dCvHnoCMlfzSQHqsafAft6i5iWnV35qWuXTX96OBKC9lyynA7D29qACyGcuKW0s1MB9JITZPp40MV-AUSo1S_QRQ71SWgLogAZj/s1600/unlabled+-+Shaggy+Dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRYLe4Q5AEFzsjAoDuVUMiRPKRw_iLJpixhA6_g3Y_dCvHnoCMlfzSQHqsafAft6i5iWnV35qWuXTX96OBKC9lyynA7D29qACyGcuKW0s1MB9JITZPp40MV-AUSo1S_QRQ71SWgLogAZj/s320/unlabled+-+Shaggy+Dog.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyi7AkgkXYmmZ8oLBWif_-45amKjbe8vfIOJRDe0S7GVwug_2EIZfb_gayYeN3wreExw8rqX9QU03nErH0cEJg7sqfkt4XzReWrocJaXWlll5Q1UvuFDfPKwHCoJ3Zbcv5cyOYrUwwpOI/s1600/Toodles+Head+-+canon+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyi7AkgkXYmmZ8oLBWif_-45amKjbe8vfIOJRDe0S7GVwug_2EIZfb_gayYeN3wreExw8rqX9QU03nErH0cEJg7sqfkt4XzReWrocJaXWlll5Q1UvuFDfPKwHCoJ3Zbcv5cyOYrUwwpOI/s320/Toodles+Head+-+canon+shot.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
You can also see Toodles in the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8fJcDL4vDwYIHVIbsA5PcxnHmuGdST0RfNHKxhdgbU_XNaDIWGYSYXQ6YMoQg4k_ICZ2fPa4zM3gsPcS77va-6N7X2tZn3EdTVL6JixUs7qI2vv5W7bNP59XV1WwkqVP_RtkZWxfZubZ/s1600/our+house+N+Main+st+Pataskala+-+canon+shot.jpg">photo of Eleanor's home on Main Street</a>, where he is seated on the chair in the front yard!Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-31740173471492087472010-08-20T16:32:00.005-05:002010-09-04T13:11:29.266-05:00Don't Be Evil, Google--I Love You Too Well to Give You UpPutting it mildly, the recent Google Book Settlement is certainly not all rainbows and butterflies for the publishing world--or for authors who want to retain control over their writing (read an excellent break-down of the settlement and its troubling repercussions <a href="http://io9.com/5501426/5-ways-the-google-book-settlement-will-change-the-future-of-reading">here</a>). But, I confess the immediate payoff of having access--even in "snippet" form--to otherwise unsearchable data is remarkably useful to an individual researcher like myself.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/blogs/phlog/EDIT_Evil-Google-Devill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/blogs/phlog/EDIT_Evil-Google-Devill.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Don't Be Evil Google" image by Buddy Duncan, as posted on <a href="http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/phlog/archive/2010/08/20/2-out-of-2-news-outlets-agree-google-is-evil.aspx">The Boston Phoenix "Phlog"</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>When I began graduate school, I enrolled in a required course that covered the basics of advanced library research, and of course I've picked up a trick or two along the way as a paid research assistant and scholar-in-training conducting my own thesis / dissertation driven research, so I know my way around print / online bibliographies and the like. But there are, of course, always limitations to what gets recorded in the first place, or in figuring out the most useful search terms to find what is documented. Like it or not, the Google Book Settlement has cleared a few more pathways as I recover the writing of Eleanor Youmans, and I can't help but feel excited about these new discoveries.<br />
<br />
For months, I've been looking for her entry in <i>Who's Who</i>, unsuccessfully, though our university library has rows upon rows of shelves housing copies of several of its imprints. And, just a month or two ago, I'd thoroughly exhausted all "Eleanor Youmans" searches (and its variants), including those within Google Books. Now, seemingly overnight, there is a whole host of hits that never surfaced before. <br />
<br />
Turns out, Youmans first appears in a 1937 volume of <i><span style="font-size: small;">American Women:</span></i><span class="subtitle"><i> The Official Who's Who Among the Women of the Nation</i>. From this entry, I learned the titles of two other magazines in addition to <i>Child Life</i> in which she published short stories, one being <i>Junior Home</i>, and the other <i>The Animals' Magazine</i> (based in London, and which I'm fairly certain is the title of the English magazine that "copied" her early <i>Cat Courier</i> stories, inspiring her to pursue novel writing). The <i>Who's Who</i> blurb also narrows her location during her year-long residence in California specifically to Santa Barbara. Other "snippet" references lead to an article she wrote for <i>The Writer</i> in 1928, several more book reviews, quite a few mentions of her work in curriculum guides, and three more short stories anthologized in two Bobbs-Merrill readers. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="subtitle">I'm taking an Electronic Texts course this semester, and about to begin a research assistantship with UNL's Center for Digital Research in the Humanities, so I'm looking forward to learning more about the moral and technical issues implicit in the Google Books Settlement--and in digital archiving in general. Though I have a deep enthusiasm for Eleanor and her writing, enjoy creating a space where I can bring together the information I'm discovering about her, and hope to make her work more accessible to a larger audience, I'm often dubious about revealing too much on the web. I don't want to infringe on any copyrights of book reviews or library holdings, or make public that which should be kept private. Plus, if I've just spent hours, months, or even years talking with people in the know, applying for competitive library residencies, trekking cross-country to view elusive materials, scanning rare documents and images, do I really just want to give it up to the public realm so easily? And yet, isn't sharing and disseminating knowledge--especially if it fosters greater enthusiasm and appreciation--the whole point? Whatever the answer, in an ever-increasingly online world, the ease of posting otherwise hard-to-find material sometimes feels to me a bit slippery.</span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-57470161050833691202010-08-11T17:10:00.018-05:002010-08-16T22:07:22.961-05:00The Alward School<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaEKYv-ArDMMCh9Ot_Z4awgDBeHmQb93iGKId8NZjCDzcreqkDbuk8wj1R8mWEwdZGtP0Rm_sHZE8D0e6ZDgmDHM82Hn_1JuwavLj85hf-7Wgd9zgbYXiJP4HIkwr35zgp1ywVD5YYvtV/s1600/IMG_0715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaEKYv-ArDMMCh9Ot_Z4awgDBeHmQb93iGKId8NZjCDzcreqkDbuk8wj1R8mWEwdZGtP0Rm_sHZE8D0e6ZDgmDHM82Hn_1JuwavLj85hf-7Wgd9zgbYXiJP4HIkwr35zgp1ywVD5YYvtV/s320/IMG_0715.JPG" /></a>See this house? It wasn't always a private residence. Until 1928, it was a one-room school house! It also just so happens to be the childhood alma mater of Eleanor Youmans, who attended the school from 1881 to 1886. <br />
<br />
The Alward School, one of nine former sub-districts of the Harrison Township School District, was built in the triangular shaped lot formed by Beecher and York Roads and State Route 16 in Pataskala. It began as a log building called Nichols School, which was replaced by a frame building in 1845. Thirty-eight years later, in 1883, the frame structure was torn down, and a third, brick structure replaced it. The new school, renamed Alward, cost $2,157 to construct. Today, the original brick hides under contemporary white siding, several porches have been added to the exterior, and an inviting tire swing sways under massive trees.<br />
<br />
Youmans composed a history and poem commemorating the school for a 1924 Alward School reunion, both of which appear in a the 7 May 1936 special "Golden" edition of the <i>Pataskala Standard</i>. She writes:<br />
<blockquote>Three schoolhouses have stood on the triangular field formed by the crossing of York Street and Old Columbus Road and another road which intersects Columbus Road and York Street from the north, three miles east of Pataskala. Only the last building, built of brick in 1883, by a man named Stothard, supervised by Bert Alward, bore the name Alward School.</blockquote><blockquote>The ground on which the three schoolhouses stood belonged to the late Benjamin Nichols and his father before him, and was donated for the use of a school by them. The first building, of logs, was named the Nichols School, and stood opposite the farmhouse now owned by Curtis Bowlby, facing south toward York Street, on the southwest point of the triangle.<br />
<br />
The second building (also called Nichols School) was frame, built by B. F. Sutherland, sometime in the fifties (as the writer's father was born in 1845, attended there with his numerous brothers and sisters.) It may have been the late forties.<br />
<br />
No copy of the old registers is available, to ascertain the names of early teachers. Mrs. George Nichols was a teacher there, Mrs. Ella Martin, Martha Clark; the last person to teach in the old frame schoolhouse was the late Fred Thomas, beloved by all who knew him. He also taught the first term in the new brick schoolhouse, and subsequent term; he was followed by Elmer Morrow, Margaret Forsyth and Rosa Rogers, during the time the writer went to that school. A list of all the teachers of these schools, which endured for over sixty years, would fill the column of a newspaper. Sometimes there were two teachers in one year; for example, Martha Clark taught the summer term in the frame building, in 1882, and Fred Tomas taught the winter term.<br />
<br />
It is a striking commentary upon the times, that, in the present day, when thousands of country schools have closed for lack of funds, we descendants of those who attended the Nichols School, and who ourselves attended the Alward School, can find no record of the district. And yet we like to believe that we live in a more enlightened age.<br />
<br />
Where we first went to school, three roads<br />
Spread wide inviting arms,<br />
Beckoning travelers onward,<br />
Through hills, to peaceful farms,<br />
A stream ran not too far away,<br />
Forming a quiet pool<br />
And skating pond, for childish play<br />
Where we first went to school.<br />
<br />
Bobolinks sang on the fence;<br />
Bees hummed in jimpson weeds;<br />
The air was filled with thistle down<br />
And shining milk weed seeds;<br />
Along the hedgerows, rabbits hid;<br />
Green pawpaw bushes, cool,<br />
Held nests of tiny feathered things,<br />
Where we first went to school.<br />
<br />
No other skies have been so blue;<br />
Nor sunshine beamed so bright;<br />
Birdsongs were always sweeter there<br />
And clouds more billowing white.<br />
No teachers ever were so kind--<br />
Indeed, that child were fool,<br />
Who could not learn contentment<br />
Where we first went to school!</blockquote>In addition to the school's history and the poem she wrote in its honor, there is also an image of the Alward School in the collection of glass negatives taken and owned by Youmans, which shows the structure's original brick facade. Who knows, but maybe it's Eleanor herself posing on the front steps! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCh7iwk6aTioRQ_oUxPCBgvuqHqCKjVq_U4PDhunsvK-q9o_HTpLbLZD_ZonzgDy75lidE3cYdpGqMOVGgTn4mugfKKeOuUsE25xibvd5sXJ5By4wC37FU1-4Omg5hsujHo37idHN6FKAm/s1600/Baird+Box_0033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCh7iwk6aTioRQ_oUxPCBgvuqHqCKjVq_U4PDhunsvK-q9o_HTpLbLZD_ZonzgDy75lidE3cYdpGqMOVGgTn4mugfKKeOuUsE25xibvd5sXJ5By4wC37FU1-4Omg5hsujHo37idHN6FKAm/s320/Baird+Box_0033.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: small;">My thanks go out to Martha Tykodi for supplying a copy of the original article, and granting me access to the original glass plate negative!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Top Image: </i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo of former Alward School building, now a private residence, July 2010</i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bottom Image: </i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Alward School, </i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>courtesy of West Licking Historical Society, from Eleanor Youmans Glass Plate Negative Collection</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-43947347379731359892010-07-20T19:30:00.002-05:002010-07-20T19:39:30.055-05:00Tour of Homes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The landscape of Pataskala, Ohio, has changed quite a bit since its official establishment in 1851, and especially over the past decade, expanding from a rural village of 3,000, into a growing city of over 10,000, with a geographic range that quadrupled to its current approximate 40 square miles following a merger with Lima Township in 1996. Every time I visit, it seems another half-dozen businesses and housing developments have popped up out of nowhere. With this in mind, I thought I'd post some before and after photos of Eleanor Youmans' homes in Pataskala. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Youmans was born in Maxville, Missouri, in 1876. When she was about five, she and her younger sister moved to Licking County, Ohio, to live on their grandfather's farm. The Williams homestead was located on the corner of St. Route 16 and York Street in Pataskala. Here it is, off the "old mud pike," circa 1900:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmnOTTHYBGK_8t2B0syUyv6tyAVwbaLElHmgw4IlSQIymkFFNMB_D5fHvET-9GuQpibhcZlnklmhsROmTiZ8FNw7C2-0za4XhxLQjrdk6QyemCVtsXv5n4-sUj6XYXosQociaPSgz4KWS/s1600/Williams+Farm+smaller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmnOTTHYBGK_8t2B0syUyv6tyAVwbaLElHmgw4IlSQIymkFFNMB_D5fHvET-9GuQpibhcZlnklmhsROmTiZ8FNw7C2-0za4XhxLQjrdk6QyemCVtsXv5n4-sUj6XYXosQociaPSgz4KWS/s400/Williams+Farm+smaller.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Today, the Williams family farm has become the site of the Jefferson Ridge Condos, as pictured below: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbD8_I_ivmaZM-akoXLymjNj5uoZYEH1pDrd3QofANljFpXTDSGgjp0X2-GuDFZakib2ZWRIVEiKqR5Who4_enwKxCB4B6Zv6-tU7zVec1Q8zYCsd3WVB5_rXpTF_cehWTjvD1gvCETEr/s1600/IMG_0709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbD8_I_ivmaZM-akoXLymjNj5uoZYEH1pDrd3QofANljFpXTDSGgjp0X2-GuDFZakib2ZWRIVEiKqR5Who4_enwKxCB4B6Zv6-tU7zVec1Q8zYCsd3WVB5_rXpTF_cehWTjvD1gvCETEr/s400/IMG_0709.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Eleanor and her sister returned to Missouri in 1886, where she finished school and then taught for a year. Back in Ohio in 1895, she lived with cousins in Celina, before moving to Canton. She frequently visited her family in Pataskala during these years, and married Brigg Youmans in 1900. <br />
<br />
As newlyweds, Eleanor and Brigg moved into the house on the corner of Willow and Main Streets in Pataskala. They spent their entire married life in this home, raising their son William, here. If you look closely at the photo below, taken around 1900, you can see their dog Toodles sitting on a chair in the front lawn:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8fJcDL4vDwYIHVIbsA5PcxnHmuGdST0RfNHKxhdgbU_XNaDIWGYSYXQ6YMoQg4k_ICZ2fPa4zM3gsPcS77va-6N7X2tZn3EdTVL6JixUs7qI2vv5W7bNP59XV1WwkqVP_RtkZWxfZubZ/s1600/our+house+N+Main+st+Pataskala+-+canon+shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8fJcDL4vDwYIHVIbsA5PcxnHmuGdST0RfNHKxhdgbU_XNaDIWGYSYXQ6YMoQg4k_ICZ2fPa4zM3gsPcS77va-6N7X2tZn3EdTVL6JixUs7qI2vv5W7bNP59XV1WwkqVP_RtkZWxfZubZ/s400/our+house+N+Main+st+Pataskala+-+canon+shot.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The house still stands, but the exterior has undergone a transformation, as has the street name (it was North Main when the Youmans' lived there, but it is South Main today). <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM90fu-QFt5Nzb2s-iCsgEq6f52msIM41uUmATyWaNRMCCyU1IyDEY73UfqRxBRQRec98NcaDhHx8EbEMlhvs5FTZw0rXQs8uPNuY0nDnCT7wMVkzVwDAjv0soO9afLzA-rGit8N1DPanO/s1600/IMG_0694.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM90fu-QFt5Nzb2s-iCsgEq6f52msIM41uUmATyWaNRMCCyU1IyDEY73UfqRxBRQRec98NcaDhHx8EbEMlhvs5FTZw0rXQs8uPNuY0nDnCT7wMVkzVwDAjv0soO9afLzA-rGit8N1DPanO/s400/IMG_0694.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
William was married in the spring of 1927, and Brigg passed away that fall. Eleanor spent a year in California, and when came back to Pataskala in 1928, she moved into the Redhead property, located on what was then North High Street, just north of the Railroad tracks, staying there until 1938. [Sorry, no before photo for this property].<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg174xUqtbXLCzrNPd5q1AW5G_IMgljAuzRaozovQR-KK1VwiiPNMMbVJn3FIBeQokzb8uGA6h0LgGEE9qTUUYVvuQv9vqT3WGSG2vRBjHZu6Tmj-vDgrA3I-nWzEPSGNv2WH6sd-4gBfEQ/s1600/IMG_0693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg174xUqtbXLCzrNPd5q1AW5G_IMgljAuzRaozovQR-KK1VwiiPNMMbVJn3FIBeQokzb8uGA6h0LgGEE9qTUUYVvuQv9vqT3WGSG2vRBjHZu6Tmj-vDgrA3I-nWzEPSGNv2WH6sd-4gBfEQ/s400/IMG_0693.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
After her decade in "the little five-room cottage" on High Street, she moved to a house on East Atkinson Street, which she cheekily nick-named "Grey Shingles." According to <a href="http://eleanoryoumans.blogspot.com/p/news-articles.html">an article by Carolyn Bentz</a>, "the house was built by James Coons, the grandfather of Florence Coons Wilson and Aimee Coons Atkinson. In fact, a niece was born in the house. She was the wife of Charles and mother of Stanton and Ewing. The house was over a hundred years old [when it was torn down]." Pictured below circa 1945 and 1950:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFm7oIS91v5JDXbuVC0f_gP2YMog3274mQz0Cyuf2T_W9lMr8wi_svHyojNbL8SNA0rWPBKgojWbUr6tRoEKtFdd7-rAtCa57T-N7YBlCvMoTAuCkbS1ECmArWt7cch1EK3m7j1oumZuP/s1600/ey+house+1945_20100106170610_00001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFm7oIS91v5JDXbuVC0f_gP2YMog3274mQz0Cyuf2T_W9lMr8wi_svHyojNbL8SNA0rWPBKgojWbUr6tRoEKtFdd7-rAtCa57T-N7YBlCvMoTAuCkbS1ECmArWt7cch1EK3m7j1oumZuP/s400/ey+house+1945_20100106170610_00001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJfqcCUaRBuKKwGtGJKP7RLhHAhzPJSOz2iFrCTG-SSXZLHI7g3vsJ4GLTiZXxs1t-9kw5IRNB9T12Ss_FmQY2nDhu_I_DP8CHJQZoQggjPHqtFQsjdLCwJNLdwLL_FSntMq4WG3EVYZg/s1600/ey+house+1950_20100106170643_00001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJfqcCUaRBuKKwGtGJKP7RLhHAhzPJSOz2iFrCTG-SSXZLHI7g3vsJ4GLTiZXxs1t-9kw5IRNB9T12Ss_FmQY2nDhu_I_DP8CHJQZoQggjPHqtFQsjdLCwJNLdwLL_FSntMq4WG3EVYZg/s400/ey+house+1950_20100106170643_00001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Youmans resided on Atkinson until October 1968, when failing health prompted her move to the home of her son and daughter-in-law in Plain City, Ohio. William sold the property in 1971 to the local fire department, and the house was torn down to increase the size of the fire department's parking lot:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHAvMJjpoq1XDiZsmYFzHEy1ZXK9DmkrYbxAZKzxr0d23-0v8w6ZgyTObSvMOSfaWYaeKQzlHF3DvfnOcGp_pULK86gt5IlGBMpePntdF5fHByKE1849YuBlr-LZ9ml3pQfBu35RTmulx/s1600/IMG_0702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHAvMJjpoq1XDiZsmYFzHEy1ZXK9DmkrYbxAZKzxr0d23-0v8w6ZgyTObSvMOSfaWYaeKQzlHF3DvfnOcGp_pULK86gt5IlGBMpePntdF5fHByKE1849YuBlr-LZ9ml3pQfBu35RTmulx/s400/IMG_0702.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Images from top: Williams Farm, located on St. Rt. 16, photo courtesy of West Licking Historical Society, from Eleanor Youmans Glass Plate Negative Collection; Jefferson Ridge Condominiums on St. Rt 16, east of Pataskala; Brigg and Eleanor Youmans Home on southeast corner of Main and Willow Streets, from Eleanor Youmans Glass Plate Negative Collection, courtesy of West Licking Historical Society; House at what is now 245 South Main Street today; 291 South High Street today; East Atkinson Street house, circa 1945 courtesy of the Ohioana Library; East Atkinson Street house, circa 1950, courtesy of the Ohioana Library; Old Pataskala firehouse today, side view </i></span></div>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-48479667573663502702010-07-14T08:00:00.003-05:002010-07-14T09:37:01.688-05:00Two More Short Stories!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8abwE5I7x8N7xOkt6FyBq2se7uNwJgNel62HMjtPvbbcT5ARWoSStIP_hjr0ouOMzpKJux64AHOcqx-US6FsbJg9vGGWYAeYZ5pbHY4fCSPSH1Cn-0nr3CFjA5XIoP6MzXIexp6cjTyvV/s1600/Cinder+edit+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8abwE5I7x8N7xOkt6FyBq2se7uNwJgNel62HMjtPvbbcT5ARWoSStIP_hjr0ouOMzpKJux64AHOcqx-US6FsbJg9vGGWYAeYZ5pbHY4fCSPSH1Cn-0nr3CFjA5XIoP6MzXIexp6cjTyvV/s400/Cinder+edit+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>After accidentally finding "<a href="http://eleanoryoumans.blogspot.com/2010/05/cinder-and-inky-again.html">Cinder and Inky Again</a>" in an old issue of <i>Child Life</i> through a random ebay search, I had a hunch there was probably at least one other Youmans story published in the periodical.<br />
<br />
When I attempted to locate older editions of <i>Child Life</i> through Interlibrary Loan, I learned just how rare this serial is. Many facilities retain current editions, but only one library in the U.S. has copies available during the years Youmans would have been publishing. Lucky for me, it is the Minneapolis Central branch of Hennepin County Library, a forty-minute drive from my in-laws'. The trip was worth it, because among the dusty pages there were two more stories by Youmans: "Cinder" (1931) and "Cinder and Inky" (1932). Unlike "Cinder and Inky Again" (1933), these two stories are taken directly from the published version of the novel <i>Cinder</i> (1933).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9m6VKXNuRpVRUG2sMOoV8DfcE9TKN8LPLCq8yHvn3gVTLMEqheG7vOOzqrtS-h-fzH8fArnGQ3zQZVY1H3N9ZncAaqcJGdljGE-yxym8bP18Sf-ax7WjrPqEnWICKDe8fAcu-6PQb3uU/s1600/Cinder+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA9m6VKXNuRpVRUG2sMOoV8DfcE9TKN8LPLCq8yHvn3gVTLMEqheG7vOOzqrtS-h-fzH8fArnGQ3zQZVY1H3N9ZncAaqcJGdljGE-yxym8bP18Sf-ax7WjrPqEnWICKDe8fAcu-6PQb3uU/s200/Cinder+edit.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My husband wasn't exactly psyched about being dragged into downtown Minneapolis to flip through old children's magazines by my side, but with his help, the hunt took little more than an hour, and he was the one to find both stories. (I don't know why I'm surprised; when my contact lens fell out on our lawn earlier this year, he was the was the one to find the tiny shard of plastic embedded amongst hundreds of stems of grass long after I'd given up!)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Click on the page images to enlarge:<br />
<br />
<br />
"Cinder." <i>Child Life</i> 10.6 (June 1931): 270-271. Illustrated by Ruth Eger.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieH0aiHB0Lee0R_wi7-EqAp-uz7biHLpCzAWh9-3K2OPI2QWtCbhBbDNxmUmhncpuIlb7nzUPhuOGwkj1H2OKkKPRMMqYScp5sgOtaoxzquGhENN77HiNbtoTpu0zB4YlFzvVPWzmdcn5V/s1600/Cinder+Jpegs_0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieH0aiHB0Lee0R_wi7-EqAp-uz7biHLpCzAWh9-3K2OPI2QWtCbhBbDNxmUmhncpuIlb7nzUPhuOGwkj1H2OKkKPRMMqYScp5sgOtaoxzquGhENN77HiNbtoTpu0zB4YlFzvVPWzmdcn5V/s320/Cinder+Jpegs_0004.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEACSeaUpl3xx5g0ToB-4FUwqf2uQOYP38_jWfS6Zz8ed0ABQacIRS6F2Ai5KORbkfsb-XCyirIMZYeEueLy2vc6UsOELwqBq3tmTfHuhHScQXN8VQWV-ZZd6_c3lVVecQTjHwY9EYAsb/s1600/Cinder+Jpegs_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEACSeaUpl3xx5g0ToB-4FUwqf2uQOYP38_jWfS6Zz8ed0ABQacIRS6F2Ai5KORbkfsb-XCyirIMZYeEueLy2vc6UsOELwqBq3tmTfHuhHScQXN8VQWV-ZZd6_c3lVVecQTjHwY9EYAsb/s320/Cinder+Jpegs_0005.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>"Cinder and Inky." <i>Child Life</i> 11.9 (Sept. 1932): 426-427. Illustrated by Ruth Eger.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7elhPe-bTc3RndA3nFmxsLZJyvIhWaFhyphenhyphenL5i8xF6-8k9fFkaX-Ok6nTXQTz3_nbrvWodyHWtxe7pYqNFnVGzsHFWiqJARE0pdiAkDLhk6bwQixTHwg3gRnV2asRTgo72UnkrcI0eJ8LeQ/s1600/Cinder+Jpegs_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7elhPe-bTc3RndA3nFmxsLZJyvIhWaFhyphenhyphenL5i8xF6-8k9fFkaX-Ok6nTXQTz3_nbrvWodyHWtxe7pYqNFnVGzsHFWiqJARE0pdiAkDLhk6bwQixTHwg3gRnV2asRTgo72UnkrcI0eJ8LeQ/s320/Cinder+Jpegs_0002.jpg" width="243" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7V4U_ikOeetwnrGZ6fYnn50XxsHXmT1QqV-QwkfdB7MaO8GsXxdtSur2v-oUwj8f8RH63JT1liindLujZbct4SuN7p0NhFAyciOC9869q-OWKuCwH9a1kXoc-WGGM3tDSubwaSNDXpR0W/s1600/Cinder+Jpegs_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7V4U_ikOeetwnrGZ6fYnn50XxsHXmT1QqV-QwkfdB7MaO8GsXxdtSur2v-oUwj8f8RH63JT1liindLujZbct4SuN7p0NhFAyciOC9869q-OWKuCwH9a1kXoc-WGGM3tDSubwaSNDXpR0W/s320/Cinder+Jpegs_0003.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-58262831079850742732010-07-13T12:13:00.015-05:002023-04-06T15:20:42.970-05:00Glass Plate Negatives, A Beaded Bag, and Pink Ladies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I knew I was in for a treat when I saw a small cardboard box labeled "Cat Pictures" in large, chalky script resting on the dining room table of West Licking Historical Society president Martha Tykodi. I return to Ohio every summer, and this trip would include research on my writerly cousin, Eleanor Youmans. Appointments were scheduled for the Billy Ireland Cartoon Library at Ohio State (more about that later); with Tykodi--a lifelong resident of Pataskala who, as a child, knew and admired Youmans and as an adult preserves her memory; and with Julie Brown--the daughter of Pataskala historian Carolyn Bentz, who also knew and wrote about Youmans. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOYTX7OZqs5YzatdV1PFngPXXITQKtT6fIX39FR2Y9aNWPpVZKbjyfhygSemawTQF6szgh3LobzEcLCxZYZLmpDxIq-6fQ8BrLl6T1ya5VGMm8vYEzTUhhlPSxofHkU7l0YCTLZIp7FFs/s1600/Judy+Cruikshank+Julie+Brown+Jackie+Cruikshank+Vogt+Martha+Tykodi+June+28+2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOYTX7OZqs5YzatdV1PFngPXXITQKtT6fIX39FR2Y9aNWPpVZKbjyfhygSemawTQF6szgh3LobzEcLCxZYZLmpDxIq-6fQ8BrLl6T1ya5VGMm8vYEzTUhhlPSxofHkU7l0YCTLZIp7FFs/s400/Judy+Cruikshank+Julie+Brown+Jackie+Cruikshank+Vogt+Martha+Tykodi+June+28+2010.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Next to the marked box containing seven glass plate negatives of Skitter, his brothers, and William, was a wooden antique cigar case holding several dozen more 4 x 5 emulsion coated plates, donated to the historical society by Bruce Baird, and a second, slightly larger, light gray metal case storing another sixteen 5 x 7 glass plate negatives given to the historical society by Virginia Gakle, a friend of Eleanor in her later years, whose husband purchased the negatives at her estate auction in 1968.<br />
<br />
The images captured on the negatives are simply amazing. To name but a few, there are snapshots of the elaborately furnished interior of the Youmans's Main Street home during their newly-wed years; candid shots of Eleanor's husband lounging on a chaise, cigar in hand and toddler son perched on his father's belly; photos of her son, William, with the mischievous Skitter cat as a kitten; poses of Youmans and her female friends dressed in their husband's suits and tuxes; and even an Art Nouveau inspired composition with a tastefully bare-bosomed Youmans cradling a bouquet of flowers. What an absolute treasure this collection is.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLH76YHG6WoI8iYUdyPatMbrA9zz6egkjQv0wG1lv_Y0_N8NOcQnl3Jtf3JAIPINdC6WYji2rsVpbzoEIEEFY6ZYRbetltikGX1kC_nXzaEymyFNM8PhmqEBON8s_roreLmvxF0jzlWwl/s1600/Dora+Jones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLH76YHG6WoI8iYUdyPatMbrA9zz6egkjQv0wG1lv_Y0_N8NOcQnl3Jtf3JAIPINdC6WYji2rsVpbzoEIEEFY6ZYRbetltikGX1kC_nXzaEymyFNM8PhmqEBON8s_roreLmvxF0jzlWwl/s320/Dora+Jones.jpg" width="228" /></a>Another rare item shared during this visit belongs to Julie Brown: a beaded leather drawstring pouch she inherited from her mother that was originally given to Youmans in 1902 or 1903 by her friend Dora Jones (pictured right), along with a long strand of blue beads. A handwritten letter inside the bag, addressed to Lena Fravel--another of my Pataskala cousins on my mother's side and friend of Youmans--explains that the bag once belonged to Sitting Bull's wife, and came from Canton, Oklahoma Territory. The bag, however, tells a different story. Inside, someone hand wrote the following: Mrs. Geronimo, Apache, Canton, OT., Sept. 20, 1903. The letter Youmans wrote to explain the bag was composed in her final weeks, and contradicts what is written inside the pouch in several ways (the fact that anything is written inside at all; the name of the Native American to whom the bag supposedly belonged, and the year Youmans obtained the bag). Whatever its true history, the bag is beautiful. It's clear why this artifact was so dear to Youmans. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxcq-HIFhrswTMlJwlmWzv85U3CGeBj_BzpxzahpRKT7GnyZxYJuN19_e-erOWZEYRb_cT1iSRKY7MI2kkRYBnOuTv27vutDTvLM594QNPsZKoLZB6iWrwfdI14hgkb6sVQT16imE83ZG/s1600/beaded+bag+front.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxcq-HIFhrswTMlJwlmWzv85U3CGeBj_BzpxzahpRKT7GnyZxYJuN19_e-erOWZEYRb_cT1iSRKY7MI2kkRYBnOuTv27vutDTvLM594QNPsZKoLZB6iWrwfdI14hgkb6sVQT16imE83ZG/s200/beaded+bag+front.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvWFVvXi3UM8UVcU7WM66LUscZWQT1pHd0v8rZQ9KcDqaq-EtCdmrNWRQ_rwZyTIxuUqPUR6ayQZYuyU45h15LydJyzobJHbd9ZC7Aaqt7JmXcJJyZc5JMGquVx4rcBuzivzcUeN2_z8J/s1600/beaded+bag+back+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvWFVvXi3UM8UVcU7WM66LUscZWQT1pHd0v8rZQ9KcDqaq-EtCdmrNWRQ_rwZyTIxuUqPUR6ayQZYuyU45h15LydJyzobJHbd9ZC7Aaqt7JmXcJJyZc5JMGquVx4rcBuzivzcUeN2_z8J/s200/beaded+bag+back+1.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBCoC9ljXfC5HK7EWStrcCjnbEEhzJY3Gyq6T2_cGXarWETZqq3DLHRUxN9uXKm-75dGufiptnxT61CNqWYgkT3Z6WiFVIkcH2-DDFQuAMpIxNSFwe9x36R-QukfMnWTGf1QoVxJqpt4D/s1600/Beaded+Bag+inside+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBCoC9ljXfC5HK7EWStrcCjnbEEhzJY3Gyq6T2_cGXarWETZqq3DLHRUxN9uXKm-75dGufiptnxT61CNqWYgkT3Z6WiFVIkcH2-DDFQuAMpIxNSFwe9x36R-QukfMnWTGf1QoVxJqpt4D/s200/Beaded+Bag+inside+1.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
A huge thank you goes out to Martha, Julie, and my mom for encouraging me to study Youmans and for sharing these treasures with me!<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>Pictured Top Left: Judy Cruikshank, Julie Brown, Jackie Cruikshank Vogt, Martha Tykodi</i><br />
<i>Middle Right Photo: Courtesy of West Licking Historical Society, from Eleanor Youmans Glass Plate Negative Collection</i>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-49182440503374504162010-07-12T19:14:00.015-05:002010-08-19T00:44:40.531-05:00Artifacts Housed in Pataskala Public LibraryPataskala librarian Cathy Lantz is the resident expert on Eleanor Youmans at the local public library. She was kind enough to allow me to photograph several artifacts donated by the author. See pics below:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhV9DYaicq1LnpEzHepbc28UDEwYZQncus6r12-DDvtIijc4I3arJ-c5TkzJBaB4-9xzs5rXX7D8xraTXx32SkilQXKUJb-NhX0s5x85Kh5SxL1UPHJvtiGCkwNVYK3UTj-BNsMNZKTOIb/s1600/Tapas+Cloth+at+Library.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhV9DYaicq1LnpEzHepbc28UDEwYZQncus6r12-DDvtIijc4I3arJ-c5TkzJBaB4-9xzs5rXX7D8xraTXx32SkilQXKUJb-NhX0s5x85Kh5SxL1UPHJvtiGCkwNVYK3UTj-BNsMNZKTOIb/s320/Tapas+Cloth+at+Library.JPG" /></a></div><br />
According to the card inside the frame, this large weaving is a Tapa Cloth, "made of Mulberry Bark and decorated by the natives of the Samoan Islands." Youmans donated the cloth to the library in 1968, most likely as she was discarding many of her belongings before moving in with her son and daughter-in-law in Plain City, Ohio, where she passed away just a few weeks later at the age of 92.<br />
<br />
The Tapa Cloth is mentioned in <i>Skitter and Skeet</i>, as part of the collection of "curious things brought from many parts of the world" displayed in the home of the family's well-traveled Santa Barbara cousins (26). I'm not sure if the trip taken by Mother, Father, Little Boy, and Skitter to California detailed in <i>Skitter and Skeet </i>is more fact or fiction. The book was published in 1928, following Youmans' year long residence in California, newly widowed, empty-nested, and without Skitter, so it could be a fictionalized memory (as many of the Skitter stories seem to be), but I do wonder if it might instead be a fantasy constructed on the page, created as she worked through the dramatic changes re-scaffolding her personal life.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">~ ~ ~</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzM5g1HHDPUJmBELt8JZZf5ux0MwoD4m30Gess6eaRrwa8YzVtO4PCb2AhEATySNwhW6qB6wcZW6SQXaarLbd1NPlp8ORmNH1aWhxMIH7b5-uW6gp8Wdox9yL8NRLBPTzr1JeHWYhVh39/s1600/Sally+by+Will+Rannells.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzM5g1HHDPUJmBELt8JZZf5ux0MwoD4m30Gess6eaRrwa8YzVtO4PCb2AhEATySNwhW6qB6wcZW6SQXaarLbd1NPlp8ORmNH1aWhxMIH7b5-uW6gp8Wdox9yL8NRLBPTzr1JeHWYhVh39/s320/Sally+by+Will+Rannells.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
These three framed pieces are original illustrations by the famed dog portrait artist, Will Rannells, appearing in two of the three works on which he collaborated with Youmans, including <i>Waif: The Story of Spe</i> (1937), <i>The Great Adventures of Jack, Jock and Funny</i> (1938), and <i>Timmy: The Dog That Was Different</i> (1941). West Licking Historical Society president Martha Tykodi recalls attending an event hosted by the library in the late 1930s / early 1940s—when the library was still located in its original home in the Pataskala Town Hall—featuring Rannells and Youmans together.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CBfwZSFTKtzI1B_67CLQMkiqg_mjgeW_CyOal5sSaD3zqhHDXXKR283IpaFsRmY0Y3pI54ypI0-ub2ck4iHb6ncM8lpilIqErX4te2In558UFdpZUCkExAjN6yvenjIPGasrPaLCxfn2/s1600/Jock+by+Will+Rannells.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CBfwZSFTKtzI1B_67CLQMkiqg_mjgeW_CyOal5sSaD3zqhHDXXKR283IpaFsRmY0Y3pI54ypI0-ub2ck4iHb6ncM8lpilIqErX4te2In558UFdpZUCkExAjN6yvenjIPGasrPaLCxfn2/s320/Jock+by+Will+Rannells.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The images are on display in the children's section of the library, where they've been housed ever since I can remember. Labels on the backs of the frames offer a date of 1976, but this was the year the library began a new inventory system, rather than the year in which the art pieces were obtained. I suspect the portraits were probably gifts to the library from Youmans, perhaps the same year as the Tapa Cloth, as she gave away many of her possessions at that time. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGnRHakhd4zG3OJ41Tf2tMibXgzNjUr3mpQWwSdnAaBwdwP48XzRa8JOpnSPPHRLJ22cyflYCssm7vqEVNwMparTtNeQUUwo9ea-XDOn1oWwOmnbTWbAfr7taCQSGymw2yVHmvFek8vECx/s1600/Spe+by+Will+Rannells.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGnRHakhd4zG3OJ41Tf2tMibXgzNjUr3mpQWwSdnAaBwdwP48XzRa8JOpnSPPHRLJ22cyflYCssm7vqEVNwMparTtNeQUUwo9ea-XDOn1oWwOmnbTWbAfr7taCQSGymw2yVHmvFek8vECx/s320/Spe+by+Will+Rannells.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I hope these mementos will not suffer the same fate as the collection of books authored by Youmans once owned by the Pataskala library—they were donated to the Granville Historical Society. Youmans lived all but eighteen of her ninety-two years as a Pataskala resident, and the traces of her legacy belong in her home town.Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-56284320224114410512010-06-10T16:24:00.002-05:002010-07-30T16:53:00.387-05:00A Horse is A Horse of Course of Course, Unless...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOI8wAPTOciVH6FD37n_Sld90Zio3BzL9CbRN6v4unzcAsbageDh5c3kQxL7Fe6byfPwWox7sACyy75_Kt5gsUU6-km4eMfmPKnoC63-iCGEYS2LUGTSlFSAvFR-KM7P3LylciaW4BVur/s1600/Teddy+Horse+Cover.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481261322894066594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOI8wAPTOciVH6FD37n_Sld90Zio3BzL9CbRN6v4unzcAsbageDh5c3kQxL7Fe6byfPwWox7sACyy75_Kt5gsUU6-km4eMfmPKnoC63-iCGEYS2LUGTSlFSAvFR-KM7P3LylciaW4BVur/s320/Teddy+Horse+Cover.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 229px;" /></a>When I saw the cover of <span style="font-style: italic;">Teddy Horse</span>, I thought I would hate it. Despite my childhood love of Hasbro’s line of My Little Ponies and a penchant for reading, the two did not mix in my mind. However heart wrenching the life of Phar Lap or enduring the tale of Black Beauty, I read their stories with forced interest. To my initial dismay, then, not only is <span style="font-style: italic;">Teddy Horse</span> equine inspired, but the cover art also boasts a red-suited monkey riding the Shetland pony. Now, I know D-list moviegoers may disagree, but performing monkeys do not to me spell comedy, fun, or quality (and please forgive me as I lump together monkeys, gorillas and chimps for the sake of argument here). <span style="font-style: italic;">Gorillas in the Mist</span> (1988) aside, if there is an ape involved, I want nothing to do with it, thanks to the monkey hijinks smeared across the big screen by the likes of Matt LeBlanc’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Ed</span> (1996), Clint Eastwood’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Every Which Way But Loose </span>(1978)—it’s sequal <span style="font-style: italic;">Any Which Way Yo</span><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/07/02/article-0-05806144000005DC-283_468x325.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/07/02/article-0-05806144000005DC-283_468x325.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 211px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 305px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">u Can</span> (1980)—and Annette Funicello’s <span style="font-style: italic;">The Monkey’s Uncle </span>(1965), to name just a few. That <span style="font-style: italic;">Teddy Horse</span>’s Jimmy is outfitted on the cover in gold-studded quasi-military-inspired attire that would arouse jealousy even from Bubbles—the late Michael Jackson’s ever-faithful companion—doesn’t help.<br />
<br />
What I discovered when I actually read <span style="font-style: italic;">Teddy Horse</span>, however, is that the story has very little to do with monkeys, and everything to do with pulling the heartstrings in all the right ways. No, Youmans isn’t inventing the wheel here. <span style="font-style: italic;">Teddy Horse</span> is yet another tale of separation from loved ones, a menagerie of domesticated and barnyard animal friends, and survival in unfamiliar territory—all of which are familiar themes in her string of novels and short stories. Such themes are central not only to her writing, but to Youmans’s own life as well, as she bounced back and forth between relatives in Missouri and Ohio in her youth, and surrounded herself with constant cat and dog companions throughout her adult years. She writes honestly and with only a little pandering. I knew I was being manipulated as Teddy Horse faces danger looming large, but enjoyed the emotional response the words on the page evoked in me as the pony deftly clears the hurdles blocking his safety. <span style="font-style: italic;">Teddy Horse</span> is a sweet story that far exceeds the ridiculous connotations brought to mind by late twentieth-century popular culture. I guess the old adage still holds: Don’t judge a book by its cover.Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-39619533671911207222010-06-09T21:58:00.004-05:002010-09-03T23:44:46.099-05:00A Celebrity Cat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhzmRx4IUG4jQ_I429e-GLJnVAOFbLRnW0-tWuMu7BNHhdUGEEKjzd4W4mxISFtCbD-rfR96BD572DSS8jekn-tCOWMD60ZtpGJh7zTFQk4PvX1p4kmteRz6FXXeNJe5nQX1jap_ff2x_/s1600/Skitter+Cover+Close+Up.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481194580433862290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhzmRx4IUG4jQ_I429e-GLJnVAOFbLRnW0-tWuMu7BNHhdUGEEKjzd4W4mxISFtCbD-rfR96BD572DSS8jekn-tCOWMD60ZtpGJh7zTFQk4PvX1p4kmteRz6FXXeNJe5nQX1jap_ff2x_/s320/Skitter+Cover+Close+Up.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 306px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Skitter Cat</span> (1925) was Youmans's first novel, launching a series of four tomes about the feisty white Persian kitty, three of which were reissued in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Skitter Cat Book</span> (1947). The characters are: Aunt Maud (based on Maud Mead, wife of Eleanor's husband's nephew), who owns Fluff, a pedigreed Persian. Fluff is mama to four kittens. Three are timid, brothers Jack Frost and Snow Ball, and their sister Snow Baby. The fourth, more adventuresome brother cat they name Skitter (because of the sound his claws make when he runs across the floor, like a skittering dry leaf). Mother, Father, and Little Boy (based on Eleanor, her husband Brigg, and son William) adopt Skitter, who joins Major, their Airedale. Other supporting characters include husband and wife neighbors who own the chickens Skitter loves to chase, a friend in the city who is willing to house Skitter until he outgrows his kitten-aged urge to frighten chickens, a "big girl" and her father who live across the Pike and help return Skitter to his family after he escapes a moving car, and Minnie, the live-in maid. [A 1910 Census record lists Sadie R. Givner [Gieseck] born about 1888 (age 22) living with the Youmans family as a servant—perhaps she is the real life model for Minnie].<br />
<br />
The hero of the story, Skitter, of course, is based on his real life namesake:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMuLUPwhfXtL2LZsDQmRw6x0k1DOyJBB6Ms-68KGL3BO18PI7GNA_61MGfQAyQ-sPurFJH2JRsCJhp3WJbvj4TSrUn_gDKbtfQCC5Oo7aJs2UZbg6h-bWlMKqXqacGu5ahZ2-hW_mFsig/s1600/Skitter+Cat.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481167757658851362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglMuLUPwhfXtL2LZsDQmRw6x0k1DOyJBB6Ms-68KGL3BO18PI7GNA_61MGfQAyQ-sPurFJH2JRsCJhp3WJbvj4TSrUn_gDKbtfQCC5Oo7aJs2UZbg6h-bWlMKqXqacGu5ahZ2-hW_mFsig/s320/Skitter+Cat.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 198px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">Photo of Skitter courtesy of Charles O. Davis.</span><br />
<br />
</div>The inscription Eleanor wrote in my mother's copy reads, "Skitter lived to be almost sixteen, and Major lived to be twelve. Little Boy was my son William. Eleanor Youmans, Pataskala, Ohio. Dec. 20 1944."<br />
<br />
Pics of my very beat-up dust-jacketed edition:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSDVu1xsznRqNcKYoiNU-eCUyMdSbCchVkXJOblS32zQiODzDPtlQY-lJjpWimS5AShVdz4i1BtioFRRApTQh6YaYBiN6vosiI0QgtnZbUmm0frJ_jVeE4reYYk-WKXeHw00oWHihHP8U/s1600/Skitter+Cat+Front+Jacket.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481185022006314098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSDVu1xsznRqNcKYoiNU-eCUyMdSbCchVkXJOblS32zQiODzDPtlQY-lJjpWimS5AShVdz4i1BtioFRRApTQh6YaYBiN6vosiI0QgtnZbUmm0frJ_jVeE4reYYk-WKXeHw00oWHihHP8U/s320/Skitter+Cat+Front+Jacket.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 320px; width: 237px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpd3JTA6K0AoMbn4rwZoFEfsFjb5L2qlT_06xH-hgoLElDbspeUrNGGzf8zt2sAo1F2SvjT4E9gGjRhOkKyUkIne7nCFDa6nxJgAQvA8h7e_hFEQv1vS00o41xXwf9i0SFKj0bgvwOnrB/s1600/Skitter+Cat+Back+Jacket.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481187698820331874" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpd3JTA6K0AoMbn4rwZoFEfsFjb5L2qlT_06xH-hgoLElDbspeUrNGGzf8zt2sAo1F2SvjT4E9gGjRhOkKyUkIne7nCFDa6nxJgAQvA8h7e_hFEQv1vS00o41xXwf9i0SFKj0bgvwOnrB/s320/Skitter+Cat+Back+Jacket.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 320px; width: 238px;" /></a></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />
Text of Front Flap</span> (apparently aimed at the child reader):<br />
<blockquote>Skitter Cat's big adventure was getting lost for five months in the woods, and that's some adventure for a home-keeping Persian kitten.<br />
<br />
Here were dangers the little thing had never dreamed of, but he had a lot of courage and he made up his mind that he was going to live and get back home to his warm firs and his saucer of cream.<br />
<br />
Instinct—the head of the family can tell you what that means—comes to his rescue. He learns to hunt for his food, to know the birds and the wild animals, and all about woodcraft; the fact is, he becomes a sort of kitten Boy Scout.</blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">Text of Back Flap</span> (presumably aimed at the adult reader / parent buyer):<br />
<blockquote>If you are unfortunate enough to dislike cats don't take this little volume into your family circle. For this is the intimate life story of a Persian kitten, a new kind of biography which you can't read without seeing Skitter Cat before the fire, without hearing his plaintive voice, without feeling his silky coat as he curls himself up in your lap.<br />
<br />
This warning is addressed to the head of the family, for of course there isn't any child who dislikes cats, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Skitter Cat</span> is by first intention a story for children. But you, head of the family, may have to read it aloud six nights out of seven and so we tell you it is biography of a new kind; that you won't find any nature faking in it, but animal life as it really is along with a lot of fun and some interesting information. </blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">What I really enjoy about the story, however, is that it gives insight into early twentieth-century small town life. The location of the story is based on Pataskala, Ohio, Eleanor's hometown. Geographic clues fit the village's profile. There is the pike on which Skitter escapes the moving vehicle that sounds a bit like the viaduct just outside of town on West Broad Street crossing into Summit Station (although he is supposed to have gotten lost twelve miles from town, not two, so maybe this is just imaginative thinking on my part). The city Skitter is in transit to is presumably Columbus. Father comes home for lunch and a nap from his downtown business, an easy feat in real life, as Brigg and Eleanor lived just two blocks away from Brigg's store; and Father in the story spent his youth trapping with his brothers in the rural landscape surrounding the village—and landscape that is quickly eroding today, but nevertheless still exists.</div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJNoOJjOEIHJIDPgj_B91RGmxHZG-NufKuoY4IzKdvELD8_ajwblRrfdZnwL7Vzhvl6m1Ld8E9PHD84tDjeJCUiErta1FDrBvMMxM-UTlMEXmYIitkXtZwwWyf7cmjWfJHtH0SVclo-Js/s1600/Downtown+Pataskala+c+1910.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481189546346526578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJNoOJjOEIHJIDPgj_B91RGmxHZG-NufKuoY4IzKdvELD8_ajwblRrfdZnwL7Vzhvl6m1Ld8E9PHD84tDjeJCUiErta1FDrBvMMxM-UTlMEXmYIitkXtZwwWyf7cmjWfJHtH0SVclo-Js/s320/Downtown+Pataskala+c+1910.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 198px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Downtown Pataskala, circa 1910, looking North toward railroad tracks. The two story brick building with the flat front and three windows across the top is the Standard building. The building just north of it is the Youmans' Store, which burned down in </span><span style="font-style: italic;">1914.</span></span><br />
<br />
</div>I also love that Youmans isn't afraid to "tell it like it is." She doesn't hold back from presenting cats as carnivores in her honest portrayal of survival in the woods, nor does she refrain from showing child readers the harsh realities of neglected animals. Stray cats are routinely dropped off in the alleyway beside the family’s house because, "Mother was convinced, people knew she’d see to them being put to sleep painlessly." (In other texts she is even more up front about animal life and death—and the violence inflicted on them by humans).<br />
<br />
The best story about Skitter, though? That he was a celebrity among his child readers, receiving hundreds of requests for "Skitter-graphs," prints from Skitter's paw dipped in ink. One summer when Eleanor took an extended trip to California and Skitter stayed behind with a friend, she kept up with demand by forging skitter-graphs by borrowing a neighbor's cat and some purple ink. Skitter didn't mind too much, as he didn't like ink anyway.Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-41037320367651214202010-05-19T21:06:00.012-05:002023-04-05T23:08:13.197-05:00How Not to See New York<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-ENR0P6W2BPFORrzCM_YVsNuOmIiWkHM4O88tJ2fERO9YPswJSSRze_NsJ4ZWg79LI5fZ0UxjlyIpTJ--BBsVFjv8l1aF4Xb7BbffLSr-3ICQdgGcDLph5aOOslvIeRK8-S6jWr1Tbv4rUxZcUezN2kndwUmgilFyaOEJzS_kAUN0q4rImmBEms_Dw/s1280/sunset-g2f0da67ec_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-ENR0P6W2BPFORrzCM_YVsNuOmIiWkHM4O88tJ2fERO9YPswJSSRze_NsJ4ZWg79LI5fZ0UxjlyIpTJ--BBsVFjv8l1aF4Xb7BbffLSr-3ICQdgGcDLph5aOOslvIeRK8-S6jWr1Tbv4rUxZcUezN2kndwUmgilFyaOEJzS_kAUN0q4rImmBEms_Dw/w400-h266/sunset-g2f0da67ec_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manhattan skyline at sunset. Photo credit: Pixabay</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>Found such an unusual article authored by Youmans and appearing in the 5 Dec. 1934 edition of<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>the <span style="font-style: italic;">Berkeley Daily Gazette</span>, page 4. It's a jam-packed, rather cheeky imagined itinerary for a hypothetical trip to New York, a location which, in the end, she advises the aging and contemplative against visiting. Not sure why the write-up's in a California newspaper (since she was located in Ohio)—though she did stay with a friend for a year in Cali, between 1927-1928, following the death of her husband and marriage of her only son, so perhaps there's a connection there. Also not sure why she's writing about what to see, if she'd never been!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Manhattan Tour</span></div><br />
From Pataskala, Ohio, comes the following prescription for the ideal New York visit. Eleanor Youmans sends it:<br />
<br />
“Having been to Atlantic City, but never to New York, I suspect I’d spend the first hour riding miles in a taxi to reach a hotel three blocks from the station.<br />
<br />
“The first half day, I’d made inquiries as to what has been done with the Poe cottage that stood <br />at Fordham. And the afternoon, going to the various places to which I had been mistakenly direct. Incidentally, you might tell us: What has become of the Poe cottage?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcAgtIVTl5s95swS3cms7JL9S5Q9iUallAz7Wcjpzza-qwZNGkAqal0oAbboSi5PM6uNkMZReKQBnqzyVN6dQybRcOyhrKE6rTiPcSrUwIycK-3UR9ZJSXxZnB3WlpsE3Vo3gw2By9WgI9itieLgFXCuNRn8xAMAqWwgrB-6WI_OK5jWQa2wbhDfT4A/s640/640px-2016-10-15-PoeCottage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcAgtIVTl5s95swS3cms7JL9S5Q9iUallAz7Wcjpzza-qwZNGkAqal0oAbboSi5PM6uNkMZReKQBnqzyVN6dQybRcOyhrKE6rTiPcSrUwIycK-3UR9ZJSXxZnB3WlpsE3Vo3gw2By9WgI9itieLgFXCuNRn8xAMAqWwgrB-6WI_OK5jWQa2wbhDfT4A/w400-h300/640px-2016-10-15-PoeCottage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poe Cottage, Bronx, New York. Photo credit: <span><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:2016-10-15-PoeCottage.jpg" title="User talk:JHSmithArch">JHSmithArch</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p>
“Having seen greater New York and the water front, the Brooklyn and Washington bridges, Central Park, Broadway, Forty-Second Street, and the Goddess of Liberty, while hunting for the Poe cottage—I’d spend my second and third days in the Metropolitan Museum art Gallery. The fourth day, if possible, I’d visit Radio City music hall, the Capital Theater, and the Theater Guild. In the evening, I’d go to Madison Square Garden, to see the Canadian Mounties ride.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_xPFeCpIyNqXzJDtNH5cU86ybxAf87rTF7QHdXLC-jBYqyez3NPWA8JdnAvf5Mb6nniW0ZgDm-2ic2ngbU0K8Bn3MiAu37enmKsHH0HB4gv8l8ESEqQdMMDodU8A5lwPEityy_R3e96Q_fzgt_x2C_rAprde6ghsD2LdtT9W6jGPK7mhYNS2hsJB4Q/s1024/Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art,_New_York_City_NY,_entrance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="1024" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_xPFeCpIyNqXzJDtNH5cU86ybxAf87rTF7QHdXLC-jBYqyez3NPWA8JdnAvf5Mb6nniW0ZgDm-2ic2ngbU0K8Bn3MiAu37enmKsHH0HB4gv8l8ESEqQdMMDodU8A5lwPEityy_R3e96Q_fzgt_x2C_rAprde6ghsD2LdtT9W6jGPK7mhYNS2hsJB4Q/w400-h325/Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art,_New_York_City_NY,_entrance.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Metropolitan Museum of Art. Photo credit: <span><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art,_New_York_City_NY,_entrance.jpg" title="User:Arad">Arad</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>“The fifth day—a farewell ride up Broadway on top of a bus, in the morning. A matinee performance of the Phil Harmonic, and that night, to the Metropolitan opera, to hear Richard Crooks and Rosa Ponselle in—was it?—‘Peter Ibbettson.’ Between times, a stroll up Fifth Avenue, to peer into shop windows. But no time wasted going inside. We have shops, at home, stuffed with New York and Paris goods.<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uc3nadOSL9MxPdz2uaqTVXjeRUDkjoIzHgWHjf0ZqRM4tzej4Zji-Fv2rj2xidxG90l6JOaSL3PWOwzgJdw-G41kXYuJDGlgmBX27q7ihK2qT35DeBzeDh9HCQ_oG42E1sQW4CM8Y4cd3v__9YyA-PywGYSsIXvAyjYm82v4hVXFL6qCZlw2o1sdvg/s1587/american-cities-085.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1587" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uc3nadOSL9MxPdz2uaqTVXjeRUDkjoIzHgWHjf0ZqRM4tzej4Zji-Fv2rj2xidxG90l6JOaSL3PWOwzgJdw-G41kXYuJDGlgmBX27q7ihK2qT35DeBzeDh9HCQ_oG42E1sQW4CM8Y4cd3v__9YyA-PywGYSsIXvAyjYm82v4hVXFL6qCZlw2o1sdvg/w400-h244/american-cities-085.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Metropolitan Opera. Photo credit: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metropolitan_Opera#/media/File:Metropolitan_Opera_House,_a_concert_by_pianist_Josef_Hofmann_-_NARA_541890_-_Edit.jpg">NARA</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">“No night clubs—‘My New York,’ and a lively imagination is sufficient for them. No visit to the Empire State tower—pictures show more than I could see on a smoky winter day. I’d be taken to my train in an ambu’ance, likely, after such a whirl. And, it would be a relief to return to the Welsh hills country, in Central Ohio. New York attracts youth. It is the place for sharp, brilliant work. When you come to write your 1200 page novel, try the meditative hills.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYDc4g-eO-CryS5hDVI16dm7rI_YMiiMI2dsPABUNPlkZ1H7T0yM-n-OPodWZD0EjIqU_UxkTysXAgBTTHKQgP7zv3d6v2dLw2jDn2JDy9cZ4sMq8YCDoB_zRiKfhIM5tRSh4YCg0FANMl4FNaubi5xfu7SXjwv81tdK5Yb05Cfe-xWvNiqwbXpmKHQ/s1024/The_Welsh_Hills_Inn_from_the_Paddock_-_Granville_Ohio.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYDc4g-eO-CryS5hDVI16dm7rI_YMiiMI2dsPABUNPlkZ1H7T0yM-n-OPodWZD0EjIqU_UxkTysXAgBTTHKQgP7zv3d6v2dLw2jDn2JDy9cZ4sMq8YCDoB_zRiKfhIM5tRSh4YCg0FANMl4FNaubi5xfu7SXjwv81tdK5Yb05Cfe-xWvNiqwbXpmKHQ/w400-h300/The_Welsh_Hills_Inn_from_the_Paddock_-_Granville_Ohio.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welsh Hills of Licking County, Ohio. Photo credit: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Welsh_Hills_Inn_from_the_Paddock_-_Granville_Ohio.JPG">GranvilleNative</a></td></tr></tbody></table>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-14479403387030763732010-05-09T12:13:00.004-05:002023-04-05T23:19:40.768-05:00Researching an All-But-Forgotten Life<p>I've been planning to research and write about Youmans for years, but it was a random internet search for her name during a break in the fall semester last year that made me realize that I actually had the tools to do the research at my fingertips. Her name was indexed in <a href="http://www.philsp.com/homeville/fmi/n08/n08875.htm#A68">The FictionMags Index</a> created by a private user. Till then, I never knew she wrote anything but children's books. A door into an essentially forgotten life was opened.</p><p>Beginning with WorldCat, I compiled a complete list of her novels (and their reprints) and the volumes of <span style="font-style: italic;">Book </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Review Digest</span>
at the university library showed me where to find most of the book
reviews listed on this site. What we didn't have in hard copy in the
library I've requested via Interlibrary Loan over the past six months. A
couple of the reviews were in works so obscure it took several months
for the ILL office to track down copies (when most typically take a
week). My mother gave me several of Youmans's books, inscribed to her,
and I've managed to build a complete library of her novels from online
used and antiquarian book sellers. The Pataskala Public Library once
owned a collection of her works, but donated them to the <a href="http://www.granvillehistory.org/">Granville Historical Society</a>.<br />
</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOt--u00rakE2DsJT-zrUUerHXuUhC6rRfpXI98iT609KMdGoAFgotaKjCU7VfTuTLuQtYMYQ640UAPEQofeQMSreusb4W2P-ObmyLXz2YHRGOFJtNOUGsTnx5NSaDM1tyu5yWN2B_bsFJYRoqExjaHf4jcUgbLkxsY0VPmdR6KKXADsktgI3kRx87xQ/s1024/Don_L._Love_Memorial_Library.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="681" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOt--u00rakE2DsJT-zrUUerHXuUhC6rRfpXI98iT609KMdGoAFgotaKjCU7VfTuTLuQtYMYQ640UAPEQofeQMSreusb4W2P-ObmyLXz2YHRGOFJtNOUGsTnx5NSaDM1tyu5yWN2B_bsFJYRoqExjaHf4jcUgbLkxsY0VPmdR6KKXADsktgI3kRx87xQ/s320/Don_L._Love_Memorial_Library.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love Memorial Library at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Photo credit: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Don_L._Love_Memorial_Library.jpg">David Keyzer</a></td></tr></tbody></table>
<br />
Neither the Ohio Historical Society, nor the Licking County Historical Society have any information pertaining to Youmans. The West Licking County Historical Society—which covers Pataskala—has published a small amount of information on her, of course, and has been a vital source as I gather material. I plan to visit with some of its members this summer to compile more information. Of especially tremendous insight has been one of Eleanor's friends, who has been kind enough to correspond with me over the last few months, sharing with me her time and valuable memories. <a href="http://www.ohioana.org/">The Ohioana Library</a> has a small file on her work, and has been very helpful. <a href="http://cartoons.osu.edu/">The Cartoon Library and Museum</a> at The Ohio State University may have some information as well, since they have the Will Rannells papers, and I will be visiting their repository this summer.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9-jsp8--VtDHY85yXxM3lLBDUios28NByHozLnA3I4bHBvnmOi5ODpKgxkVV8TgbmwOnRNtH8-fQeX_iNmSxBcl2dwMnMyiL0Cc3knC6SYg4CjSM2wO2O_7NxcoOYLFj-NMdXYMWgEQxRHoOsM-NLOAeEP7WfuIXTX0rfwuURngJbTc2Wi4wYfi3QQ/s1052/Rannells%20part%202%2001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="841" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9-jsp8--VtDHY85yXxM3lLBDUios28NByHozLnA3I4bHBvnmOi5ODpKgxkVV8TgbmwOnRNtH8-fQeX_iNmSxBcl2dwMnMyiL0Cc3knC6SYg4CjSM2wO2O_7NxcoOYLFj-NMdXYMWgEQxRHoOsM-NLOAeEP7WfuIXTX0rfwuURngJbTc2Wi4wYfi3QQ/s320/Rannells%20part%202%2001.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 16, 1914 Cover of Life Magazine, featuring artwork by Will Rannells. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Because Youmans is one of my relatives (my first cousin, three times removed) I had some insight into her life through genealogical records. In fact, I was able to connect with her great-nephew (my third cousin, once removed) through a genealogical society. He has graciously shared with me some of Eleanor's letters, family histories she authored, a few photos, and even an unpublished short story she wrote for her sister's children.<br />
<br />
By extension, a free trial on <a href="http://www.ancestry.com/">ancestry.com</a> allowed me to search out newspaper articles on her in a local paper, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Newark Advocate</span>. If only archives of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pataskala Standard</span> were accessible online! <a href="http://www.pataskalalibrary.org/">The Pataskala Public Library</a> holds a collection of the newspaper on microfiche. Their machines only allow you to view the articles, however, and not print them. For a while, my mother was serving as my research assistant, scouring the old papers for information on Youmans as I'm now living out-of-state. Eventually, I plan to pay a visit to the <a href="http://www.ohiohistory.org/">Ohio Historical Society</a> where they have a more complete microfiche collection of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Standard</span> and viewers that enable printing.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MdFDP07K2xRej4HdYHixmFCgcQM8XOYMZHYcxkLpCFfQD5_kW-VJB5svjRn1xQwcW1ZHUHiN1664a1iwPzy5Q9kq6yV-hC1jw8ecIEtrUztyircjzDPXoaMRflkw4kyUKNvbE1NP_PWj4N9hZWu2AknDaCVgXmA0BXIHcTUAtYY5gYeD95OsgIQmSw/s779/2023-04-05_202819.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="779" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MdFDP07K2xRej4HdYHixmFCgcQM8XOYMZHYcxkLpCFfQD5_kW-VJB5svjRn1xQwcW1ZHUHiN1664a1iwPzy5Q9kq6yV-hC1jw8ecIEtrUztyircjzDPXoaMRflkw4kyUKNvbE1NP_PWj4N9hZWu2AknDaCVgXmA0BXIHcTUAtYY5gYeD95OsgIQmSw/w400-h194/2023-04-05_202819.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pataskala Public Library. Photo credit: <a href="https://kidslinked.com/Home/Vendor/30/pataskala-public-library">Kids Linked</a><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
A 1937 <a href="http://www.newarkadvocate.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Newark Advocate</span></a> article explains that Youmans got her start when a friend asked her to write copy for <span style="font-style: italic;">Cat Courier</span>, the monthly newsletter of the Cat Fanciers' Association. A magazine in England apparently copied the stories, and "the idea looked too good to discard." There seem to be only three places in the world that have copies of <span style="font-style: italic;">Cat </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Courier</span> dated during the decades when Youmans would have written for them—<a href="http://www.nypl.org/">New York Public Library</a>, Maryland's <a href="http://www.nal.usda.gov/">National Agriculture Library</a>, and the <a href="http://www.cfa.org/org/central-office.html">Jean Baker Rose Memorial Library</a> at the CFA headquarters in New Jersey. Since I don't know specific issues of page numbers, and these newsletters don't include indexes or tables of contents, the only real way for me to find her stories will be to actually flip through the newsletters by hand. Some day! And I would love to figure out which English magazine copied the stories.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDigy1MdxwsAcRhCIHgF_Na3FMe6i6yTmWAbpa1hRLcrt8TEJoW0--RX3GzwUr-4RaLaP1WqXe4_r6AegRPRZMDNACd32gdE5iGWCwzp2lC8UtF4GMlUTqLHaIX37OnZyeJmTbmXE9Q74Dyqv5u-qb--fiRiu1YEzineZ3eTrPxr8wMVPYxNOJcnx6w/s1500/New_York_Public_Library_060622.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDigy1MdxwsAcRhCIHgF_Na3FMe6i6yTmWAbpa1hRLcrt8TEJoW0--RX3GzwUr-4RaLaP1WqXe4_r6AegRPRZMDNACd32gdE5iGWCwzp2lC8UtF4GMlUTqLHaIX37OnZyeJmTbmXE9Q74Dyqv5u-qb--fiRiu1YEzineZ3eTrPxr8wMVPYxNOJcnx6w/w400-h320/New_York_Public_Library_060622.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New York Public Library. Photo credit: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:New_York_Public_Library_060622.JPG" title="User:PFHLai">PFHLai</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p>
The recent acquisition of digitized texts by Google and now available through <a href="http://news.google.com/archivesearch?pz=1&cf=all&ned=us&hl=en&q=eleanor+youmans&cf=all">Google News</a> has sniffed out even more references to her titles.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Periodic internet searches have lead me to online auctions of works containing her stories, including <span style="font-style: italic;">Child Life</span> magazine and a "safety reader" that contextualizes Skitter Cat (a white Persian) and Major (an Airedale) in light of teaching children how to keep pets safe. On my next trip to Minneapolis I plan to peruse the <a href="http://www.hclib.org/">main library</a><a href="http://www.hclib.org/">'s</a> collection of <span style="font-style: italic;">Child Life</span> to see if she published in any other issues.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9CIaiu6OvrjQF2eCfpd-A-LX4e8p6MLPkdn8-vDPC7NE4IHm4NOYS4G5SNt60eU3GG76Wi-KYWYdwkOT4QK1SbWWtCp28er5qqDIXqxCn3fka-XzUXrUhsAnTe97RNtk75til__dzZxh/s1600/child+life+august+1933.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9CIaiu6OvrjQF2eCfpd-A-LX4e8p6MLPkdn8-vDPC7NE4IHm4NOYS4G5SNt60eU3GG76Wi-KYWYdwkOT4QK1SbWWtCp28er5qqDIXqxCn3fka-XzUXrUhsAnTe97RNtk75til__dzZxh/s320/child+life+august+1933.jpg" width="247" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">August 1935 Cover of Child Life Magazine</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>The mother lode of Eleanor Youmans related library holdings is retained by <a href="http://www.indiana.edu/%7Eliblilly/index.php">the Lilly Library</a> at Indiana University in Bloomington. They house the manuscript collection of her Indianapolis based publisher—Bobbs-Merrill, containing approximately 700 pages of correspondence, biographical data, readers' reports, and promotional material pertaining to Youmans. Some day, some day!</p><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_2TmHDDBktIzfMTC6CYgmCSsxZ-x-L4OC0_BdqBBteUDyZZC0xcIQiFfs1B7Nl6L_-O5jgsjccDM4LNH3iK3nKqOvKWz13_Ig5AmegNyL463IFhSdBppPZ2uyXmqO2TYbvhhycNes8JPQKrENTTL6xcGfm3QUTv1Za-6GkswTeq0CDdu5WFlFiKLzw/s640/640px-IUB_Lilly_Library_P1000231.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir_2TmHDDBktIzfMTC6CYgmCSsxZ-x-L4OC0_BdqBBteUDyZZC0xcIQiFfs1B7Nl6L_-O5jgsjccDM4LNH3iK3nKqOvKWz13_Ig5AmegNyL463IFhSdBppPZ2uyXmqO2TYbvhhycNes8JPQKrENTTL6xcGfm3QUTv1Za-6GkswTeq0CDdu5WFlFiKLzw/w400-h300/640px-IUB_Lilly_Library_P1000231.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lilly Library at Indiana University Bloomington. Photo credit: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:IUB_Lilly_Library_P1000231.jpg" title="User:Vmenkov">Vmenkov</a></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-29436897573790585252010-05-07T21:50:00.000-05:002010-06-10T19:12:38.352-05:00Cinder and Inky Again<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqDIOgltgFEOU1DsRlf9CEWSbSo8IsKF8NwiHJoRUFocpfkwPFl3kPT4A5iflTSZjPRcV7dhapkyAHiT19ySjcpKQ7C80Kqj4jCSF6y_HpKs8UPl0ldr25WugeaoiR1PAM4yIvMnL1tjWX/s1600/Inky_1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqDIOgltgFEOU1DsRlf9CEWSbSo8IsKF8NwiHJoRUFocpfkwPFl3kPT4A5iflTSZjPRcV7dhapkyAHiT19ySjcpKQ7C80Kqj4jCSF6y_HpKs8UPl0ldr25WugeaoiR1PAM4yIvMnL1tjWX/s200/Inky_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468732924906789330" border="0" /></a>Several sources mention that Youmans wrote short stories, but other than her first "real" publication—"<a href="http://eleanoryoumans.blogspot.com/2010/04/man-who-wanted-dog-that-would-kill.html">The Man Who Wanted a Dog That Would Kill</a>," appearing in the October 1921 issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">American Magazine</span>—I hadn't found any of them. So, I was thrilled to stumble across the August 1933 issue of <span style="font-style: italic;">Child Life</span>, which contains "Cinder and Inky Again," a short story with colorized illustrations by Ruth Eger. 1933 is also the publication year of <span style="font-style: italic;">Cin</span><span style="font-style: italic;">der</span>, about the black-and-tan toy terrier of the same name, with supporting characters Ida <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrzbRChvbJ1AvyLM_JzpYhXehTUabXEXCdcymnVMW1yCpgkdaL4Qe3dKfm9yJWfd_X3IujB-hC6xwMEqy16stWX5JzwGnANmkKMU10YSG3qr_DayutgSR5QYL7KByKxjpIVTUSGG5z5N2/s1600/Inky_2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsrzbRChvbJ1AvyLM_JzpYhXehTUabXEXCdcymnVMW1yCpgkdaL4Qe3dKfm9yJWfd_X3IujB-hC6xwMEqy16stWX5JzwGnANmkKMU10YSG3qr_DayutgSR5QYL7KByKxjpIVTUSGG5z5N2/s320/Inky_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468733314008330482" border="0" /></a>(a little girl), Inky (Ida's black kitten), and Queenie (Cinder's mother). I suspect this short story was probably edited out of the full-length <span style="font-style: italic;">Cinder</span>, since both texts appear in the same year and the short story references events that take place in the longer work.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It's a cute story—about Inky attempting to look into a nest of baby Robbins, only to learn a very painful lesson about protective bird parenting. I always wonder if artists really read the stories they illustrate (or in this case colorize). The text is very clearly about Robbins, and yet the birds in the drawings are white with bluish shading. The pastel hews of the end result make for a pretty spring palette nonetheless.<br /><br /><br />Click on the thumbnails below for larger images:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDMmK8eTX3_VNdLSgYoi_Y0DY-5LaHTqZcwlrHRAt8-CYgLuR2c1NcYcvcgEwy-yCDuTdTRwttPqj8EUuZMR0XNrnP_pnTDUnXhLIVZj-U1Z03RAcgwfB_bkNneA1yM5mj4j5V5Vp-Ct3/s1600/Cinder+and+Inky+Again_0001.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDMmK8eTX3_VNdLSgYoi_Y0DY-5LaHTqZcwlrHRAt8-CYgLuR2c1NcYcvcgEwy-yCDuTdTRwttPqj8EUuZMR0XNrnP_pnTDUnXhLIVZj-U1Z03RAcgwfB_bkNneA1yM5mj4j5V5Vp-Ct3/s200/Cinder+and+Inky+Again_0001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469377080242961666" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswXm8sAI5G03HtqyyISKD758FIGP7LkcfEY8n4py9l2UsR8Kr-ZYXYHvYxftc1JFxxxcMykU4J0ltcmPx5QEqfRnJCkCfAXVR52dcy4COZW6_thrzUVguqCRHDODIaVE967ef7tOtELs4/s1600/Cinder+and+Inky+Again_0002.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswXm8sAI5G03HtqyyISKD758FIGP7LkcfEY8n4py9l2UsR8Kr-ZYXYHvYxftc1JFxxxcMykU4J0ltcmPx5QEqfRnJCkCfAXVR52dcy4COZW6_thrzUVguqCRHDODIaVE967ef7tOtELs4/s200/Cinder+and+Inky+Again_0002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469378232682743106" border="0" /></a></div></div>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-40064509757791648292010-05-04T12:16:00.002-05:002010-06-11T16:27:29.914-05:00The Great Adventures of Jack, Jock and Funny<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcykT_ziJSVsKu62nIREOjktQWrUjrUekP1l7IwLjVErqFcs32_de1vFc1ILrgtoBxZaImWmLHmzY_hrXcIrvYRg5NqnfjAZM2MaY6Q4Eh8azZAv5JDqFsB7T4vinSEenRPPWWzekAzcns/s1600/jock.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcykT_ziJSVsKu62nIREOjktQWrUjrUekP1l7IwLjVErqFcs32_de1vFc1ILrgtoBxZaImWmLHmzY_hrXcIrvYRg5NqnfjAZM2MaY6Q4Eh8azZAv5JDqFsB7T4vinSEenRPPWWzekAzcns/s320/jock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468249049844748258" border="0" /></a>The first book I ever read by Eleanor Youmans was <span style="font-style: italic;">The Great Adventures of Jack, Jock and Funny</span>. It was the second work that Youmans paired up on with animal portrait artist Will Rannells (the others being <span style="font-style: italic;">Waif</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Timmy</span>).<br /><br />For a sixth grade English assignment, I created a diorama of one of the barnyard scenes, replete with Fisher Price rooster perched atop a molded plastic fence, and a miniature ceramic Collie, Scottie, and kitten. A classmate stole the Collie, but I still have the other pieces.<br /><br />Stumbled across this wonderful post about the blogger's fond childhood memories of reading<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Jack, Jock and Funny</span>, over at <a href="http://literaryzoo.wordpress.com/2009/08/03/once-upon-a-time-in-a-little-library/">LiteraryZoo</a>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Jack, Jock and Funny</span> is also included in <a href="http://www.math.ttu.edu/%7Ewlewis/others.htm">a list of stories about dogs</a> complied by a Math professor at Texas Tech, as well as in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Treasury-Scottie-Dog-Collectibles-Identification/dp/1574322303/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1272994267&sr=8-1"><span style="font-style: italic;">A Treasury of </span></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Treasury-Scottie-Dog-Collectibles-Identification/dp/1574322303/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1272994267&sr=8-1"><span style="font-style: italic;">Scottie Dog Collectibles: Identification and Values</span>, Volume III</a>, by Candance Sten Davis and Patricia I. Baugh, as one of "just a small sampling of books with Scottie dogs as main characters, supporting characters, or cover models" (187).<br /><br />According to a 21 Sept. 1938 notice in the New York newspaper the <span style="font-style: italic;">Syracuse Herald</span>, one of the title characters, Funny, "died suddenly just a few days before publication of a book he helped to inspire," at the age of 18. Funny was part Poodle and Skye terrier, and belonged to Charles L. Hirsh, of Columbus, Ohio. Hirsh also owned Jack, the white collie. The Scottish terrier, Jock, belonged to Professor George Frederick Arps, former dean of the graduate school at The Ohio State University. <span style="font-style: italic;">Jack, Jock and Funny</span> is dedicated to Hirsh.<br /><br />Images: (top) from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Washington Post</span> 6 Nov. 1938: B8, (bottom) Original dust jacket from the first edition published in 1938<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5_vAw2QMZ5qJWWZbGswLTxkhEN0jlpUl6KVXQvXleQ374Ca_PvzV5tzligwYEK_Dsbg3BcDIZuS8jrF8WRvqHeUpX7bBjZiEwusepUS-x3ZD7sUZ7N9f9AD8uqdVhoYrcntl4_Dkti_4/s1600/Jack+Jock+and+Funny+Cover.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr5_vAw2QMZ5qJWWZbGswLTxkhEN0jlpUl6KVXQvXleQ374Ca_PvzV5tzligwYEK_Dsbg3BcDIZuS8jrF8WRvqHeUpX7bBjZiEwusepUS-x3ZD7sUZ7N9f9AD8uqdVhoYrcntl4_Dkti_4/s320/Jack+Jock+and+Funny+Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468252017394616626" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UA9sfKHJ-xxBlq47h-360IkSRT_Bmk0Ki8kl7vmkOFiXPk924MpfFbOQ4fG-1BXewUqQ7ozs0uCrpxZ6LAKuYZrA6ks5VDMouIgaTi3SZxP7B2P4zq4XLbWvdok6qIvCQ7ySufEsAp-Q/s1600/Jack+Jock+and+Funny+Back+Cover.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UA9sfKHJ-xxBlq47h-360IkSRT_Bmk0Ki8kl7vmkOFiXPk924MpfFbOQ4fG-1BXewUqQ7ozs0uCrpxZ6LAKuYZrA6ks5VDMouIgaTi3SZxP7B2P4zq4XLbWvdok6qIvCQ7ySufEsAp-Q/s320/Jack+Jock+and+Funny+Back+Cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468253909165339634" border="0" /></a>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-75512611697190200362010-04-11T23:48:00.001-05:002010-05-11T12:46:05.798-05:00The Man Who Wanted a Dog That Would Kill“The Man Who Wanted a Dog That Would Kill.” <span style="font-style: italic;">The American Magazine</span> 92.4 (Oct. 1921): 22+. [PDF available through <a href="http://books.google.com/books?pg=RA3-PA23&dq=american+magazine+1921&id=MaFXAAAAMAAJ#v=onepage&q=american%20magazine%201921&f=false">Google Books</a>].<div style="text-align: left;"><br />The story of an act which brought its own extraordinary punishment<br /><br />By Eleanor Williams Youmans<br /><br />Illustration by Douglas Duer<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2aUczQ9F27dFqStM25IuhyOVwLD8GdJ0k7snyydVnMThI9YhPGL9V9EYKhZ3CZthAN8apYzHXGt21aX2tuJ26By_EaJtUVSmD2DuPUrBc7gXnXZdXkhXXVEQw8XT59YJs6AMwsoQ2a8Q/s1600/am+mag+1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2aUczQ9F27dFqStM25IuhyOVwLD8GdJ0k7snyydVnMThI9YhPGL9V9EYKhZ3CZthAN8apYzHXGt21aX2tuJ26By_EaJtUVSmD2DuPUrBc7gXnXZdXkhXXVEQw8XT59YJs6AMwsoQ2a8Q/s320/am+mag+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469437820013041570" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyLf_ZC3b3GuaASIp2gOwj0az8-YDTUHnZ6HhdjGC4iqnFJKScaOgThlDC0pbZ6vYh2oqqBme87-2wnbnNN2cMtmJMkM5-zMV6NYXO76KMPX5rydyKhAoXpu7lgdO-aBzlayHriJaRWtN/s1600/am+mag+2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiyLf_ZC3b3GuaASIp2gOwj0az8-YDTUHnZ6HhdjGC4iqnFJKScaOgThlDC0pbZ6vYh2oqqBme87-2wnbnNN2cMtmJMkM5-zMV6NYXO76KMPX5rydyKhAoXpu7lgdO-aBzlayHriJaRWtN/s320/am+mag+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469437963840434930" border="0" /></a></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;">Illustration Caption: What Zoe saw tore a shriek from her throat that left her bereft of sideways, snarling over his shoulder, disputing every step of the strength to turn and run. Duffy was a few feet behind, walking retreat. Twenty yards in the rear stalked two mountain lions</span><br /><br /><br />WHERE Snakehead Canyon joins the valley, a mile from the lonely ranch, a band of coyotes were yipping at the full moon, long past the zenith, their shrill voices shivering eerily on the cold night wind.<br /><br />A small dark-eyed woman, sitting on the single doorstep of the shack, drew her ragged shawl closer around her head. With painful slowness, she moved her feet beneath the old horse blanket to restore the circulation and uncurled her stiffened fingers from the rifle resting on a crazy barricade built of a tub with a box on top. She thrust the cold right hand beneath her shawl. A black kitten, that had crept into her arms hours before, embraced it between soft paws, purring sleepily.<br /><br />The woman sighted along the barrel, bringing the bead to rest upon a certain spot near the pigpen, fifty yards away. She eased her aching back against the rough door frame, sighing heavily. This was the third night she had kept vigil over the pigs, while her husband was gone to town, twenty miles north, for a dog to replace the old collie he had shot in rage over the loss of two shoats within a month.<br /><br />The old dog had barked a warning each time, but instead of charging the marauder, as his habit had been when coyotes slunk down from the hills, he had cowered beneath the house. And before Dud Forrester could run out with his gun the animal vanished into the night, bearing one of the young pigs.<br /><br />Zoe Forrester had plead for the life of Rover, all that remained to her of the happy girlhood back East.<br /><br />"It was a mountain lion, Dud," she sobbed. "No dog would attack a mountain lion. He wouldn't stand a chance."<br /><br />Tears and pleading so added to his fury that Dud pushed her into the doorway with such violence that she stumbled. Before she could regain her feet the report of the rifle had made further remonstrance useless.<br /><br />The next day, preparing to go to town, Dud had said: "There's one kind of dogs they say'll attack a mountain lion. I'll git me one."<br /><br />The grin that widened his thin lips and narrowed his close-set eyes told Zoe more of his intention than he would have had her know. Three years' daily association with Dud Forrester left no phase of his tricky character in doubt.<br /><br />"You watch the pigpen nights," he ordered, "or there'll be no meat next winter."<br /><br />Zoe had obeyed him, as always, without question. But the long, silent watches gave her time to think—the first leisure she had known since coming West. The sudden loss of both parents had hurried her into marriage with Dudley Forrester, whom she hardly knew. He had sold her father's farm and had brought her West, promising to settle near the town where she had believed she had relatives. But her letters were unanswered by them, and Dud had bought this ranch and had it deeded to himself. The very chickens she raised were her husband's, who sold the eggs and spent the money. With the passing of old Rover, she realized, had gone the last of her worldly possessions. She had not been to the town since she came, three years before. She thought of how long it had been since she visited her nearest neighbor, three miles away. More than a year, because she was ashamed of her clothes.<br /><br />HER thoughts circled round, always coming back to Rover's cruel end. Naturally sweet and submissive, a slow bitterness welled up, filling her with despair. Finally, she prayed, not for release —to great a boon was unthinkable. She prayed for strength, and patience to endure.<br /><br />Her lips moved in this silent prayer until a sense of peace fell upon her. She slipped her chilled left hand into her lap with the kitten, and clasped the trigger with the warmed right. All her elaborate care, all the excessive stealth of her movements arose from a wild hope that she might get a shot at the beast which had three times robbed the pigpen.<br /><br />Then she heard the cows moving restlessly in the ramshackle old barn, stalks of fodder crackling beneath their feet. One had a young calf. Since Dud had taken both horses she had shut the two cows in the stable, for safety.<br /><br />She straightened up, straining her eyes to search the shadowy barnyard. Nothing moved. As her gaze returned to the pigpen, a shock went through her. The moment for which she had planned and waited had come. Where the rough shed cast the deepest shadow in the moonlight two green eyes gleamed.<br /><br />She had rehearsed this very emergency in her mind. She must take slow, careful aim, or she would surely miss. The rifle already was trained on the shadow of the pigpen. She bent her head slightly, drew the bead low in the sight, exactly between the green eyes, and fired.<br /><br />A dark streak flashed into the moonlight and out. Silence followed.<br /><br />That she had not missed entirely she knew by the snarl. She guessed that the watching eyes had detected the movement of her head when she aimed, and the animal had crouched as she fired.<br /><br />She went into the house and lighted a lantern; no need for quiet now, there would be no more visits for weeks, at least. There was still a hope that she might have wounded it seriously, but that hope died when she examined the ground for blood. However, there was something. By the prints of the long claws, where they had dug into the ground when the big cat leaped away, lay a small tuft of fur. She picked it up. It was light-colored. On the under side clung a bit of skin. She had clipped off the tip of an ear.<br /><br />A WAGON rumbled on the road; Dud was returning. She carried the lantern to the stable and hung it beside the door. The coyotes were still.<br /><br />Dud drove into the yard and called her out.<br /><br />"Hold this chain," he said, without greeting, handing her the end of a light chain that was fast to a dark wriggling object in the wagon bed.<br /><br />'That you shootin'?" he asked, preparing to lift it out. Before she had time to answer, the dog sprang to the ground unassisted, and ran toward the pigpen, straining on the leash with grotesque, hopping jumps until Zoe was forced to run or lose her hold.<br /><br />He looked stubby and small in the darkness to eyes accustomed to the beauty of the collie; but how incredibly strong!<br /><br />Dud came and took the chain, laughing as the dog stopped with his nose to the scratches in the ground.<br /><br />"Been tryin' to jump out ever since he heard that gunshot. What'd you shoot at?"<br /><br />Zoe explained briefly as they walked back to the house, the dog pulling back, eagerly sniffing the ground. She held the bit of tawny fur near the light of the lamp.<br /><br />"I marked him, anyway. He'll stay away for a while."<br /><br />The dog had followed at the end of his chain. Now he reared on his hind legs, forepaws resting against her-, to smell the tuft of hair, nosing her hand over to get the scent of the under side, sniffing long and expelling the breath in short gusts. Satisfied apparently, he returned to all fours, standing perfectly rigid, except his four-inch tail, which wagged furiously; sparkling eyes of brown begging out of a long, bewhiskered face—begging to be led to the rest of that fragment in her hand.<br /><br />Zoe had to smile. " What a funny dog." she said. "A—a mongrel, isn't he?"<br /><br />Dud laughed shortly.<br /><br />"Not much. He's thoroughbred Airedale. Train 'em to hunt anything. This 'un don't know much yet. He's young."<br /><br />A shifty expression came into his pale blue eyes. He tied the dog outside, under the house, and was careful not to talk overmuch about him for weeks afterward.<br /><br />advanced into summer. The ^ incessant plowing, days without end, of the dry farmer, kept them both busy. The bean crop promised well; already Dud was bargaining for another forty acres adjoining his own. He took frequent half-holidays to hunt in the hills with the new dog, "Frowzy," he called him, while Zoe plowed, or raked alfalfa. She did a man's work outdoors, besides her own in the house.<br /><br />At first Zoe disliked the new dog. Grieving for Rover's beautiful head and long, straight coat, the ragged, disheveled appearance of the Airedale was repellent to her; a distaste for his bristly coat with its porcine suggestion kept her from touching him. But he never failed to make her smile, when she went out to feed him, by his ridiculous trick of jumping backward stiff-legged, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a Tyrolean dancer, by way of expressing his pleasure, but never barking or "speaking" for his food.<br /><br />The first day he was allowed at liberty, he helped her drive the hens away from the garden patch that Dud refused to fence. Only a few repetitions of this hilarious stunt, for him, were needed to make it clear that this particular piece of ground was taboo to hens. He needed no telling thereafter to chase them, squawking and cackling, to the barnyard. One afternoon, when the hens had been unusually determined to return, and he had pulled a few feathers out of one, Zoe talked to him gently. He looked so contrite and apologetic, she involuntarily patted his head, and was surprised to discover the tousled golden-brown hair was soft and silky, wholly unlike the stiff bristles of the grizzly black saddle covering his back.<br /><br />She felt his ears; they were as velvety as Rover's had been. He stood perfectly still during this inspection, grave brown eyes, in which sparkled a hint of mischief, looking steadily into her face. She had expected him to fawn at her feet, or lick her hand under these caresses. He did neither. He regarded her earnestly while she smoothed the rebellious hairs that seemed to grow in every direction on his head, marveling at the breadth of skull where the brain lay — the length of his jaws had deceived her eye, making his head seem narrow — and when she stood erect, he rose on his hind legs, his paws against her chest, and leaned his head against her shoulder, trying to reach her face with his long, red tongue.<br /><br />The powerfully hinged jaws at close range were startling, but hers was the instinct of the dog lover. She understood that here was no cringing slave, but a rough and ready comrade, possessing his own sturdy self-respect. The loneliness in her heart lessened somewhat.<br /><br />She picked up a stick and threw it. He rushed off, scratching his toe nails on the hard ground, retrieved the stick, and laid it at her feet with a hearty snort. This gave her an idea. She handed the stick to him, saying, "Carry it," and<br /><br />walked toward the house. He paced sedately beside her, carrying the stick proudly, head and tail erect. This was old stuff to him, she saw. In a few days she taught him Rover's former task of bringing in wood; but he always had to be sent after each stick, whereas old Rover would carry in stick after stick until told to stop.<br /><br />The first time the Airedale met the black kitten, he chased it up a young cherry tree, growling ferociously. Zoe scolded him. The next time they met, he growled but did not chase it. The kitten quickly took advantage of this situation, growing a little bolder each day, in its longing for companionship, until one evening it plucked up courage to rub against his forelegs.<br /><br />He muttered dire threats in his throat, standing stiffly, but belying the threats with his tail, which oscillated faintly, his eyes rolling comically at Zoe sitting on the doorstep. She stroked his head, murmuring, " Poor Puppy." She never called him "Frowzy," knowing from the manner in which he responded that it was not his real name. The first time she had said "Poor Puppy" he cocked his head in a way that suggested familiarity with it, or with something that sounded like it.<br /><br />The kitten sprang into her lap on hearing her voice. Like a flash the dog seized it by the scruff of its neck and dropped it on the ground. Zoe gave a little cry of alarm as she visionedthe vicious shake that had snuffed out a gopher that afternoon; then she laughed relievedly. The kitten sat unharmed and unruffled beside him. Accepting her laugh as approval, he stood up with paws on her shoulders, exuberantly licking her ear and hair. He let his paws slide to her knees, grinning and panting his delight in her laughter, a sound he had never before heard. Zoe had almost forgotten how to laugh.<br /><br />"Goodness, Puppy," she cried, "your head opens back to your shoulders." .<br /><br />Dud Forrester, coming around the corner of the house, heard and answered.<br /><br />"That long head's what won him all his prizes."<br /><br />Zoe hurried in to put the supper on the table. Dud immediately forgot what he had said about the dog, talking about the quarter section he hoped to own in another year. After he was in bed, Zoe looked up the Lost and Found column in the county weekly, wondering, why she had not thought of it before. She ran her finger down a list of strayed or stolen cattle of various brands.<br /><br />There it was! No, it could not be this dog. Twenty-five dollars reward? Surely he was not worth so much. She read on:<br /><br />"Wearing a plain leather strap collar with gold plate inside engraved, 'Champion Moore's Duffy'."<br /><br />E remembered the worn leather strap on the Airedale's neck. Perhaps Dud supposed it had been placed there by his hireling, and had never taken it off. Zoe waited till the snores from the inner room became regular, then she carried the lamp outside and set it on the ground near the corner of the house under which the dog slept. He gave a low " Whuff," at her approach and shook himself so vigorously that his ears beat a rat-tat on the sides of his head. She hesitated, fearing Dud would waken. His snoring reassured her. She unbuckled the shabby, cheap-looking collar and looked inside. There was a narrow gold plate engraved, "Champion Moore's Duffy."<br /><br />" Poor Puppy," she whispered, patting him. "Puppy—Duffy, what shall I do about you? Do they love you so very much at Moore's Kennels?"<br /><br />It occurred to her that Dud might be glad to relinquish the dog for the reward. Dud would do anything for money.<br /><br />The next morning the cow which was about due to calve was missing. Dud saddled a horse and rode in search, without waiting for breakfast. Zoe hurried through the morning chores, her thoughts continually turning to Snakehead Canyon. She had mentioned the place to Dud as he rode away, but he jeered at the idea of a cow, choosing that rocky spot for a nursery, declaring his intention of going down the valley instead.<br /><br />NOTHING grew in the canyon but yucca stalks and cacti, in scattered spots. Zoe had never been far inside. She knew the general contour from which it derived its name, but the great ledges shelving out from the walls suggested likely dens for mountain lions.<br /><br />She'called the dog from a gopher hole he had been excavating.<br /><br />"Poor Puppy," she murmured, in the low tone he had learned to recognize as meant for him alone. "Too bad to spoil your play, but I have to take you. The cow doesn't like you and will chase you, but I'm afraid to go alone."<br /><br />She found the handle of a broken buggy whip to drive the cow with, and they went through the alfalfa field toward the head of the valley. The morning was hot; "desert weather," the neighbors said, whenever the wind blew from the east, which was rarely.<br /><br />It was cooler in t'.ie canyon, for the sun had not yet climbed the high walls. It was a quarter of a mile long, its floor covered with boulders, behind any one of which a cow might hide.<br /><br />She proceeded slowly, calling "Co, Boss," listening to the echoes of her own voice. Champion Moore's Duffy marched beside her, looking alertly from side to side, but seeing nothing worth investigating. When they had advanced perhaps five hundred yards he uttered a low "Whuff," and wagged his tail gently. Zoe listened, but though she could hear nothing she knew that he had heard the cow, and went a hundred yards farther, calling and listening, until a soft moo answered, less than fifty feet away.<br /><br />It took her several moments to see the black cow, standing in a dim grotto beneath a shelf of dark stone jutting out from the canyon wall. Zoe left the dog behind a rock, where the cow could not see him, hoping to drive her past before she caught sight of him, and then make him follow far behind.<br /><br />She found Boss pressing her side close to the rocky wall of the grotto, standing directly over the sleeping calf in a singularly awkward position.<br /><br />Zoe coaxed and scolded, tapping her first gently and then smartly with the whip handle. She refused to move an inch.<br /><br />"You old simpleton!" Zoe cried with exasperation, "what if you do smell the dog. He won't hurt your calf."<br /><br />Zoe grasped the calf by the ears and dragged it, from under the mother, to its feet. A deep growl at her back made her whirl in fright which turned to sudden indignation.<br /><br />"Duffy! Go back! Back, I tell you!" waving the stick at the dog threateningly.<br /><br />The cow moved promptly, not in the direction of the dog; she merely glanced at him and walked quietly toward home.<br /><br />Duffy's growl increased in volume and ferocity. He had not heeded her order; she looked at him in surprise. His aspect struck a chill of terror through her heart. Ten feet away he stood, his eyes fixed upon the lodge above her head, spine bristling, fangs bared, his throat swelling with a menacing snarl.<br /><br />INSTINCT bade her follow the cow. There was something protective and comforting in the low maternal calls it gave to keep the calf close to its side. She had to follow; there was nowhere else to go. She tried to look up at the ledge, to see what deadly thing threatened them; but dared not for fear she might stumble.<br /><br />Once out from under the shelter of the ledge she hurried the calf along as fast as its wobbly legs could go, waving her stick, trying to shout encouragement to the cow. The only sounds she made were short gasps and low moans.<br /><br />She could hear the dog a few paces behind, growling unceasingly. Sometimes he seemed to pause and turn, at which times the notes of his voice swelled louder and fiercer than before.<br /><br />It was a slow pace at first, but the little calf soon loped along at a livelier gait, seeming to gain strength with each frightened jump. The mother broke into a swinging trot. Zoe stumbled after, her feet slipping on the broken rocks, feebly waving her stick, summoning voice enough to call a faint "Hie" occasionally. Her courage rose as they neared the entrance. She looked back.<br /><br />What she saw tore a shriek from her throat that left her bereft of strength to turn and run. Duffy was a few feet behind, walking sideways, snarling over his shoulder, disputing every step of the retreat. Twenty yards in the rear stalked two mountain lions. They disappeared behind a boulder when Zoe screamed. One peered boldly out again, and in spite of her terror her mind made note of the fact that one of its ears was crumpled.<br /><br />Zoe found her voice at last, though all the strength in her body was required to raise it. She had never lacked lung power, and now she used it to the utmost. The mountain lions, intent on young calf meat, essayed to venture out from behind their rock, once or twice; but a fresh shriek sent them scurrying to cover. She yelled long and lustily.<br /><br />A clatter of hoofs on stones answered. The lions leaped out and vanished, Duffy charging after; but one of their leaps<br /><br />Let your next tire be were as three of his. Dud rode up, cursing the fact that he had not carried a gun. Zoe sank down upon the ground and sobbed weakly.<br /><br />"Was ridin' up the valley," Dud explained, "saw the cow come out on the run. Rode around to get behind her, and heard your screeches."<br /><br />He eyed the dog admiringly.<br /><br />"Two mountain lions! Some dog, I'll say. Get up and go home. I'll drive the cow around tlhe road; it's dinner time."<br /><br />The dog had come back from chasing the mountain lions and was licking the tears off Zoe's face. He followed her sedately across the alfalfa field, stopping at the spring to drink up the entire contents of the tiny basin; then raced on before, tail flagging gayly.<br /><br />Zoe went about the dinner preparations without stopping to rest. She was used to hardship. The experience with the mountain lions had not been more nerve-racking than many another episode of her life here. The time, for instance, when Dud had struck her in the face, because she traded three hens to a woman "mover" for a cheap little phonograph, and ten wax cylinder records. He smashed the phonograph and records before she had got to hear but two of the squeaky little tunes.<br /><br />"DUD FORRESTER was loud in his praise of "Frowzy" while eating his dinner. " Showed his sense by not attacking two mountain lions. Been one, he'd a-whaled him. Yes, sir!"<br /><br />"He would have been ripped open," shuddered Zoe.<br /><br />"No such thing!" he blustered. "Whatta you know about Airedales? They're killers, I tell you. Killers!"<br /><br />That day Dud plowed till dark to make up for the time lost hunting the cow. While he ate his supper by the light of the lamp, Zoe tried to think of some tactful way to mention the advertisement for the dog A chilling breeze sprang up from the west, making the flame in the lamp leap and smoke. Dud shivered in his sweat-soaked shirt and cursed the climate, which he said baked by day and chilled at night. Before going out to make his evening rounds he put on an old coat, turned the collar high and buttoned it up to his chin, still cursing the climate, threatening to sell out and move "back to God's country."<br /><br />Zoe seized upon this moment to show him the advertisement.<br /><br />"There's a reward of twenty-five dollars," she suggested timidly.<br /><br />Dud barely glanced at the paper; but she knew from his face that he had not seen the advertisement before.<br /><br />"Tain't this dog," he snapped.<br /><br />"It is, Dud; I looked inside his collar. If he is found here, wouldn't it be grand larceny? Of course you didn't know—"<br /><br />"Know what?" Dud roared so loudly that Duffy sprang up with a gruff bark. Neither noticed him.<br /><br />"About the collar," Zoe answered faintly* beginning to be afraid.<br /><br />An ugly laugh greeted this.<br /><br />"Grand larceny for dog stealing!" He laughed again and, reaching out, grasped her, shoulder, giving it a rough shake. Duffy growled, but Dud paid no attention. He continued to shout.<br /><br />"You fool! Dogs ain't property. You think I stole this dog?"<br />Duffy growled again. The sound awoke something defiant in Zoe. She looked into the evil, distorted features above her head.<br /><br />"Yes," she replied, "You stole him."<br /><br />Surprise halted Dud's hand for an instant, giving her a bare second to dodge the blow. In doing so she slipped, and fell upon her knees. He drew back; his foot lifted to kick her. She cried out affrightedly.<br /><br />A snarl as savage as that which had held oft" the mountain lions that morning warned him, but too late for him to draw back his foot. Iron jaws clamped upon his ankle. He lost his balance and sat sprawling upon the floor.<br /><br />Like a flash, the dog released his leg and flew at the throat. The white fangs clicked viciously within an inch of the man's face. Dud fought him off with his hands, screaming horribly:<br /><br />"Take him off"! He's a killer! Take him off"!"<br /><br />Twice, but for the thick buttoned coat, the long snapping jaws would have found their goal. Centuries before, the dog's ancestors had fought in this same manner —first downing their adversary, then strangling the life out. He was merely obeying hereditary instinct.<br /><br />Zoe scrambled up and seized Duffy's collar, but her strength was no match for that galvanized bundle of sinew and muscle bent upon destruction. Again, and again, he leaped and snapped at the man, who made no apparent effort to get up but sat and screamed, fighting feebly with his hands, a white froth on his lips, his eyes starting from his bluish face.<br /><br />Zoe finally blocked the dog's rushes with her knee, clinging to his collar and raising her voice above the clamor of man and dog.<br /><br />A GURGLING sigh came from Dud. That was all. He slumped over sideways and lay like an empty garment fallen from a hook. In her astonishment, Zoe loosed her hold on the dog; he rushed forward.<br /><br />"No, Duffy! Stop!"<br /><br />He stopped in his tracks, tail erect, looking eagerly at her for instruction. She opened the outside door.<br /><br />"Go out, Duffy!"<br /><br />She brought a dipper of water from the bucket and sprinkled Dud's face. He did not revive. She unbuttoned the torn coat. 1 here was no mark on his throat. There were even no marks on his hands. The dog had concentrated all his energies upon striving for a strangle hold, which he never got. Dud must have fainted.<br /><br />An automobile drove into the yard and stopped.<br /><br />Zoe went to the door. By the glare of the car's headlights she saw Duffy leaping and pawing at a man, who patted and hugged him.<br /><br />The stranger saw her standing in the doorway and came forward, lifting his hat. Zoe gave a little cry of surprise.<br /><br />"Why, Davy! David Moore, don't you know me? I'm your cousin, Zoe. Please come in. Dud has fainted—I can't bring him to."<br /><br />A sudden thought struck her.<br /><br />"Are you Moore's Kennels?"<br /><br />"Yes. The Mexican who stole him for Forrester, confessed, to get the reward. I thought ht would. But how do you happen to be here, Zoe?"<br /><br />"I'm Forrester's wife. He told me you had all gone to Alaska. See, he hasn't come out of it yet. What shall we do?"<br /><br />David Moore knelt, examining the crumpled form.<br /><br />"What happened?" he looked up to ask.<br /><br />Zoe told him in hurried sentences, while Duffy frisked about, pawing his master's coat and turning to nudge her hands, sneezing and wagging his tail in a frenzy of delight.<br /><br />When she finished, David Moore lifted the hand of the fallen man and again felt the pulse.<br /><br />"Scared to death," he muttered to himself. "Simply scared to death."<br /><br />Rising, he said quietly:<br /><br />"Go put on your warmest things. I'll take you home with me. Then I'll come back with the coroner."Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-794248932395131081.post-73598702517339759392010-04-11T11:24:00.000-05:002010-05-07T22:56:53.991-05:00Introduction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYJGlobXftVEUg1KzZ3bZ_tOR4Vkz5dC84137LPhoJVkr8SXdzeBow7oIgwSXOlSWpvXAJzIN8P576Zz3Qo_IPprjDpG14ksbZzMwqRa1x5MU6s30rMra0JyA_PAwsk3x-meVonfcmem1/s1600/1937+Eleanor+with+Jill+and+Whiskers.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYJGlobXftVEUg1KzZ3bZ_tOR4Vkz5dC84137LPhoJVkr8SXdzeBow7oIgwSXOlSWpvXAJzIN8P576Zz3Qo_IPprjDpG14ksbZzMwqRa1x5MU6s30rMra0JyA_PAwsk3x-meVonfcmem1/s400/1937+Eleanor+with+Jill+and+Whiskers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458917199668143650" border="0" /></a><br />Ohio author Eleanor Youmans wrote children’s novels in the 1920s, ‘30s, and ‘40s. Her stories were mostly about cats and dogs, including titles such as <span style="font-style: italic;">Skitter Cat</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Little Dog Mack</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Cinder</span>, but she also wrote about her ancestors in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Forest Road</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Mount Delightful</span>.<br /><br />I grew up in Pataskala, Ohio, her hometown and read some of her books as a kid. In middle school, my English teacher assigned a project that entailed writing about our family history. My mom gave me her copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Mount Delightful</span> to read, since it was about my great-great-great grandmother (Eleanor’s grandmother) emigrating into the U.S. from Wales. At the time I don't know if I was more fascinated that there was a book about one of my ancestors, or that I was related to a real live published author! (I was always a bookworm).<br /><br />My family mentioned her sometimes, but she passed away before I was born. I have always wanted to know more about her and I’m finally starting to actively begin that research. She was a fascinating woman, and I'll post more as I learn about her.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Eleanor Youmans, pictured here with black and tan terrier, Jill, and barely visible black and white cat, Whiskers, from a 1937 article published in </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">The Newark Advocate</span>Jackiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05397658769642211482noreply@blogger.com0