Books For Breakfast

Books in Black or Red

2013-09-23T17:22:00.002-07:00

I had originally intended to do a write up of The Library, by Andrew Lang, a book I'm currently enjoying. But as I mentioned in my previous post, my introduction to the books-about-books genre turned into a post in itself, and that The Library would have to wait for another day. And really, before I can set forth about The Library, I must speak of the book which led to The Library, which is today's repast, Books In Black or Red by Edmund Lester Pearson.

Black or Red is a book of essays on books, book collectors, literary hoaxes, now forgotten classics, and one lone, strange chapter about a parrot. I read the bird essay to the end, looking for the books to make an appearance (after all, this is a book about books - says so in the title), but to no avail. But other than the bird chapter, Black or Red is one of the most delightful books of the genre I have read to date.

There are two chapters devoted to the literary hoax. The literary hoax can be an elaborate practical joke of sorts, intended to make the book collector seem a fool, or the literary hoax can be a forgery, where ill gotten money, not mockery, is the intended result. One such forgery which Pearson describes is the curious case of the "eminent French mathematician, M. Michel Chasles, who between 1861 and 1870 bought more than twenty-seven thousand forgeries, and paid out 150,000 francs for them."

Pearson says of the forger:

A man with a meager education, colossal assurance, and a strong right arm concocted these forgeries, and he must have worked at an average rate of about eight a day over a long period of years. His name was Vrain-Denis Lucas. The documents and letters included letters from Pascal (by the hundred), from Shakespeare (twenty-seven of them), hundreds from Rabelias, and others from Newton, from Louis XIV, from the Cid, from Galileo. But these were only the less remarkable items of the collection; the gems included letters from Sappho, Virgil, Julius Caesar, St. Luke, Plato, Pliny, Alexander the Great, and Pompey! There was a letter from Cleopatra to Caesar, discussing their son Cesarion; a note from Lazarus to St. Peter; and a chatty little epistle from Mary Magdalene to the King of the Burgundians. Why did he neglect to include the first A.L.S. recorded in history - the letter from David to Joab, which he sent by the hand of Uriah? Consider that these were all written on the same kind of paper, not on parchment, and that all of them, even those from Biblical personages, were written in French.

Perhaps the greatest literary hoax of all time was perpetrated not for monetary gain, but for mere amusement. In 1840, eminent book collectors of the day received in the mail a sixteen page catalogue of books collected by the now deceased "Jean Nepomucene-Auguste Pichauld, comte de Fortsas," of Belgium. What made his collection remarkable, irresistible actually was the fact that,

He would own no book of which any other copy existed. No matter what price he had paid, let him find one of his books mentioned by a bibliographer, and he would sell, give away, or . . . destroy it! As a result, this collection, 'very rich but few in number,' represented a mere fragment of the Count's former library. The numbers in the catalogue ran up to 222, but there were many gaps, and only about fifty-two items actually appeared."

Of the items appearing in the catalogue, one was an infamous autobiography of an eminent prince, purported to contain a history of his exploits and conquests, a book for which a living royal relative was willing to pay dearly in order to avoid familial scandal.

In the days leading up to the bidding, collectors descended on the small Belgium town, frightening the bewildered citizens who had never heard of this "Jean Nepomucene-Auguste Pichauld" nor his famous book collection. This being a time of unrest in Europe, the residents began to suspect these odd-looking men - waving around pamphlets and speaking of foreign princes and green bindings - to be dangerous characters, maybe even spies.

I happen to think this particular, little story would make a great movie. The movie opens with each collector sitting down in his (they were all men) respective library, filled to the rafters with sumptuous bindings and rare folios, opening the days mail, happening upon the unassuming catalogue, then packing a steamer trunk, booking passage on the S.S. Somethingorother, bound for Belgium. Next scene, Binche, Belgium, a small town in the shadow of ancient castles and brooding mountains, foreigners swelling the inns, baffling the locals. And just like the collectors themselves, the viewing audience wouldn't know until the last scene that the whole thing was just an elaborate hoax. It would be beautiful.

Besides the chapters on Literary Hoaxes, my favorite essay is entitled "The Lost First Folio," an essay almost entirely composed of a series of letters between a Mr. Agamemnon Jackson and his elderly Aunt Martha, who lives in Raspberry, Maine. Aunt Martha has taken in a friend for the winter, Mrs. Fessenden, who very much likes preserved damsons, whatever those are. Aunt Martha blathers on and on about tea, and popovers, and whether or not to sell stock, and how her nerves forbid her to read the newspaper. After she relates how old Deacon Bradley dyed his beard to look young and it turned bright green, she appends a postscript in which she writes:

There are a lot of old books in that box of your uncle's in the garret. Do you want them? I will send them to you if you do, for what with papers and the magazines, I don't want any more books than those we have in the bookcase in the parlor now. You remember what a great reader your uncle was. And he was executor of Dr. Perley's estate - and part of the books came to him by the will. You wouldn't recall old Dr. Perley - his wife was a perfect martyr, I always said, and kept everything going while he was gallivanting about Europe buying more books than he ever could read. Besides, Mrs. Fessenden's niece who is a teacher in the High School, brings home books all the time from the library. So you can have them if you want them. I'll get old Dave Lunt to pack them up.

After reading a few of Aunt Martha's letters, I'm reminded of the old lady from Arsenic and Old Lace, the short, plump happy aunt to poor Mortimor. Always prattling on and on about everything and nothing, but failing to mention the dead bodies buried in the basement. Books aren't exactly dead bodies, but Aunt Martha fails to understand that Agamemnon is a heel and cares only about the books, one book in particular, number 8 in a list of fifteen up in Aunt Martha's garret. Number 8 is listed as Shakespeare's Comedies, &c.

After many letters pass between Aunt Martha and Agamemnon, it becomes obvious that number 8 is indeed a very rare Shakespeare, and dear Agie is desperate to acquire it, a fact to which Auntie is oblivious. She spills much ink on Mrs. Buntin's great-grandson, you remember him, don't you? who smokes cigarettes, and Mrs. Fessenden who uses Agamemnon's letters as curling papers, yet she always forgets to answer his questions about the Shakespeare.

Agie's desperation is palpable in his thought scrawled across the bottom of Martha's letter about Mrs. Buntin's smoking grandson (Suffering Cats! was there ever such a woman!) and his terse reply.

Dear Aunt Martha - Will you please answer the questions about the Shakespeare I asked in my letter?

In haste,

A. Jackson

To find out what comes of the folio and Agamemnon, you must get your hands on the book. And that must be all for now. Cruel, maybe, but if I told all, your enjoyment in reading would be less. And as I'm writing the final paragraph of this post, I'm reminded of The Carey Girls, another chapter in Black or Red that deserves mentioning, but in the hopes of saving at least one jewel for you to discover, I'll only quote a small portion without elaborating or explaining.

In Miss Cary's library you stood and wondered what was behind those paper covers. What strange voyage or extraordinary chapters of wonder might be disclosed if you took one of those volumes home? There had been some great moments. A tale of a suicide club, and the story of a rajah's diamond had been found in one called "The New Arabian Nights," by a Scotchman whose life was then drawing to a close in the South Sea Islands. There were some crisp and tingling little stories about India by a newspaper man from Lahore, who had just offended America by his flippant account of his visit to this country. My brother had recently come home with two poems which filled me with delight. They were also by this newspaper man from India, and they were called "Gunga Din" and "Mandalay." And for the next ten years I never hesitated to horrify my elders by saying that Kipling and Stevenson were far better than Sir Walter Scott. Now it is my turn to be horrified and disgusted when I hear that boys in school and college think that only old fogies read Kipling and Stevenson.

Lovely, isn't it?

Books about Books

2013-09-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

Some people, when they are too tired to read anything challenging or deep, read a romance. Or a mystery. Or a magazine. I read books about books. I read my first book of this genre years ago when I worked in a used book store. The book, Used and Rare by Lawrence and Nancy Goldstone, grabbed me, and I've read that book cover to cover many, many times since. The book store at which I was working, was filled mostly with romance, mystery, modern lit, and children's. Very little in the way of what I would call "rare" or antique. But that book was the catalyst for what I call my book collecting obsession. In fact, it was after my most recent re-read that I began, in earnest, collecting books with age. I wouldn't call them rare or even antique, but they do have age, and with age, a history.

But I digress. Book about books, and not my meager and mediocre collection, is the topic.

Since Used and Rare, I've read many other books of this genre, some captivating, some not so much. One not-so-much book is a book by Paul Collins called Sixpence House, a book I remember seeing in the new stacks when it first debuted (when I was young and broke), but never bought, although I hunted hungrily for a copy through every used bookstore for many years. I eventually forgot about Sixpence, until a discussion I had with Silvia, about the books-about-books genre brought that long-sought-for book to mind.

I bought the book. And waited. And waited. The book was a bit tardy in coming, which only added to the years anticipation that had been building. Finally the book arrived, and I devoured it in a little over a day.

And I was disappointed.

The anticipation may have been too much. But more likely, I was expecting a book of a different sort. Used and Rare is one couples journey into the rare book world. Book bindings, original manuscripts, and completely unique books (such as an old sea log in which Melville scribbled in the margins his first inklings of Moby), clutter the pages. Most of the authors and books of which the Goldstone's write, I was at least passably familiar with.

Sixpence is nothing like Used and Rare. Most of the books Paul Collins writes about, I'd never heard of. He seems to like old periodicals and ancient medical tomes. His writing about the village, Hay-On-Wye, a town in the Welsh countryside that boasts 40 book shops in a town of about 1500, is spot on. His descriptions of the buildings and the people and the pubs are engaging. I want to live in Hay, so well does he describe it.

But after all, this is a book about books, or so I thought. Sixpence is actually about the village. But I read the book primarily for those lusty descriptions of hand tooled gilt bindings, and illuminated margins that I hoped to find.

Collins writes about books that I never once imagined I would ever want to read. A technical book about insanity. A book of moldy essays by a moldy Scottish parson. Not exactly Dickens. But I finished the book, flipped to the Acknowledgments page, in which Collins thanks a bunch of people and dead authors without whose books his book would not have been possible. And I decided on a whim to order a few books, at random, from his dead author list.

One of which being that moldy book of essays. Which is a lovely, lovely book. Another, Two Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome, is one of the funniest books I've read in a very long time. And Books in Black or Red. Oh, my. That book in itself is a rabbit hole from which I've yet to emerge. In fact, when I began this post, I intended to write about The Library by Andrew Lang, a book I read about in Black or Red which I read about in Sixpence. You get the picture. I guess that will be for another post. Or a series of posts.

That's it. I'll do a series of posts about books about books about books . . .

So, I started off saying that Sixpence was one of those not-so-much books. I've yet to reread the book cover to cover, but I dip into it often. Not for his descriptions of the town or the people. But for the books. I've now ordered and read many books that he writes about. Not one of them has been disappointing.

I've yet to read that book on insanity. Not sure I should.

There's probably a whole chapter in it about people who love books just a little too much.

Which reminds me of another book I read recently, A Gentle Madness, an encyclopedic book on the history of book collecting.

A Gentle Madness. My husband would beg to differ. There's nothing gentle about it.

So, back to the beginning. Books about books. I think I've hit on something. This could keep me writing for awhile. Tomorrow, or the next day or the next (you should know me by now), I'll introduce you to The Library by Andrew Lang.

How's that for my return to the blog world?

For Jeanne

2013-09-20T07:04:00.001-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that my presence in the blog world has been missed.

When I began blogging, oh so long ago it seems, I was very much a different person. I think in a way, I needed a blog to validate who we are and what we do. We were receiving some pretty harsh criticism (from some close to us) for our choice to homeschool, and even in the homeschooling "world" I felt different. Choosing a Charlotte Mason education drove a wedge between us and non-Masonites - that wedge being the lack of a big packaged curriculum. Homeschool moms, at least those just getting started, love to talk about curriculum and curriculum switching and matching. Most people do not understand Charlotte. They usually think it is an unschooling approach or that we have to just "make up our own stuff," and while people are respectful, they are not interested enough to ask questions about Charlotte Mason, which automatically cuts us off from that area - a big area - of discussion. Also, despite the fact that we have considered ourselves homeschoolers since our daughter,who is now eight, was a baby, I am never the person that a new homeschooler goes to for advice, which is a big way that homeschoolers bond. It's a sort of a mentor/tutor setup. I'm not complaining about not being noticed, but it makes one feel a bit lonely at times. So in blogging, especially blogging about homeschooling, I was seeking companionship and conversation about how we homeschool, and a chance to talk about all these great books that we get to read.

And while not much of this has changed, I have made a few good friends, not all of whom school like we do. But that's ok. Most of them are seasoned homeschoolers who don't always need (and ladies who are new to homeschooling, I understand this is a real need) to talk about curriculum, and we've found common areas of interest. So I don't need the blog for companionship.

But what do I do with those few people with whom I've formed friendships through the blogs? Some people would say that a blog friendship is not real because the blog only portrays slices of life, usually the best slices, but the real person never actually is revealed as they are. I would beg to differ. The best bloggers are those who reveal many aspects of their lives, and not only the good stuff. They talk about doubts, fears, and concerns. It is true that through a blog, you will never get to know a person "as they truly are" but I could say the same about close proximity friendships.

So my question, what to do with my few blog friends. I will try to check in here more often. Because there are a few of you out there that I do miss.

I will try.

And one more thing. I know that this is a blog for primarily children's vintage picture books. I moved all of our personal posts onto a separate blog. I intended to blog about picture books I was reading with the kids. Problem is, we're not reading so many picture books anymore. My kids are growing up, and are choosing fewer and fewer picture books for reading time, and when they do choose picture books, they are those books that we've been reading for a long time - never new ones. So I could just use this blog as a venue to feature books in my etsy shop - a sort of advertisement page. But to me that just seems so sterile. I want my books to sell, but not badly enough to spend time talking about them as if we'd actually read them. The pictures are lovely, but most of the books in my shop, I honestly haven't read and probably won't read, so I'm not going to spend a lot of time blathering about them, as lovely as they are.

So I will probably just move those personal posts back over, and make this my only blog, and I'll post about whatever I want, whenever I want.

Ok?

I need to get off of here now and cook breakfast, and then clean the house to get ready for my daughter's birthday party tomorrow. Maybe when that's all done, I'll get on here and drop in some pictures and let you know what we've been up to.

But then, maybe I'll just curl up on the couch with a cup of Earl Gray and one of my current reads. Probably Vanity Fair (which is just delicious, by the way.)

Friday Giveaway

2012-12-21T07:50:00.003-08:00

Congratulations to Tiffany, the winner of last week's Friday Giveaway. Tiffany, if you'll send me your email address, I'll send you a digital giftcard to be used in my shop.

I won't be hosting a Friday Giveaway for this week. Today is my husband's birthday, and we're both a bit under the weather, so what little energy I do have, I'm pouring into him today.

Check back next Friday with the return of the Friday Giveaway!

Mr. Biddle and the Birds

2012-12-15T10:21:00.001-08:00

Mr. Biddle and the Birds

by Lonzo Anderson

illustrated by Adrienne Adams

There are some books, that no matter how many times I read them with the kids, every time I open the book and begin to read, I have a strange sense of everything being topsy turvy and not quite what it appears to be. My memories of the book are so strong, the memory of my mother reading the book to me, the memory of the couch on which I sat, where the window and the door were located in the room, my long blond hair brushing against my bare arm - all of these memories are so vivid that they jar against the real and present moment of me sitting with my own kids, the voice of the story my own instead of my mother's.

No Fighting, No Biting. Put Me In The Zoo. The Cat In the Hat Comes Back (not the first, strangely enough.) A Bargain For Frances. The Monster at the End of This Book.

All these books, and many more, give me that strange but pleasant feeling of displacement. But the feeling is always expected. I tracked all those books down a long time ago, even before our children were born.

But every once in a while, I happen across a book I knew as a child but had forgotten. And when that happens, during that first reading aloud . . . well, that's one of those magical moments that brings together my mother self and child self.

For the past few years, I've been particularly drawn to the illustrations of Adrienne Adams. When I see her work, I have to buy it. Her pictures, no matter the book, almost give me that feeling. I feel as if I've seen the book before, but nothing about the book rings a bell.

Now I know why. Mr. Biddle and the Birds, illustrated by Adams, was a childhood favorite, although I didn't know it until my son brought it to me at a bookstore a few months ago. One glance at the cover, and I instantly knew the whole book, everything about it.

So without further ado, I give you Mr. Biddle and the Birds.

Meet Mr. Biddle. While laying in his hammock one day, he's overcome by the desire to fly with his good friends, four very large birds. So he came up with an idea.

First this sketch,

then time to build.

Voila!

Now, time to fit the birds for their corsets. Yes, I did say corsets.

How else are they to pull Mr. Biddle's air boat?

Mr. Biddle wants to make everything is perfect before takeoff. But the birds have other plans. Poor Mr. Biddle barely has time to dive into the boat before it leaves the ground.

But it would seem the birds have been rather hasty in their flighty ways. Before long, mayhem ensues. And the flying boat, birds, and Mr. Biddle begin to go

down,

crash.

Will they ever again get the boat to fly?

You'll have to read the book to find out.

Friday Giveaway: Your Choice!

2012-12-14T08:31:00.002-08:00

This image is from a Bored, Nothing To Do by Peter Spier, a book available to purchase here in my etsy book shop. This week's give is a little different, and if I do say so myslef, a bit more exciting. I'm giving away a $25 gift certificate to be used in my shop, Books For Breakfast.

Rules:

Must be a resident of the USA.

To enter, please dash over to my shop (here), browse awhile, then come back here and let me know on which books you would spend the bounty.

Usually, I limit entry to one per person. Today, you have more than one opportunity to enter. You can become a fan of my facebook page, where I am also accepting entries, and leave your book wishes in the comment section concerning today's give.

For those of you who blog, feature this post on your blog, send me the URL, and you get yet another entry into the Give.

The winner will be anounched next Friday.

That's it folks. And before I forget, congratulations to Kim P. who won last week's give! Shoot me an email with your physical address and I'll get it in the mail.

I'll leave you with some images from books in my shop.

Jack Kent's Twelve Days of Christmas

2012-12-11T09:37:00.001-08:00

Jack Kent's

Twelve Days of Christmas

I look forward to Christmas time each year for many reasons. One of which is the basket full of Christmas books. Most of these books, the kids only ask for during the Christmas season. But one has been a constant favorite with my son since about July.

Jack Kent's retelling of the old English carol begins on the first day of Christmas,

with a partridge in a pear tree. Familiar ground, I know. But on the second day,

this familiar ground begins to grow some very strange fruit, indeed. And by the fourth day,

our delight grows as does the young miss' panic.

By the tenth day, my son's laughter drowns out my caroling.

But no matter. At this point, the characters' expressions tell the story well enough.

In case you don't get it, the joke of the book is in the fact that on each successive day of Christmas, the love struck suitor brings what he's brought on Christmas days past, plus one new thing.

So, by day twelve, the object of the suitor's love has recieved 12 partridges in 12 pear trees,

22 turtledoves (2 doves x 11 days), 30 french hens (3 hens x 10 days),

36 collie birds (4 birds x 8 days),

35 golden rings (5 rings x 7 days), and so on , and so on,

and so on.

Kind of puts the carload of blinking, singing battery eaters from grandma into perspecitve. At least poohing collie birds aren't roosting on the sofa.

Merry Christmas!

Friday Giveaway: A Book of Seasons

2012-12-07T12:25:00.003-08:00

Alice and Martin Provensen's

A Book of Seasons

1976

The winner of last Friday's Giveaway is Sarah P. Sarah, if you'll shoot me a message with your address, I'll get your copy of The Color Kittens in the mail. Congratulations.

Today's give is a lovely little book about the seasons, written and illustrated by the Provensen's (as is The Color Kittens).

To qualify for the Friday Giveaway, you must be a resident of the USA (sorry, overseas shipping is a little pricey for a freebie), you must be human (please do not toss your pet's name into the hat), and only one entry per household. I will draw one name next Friday morning, and announce the winner of A Book of Seasons here at Books For Breakfast.

Good luck!

Henry Explores the Mountains

2012-12-03T10:01:00.000-08:00

Henry Explores the Mountains

by Mark Taylor

illustrations by Graham Booth

My son adores Henry. Which is why I am thankful that Henry and his dog Laird Angus McAngus adventure through three other books. I chose one at random to share with you today.

Henry and Angus set out one day to explore the mountains before winter sets in. He brings a long rope and his ever read set of flags which he uses to claim his conquered land. These little flags come into play in every Henry book.

They forge over the foothills, through the valley, and into the mountain canyon. They encounter

a fox,

and a wolf.

But Henry and Angus are brave, intrepid explorers. Thankfully, they are rescued just in time by an old mountain man who happens upon them. After thanking him, Henry and Angus take their leave, and soon come to the top of the mountain.

And from the peak of Mount Henry, they spy . . .

a forest fire!

Angus is so excited he forgets to be careful. Suddenly there is an avalanche, and Angus is carried away! Poor Angus is knocked out cold, lying still on the ledge below. Angus runs to the mountain man's cabin for help.

Will the fire be contained? And what about our dear and loyal Angus? Who will save the day?

I'll give you a little clue to the ending. Remember those flags?

They're mighty important.

Friday Giveaway: The Color Kittens

2012-12-01T06:27:00.001-08:00

The Color Kittens

by Margaret Wise Brown

illustrated by Alice and Martin Provensen

Yes, dear folks, I do realize that today is Saturday and not Friday, but I in keeping with the Friday Giveaway, I choose to pretend for the moment that I didn't miss my deadline. So without further ado, I give to you The Color Kittens, one of the best little books on color mixing.

To qualify for the Friday Giveaway, you must be a resident of the USA (sorry, overseas shipping is a little pricey for a freebie), you must be human (please do not toss your pet's name into the hat), and only one entry per household. I will draw one name at next Friday morning, and announce the winner of The Color Kittens here at Books For Breakfast.

That's all for now, folks. Have a good weekend.

The Sugar Mouse Cake

2012-11-27T17:01:00.001-08:00

The Sugar Mouse Cake

by Gene Zion

pictures by Margaret Bloy Graham

1964

I adore the Harry the Dirty Dog books. Have since I was a kid. And who doesn't love Be Nice To Spiders. And Benji? Cute little scamp. But have you ever feasted your eyes on this darling book? I hunted for over a year before finally snagging this one. And let me just tell you, it was worth the wait.

There was once a poor pastry cook named Tom

who worked in the Royal Kitchen of the King.

No one in the Court knew what a fine pastry cook he was

because he was never allowed to bake anything.

Tom was the ninth assistant to the Chief Pastry Cook

and was just permitted to wash the bowls and spoons.

The only one who knew how well he could bake was Tina.

So begins this sweet tale of friendship, a fat queen, fondant, and a black cat. (This book is pre-political correctness, when the word fat could be used in a childrens' book.)

One day Tom reads a Royal Proclamation, proclaiming the imminent retirement of the Chief Pastry Cook . . . which can only mean one thing in story book land. A bake off. To determine who shall become the new Chief Pastry Cook, of course.

Tom sets right to work, sifting, measuring, pouring, and mixing. So fast does he move, he does not notice when his elbow knocks from the shelf a music box, which promptly plops into the bowl. By the dawn of the following morning, Tom's cake stands ready . . .

A work of art from top too bottom.

But just as the king and queen are about to enter the main hall filled with cakes and bakers from every corner of the Kingdom . . .

the Queen Mouse breaks off and crumbles to pieces. But not to worry. Tina, who has been sleeping in Tom's pocket, deftly skips to the top of the cake and takes the empty throne. But poor Tina can't fool everyone.

The palace cat is shooed from the hall, and disaster is averted. For now. The king and queen take the sugar mouse cake to the Royal Chamber and retire for the night.

Tom, in a frightful state over the safety of dear Tina, climbs to the window, and peers through the window.

And spies . . .

Will Tina become a savory morsel for the Palace Cat? Does Tom receive the tasty post as Chief Pastry Cook? Well, to find out, you'll have to get your hands on a copy.

And dear, me. Whatever becomes of that lost music box?

I do wonder.

The Fabulous Firework Family

2012-11-23T12:11:00.000-08:00

The Fabulous Firework Family

by James Flora

1955

My friend, Silvia, is getting into the book business as well. Her great love is hunting down beat up but beautiful vintage books and giving them new life as book marks, note cards, and whatever else her mind can conceive. She passes on to me any books she finds of significant value or any book she can't bear to deconstruct. This is one such book.

For years, I've seen hints of James Flora in the book blogs, his crazy illustrations showing up to tease me, hinting that for a pretty price tag, I too could own one of his creations. And if it wasn't for the fact that someone other than me has a stake in the sale of this book, it would be ours. And ours alone. So good is this book.

Enough ado. Meet Pepito and his family. For weeks he and his family work on a masterful firework display for a village celebration. This book gives such a wonderful description of the art of firework making. Not the cheap factory junk, but handcrafted sculptures.

All the while, Boca Grande, the family's parrot screeching, "Don't forget the red. Don't forget the red."

Soon arrives the day of the fiesta. Pepito and Amelia watch a lot of men and boys try to climb a greased pole. A chicken tied to the top of the pole is their prize.

The descriptions of the fiesta, complete with a mock bull fight, are delightful.

As is the description of the precarious installment of the completed fireworks castle.

One by one, the fuses are lit, setting off rocket wheels, flip-flopping clowns, and an ogre eating a kingfish.

I've been to many a Fourth of July celebrations, many New Years festivals, but never have I seen a fireworks display so fantastically glorious, so rich with pageantry. And I'd have to agree with Flora:

Viva Santiago.

Viva the Fabulous Firework Family!

The Winter Child

2012-11-20T13:45:00.000-08:00

The Winter Child

by Lee Wyndham

illustrated by Yaroslava

Parents' Magazine Press

1970

The theme of the childless couple pining for a child is as old as literature and history. Sarah laughed at the idea that her ninety year old womb would carry a babe. Hannah wept over her barrenness on the temple steps. A childless Japanese couple plucked a giant peach from the river and found a child inside. Gepetto crafts a wooden puppet who is given life by the Blue Fairy. The little old woman and the little old man baked a gingerbread boy - to eat or to love, depending on the retellers whim.

Then there's The Winter Child, a variation on this theme, born of the snow of the endless Russian steppe.

Maria Nikolaivna and Sergei Petrovitch have everything they need or could ever want. They live on a fine, small farm in a fine, small house. There is always the smell of "newly baked bread, crusty round bublichki cookies, hearty stews, thick soups, fragrant jams and other good foods." The cat, Vaska, purrs "like a samovar" in which his mistress boils the water for the tea. And the dog, Belka, is sleek and happy, "since along with kind words and good treatment," there is plenty for him to eat.

The barnyard is full of ducks and pigs and the finest of roosters. The big brown cow gives the richest milk - "thick with yellow cream."

All that is missing is a child. And although Maria and and Sergei are godparents to most of the village children (so much does everyone love them), at the end of the day, those children always go home, and Maria and Sergei are again left alone.

But one morning, the couple awake to find "a great Russian snow" has fallen during the night. The crisp, morning air is filled with the voices of children. At first, Maria and Sergei are filled with joy at that sound, but gradually they grow "quiet and wistful.

Later, the poor couple go out of doors and wander through the snow village left behind by the children, a village peopled with snow men, women and children. And this quiet, icy tableau inspires old Maria and Sergei.

And here is where I hear echoes of Frosty the Snowman. Because just like that snowy sculpture of Christmas legend,

Snegurochka (which means Little Snow Child) comes to life. And for the whole winter long, Maria and Sergei bask in the warmth of their own, little daughter.

Until the snow begins to melt. And just as suddenly as she came,

Snegurochka is gone,

until . . .

again falls the snow.

How Joe the Bear and Sam the Mouse Got Together

2012-11-17T13:02:00.000-08:00

How Joe the Bear and Sam the Mouse Got Together

story by Beatrice Schenk De Regniers

illustrated by Brinton Turkle

Parents Magazine Press

1965

Sorry about the blurriness of the pictures on the edges. I'm longing for a wand scanner, but for now I must putter away with my dinosaur that eats the edges off every two page spread. But this post must go on. So . . .

Meet Sam. And Joe. They are two very different fellas who live in two very different worlds, but both long to find some commonality on which to base a friendship. The book opens when they meet, and soon discover that they both are seeking new places to live.

"Let's live together!" They both exclaim.

But Joe likes a big house - Sam likes a small. No small surprise there for the reader, but a surprise indeed for our characters. They spend a page or two honking their noses and wiping away tears.

Well, if they can't live together, maybe they can play ball! That's it!

But Joe likes football - Sam likes baseball.

That umbrella is a nice touch, don't you think?

How about cycling?

Nah. Not that either.

Poor guys. I'm afraid those hankies are going to need a good wringing out before this story is over. But the story does have a happy ending. For once, I'll break my own no spoilers rule, because I'd hate for you to worry about poor ol' Sam and Joe.

They will always live in separate houses.

They will always play at different games.

Some things never change.

And I will never, ever give away an ending.

Friday Giveaway: Arthur's Nose

2012-11-16T06:53:00.001-08:00

Every Friday here at Books For Breakfast, I'll feature a book to give away to some lucky reader. All you have to do to be entered in the drawing is to leave a comment on this post. Next Thursday evening, I'll choose a winner (randomly, of course), and announce the winner Friday morning.

So on to the book.

If all you know of Arthur is the televised cartoon series, your missing the best part of Arthur. This first book.

Poor Arthur is miserable on account of his nose.

He decides it's time for a change, and visits a plastic surgeon to choose a new nose.

Interestingly enough, the surgeon is a rhinoceros. Get it? Rhinoceros? Rhinoplasty? Anyway, I thought it was funny.

So, after trying out a dozen noses or so, he chooses one. Which one does he choose? You'll have to read it to find out.

The Dot and The Line

2012-11-15T10:59:00.001-08:00

Lest you think this blog is nothing more than a shameless platform for plugging my own book shop (which you can find here, by the way), here is a book that I found in one of my favorite etsy book shops, Pipi Pompon. We have our own copy, so when I saw this in her shop, I knew I had to blog about it, link back to her copy, and hope you love this post enough to purchase it from Pipi.

So here it is.

The Dot and The Line
a romance in lower mathematics

by Norton Juster

Meet Line.

He has a problem. He's in love. With Dot. Who's in love,

with Squiggle. "He is so gay and free, so unhibited and full of joy," she cooly informs Line, "and you are as stiff as a stick. Dull. Conventional and repressed. Tied and trameled. Subdued, smothered and stifled. Squashed, squelched and quenched."

Poor line is despondant. His friends try in vain to cheer him. "She's not good enough for you," one says. "She lacks depth," says another.

But poor Line just hangs his . . . well, never mind that. He can't hang his head. Neverthless, his friends' words fall on deaf . . . Blast, if that doesn't work either. No head. No ears. The guy's upset. You get the jist.

"Any way he looked at her she was perfect."

Line spends his time "dreaming of the inconstant dot and imagining himself as the forceful figure she was sure to admire -

THE LINE AS A CELEBRATED DAREDEVIL

THE LINE AS AN INTERNATIONAL SPORTSMAN

But it's no use. Line decides it's time for a change. He bends. And makes an angle.

From there, life becomes wildly complex for our dear Line. In short, Line comes to embody the stuff of mathematical vision. Squares and triangles. Hexagons and parallelograms. Rhomboids and polyhedrons. Nothing is too angular for our intrepid hero.

And all the while, Dot looks on,

and on.

"So, what happens?" you, dear reader may ask. Does Dot show Squiggle the door? Do Dot and Line live happily ever after?

Well, I'll never tell.

Lazy Tommy Pumpkinhead

2012-11-14T11:06:00.000-08:00

Lazy Tommy Pumpkinhead
by William Pene Du Bois

1966

This is such a trippy little book. I love many of Du Bois' books, namely Lion. And the Otto books are quite special too. But it is Pumpkinhead that takes the cake for most bizarre.

Pumpkinhead is part of a series, begun but never completed by Du Bois, based on the seven deadly sins. Pumpkinhead embodies Sloth.

Meet Tommy.

Yep, that's him in the bathtub. So lazy is Tommy that he lives in an electric house, sleeps in an electric bed (to tilt him out each morning), baths in an electric tub (which sloshes him around),

showers in an electric shower (with belts to hold him upright - musn't strain his legs),

and is groomed by an assortment of robotic arms.

All is fine in Tommy's pampered life, until one night an electrical storm

knocks out the power. And poor lazy Tommy oversleeps. By about seven days. On day seven, power is restored. And what ensues

can best be described

by these pictures.

And these,

and these.

Up until exactly five minutes ago, for $135, this book could have been yours. (Yes, I did say $135 - the publisher abandoned the series, and these sinful books quickly went out of print.) But, my four year old son has been watching this blog post unfold, begging to be allowed to take the book into a quiet corner.

In short, this book now belongs to him.

But you can own these books by Mr. Pene DuBois which are for sale in my etsy shop:

Gentleman Bear

https://www.etsy.com/listing/110725901/vintge-william-pene-du-bois?ga_search_query=william%2Bpene%2Bdu%2Bbois

Bear Party

https://www.etsy.com/listing/110658936/vintage-bear-party?ga_search_query=william%2Bpene%2Bdu%2Bbois

More Riddles By Bennett Cerf . . . And More Drawings By Roy McKie

2012-11-13T12:54:00.003-08:00

More Riddles By Bennett Cerf
. . . And More Drawings By Roy McKie

1961

If your kids are like my kids, they love a good joke. And by good, I do mean hokey and daft. I remember when I was about seven, sitting in Ponchos (my then favorite mexican restaurant), craning my neck to look at the pinatas lining the shelves above the booths, and listening to my dad crack one corny joke after another.

"The boy said to his father, the sun, 'Father, how come you know so much?'
Father, the sun, said to his son, the boy, 'Well, son, I suppose it's because I'm so bright.'"

Bad. I know. But I loved it. I thought my dad was the most clever of all men. This book reminds me of those days.

Suspensful drumroll, please . . .

Dadumdum. Soooo bad. But I love it. And so do my kids.

Betcha can't guess.

You get the picture. Each rhyme is worse (better) than the one before.

Pray, do tell. I've always wondered that myself.

My dad could have written this book. But then again, he didn't have Roy McKie looking over his shoulder.

Carter Is A Painter's Cat

2012-11-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

Carter Is A Painter's Cat

by Carolyn Sloan

illustrated by Fritz Wegner

1971

"Mr. Blot is a painter. He paints pictures of cats - not ordinary cats, but me! He paints me every morning on a fresh piece of paper and he calls me Carter."

So begins this crazy story about a cat named Carter who is painted each day by his master/painter, Mr. Blot. Each day, Carter is made anew. Afresh. And slightly askew. One day, poor Carter is left feeling awfully blue.

Quite literally, due to an unfortunate brush and paint accident.

And so becomes the laughingstock of Fred and Ruby, two cats who live at the cafe.

On Tuesday, Mr. Blot forgets to fill in Carter's outline, thus rendering him invisible. Which could come in quite handy for a mischevious cat.

And on Wednesday? My goodness, on Wednesday Mr. Blot is kind of stingy with the paint, and thus, poor Carter is so thin he slips down the sewer grating while out catting around. A kind lady rescues him, takes him in, and feeds him all her meat loaf.

But the fun really begins, when one day, Mr. Blot doesn't come home. So Carter, feeling fine and dandy in his newly painted upright carriage and handsome suit, and eager to try something new, opens Mr. Blot's paintbox, takes out a tube of paint and squeezes "a big red squeeze."

And then, Carter gives this book a most appropriate ending.

Carter paints . . .

Mr. Blot,

in the bathtub.

And leaves him there.

Roses are Red. Are Violets Blue??

2011-11-17T15:08:00.000-08:00

Roses are Red. Are Violets Blue??

By Alice and Martin Provensen

Pippi first learned about color mixing by mixing up play dough, much to my consternation. The yellow dough never stayed yellow for long. It became green and orange in varying values before becoming a mottled purplish gray. Actually all the colors ended up that same purplish gray, not what I would have expected from reading this book, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Although we learn primarily by doing around here - mixing paint and play dough to learn color mixing, as well as jumping down the last four steps to discover that's not so easy on the ankles - I do like a good book to reinforce what one has already learned.

And when it comes to color mixing books, you just don't get much better than this.

I was describing this book to Pippi's art teacher a few days ago, and the best word I could find was quirky. And quirky this book is, from the rose-colored glasses,

to the purple cow,

to the green-eyed cat.

But where the book really gets good, is when it veers away from simply quirky and swerves wildly into bizarre. This recipe for traffic jam sure tickled our funny bones.

Take a red car.

Take a blue car.

Take a yellow car.

Take a big purple car.

Take a little black car.

Add a green bug.

Mix well.

Beat the yellow light, then . . .

OOPS!

Instant BROWN GRAVY!

(Remember that purplish gray play dough? It works for paint to. Pippi wanted to make brown paint so she mixed all the primaries and secondaries together and what was produced definitely looked more gray than brown. Maybe if she had just left out green. After all, that green bug escapes the pile-up.)

Oh, and the question that is posed by the book's title?

The answer is violet.

Our Animal Friends At Maple Hill Farm

2011-11-14T09:57:00.000-08:00

Our Animal Friends At Maple Hill Farm
by Alice and Martin Provensen

This book represents the best 40 cents I've ever spent. I would have spent ten bucks easy on this one, though. Pushing fifteen. It's that good.

That this book started off with a pile of cats made Pippi's day. That the author actually had something interesting to say about these cats made mine. I don't know about you, but we've read our share of animal books, even farm books, around here. And having lived on a ranch (briefly), I'd have to say I don't believe many authors of farm animal books have spent too much time around farm animals. Just a guess.

But I'd be willing to wager that not only do Alice and Martin live on a farm. But they live on this farm. Maple Hill. And that the animals they so lovingly and realistically portray are real, live, breathing, flesh-and-blood animals.

Like these cats.

And these chickens.

Each animal has a distinct personality and a name. And the names, such as Other Hen and Big White Pill are so truthful. Not a Fluffy or Spot in the bunch. Often the names reflect the animals' temperaments. Other times, the names reflect the farmers' notions regarding the animals.

This is Muffin - also called Raga Muffin, Mafia, Beasty, Gorilla, and Fiend. Her friend (not shown here) is Dinah. She is thirteen years old. "Dinah has nicknames too. Hers are: Dine, Diner, Nosy Parker, and Little Sister."

Not only do I love the names, but the candor with which the authors portray the animals is delightful. Anyone who has spent any time at all around sheep knows that they are not sweet, white, fluffy animals. They are stupid, often temperamental, and always filthy. And the Provensen's have thus portrayed them.

"Almost all sheep's wool is supposed to be white.

Most of the time their wool is gray and full of thistles

and burrs and straw and mud and dirt and flowers."

Then there are the geese.

Practically perfect in every way. They eat weeds and grass. They have keen ears, like horses, and make good watchdogs. Because they are so noisy. Not even the fox wants to tangle with these guys. But there is one very big problem, one exception to perfection.

GEESE have bad tempers.

They are greedy.

They are grabby.

They are grouchy.

The lead henchman is named Evil Murdoch. See what I mean about the names?

And don't even get me started on the goats, perhaps the most predictably unpredictable of all farm animals. I had my hair nibbled down to the scalp by a frisky goat once, so I've got no love for them.

Incidentally, I've always found it very, very funny that people children and goat children are both called kids. I can't imagine grocery shopping with goat kids in tow being too much more difficult than shopping with people kids.

Perhaps my favorite part of the book deals with the death of beloved farm animals. The authors' candor extend even to this delicate subject and they handle it masterfully. Instead of being "a book about death" Animals is simply a book about farm animals, completely honest in respect to every aspect of the animals lives. And as anyone who has spent time on a farm well knows, death is an ever present companion.

The best books are always truthful. Wouldn't you agree?

The Funny Little Woman

2011-11-09T13:20:00.000-08:00

The Funny Little Woman
Retold by Arlene Mosel
Pictures by Blair Lent

My son and I went to a bookstore today while Pippi was at her art class. And let me tell you, we came home with quite a haul. Not in quantity. We didn't find that many keepers, this being a familiar bookstore that we visit (ransack) frequently. But the keepers we did find. Oh my.

But you'll just have to wait for the next post or two to get a peak at our small stack (which incidentally contains a swoon worthy Garth Williams tidbit), because today The Funny Little Woman rises to the top of the stack. If I passed over this one in favor some newbies, well that just wouldn't be doing the right thing by my little man.

This funny tale is his current favorite, so enamored is he that we laugh through the book at least four times daily.

Long ago, in Old Japan, there lived a funny little
woman who liked to laugh, "Tee-he-he-he," and who
liked to make dumplings out of rice.

I know this book so well I didn't even need to turn to the first page to know how the story begins. And I wish that I could figure out how to put a sound recording on here, a recording of me reading the book. Because you have to get that laugh just right. And believe me, I've had lots of practice.

So the story goes that the funny little woman was making a batch of rice dumplings when . . .
horror of horrors, one leetle dumpling fell from the table, rolled from her house, down through a crack, and into a subterranean shadowland. Inhabited by stone statues of the gods

and the oni,

who take the funny little woman (who's still laughing) to their underground hideout and force her to cook rice with a magic paddle. This is my son's favorite two page spread. "It looks all green and slimy," he says. "Like snot."

Well, the lady laughs her way through a few more pages, paddling pots full of rice, until she decides she's had enough. So she tucks the paddle into her belt, boosts an oni cruiser and rows toward daylight.

My son's other favorite page. "They got fat!" he chuckles every time. They got fat by sucking up all the water in the river, grounding the funny little woman. This part reminds me a little of The Five Chinese Brothers by Clair Hutchet Bishop. And just like the brother who can't hold the water forever, the oni "throw up" all the water (my sons words again) and the lady laughs all the way back home.

Where she gets rich making rice dumplings using her (stolen) magic paddle. And lives happily ever after.

The end.

Andrew Henry's Meadow

2011-04-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

Andrew Henry's Meadow
Written and Illustrated by Doris Burn

My grandmother called yesterday. If you will remember, my Grammy sort of commissioned me to write the book I'm supposed to be working on. She asked if I had anything new to send to her. I will always stand as a child before my grandmother, pining to please. All I could do was hang my head as I explained that, no there is nothing new. Ouch.

So I should be working on that now. The kids are up early, snuggled on the couch watching Garfield. And I have the itch to write . . . something. But I am so hopelessly stuck on a point, and I can't seem to get around it. So here I am. Again. With a book to share with you.

I found this at my favorite book haunt. Although I was a bit dismayed to find that the hardcovers (at a thrift store mind you) had jumped from fifty cents to two dollars. Rather than buying a neat little stack of books, I walked out with only one. This one. Sitting in my car, tapping my tacky flip-flopped foot against the floor board, I opened to the first page.

And I knew Andrew Henry was worth my whole pocket of spare change. The illustrations immediately brought Robert Lawson to mind (Ferdinand, Wee Gillis). But Doris Burn is no mere copycat. Her art and her stories are distinctly her own.

Meet Andrew Henry Thatcher,

an inventor, but unfortunately for him, still a child. The middle child to be exact, neither small like his two brother tots, nor mature like his older sisters. And Andrew Henry's talent is wholly unappreciated. His mother is not amused when he constructs a helicopter and suspends it above the kitchen.

Neither are his brothers fond of the complex contraption Andrew rigs in the boys' bedroom.

My Pippi couldn't understand this. What little boy (or girl) wouldn't idolize a sibling able to wrest common objects into such marvelous curiosities. I tend to agree with her. That is the part of me that fondly remembers childhood agrees with her. My adult sensibilities would probably be offended if someone where to slap together an eagle's nest in my living room.

Which is Andrew Henry's problem. In the grown up notion of what is proper, and neat, and orderly, there is no room for the budding inventor. So he gathers his tools and leaves in search of a place of his own.

When he arrives at the meadow, he builds a home of "clay and rocks and poles" with a roof "made of fir boughs."

Solitude is short lived, for soon Alice Burdock emerges from the deep woods carrying her bird things.

She also is misunderstood. Andrew Henry builds for her an airy haven.

Soon to join Andrew and Alice are George Turner, Joe Polasky, Jane O'Malley, Margot Laport, Sarah Lerner, Don Peterson, and Stanley Hayes. Andrew Henry fashions for each of them an abode to accommodate each of their obsessions.

Can the children of Andrew Henry's meadow hack it without the parents? Well now, it wouldn't be a proper Books For Breakfast review if I told, now would it?

Stay tuned. I hope to bring to you in the next few days, The Summerfolk, also by Doris Burn. I'll also highlight a bit of her delightfully off beat biography.

Until then, try to overlook the Lego cities and mountains of drawings, and the playdough ogre family. At least it's not a helicopter in the kitchen.

The Clever Wife

2011-03-05T14:22:00.000-08:00

The Clever Wife
from the collection Three Gay Tales From Grimm
translated and illustrated by Wanda Gag

Oh, how I love Wanda Gag. I didn't always. Before the kids were born, during my stint as a the wise children's bookseller - who had incidentally spent very little time reading aloud to children - I found her work to be a bit dull. Frumpy. I would call her art quaint, worthy of a tight smile, before passing her over in favor of something flashy and glossy.

But as a mother who has spent thousands of hours reading to my kids, I've altered my opinion. Wanda Gag is pure gold. She's not just one of those authors/illustrators kids are supposed to love. The kids actually do love her. Genuinely. We first became acquainted with Gag's work, as I'm sure you did as well, through that funny, old tale Millions of Cats. We have gone through two copies. Pippi developed her counting chops on those kitties.

Then about a week ago, we were in a new-to-me bookstore, Twice Told Tales (what a smorgasbord of oldies!) I came across this little lovely. Before I found her name at the bottom, I recognized her art and became supremely excited.

A few nights ago, I pulled the book from a stack and sat down with Pippi and began to read the first story, The Clever Wife. For those of you who have not heard this particular Grimm tale, here's a brief synopsis.

Before Amelia Bedelia, before even the Peterkin family, there was Kotti, a rather dim wit. Poor Friedel, her husband. All he'd like is some grilled meat for his supper after a day of work in the fields.

But the meat is raw, Friedel! wails young Kotti. You must cook it, explains Friedel. Just sprinkle it with salt and pepper, put it in a pan with some butter, then lay it in among the coal, and soon it will be roasted fine and brown.

What does Kotti do? Well, she salts it, peppers it. Drops it in the pan. Then nestles the pan down among the cabbages scratching her head the whole time. Having heard of the Irish dish, colecannon, a potato and cabbage chowder, I picked up on the humor pretty quickly. Cole. Coal.

Pippi's at that age where she likes making jokes based on dual word meanings, so once she understood that cole was a sort of cabbage she was all kinds of tickled. Especially when the dog comes along and eats up the meet, and Kotti cries,

A bad business! Now Friedel won't have anything to eat. But it's not my fault, that's certain - I did just as he said.

When Kotti relates to Friedel what has happened, Friedel chides her softly. Oh Kotti, Kotti. Kotti's response, repeated throughout the story, sounds so much like a pouting child-wife that a wheedling whine came so naturally in the reading.

Yes, Friedel, that I didn't know. You should have told me not to do those things.

Then the peddlers come. Friedel has hidden his gold away beneath the manger, forbidding his wife to touch the "yellow chips." The peddlers display their wares, crockery bowls and pots and juts of red, yellow, brown and green and blue. Kotti wants to help the poor guys along, so she offers the "yellow chips" in exchange. But quick to obey her husband, Kotti says

Just go into the barn and dig around under the cow's manger. There in a crock you'll find the yellow things. As for me, I'm not allowed to go near them.

Surprise, surprise - the peddlers turn out to be thieves. They leave the lot of the crockery and make off with the gold. The kitchen being well stocked with all manner of cups and pots and jugs, Kotti knocks the bottoms out of all the pretty pots and such and sticks them on the fence posts all around the house.

Friedel is not amused. At Kotti's suggestion, they pack up a supply of food and set off after the thieves hoping to retrieve their gold.

I'll leave the rest for you to discover. You must lay hands on a copy of these humorous tales. If for no other reason than to watch your kids anticipate, with lots of giggles, Kotti's plaintive whine,

Yes, Friedel, that I didn't know. You should have told me so before.

Pure gold.

Watch Out For The Chicken Feet In Your Soup

2011-03-03T17:20:00.000-08:00

Watch Out For The Chicken Feet In Your Soup
story and pictures by Tomie dePaola

I love finding new-to-me titles by beloved authors. I almost didn't see this little book, just a mite of a book really, crammed betwixt two larger than necessary picture books. But I'm so glad it caught my eye. I threw it in my basket without bothering to flip through. Tomie dePaola can do no wrong.

Don't you just love the title? I was laughing before even reading the first page. And from there, it just gets better and better. Here's the very first page. The one that precedes even the title page.

Turn the page.

Meet Joey's grandma,

an eccentric Italian woman who begs to be read loudly. With much italiano gusto. You know those books that you slip into your purse to bring with you to the pedi's office or to read to your kids while standing in the check out line at the grocery store? Well, this book isn't one of them. Not unless you've got a thick skin and don't mind the what a nutso looks. Try reading this one in a nice little suburbanite momma sort of voice. Go ahead. I dare you. It can't be done.

So, Joey introduces Eugene to his grandma. Who uses their coats to cover the bread dough "so it rise nice," and cooks for them a fifty-seven course meal (exaggeration mine, couldn't help myself) much to the embarrassment of Joey. And perhaps my favorite part of the book, oft repeated throughout, Eugene's response to being called Eugeney.

And then, once the soup is served, the chicken foot makes its appearance.

Which tickled Pippi, Tommy, and I in all sorts of ways. This is funny dePaola at his best.

Arrivederci!